A Certain Latitude

by Janet Mullany

  “No, you don’t. No worse than me. Besides, I…” I like your smell. “Oh, I’d love to wash.”

  “Miss Onslowe, I’m devastated. I’ve brought you up to see the sunrise and, far from appreciating the poetic moment, you talk of hot water and soap.” He grinned and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. “I should shave. I think I can do it now without cutting my throat.”

  She turned to watch streaks of pink and gray appear in the sky. A gleam of bright copper edged the horizon.

  “What happens now?” she asked, hating herself for asking, yet not having the courage to say what she really meant—what is it between us? I wish I was in love with you—it would make everything so much easier. Instead I like you—I think, sometimes—and lust after you, oh, definitely lust after you, Allen Pendale, and now I don’t know what to do.

  “We have breakfast, you’ll charm hot water from Lardy Jack and charm Peter into carrying it below, and I’ll shave.” He too stared at the sunrise. “The sun rises every day of our lives, yet consider how we take it for granted.”

  Her cheeks and nose were pink with cold and, although he told himself a dozen times she was no beauty, nothing out of the ordinary, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Maybe it was the shock of cold air, the splintering brightness of the sunrise, and colors—they had lived in a monochromatic world below, in half darkness, like moles. And the scent of coffee from the galley fired him with an appetite like lust, his mouth watering.

  He hardly noticed the pitching of the ship now, could walk as easily as a sailor—Clarissa, too, her hips swaying as she prattled on to Lardy Jack, who grumbled but put on a large kettle of water for her.

  “You’re too early for breakfast with the Captain, miss. You can have porridge; poor stuff, it’s what the men eat, but you’re welcome to it if you want to fill your belly.”

  “Oh, something hot! Wonderful. You are wonderful, Jack.”

  “Get on with you, miss.” Lardy Jack dolloped a large spoonful of grayish, gluey stuff from a large pot over the fire, looked at her and Allen, hesitated and then put two spoons in it. “Save Peter time washing the plates, miss, sir.” He winked, poured coffee into a mug and handed it to Allen. “You don’t mind sharing, I hope.”

  “Christ,” Allen muttered, after they’d thanked him and they’d moved out of the constricted space of the galley. “Does everyone know? I’d thought to save your reputation.”

  “Of course they know. And I have no reputation.” She took a spoonful of the porridge and sighed with pleasure.

  “But they—the sailors—don’t know that.”

  “I’m sure Blight knows from talking to his wife. He doesn’t like me, or you.”

  “Who gives a damn whether he likes you? I’m concerned about whether he shows you proper respect.” He dug his spoon into the porridge and offered her the coffee.

  She handed him the plate of porridge and took the coffee, wrapping her hands around the mug.

  “Allen?”

  He paused halfway through a sticky, chewy mouthful and gave an encouraging nod.

  “About my ruin. I’ve been meaning to speak to you of it.”

  Where the devil was this leading? Obviously she was after something. He nodded again, having learned from his legal experience that silent encouragement encouraged a confession better than words.

  “Well.” She stared into the coffee. “I’m not that ruined.”

  Not that ruined? What on earth could she mean? “Miss Onslowe, either you are ruined or not. I believe you are, for you’ve told me as such. You’re exceedingly metaphysical for so early in the morning.”

  “I mean that, yes, I am ruined, but I…I know very little.”

  He gave a snort of disbelief.

  “You don’t understand.” Her voice was pitched a little higher than usual, and she handed him the coffee, fast, so some slopped over the rim of the mug. “I—I spent two nights with my lover. It was—I felt there must be more, and what he did seemed nothing to do with me—and then what you and I did behind the hen coop seemed entirely different, and—”

  “You flatter me, Miss Onslowe.” Once again he felt like a fool, hands occupied with the plate and mug, while she spun a series of preposterous riddles. “Have a word with Mrs. Blight when she recovers. I’m sure she’ll provide the lurid details of which you claim to lack knowledge.”

  “I’d rather you—”

  “What?” His cock hardened so fast, he swore he could feel the blood rush from his head. Did she mean…oh, good God, what was she suggesting?

  She, however, seemed ready for a good argument, bright-eyed, alert, and with hands unencumbered by breakfast. “You were of course unspeakably vulgar, but I trust in the future—”

  “Unspeakably vulgar? Come, now, Clarissa, that was fucking, not an afternoon call from the vicar—”

  “Sssh. You’ll shock the sailors.”

  Sure enough a couple of men dropped from the shrouds, touching their forelocks. “Good morning, Miss Onslowe.”

  “Good morning, Tom. Good morning, Ebenezer. Is your toothache better?”

  “Much, thank you, miss. Good morning, sir. Still in good health, sir? I have my money on you.”

  “Good day to you.” Sometimes the haughty demeanor of an Earl’s son was useful, even if he stood with a mostly empty plate, a gob of porridge hanging on the edge and threatening to drop onto his coat. He thrust both plate and mug at one of the sailors. “Take these to the galley, if you please.”

  With both hands freed, and once the sailors had walked away, he reached to sort out his shirttails and hopelessly tangled cock.

  She smiled. “You’re not indifferent to the idea, then, Mr. Pendale.”

  “I’m only human. Of course I’m not indifferent, but I won’t be toyed with.”

