She flushed and bit her lip. “Please, Captain Hampton. This is really most—”
“Most what?” His lips traveled down the quivering flesh of her breasts. She stood still as a mannikin, her face averted, while he removed her clothes. He led her to the bed and she got in and lay perfectly straight and unyielding, her face blank and her eyes closed. He took off his clothes and joined her in bed. He explored her with his hands and mouth, delighting in the sight and feel of her rounded, silken body. He teased her by naming the parts of her body that he touched; he kissed and caressed her until he himself was at a fever pitch of passion, but she remained cold, never softening or returning a kiss or caress. And when he had finished, his passion spent, she still said nothing, but slipped out from under him, washed and dressed, then sat down at the table.
“When will supper come?” she asked coolly.
Anger spurted in him. Damn her for a frozen Yankee bitch! His lovemaking had not touched her at all; she seemed perfectly indifferent to him. He wanted to storm at her, to shake her, to slap her, anything to wipe that cool indifference from her face. He leaped from the bed and strode across the room to her. Her face filled with fright at the sight of his enraged countenance.
“You goddam little—” he broke off and kissed her savagely, violating her mouth with his tongue.
Hampton bent her back onto the table, pinning her down with one arm, and jerked down her undergarments. He stroked and caressed her, concentrating on bringing her to pleasure, lightly brushing her skin with his fingertips and mouth, touching all the hidden secret places of a woman that brought her pleasure. Again his manhood enlarged with intense desire and standing before her, he parted her legs and entered her, moving within her until finally, in spite of herself she groaned with desire.
“What, my pet?” he breathed. “Was that a sound of pleasure I heard?”
She nodded in shame.
“Then you enjoy this?”
She stubbornly remained silent and he began to withdraw. “Yes,” she forced out.
“What do you want?” he whispered. He pulled down the bodice of her dress and began to lazily nuzzle her breasts, as though he had quite given up what he was doing. She trembled violently beneath him.
“Please,” her voice was an urgent whisper.
“I have a name,” he said, tracing intricate designs on her hips with his fingers.
She swallowed hard and said, “Please, Matthew.”
He grinned wickedly. “Please what?”
“You’re awful!” she choked.
“I know. What is it you want?”
“You. Please make love to me. I want you.”
“Do you now?” he said and suddenly pulled out of her. “May I suggest exercise and a cold bath?”
He began to dress. She struggled to sit up, gasping, “Matthew!”
“I leave you to your own cold company, ma’am, since that is what you prefer. I hope you find comfort for the fire in your loins—and reflect upon your actions.” Jauntily he went out the door, saying over his shoulder, “I’m sure your lunch will be here soon to satisfy your hunger.”
“Damn you!” she screamed after him.
Never had she hated him so much. He took every opportunity to debase her. Her legs felt weak and inside she burned, aching to feel him inside her again. She almost cried in frustration. It was weak and wicked to so long for him to do those dreadful things to her. He was cruel and inhuman to treat her so. He had done it purposely, calculatingly working on her treacherous body. (And how many women he must have had, to know so well how to excite her!) She had begged him! Oh, God, she could never live that down. And worst was that if he returned now, she would probably throw herself at him, she wanted him so. Even yet she longed to run after him and beg him to return. It was only with great power of will that she held herself back from making more of a fool of herself. Instead she threw herself on the bed and dissolved into hot, angry tears. Finally, when she could cry no more, she lay quietly staring at the far wall, feeding her hatred of him and conjuring up wonderful scenes in which she managed to hurt him. Somehow, someday, she would get back at him.
Almost immediately, Matthew regretted what he had done. Had he gone on, made love to her, he would have made a large breach in her defenses, as well as bringing himself great pleasure. But because of his damnable temper, he had humiliated her once again. Perhaps it had been a step in proving to her his dominance over her. However, he knew her well enough to know that it would harden her stubborn determination to oppose him, to refuse to give in to her desires. If he hadn’t lost his temper, he might have been able to win her over then and there. Now he was in for a harsh, bitter struggle; he would have to steel himself to be hard and prepare himself to take her barbs and silences. He sighed and leaned against the railing; to win her he was going to have to curb his temper.
