He broke away from her and headed to the side.
Oh, poor man. He was seasick and, by some miracle, she was not.
She found Captain Trent and Allen Pendale at breakfast. They rose as she entered, and the Captain congratulated her on having found her sea-legs so easily.
“Yes, something’s certainly given Miss Onslowe an appetite,” Pendale murmured. “Would you care for a sausage, ma’am?”
“Thank you, no.” She took some bacon and eggs from a platter on the table, and spread a piece of fresh bread with butter.
“I was telling Mr. Pendale we’ll make good time if the wind holds,” the Captain said. “Congratulations again on your good health, ma’am, sir. Some of the crew do not fare so well, and I’m afraid Mr. Johnson is in a poor way. If you’ll excuse me, I must see how things do on deck.”
He bowed and left, leaving Clarissa alone with Allen, who reached into his pocket and unfolded a letter.
She really didn’t mind his silence, or his lack of manners, in not attempting a conversation. While she ate, she examined him as unobtrusively as she could. She couldn’t decide if he were handsome or not. His cheekbones were high and sharp, his eyes a dark coffee brown, and his hair—she’d had her hand buried in those curls last night—dark, lustrous, and slightly too long. His nose was snub and blunt—no aristocratic profile there— and his full mouth a little too wide.
She liked his hands, broad and capable, black-fuzzed, and remembered how much she had liked what they had done to her last night.
“Do you like what you see, Miss Onslowe?” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the letter.
“I was trying to decide if you were handsome.”
He looked up. “And?”
“I don’t think you are.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve been told I’m plain, Miss Onslowe.” He smiled. “You should congratulate me. This letter came late last night as we left land, to tell me that I’m an uncle once more.”
“My felicitations.”
“My sister had a daughter the day we sailed. She sent me this portrait of herself, too.” He reached into his pocket and produced a miniature painting of a woman.
“She’s very pretty.” It was hard to believe the delicate, pale beauty could be related to Pendale. “Is she older or younger than you?”
“Older by two years. I’m the youngest of the family.”
Lardy Jack entered with fresh coffee, balancing as adeptly as a tightrope dancer, wished them a good morning and withdrew.
Allen stowed the miniature away in his pocket, and paid great attention to the letter as though embarrassed that he had talked about his family. Clarissa pushed aside a pang of sadness. She had no family who cared enough for her to make sure a letter was delivered before she left England, possibly forever. She had not seen her own nephews and nieces for five years now she was a bad moral influence; would they find out they’d had an aunt, ever, and wonder about her?
But things would change, she was sure of it, once she had endured her time on the island.
She finished eating, gathered her cloak, and went back onto the deck, wondering how she would spend the day. She could always do some sewing—she had pieces for two gowns already cut, light muslins suitable for the climate of the island—or she could read the one, precious book she had brought, poems by Cowper. It was really too chilly to spend any time on deck and, certainly, if she tried to sew, the wind would snatch the fabric from her hands.
Two figures, clutching at each other, staggered toward her—Mr. and Mrs. Blight, both looking extremely unwell.
“Miss Onslowe,” Mrs. Blight gasped. “This is dreadful, indeed. I think I shall die.”
“You look very ill,” Clarissa said. “I can speak with Lardy Jack and see if there’s anything he can prepare for you. I think ginger tea might help.”
“Oh, do not speak to me of tea.” Mrs. Blight sagged against her husband, who looked scarcely capable of supporting her. “My dear, I must lie down again.”
“Maybe the fresh air will do you some good,” Clarissa suggested.
A heartfelt groan met her suggestion. The two turned and zigzagged across the deck to the hatch.
Clarissa stopped by the hen coop on her way to the galley, and was pleased to see that the hens seemed to be unaffected by the ship’s motion. They approached the sides of their enclosure, feathers fluffed against the cold and heads cocked, as though expecting treats from her. She remembered what had happened here last night and a flush—of excitement, not embarrassment—rose in her face.
