Cross the Ocean

by Holly Bush

  Blake was breathing hard through his teeth, eyes closed. He entered her swiftly and growled.

  * * *

  Gert thought she awoke when a deep moan emitted from her throat. She was kissing Blake. She dreamed. Oh, what a torment. So real. Hips ground against her, and she held them and ran her fingers up a wide muscled back. That tongue. It ran circles around her mouth and her lips. Licked her neck and settled on a breast through thin cotton. Surely a merciful God would not make a dream this real. A dream wouldn’t smell like a man and like whiskey. A dream wouldn’t wet the nightgown on her breasts. Her back arched as he entered her with a throaty moan. Her eyes opened wide to the dim, filtered moonlight.

  “Sanders,” Gert shouted. She looked down between their bodies at the same time as he.

  “Gertrude!”

  She shifted and pushed.

  “Dear God, woman, hold still.” He sank further into her. His eyes rolled.

  “What are you doing?” Gert shouted. “Stop.”

  Blake was gritting his teeth, and his lip twitched. “Miss Finch. I am struggling greatly for control. Can you please hold still?”

  He was buried inside her. This would be the end of the dream. This connection, this stretching, this exquisite filling and tension. It would cease. She inched away and pushed back. What prompted that, she wondered. Instinct? Pleasure? Surrender to herself? To him? What superb torture. His voice opened her eyes.

  “Please, madam. I am begging you. I am only a man after all,” Blake whispered roughly against her ear. Gert stilled under him. He turned his head to look at her. “Have I hurt you?”

  Her head tilted left and right. A fat tear rolled down her cheek.

  “Please, Gertrude. Don’t cry.”

  Her lip trembled.

  “Lie still. I will extricate myself as gently as possible,” Blake said softly.

  Gert gave in and sobbed. Real, hiccoughing, tortured cries. Tears streamed down her temples and wet her hair. “It will be over then?” she asked.

  “Not concluded as usual, Gertrude. But over, yes,” Blake said as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her face.

  What a memory this would be. It would be enough to store away and hold loneliness at bay for years to come. Gert’s voice shook. “Could you… finish as usual? Would you want to?”

  He dropped down on his elbows, held her face in his hands and surveyed her from her eyes to her mouth. “There is nothing in this world I would treasure more than staying right where I am.”

  Blake kissed her lips softly. He deepened the kiss and stroked slowly, laboring over her mouth and breasts. A mystery of life had been revealed, and Gert was certain no man could have shown her in the same masterful way. He murmured wicked intentions in her ear and then fulfilled them as Gert arched and shifted under him. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her atop him. She set a slow pace and never more in her rational sane life felt so in touch with her body and soul. Surely, her hands could paint a masterpiece, her voice ring clear in an opera. There was no task, no talent beyond her reach. She was as alive as she could possibly be.

  Blake rolled her to her back and set a furious pace. He may have shouted. She didn’t know. She was too far away in her own pleasure. His weight descended on her and whatever words he spoke were muffled in the pillow his face was buried in. Gert stared at the canopy above. She had no regrets. What of this joining was to doubt? It was mystical and erotic and far beyond any of her expectations.

  Gert stroked his hair and back, wondering what he would say. How would they ever be casual after this act of total intimacy? She would forever view him, whether he sat at a table or rode a horse, in this fashion. Straining and gentle, carnal and slightly stewed, pure man, fairly itching to take her. She was running her hands down muscled arms when she heard the first snore. With a push he rolled on his back, eyes closed, mouth open. It would have been easy to shout at him. Wake him up and explain the lout he was climbing in her bed, loving her and in a wink of an eye sound asleep. But all Gert could do was push a black lock of hair from his face and rub the back of her hand the length of the whiskers on his cheek. In a blustery slapping of lips, he pulled her down on his shoulder, still snoring. She landed on his chest and listened to the steady beat of his heart. Gert’s eyes closed immediately.

  Chapter Nine

  “I can’t believe Gertrude’s slept this late, Melinda,” Elizabeth said as she helped a maid pack her trunk. “I’ll go in a moment.”

  Elizabeth sent Melinda to finish packing and walked down the busy hallway, nodding to other departing guests.

  “Lady Elizabeth?”