The wind was with them and the Susan Harper slipped swiftly across the waves toward London. Katherine’s and Matthew’s private lives did not pass so smoothly. She maintained a furious silence, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary. He, nettled by her stony silences and barbed comments, found it very difficult to keep his temper in check. She could make him angrier faster than any woman he had ever known.
If their days were a field of battle, their nights were more so. He made love to her frequently; he was amazed that his desire for her seemed to increase daily, rather than lessening as it usually did. No matter how many times he took her, he never felt completely satisfied. It was because he never completely possessed her, he decided. Always she lay still and stiff beneath him, no matter how he battered at her senses. He varied his approach, hoping that the uncertainty caused by changes would help crack her defenses. Sometimes he was rough with her, at other times as gentle as if she were a sixteen-year-old virgin. Now and then coldly businesslike, almost as if she were a chore. Often he took care with her, assiduously stoking the fires within her, using every trick that experience had taught him sent shock waves of desire through females.
Only once did she break her silence. She had cursed him roundly, using words she had picked up from his men. His rage dissolved. He drew her into his arms and onto the bed. “My little lioness,” he said fondly, rubbing his cheek against her hair. “Do you have any idea what half those words mean?” Her huffy silence told him she didn’t. “Shall I tell you?” She blushed as he told her, but listened curiously. Soon the topic at hand, and the feel of her soft body curled against him, made him feel desire for her steal through him again. Gently, slowly, he began to kiss her, losing himself in the warm sweetness of her mouth. Although he could not be sure, he thought he heard a whimper of pleasure escape her throat. Except for that one time, however, he elicited no response from her. Daily the tension increased in him.
Neither was Katherine immune to the tension and frustration that pervaded their relationship. Though she managed to keep herself from responding to him, it took all her will and kept her irritable and constantly yearning in a way she could not understand or explain. He was an expert lover, and his hands set her on fire in ways she had never suspected existed. Mentally she recited all the poetry she could remember, mathematical equations, genealogies of royal houses; she walked through the streets of Boston, took inventory of her linen closet and pantry. Anything to keep her mind off what he was doing to her.
Shamefacedly she discovered that her pulse began to race as bedtime neared; that sometimes, looking at him seated at his desk, she longed to go to him; that she daydreamed that he came to her to beg her to forgive him and marry him. Of course, in her dream she coolly refused him (at which he vowed to blow his brains out), but still she wondered what it would be like to be married to him, to be able to give in to the feelings he evoked in her.
It was hard, too, to maintain silence with him. She missed her conversations with her father, with Lieutenant Perkins, with Pegeen, even with Aunt Amelia. It had been very interesting talking to him the day of the battle; she would have enjoyed discussing su
ch things more with him. Perhaps she could even persuade him to explain the intricacies of navigation and charts and graphs. Moreover, she was very curious about him; she would have liked to ask him questions about his home, his family, his former life. Often she thought of things she would like to tell him and visualized how she would make him laugh with stories of her aunts. The long evenings were dull without conversation: he worked at his desk and she read. The time dragged by, and all the while she brimmed with things she wanted to talk about.
The days were not so bad. Though she would have liked a little needlework to do, she passed her time rather pleasantly, tidying up the cabin, reading, and playing chess with Dr. Rackingham. She took several walks around deck every day, either with the doctor or alone. Now and then Ensign Fortner joined her on her strolls and enlivened the time with his cheerful exuberance. She visited the men, at first to see her mending patients, but as time went on, to write letters for them or to bring some comfort to one who was ill. Peljo for some reason had become attached to her and was usually her self-appointed guardian on these visits. He also decided that it was necessary to give her some instruction in the art of using a knife. Although he assured her that he or the captain would always be there to protect her, he thought knowing a little about self-defense a wise precaution. Sailors tended to be a rough lot, he said, and the docks and wharves were wild places. One never knew when something might happen. He showed her where to thrust to go between the ribs and into the heart or lungs, how to go in under the ribs and plunge upward, the way to attack from front, side, or rear, and the art of thrusting a knife downward at the base of the neck, avoiding the collarbone. Daily she practiced on a dummy Peljo fixed up for her, and she progressed so rapidly that he soon increased her instructions to include knife throwing. Katherine found to her surprise that she enjoyed it. She had always been eager to learn new things, to perform well, and this appealed to her especially because it seemed exciting, something her femininity had always blocked her from doing. When they reached London, Peljo promised, he would buy a knife for her, one in a little scabbard that could be strapped to her arm and concealed beneath her sleeve.