In the small galley, Lardy Jack manipulated pans and hot coals like a juggler at the fair, and poured hot water over dried ginger root. “It may help,” he said with a shrug. “Folks usually feel better after a few days.”
Clarissa shuddered at the thought of having to spend some days in such misery. With great care, the lidded mug swathed in an old piece of canvas, she managed to get across the deck to the hatch without spilling any.
“Allow me.” Allen Pendale took the container from her. “What is this?”
“Ginger tea. Mr. and Mrs. Blight are unwell.” She backed down the ladder-like steps and reached for the tea.
“I’ll come to see if there’s anything I can do.”
He clambered down, so close behind her he almost touched her. She went ahead, bumping off one wall of the narrow passage as the ship rolled, and opened the door to the cabin she shared with Mrs. Blight.
No one was there.
Meanwhile, Allen opened the door to the other cabin and recoiled. “I’ll get a bigger pot.”
She peered over his shoulder at the stench and misery inside. “And a mop and bucket, if you please.”
He watched Clarissa with admiration as she mopped the floor, held damp cloths to the sufferers’ foreheads, and handled the wretched situation with calm efficiency and kindness. She waved away his bungling efforts at helping, at first—there was hardly room for her to move in the enclosed space—and then handed him a reeking bucket to dispose of. He navigated the steep steps to the deck one-handed, emptied the bucket over the side, and then wondered what on earth they would do if the Blights could or would not be separated.
Fuck her silly. Absolutely not. Hadn’t he agreed with her that last night’s activities were best forgotten?
Someone skidded into him and clasped his arm for balance. “Thank you for helping,” Clarissa said. “Oh, God, they are so ill. I am quite worried. Thank goodness they have both gone to sleep.”
“You were magnificent,” he said.
She shrugged, assuming her usual cynical stance. “Someone had to look after them. I hope they would do the same for me. They may yet. The Captain says it’s a random thing. I feel remarkably well, however.”
“You look well.” It was true. Her hair, uncovered, blew in the wind and her cheeks had an attractive pinkness. She had kilted up her skirts to mop the floor and he noticed some of the sailors staring at her silk-clad ankles.
As though conscious of their gaze, she pulled at her skirts, releasing them to whip around her calves. He noticed now she wore no gloves and her hands were reddened with cold.
“Here.” He took off his gloves and drew them over her hands.
She laughed, wriggling her fingers. “You have such big hands. Thank you. I have gloves, but they are downstairs.”
“Below,” he said absently, thinking of her slender fingers burrowing into the silk lining of his gloves, taking his warmth. His cock stirred. He took a step away from her and wrapped his cloak around himself more securely.
Below, where the two of them might very well be spending more time, and in closer quarters than they’d bargained for.
“I’m going to talk to Lardy Jack about some gruel for the Blights.” She stared at the sea, then glanced at him and smiled. “Thank you for the loan of the gloves.”
It was the first time she’d smiled at him without irony, a smile of pure happiness, and something tugged and stirred in him. This time it wa
sn’t his cock.
Clarissa retired belowdecks to keep an eye on the Blights, tired from the constant effort to keep her balance. She started sewing, with little enthusiasm. Allen had joined some sailors in fishing; a shoal of herrings had been spotted, and the men threw lines baited with bacon fat over the side, hauling in wriggling, silvery fish. She wished she had joined them.
After a while someone rapped on her door. It was one of the ship’s boys, whom the Captain had told to help Miss Onslowe look after the Blights, and she was glad to hand over the messier part of the job to him. She shut the door, yawned, and stretched out on her berth. She was so used to working, to having things to do, that to lie down and close her eyes seemed a shockingly decadent act—and the very fact of being alone, with no one to call on her, made it doubly pleasant. The solitude would not last. Eventually the Blights, or at least Mrs. Blight, would be well enough to move, although the thought of sharing this tiny space with a vomiting, wailing woman was unpleasant.