  She turned. “Yes, Benson?”

  “Have you by any chance seen my master, The Duke of Wexford, this morning?”

  “Why, no, I haven’t,” Elizabeth replied. “We’re nearly ready to go. Is he packed?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am,” Benson said. “All done.”

  “Maybe he took a last ride this morning. He dearly covets Morgan’s stables,” Elizabeth said with a smile. She laid her hand on the clearly agitated servant’s arm. “He’ll be by shortly, I’m sure.” She turned to leave but the servant remained. “Is there something else, Benson?”

  The man’s eyes darted and he swallowed. “No, ma’am.”

  Elizabeth titled her head. “Are you sure?”

  Benson stepped closer and whispered. “His grace’s bed was not slept in.”

  “Oh, la, dee. Surely that has happened before, Benson,” Elizabeth said wryly.

  The man shook his head. “No, ma’am, never.”

  “I hardly believe that.”

  “No, it’s true, ma’am.” Benson turned three shades of red. “No matter how late his grace comes home, well, he always sleeps in his own bed.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Not too worry, I’m sure. Your master is a man grown, is he not?”

  Benson nodded and then turned to shuffle away. Strange, Elizabeth thought, but her concern at that moment was not whose bed Blake slept in. It could have been any number of women here for the weekend. No, not her concern. She tapped on the door, turned the brass knob of Gertrude’s room and swept in. Odd, a shiver curled down her back as she did. “Gertrude,” Elizabeth called out in a singsong voice. “It’s getting late …” Elizabeth’s hand came to her mouth as she looked at the bed. Her eyes opened wide and she did what she rarely, if ever, did. She screamed.

  Sanders jumped up, stark naked. He rubbed his eyes and ran a hand through hair that was standing on end. “Elizabeth? What are you doing in here?” he asked. He made a grab for a blanket but the thing would not give. He covered his manhood with his two hands.

  Elizabeth’s eyes were as round as saucers. Her face was a pasty white color. “Dear God,” she said. “Pray Anthony didn’t hear me scream.”

  “Elizabeth, I’m naked. Could you at least close the door?”

  “I fear it would be worse if Anthony found me in here with the door closed, Blake,” Elizabeth said unevenly. Her eyes swept past him to the bed.

  “Good morning, Elizabeth,” Gert said.

  Sanders spun around and hunched down. “Miss Finch!” he shouted.

  “Get your pants on, Sanders,” she said. “Elizabeth doesn’t need another view of your bottom.”

  “I’ll be back in a half hour, Gertrude,” Elizabeth said as she turned and lurched for the door. “I’ll help you pack.”

  Sanders inched back to the bed and plopped down as the door closed. He leaned forward with his head in his hands. “Dear God, Gertrude. What have I done?”

  Gert stood up with a stretch. What a beautiful morning, she thought, as she looked out the window. Sunny, bright and green landscape. She hummed and cocked her head right and left to the tune. Nothing, nothing could take away the sweet little contentment she felt. Happy with herself. Happy to be alive. No wonder Elizabeth trilled around la de deeing all the time. She did this with Anthony, Gert thought as she glanced at the bed and giggled at her thoughts. But there sat Blake. Bronze,
long and lean, and still naked. She walked around the bed to face him. The haunted, panicked look on his face was testament to different feelings than hers.

  “Oh, don’t spoil my day and mood with your looks. I’ll be leaving tomorrow,” Gert said.

  “You can’t leave now,” Blake whispered.

  But Gert was already pulling a trunk from the corner of a room. “We’re all leaving, Blake. It’s Monday. I have much to do yet at Elizabeth’s house to get ready to sail.”

  * * *

  Gertrude was opening a trunk in a white nightgown Blake had apparently never removed. Many parts of the previous night were clear. Some shrouded in a whiskey-induced mist. Although his mind was still foggy he was cognizant enough to realize he had crawled in the bed of a virgin, under the protection of his best friend, and nearly raped her, while on the way to a tryst with another woman. He was as embarrassed and ashamed as he’d ever been.