Katherine smiled at that. Apparently it never occurred to him that she might use such a knife against his captain. Or that she would not sail with them from London. He must think that she and Hampton loved each other—or at least liked one another and enjoyed their relationship. No doubt he thought that, like other women, she had succumbed to the Southerner’s lazy good looks and his expertise in bed. Well, she was made of sterner stuff.
Chapter 10
Katherine awoke in the dead of night. Something was wrong. For a moment, she lay quietly, listening to Matthew’s steady breathing. What had awakened her? Then she realized: the rhythm of the ship was altered; the pitch and roll of the ship, to which she had become accustomed, had suddenly grown stronger, more violent. There must be a storm approaching. Just as she decided that, there was a loud knock at the door.
“Cap’n! Wind’s up.”
Hampton opened his eyes and said quietly, “Damn.”
“Cap’n!” The voice sounded again. “There’s a storm brewing.”
“Yes, I’ll be there in a minute,” Hampton called, sitting up and sliding from the bed in one fluid motion. He dressed quickly, muttering to himself, “Damn North Atlantic storm is all I need.”
“Captain?” Katherine said sleepily, struggling to sit up.
“Go back to sleep, Katherine. It’s just a storm.”
“Just a storm,” she repeated derisively.
He smiled briefly. “All right, so you’ve heard about North Atlantic storms. But not even you, my dear, could command the waters to be still. So I suggest you try to get some rest—you may need it later.”
“All right.” She yawned lazily.
He opened the door; an icy blast swirled into the room. Katherine snuggled down deeper into the covers, edging into the warm spot left by Matthew’s body. She felt very snug and secure, shut away from cold and wet and wind. Matthew would take care of it, she told herself groggily, then slipped pleasantly back into sleep.
When she woke up the next morning, the roll of the ship had greatly increased. She had difficulty keeping her balance enough to climb out of bed and get dressed. It was even more difficult to choke down her cold and soggy breakfast, the way her stomach was swaying with the ship.
“It’s bad outside, miss,” Peljo informed her, for once without his usual grin. “Captain says you’re to stay in here.”
Katherine could not find the heart to protest; she had no desire to go up on the pitching deck. After Peljo left, she spent the day attempting to control her wretched stomach. Sternly she reminded herself that she was not some ordinary frightened landlubber. She had grown up around ships, had sailed many times, and never once had she been seasick. (She ignored the fact that never before had she sailed the mid-Atlantic, her longest trip having been from Boston to Philadelphia.)
Lunch was never brought down, but she did not notice its absence. The only things she did notice besides her stomach were the lashing of the rain, the wind whipping around the vessel, the agonized groans of the ship as it tossed about in the sea. Katherine huddled on her bed in terror. The elements were an awesome enemy. There was so little one could do to save oneself, and nothing one could do to defeat them. Incoherently she mumbled prayers.
“Don’t punish him for his wickedness; don’t kill us all. Don’t let the ship break up. Make it strong enough to withstand the storm. Forgive me. Forgive me. I have sinned; I am in sin. But please don’t let it capsize; please let him pull us through.”
She lost all track of time. Once Hampton came in, soaked and weary, to gulp down some food. She could barely raise her head to ask how they were doing. He tersely replied that he did not know yet, that the gale still blew strong as ever.
“Please save us,” she whispered, and he smiled briefly.
“I’ll try.”
“I have never been so scared.”