She let her mind wander to Allen Pendale, who might very well soon be disturbing her solitude as much as he did her peace of mind. When she had taken charge, mopping and cleaning up that morning, his willingness to help had been unexpected and welcome, not what she would have expected from an earl’s son.
All the same, she didn’t want to share a cabin with him. Did she?
“I’m afraid the Blights will not budge.” Allen spoke, as they stood at the rail after dinner. It was a clear cold night—the sort of night that on land would produce a white frost by morning. Here the shrouds glistened silver, the deck had a frosty sheen, and overhead the sails belled against the night sky, the Milky Way flung across the heavens like a gauze scarf.
“Well, then, we shall have to make do.”
They were both being very careful not to look at each other. She had tried to avoid doing so at dinner, but with only the three of them—Mr. Johnson had declined to dine—it had been difficult. And she had wanted to look at him, to watch the play of lamplight on his skin, darkened by a day of sun and wind. She couldn’t help thinking of how his hands had looked against her pale skin, probing her secret places while he made her watch.
He and the captain had been in fine spirits, doing their best to charm and entertain her, as they’d dined on herring fried in bacon fat. Allen had a lively wit and was a good storyteller, and she had amused them both with stories of mishaps below stairs when she was a housekeeper.
But he was not laughing now.
“Would you care to retire first, ma’am?”
“Thank you. I shall wish you a good night, then. I fall asleep quite fast.”
“Of course.”
CHAPTER 4
I’m not an animal, he wanted to yell at her as she walked away from him. I can exercise some self-control. I am not totally depraved.
What was he thinking? She was a woman who was halfway to becoming a courtesan, her innocence lost as she readily admitted. Had her innocence been that, or something else entirely? She had played the part well; how seductive she’d been, with that girlish giggle and her feigned orgasm—although he really wasn’t sure about that, remembering the clutch of her cunt on his fingers. Well, even the most hardened courtesan might allow herself a moment of pleasure, and she’d used him, appealing to his pride in his sexual expertise. And then he’d spouted like a schoolboy in her hand—in his hand, too, to be honest, while she pretended—probably—she didn’t know what to do with a cock. He didn’t believe, for one moment, that she had been only a respectable housekeeper for the past five years. More likely she’d been old Thelling’s mistress, and that was why the new lord tossed her out of the house and across the ocean.
Yet something about her endeared her to the men on the ship, with the possible exception of Blight, who was an unpleasant, low sort of fellow. They all seemed to adore her. But that was what a courtesan did—demanded adoration, preferably in conjunction with bottomless pockets. Aboard ship, where pockets were empty or full of holes, she charmed to keep her hand in, just as he lunged and sparred alone without a fencing partner.
Even he had been inspired to ask Captain Trent to send the boy, Peter, to help clean up the Blights’ puke, and paid for the privilege.
If she showed any interest in him at all, it was because he was an earl’s son and might possibly have some money; and, if he didn’t, he might be the means to someone else suitably aristocratic and rich.
She’d probably target Lemarchand, the richest man on the island, while she lived under the same roof. He felt sorry for Lemarchand’s daughter, whose lessons would probably be neglected while her governess concentrated on Papa’s education.
Not that it was any of his business.
Mr. Johnson, pale and not looking at all well, standing beside the helmsman, blew a whistle and a cluster of sailors stampeded onto the deck and up the rigging. Allen watched them swarm up the shrouds and determined he’d do that, just once, up to the top of one of the masts. Just to show Miss Onslowe he could. No, she had nothing to do with it.
Surely she’d had enough time to primp and put her hair in papers, or whatever it was she did at night. It was time to go below.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
Clarissa took the lower berth previously occupied by Mrs. Blight, having determined that offering Mr. Pendale her own sheets seemed less indelicate. She knew her logic was convoluted, but did not want to explore her theory further. She left the lamp lit and decided she would go to sleep immediately, or feign sleep to avoid any more awkward conversation.
After a while, sleep evading her, she heard the clump of boots coming down the steps and a light tap on the door. Eyes almost shut, she slowed her breathing and decided to enjoy the sight of Mr. Pendale preparing for bed.