  It was no wonder she had cried last night. Blake had stared into her eyes, swimming with unshed tears and unworthiness. Had she thought he wanted to go? Could he have? Certainly not when he had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her atop him. She had lifted her lashes and stared at him in wonder, her gaze traveling far past his eyes. Blake took a shaky breath as he realized he could have no more broken that connection than the physical one that they had. Whatever bond had been between them was stronger and more satisfying than anything he had ever experienced. Had she not felt it? In the depths he had reached as he stroked her, to their shells of skin that had touched with sparks and sweat. To her mind and to her heart. To the elusive place beyond the reaches of mere release that tied them, bound them together.

  Blake knew he would have never appreciated Gertrude as a randy youth. Age had brought him appreciation for a woman with no coy looks or practiced seduction. Just complete and unfettered passion. A missed turn at the wrong portrait had spoiled him to any other woman.

  But now, Blake’s mind was a muddle, as the sunlight streamed in the windows. He needed to ask questions but was unsure of how to begin. The door opened a few inches, and Blake struggled to pull the coverlet over himself. No one came in. Just a long arm stretched in to drop a pile of clean clothes. Benson.

  “My valet surely has had a stroke by now. I’ve never ever not slept in my own bed.”

  Gertrude eyed him as she folded a gown. “Dynamite wouldn’t have moved you. You were snoring so loud I thought the whole house would be awake.”

  “I do not snore,” Blake said.

  “Louder than a freight train coming by,” she replied.

  “I fell asleep then,” Blake said and looked at her.

  Gertrude smiled a soft smile. “Yes.” She bustled around the room, gathering her things and stowing them away. She was staring into her trunk when she continued. “Afterwards, after …after it was over you went out in an instant. On top of me.”

  Blake’s eyes closed. He had bedded many women in his day. They always nodded off first. Then he would slink about and dress to return to his own bed. But this wasn’t just any woman. This was Gertrude Finch. Anthony and Elizabeth’s guest. A virgin.

  “Miss Finch, I find again I must apologize.”

  Gertrude straightened in a hurry. “Whatever you do or say, I don’t care. But please, by God, don’t apologize. I have nothing to regret, nor would I want to, Sanders. Last night was beautiful and special. Don’t dismiss it with an “I’m sorry” as if you dropped a vase. I’ll break your nose if you do. Even if it was a common occurrence for you, something to forget about by tomorrow, don’t cheapen my feelings with an apology. Please.”

  Gertrude’s head was bowed, and her hands folded at her waist. He was clearly out of his depths. There she stood begging him to let her hang on to her memories. She would not sully them with any regrets. And it had been special and wonderful and oddly more satisfying than any in his life. He pictured her above him, staring, reaching to connect with him. Would there ever be a woman again to compare to the marvel he had just discovered? She would never know he would always be in her debt.

  “I’ll never be sorry it happened, Gertrude. It was wondrous.”

  She nodded and swiped away a tear. “I refuse to cry, Sanders.” Gertrude said with a shaky smile.

  Blake pulled a sheet around his waist and went to her. He touched her cheek with his hand. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”

  Gertrude shook her head and smiled as she looked up at him. “Not at all.”

  Blake took a deep breath and looked at her. She was truly beautiful. Smart. Lively and even if it pained him to admit it, good for his children. Honest. Passionate. They would pass along together admirably. And he must set this whole incident to rights immediately.

  “We can be married quietly,” he said.

  “Married? Who said anything about marriage?” Gertrude asked.

  Blake trotted away to a stack of clean clothes near the door. He shrugged into his shirt. “There’s a small chapel on my grounds. It’s beautiful.”

  “I’m sailing for America the day after tomorrow,” Gertrude said in a huff as she followed him across the room.

  “We’ll send your Uncle the announcement.”

  “No need to send my uncle an announcement. I’ll be seeing him in a month.” She reached up and straightened his hair. “I hope Benson’s a lifetime retainer. You never look this sloppy when he’s around.” She touched his cheek shyly. “Sloppy, but handsome to a fault.”

  A commotion outside the door brought their heads around. Blake could hear Anthony shouting and Elizabeth’s voice begging for quiet. Blake opened the door. “No need to make such a fuss in the hallway, Burroughs. Just knock.”

  Gertrude hurried to pull on her flannel robe. “I’m nearly done packing Elizabeth,” she said.