“I’m sorry.” He came to the bed and looked down at her, curled up into a tight ball, her face deathly pale. “I shall do my best to keep anything from harming you.”
“God is punishing us.”
“Don’t be absurd, Katherine. And don’t work yourself up into a lather.” He bent and brushed his lips against her forehead. “What kind of a God is it that would kill you and a whole crew of men, just to punish me? Do you want me to send the doctor to you?”
“No; it’s only mal-de-mer. I’ll try to pull myself together.” She forced herself to assume a more normal air. “Shouldn’t you rest? You look dreadfully tired.”
“No. I can’t take the time now. I have to leave. Try to eat something, you’ll feel better.”
The terrible pounding of the ship continued. The Susan Harper lurched sickeningly from side to side, threatening to break up and fall apart under the pressure of the huge waves. Katherine fell into a semisleep, often waking, always aware of the constant noise and tossing of the helpless ship.
Gradually the storm began to abate, so slowly that Katherine did not notice, but was lulled into a deeper sleep. She didn’t awaken until Hampton came into the cabin.
“What is it?” she said groggily, trying to collect her wits.
“I think we’ve made it,” he replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “The wind has died and the waves have gone down. It’s still raining hard as hell and we have been blown off course. But I think we’re safe.”
She sat up and a joyful smile lit her face. He was right. The awful noise was gone and the rolling much less. He had brought them through safely. Thank God he was so skillful!
He took off his slicker. Even beneath his slicker, his clothes were soaked. Katherine saw that they were also stiff with ice particles.
“Get out of those clothes!” she cried in concern, bounding out of bed. “You’ll catch pneumonia for sure.”
Quickly she pulled off his clothing. Why, he was practically blue! She wrapped a t
owel around his wet head and with another vigorously rubbed him dry. Peljo appeared like a godsend with a pot of steaming coffee. Katherine forced cup after cup of the scalding liquid down his throat. Then she propelled him to the bed and piled the covers on top of him, adding all the extra blankets she could find. Climbing in beside him, she wrapped her arms and legs around him and clung to him to warm him with her own body heat.
“Good to me,” he mumbled thickly and drifted into sleep.
When Katherine awoke the next morning, she found the whole bed trembling with Matthew’s convulsive shivering. She felt his skin with her hand; it was hot as fire. Quickly she dressed and hurried down to the doctor’s cabin. He came to the door, sleepy and surprised to see her there.
“Dr. Rackingham, Matthew’s caught a fever. Please come look at him. He is burning up and has a lot of cover, but he shivers as if he were freezing!”
“All right. Go back to your room. I shall dress and come right away.”
She scurried back to her cabin. He was no longer shivering. Now he was pushing back his covers, mumbling incoherently that it was too hot. She pulled the covers back over him and nervously paced the room. Where was the doctor? Why was he taking so long? Peljo brought in their breakfast but she ignored it. Peljo went to tell the ensign that the captain was ill and he would be in charge of the ship. Katherine frowned. What if Hampton didn’t get well? What if he died? Her heart contracted. Dear God, they would be out here on the ocean with only an ensign to lead them. Perhaps he could steer them toward England, but what if an emergency arose? Oh, he had to get well! She went to the bed and looked down at Hampton.
How strange he looked, weak and helpless like that, his mind wandering in delirium. He could not die, she thought staunchly. Not Matthew Hampton. Nothing so slight as a fever could conquer him, surely. He was too strong, too obstinate. She couldn’t imagine him dying. But then, she reminded herself, she couldn’t have imagined him sick, either.
Dr. Rackingham entered the room, with Peljo on his heels. The little man hung back close to the door, but wouldn’t leave. Katherine looked at him with pity: he was so fond of the captain. The doctor examined Matthew, then forced some medicine down his throat. It was a fever and chills, he announced. Matthew must be kept covered heavily to sweat out the fever and given medicine every four hours. He did not know how long the fever would last, but until it broke, there must be someone by his side constantly. He proposed that he and Katherine—and Peljo, if he wished—stand watch over him in shifts.
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