He sat on his box of belongings, which Clarissa had asked Peter to move into the cabin, along with the bootjack. He eased off his boots and tossed them onto the upper berth, stood, stretched and hit one hand against a beam. Swearing softly under his breath, he stripped off his coat and waistcoat. In his shirtsleeves, he paused, face thoughtful, and untied his neck-cloth, drawing the creamy length of cotton from his shirt, and lifted one hand to unfasten the placket. A curl of black hair, similar to the dusting of hair on his hands and forearms, became visible as he undid the buttons.
She wondered if he intended to sleep in his shirt, and her question was answered when he stripped the garment off over his head, hunching his back, arms outstretched. With a shiver of delight she saw his chest, as dark-pelted as that first curl of hair had promised, the slick of hair under one arm as he stood over her to throw his shirt onto his berth. His stockings were good, serviceable gray wool, gartered with plain black ribbon, and she shut her eyes again expecting him to bend to remove them.
Instead he moved away—she felt his warmth retreat—and through half-closed eyes, she watched him rest one foot on his box of belongings, lean over, and pull at the black ribbon, drawing the knot untied with great care. He shook the ribbon out, stuffed it into his breeches pocket, then bent again to roll the stocking down and off. He stumbled a little as the ship dipped and stood, knees slightly bent, the bone of his bared shin sharp in the lamplight, swaying with the movement. She’d never seen a gentleman’s bare foot before, and it was somewhat disappointing that his was like anyone else’s, but broad and strong like the rest of him. His skin glowed gold; he sighed and scratched his chest while his other hand lowered to the fall of his breeches. His hand lingered, resting as though pointing the way to the noticeable masculine bulge, before he unbuttoned the top button on each side, and his breeches slid a little onto his hips. More golden skin, the dark eye of his navel, were revealed as the flap fell forward.
Did he know she watched? Was he performing for her? She squeezed her thighs together, tingling and aroused.
He lifted the other leg, bent, repeated the untying, rolling down, and tossed both stockings onto his bed.
His breeches now; another button loosened, a further slide down his hips, and
he paused.
He reached for the lantern as the fingers of his other hand worked the next button. The cabin plunged into pitch darkness and his breeches slithered down—she heard the rasp of wool on skin. There was a warm gust of air from his body, scented with his musk and sweat as he hoisted himself onto the upper berth—and she took a much-needed breath.
She hadn’t been asleep, despite the evidence of closed eyes and carefully slowed breathing. She’d been quite convincing, but there was something in the chilly air, a watchfulness, a stirring, tight-wound like a strand of a spider’s web thrumming in a breeze. He could have challenged her, but decided not to after his initial surprise. He wanted her to watch him; he wanted to tease her. He liked the idea of a woman looking at him with admiration and desire, while he pretended oblivion. So he slowed down, taking his time, making each movement, each gesture—unbuttoning, rolling down or off—deliberate, significant.
And he’d denied her the final prize, which at the time had seemed like a good idea, although he wasn’t quite sure why now. He’d been half-erect by that time; she would probably have pretended to awake and he could have bent her over and … and instead, here he was with a horn like a ship’s mast, while she lay a couple of feet beneath him, far too close for comfort.
He turned and shoved his face into the pillow. That was a mistake. It smelled of her, sweet, earthy, female. His cock shoved against the sheets that also held her scent. He was surrounded by her essence, drowning in it. He reached beneath the sheet and grasped his cock. Maybe…maybe if he were very quiet, she wouldn’t know.
He squeezed. The berth creaked.
Another squeeze, another creak, and he groaned. He couldn’t help it. Go to sleep, Miss Onslowe, for Christ’s sake.
She turned over, rustled, sighed.
He should stop. Doubtless, he’d have an erotic dream anyway and come all over her nice, lavender-scented sheets. And she’d see the stain and know what it was, know he had found pleasure while she was blissfully unaware.
A Certain Latitude Page 4