  Anthony flew through the door and punched Blake in the nose. “I should call you out. But Elizabeth won’t let me so I’ll satisfy myself by beating the hell out of you. Stand up, Sanders.”

  Blake steadied himself against the bed and tried to catch the trickle of blood running out of his nose. “Do you really want to shoot your best friend? The father of your godson?”

  Elizabeth closed the door and begged for quiet. “Please. Lower your voices.”

  Anthony was shaking and red-faced. “I told you by God,” he hissed. “I warned you not to climb under Gertrude’s skirts and send her merrily away at the docks.” Anthony picked up Blake by the shirt he had just pulled on. “You deserve no less than a gun at dawn.”

  “Miss Finch and I will be married as soon as my divorce is final. I’ve already told her, Burroughs.”

  Anthony’s shoulders dropped. “When will that be?”

  “I won’t marry you, Sanders,” Gertrude said. “I sail day after tomorrow. My plans have not changed. Elizabeth, did I bring my white shawl here, or did I leave it at your house?”

  “Miss Finch,” Blake shouted.

  “Cousin Gertrude,” Anthony said in shock.

  “Gert,” Elizabeth whispered. “You must.”

  Gertrude continued folding clothes. “I find it interesting that the man I found naked in my bed continues to address me as Miss Finch.” She looked away. “I’m not marrying him.”

  Anthony blustered. “As your guardian I must insist.” He glanced at the bed. “The deed has been done.”

  “Like closing the stable door once the horse is out, isn’t it, Anthony? I intend to sail as scheduled. There will be no further discussion,” Gertrude said. “Out with you all. I have to get dressed.”

  Elizabeth tugged Anthony out of the room. Blake stood in amazement.

  “Madam, we must marry. It is my duty as a gentleman and a noble. Things may be awkward for a while I grant you. But we must marry.”

  “You think I’ll marry you and watch you hurry away to find a mistress. Sorry, Sanders, you’re wrong,” Gertrude said.

  “I …I won’t have a mistress,” Blake said.

  “Oh, really. I thought it a requirement of every English lord.
And you,” Gertrude said and poked him in the chest, “have repeated time and again your commitment to the English aristocracy.”

  “Anthony doesn’t have a mistress. I won’t either. This time.”

  “That’s not the only reason I won’t marry you.” Gertrude said in a huff. “You are arrogant and high-handed. You live in England. I’m an American. I’ll not give up everything I love, everything I cherish, for a man who not only doesn’t love me but declared me his duty.”

  Blake stared at her as she ranted. She stepped close and smiled. “I want a man who will walk the wilds of the West or climb a mountain. Or eat over an open fire. I want a man who sets his own destiny no matter how trivial those dreams may appear to you. I want a man who loves me enough to meet me halfway. The sex was incredible, beyond my wildest dreams, Blake. But it’s not enough. I’m a hopeless romantic.”

  Blake was stunned into silence and allowed himself to be escorted out of her room. He stared blankly as the door closed behind him. The Duke of Wexford had been summarily dismissed.

  * * *

  Gert took a long ride the morning of her departure from Anthony and Elizabeth’s, fearing Sanders would arrive and her determination would wilt or desert her. Their intimacy had somehow dissolved Blake’s harsh edges. Or perhaps she just viewed him in a softer light. Their arguments, as she recalled them now, seemed closer to a spirited debate. Those realizations only served to deepen her commitment to sail for home. She may, in fact, be falling a tiny bit in love with Blake Sanders. What lesson in heartbreak that would turn out to be, Gert knew. There was without a doubt, a physical attraction. What could be worse, Gert wondered, than allowing that attraction to grow into anything more, one-sided as it would no doubt be.

  “Won’t you please reconsider, Gertrude?” Elizabeth begged even as the servants strapped her luggage to the carriage.

  Elizabeth had asked this same question many times over the last two days. On their ride to Elizabeth’s home, while Gert packed her trunk and even now as they prepared to leave. Each time Gert had responded the same. She apologized to Elizabeth for leaving Melinda’s come-out before its completion and had tried unsuccessfully to return the wardrobe to Anthony. Both were deaf to her words. Gert stepped up into the Burroughs’s carriage.