  “Of course not.” She swallowed. “You really would be doing me a great favor.”

  He burst into laughter. “Miss Onslowe, what do you wish to find out?”

  She swayed toward him, a seductress, as the rising sun behind her illuminated her bright hair and bathed her in fire. “Everything. Everything you know, Allen.”

  “Water’s ready, Miss Onslowe,” Peter said from behind him. The boy staggered under the weight of a wooden tub that his arms barely reached around. Inside the tub a large kettle poured steam into the air.

  “Thank you, Peter.” She smiled at Allen and followed the boy belowdecks.

  Allen fingered his bristly chin and decided it was definitely time for a shave.

  He hadn’t said yes. He didn’t need to, and she knew it.

  He borrowed Mr. Johnson’s razor and shaved on deck, using some ugly gray soap that smelled of pigs and barely raised a lather, and a basin of rapidly cooling hot water, his fingers numb with cold. It was the best he could do. He hoped Clarissa would appreciate the effort, and that she would be equally appreciative of the rasp of his bristles against her skin. All over her. His hand shook and he came near to cutting his throat, as he’d predicted.

  Belowdecks, he rapped at the cabin door and heard Clarissa bid him enter.

  Clad only in her shift, Clarissa stood in the tub of water, combing out her wet hair. He suspected she’d only just put on the shift, as it clung damply to her, her nipples poking out against the worn cotton. She should wear silk on that fine skin.

  “You look…you look very clean,” he said.

  “I’ll call Peter to take the tub,” she said, smiling shyly at him.

  “No. Let me wash. I shaved but I’m dirty.” God, he was turning into a pervert—first the same chamber-pot, now an erotic thrill from sharing her bathwater.

  “Certainly.” She stepped away, sat on a box and reached for a towel to dry her feet.

  He stripped off with little finesse, not like the other time he’d undressed for her, and she handed him a lump of soap flecked with some herb—lavender, like her sheets. He stepped into the tub, the few inches of water slightly warm and cloudy. He sank to one knee and poured water onto his head wit
h a pewter bowl.

  “Wait.” She stepped close to him, cotton brushing his shoulder and poured something cold and fragrant onto his hair.

  “I can do that,” he said, embarrassed that she was washing him, and then gave himself up to the pleasure of her fingers working through his hair, rubbing his scalp. More lavender, something else…

  “Rosemary and sage,” she said as he sniffed. “And lemon verbena in vinegar. I distilled it last summer.”

  She helped him rinse his hair and then sat on the box, still close enough to touch him if she wished, while he stood and soaped himself. She watched with open interest, particularly when he soaped his balls and pulled back his foreskin to wash his cock.

  “Does that give you pleasure?” her voice was a throaty murmur, as she watched his cock harden in his hand.

  “Yes. And particularly knowing you watch me.” He stroked himself, just to see her reaction.

  She paused in combing her hair, her tongue flicking out to lick her lips.

  And this woman thought she needed tutoring in the amorous arts? He grinned with delight and finished washing—arse, legs, feet—then squatted to rinse himself.

  She took the bowl and poured water down his back, following the stream with her cool hand, running her hand over his shoulder-blade, down his spine. She knelt next to him, her face close to his. She’d tied her hair back with a ribbon; it fell between her shoulder-blades in a wet club.

  “Clarissa.” He took her chin in his hand, tilting her mouth to his. He wanted to kiss her properly, tease her with his lips. Her mouth was cool beneath his: she tasted of herbs and salt spray, and he had a sudden urgent desire to taste his semen on her lips.

  “We’ll concentrate on your pleasure this time. I trust that is agreeable, Miss Onslowe?” he whispered into her mouth. He wanted to be formal with her, a prelude to the reversal of formality when they would obey a different set of rules.

  Her small gasp parted her lips to the tip of his tongue. Just the tip, no more; give her a taste, make her want him as much as he wanted her.

  He moved his mouth to her neck—good, she was sensitive there, flinching a little, but only a little, as his bristles rasped against the tender skin, his tongue and teeth giving her a small taste of what might follow.

  “Your pleasure?” he repeated.

  She shivered against him in a satisfying way. “Quite. And the next time?”

  “Oh, we’ll think of something, I’m sure. We could do some very…indecent acts of an advanced nature.” His fingers crept into her shift and closed over her hard nipple. He pinched, not intending to hurt her, but not too gently. “Do you have any preferences, Miss Onslowe?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “I trust you’re prepared this time, Miss Onslowe?”

  “Yes. Mr. Pendale.”

  He liked the thought of her, shift raised, one slim hand reaching between her legs, inserting a sponge for his pleasure. He’d watch her do it when she was less shy with him.

  “Good. I intend to come inside you. Several times.”

  When she stood, and he stood too, drops of water falling against her shift, dampening it against her, she thought her legs might collapse with pleasure and nervousness. His erection pushed blatantly against her, his hand was still at her breast, and she wanted to touch him everywhere, barely knowing where to start. She reached her hands behind him and touched his back, the wet cool skin.

  “You’re wet,” she gasped idiotically.

  “Am I?” He nipped at her ear. “Probably not as wet as you are for me.”

  Oh, God, he’s crude. Wonderfully crude. He stepped from the tub in a shower of tepid drops, so he stood behind her.

  “Part your legs for me, darling. Pull your shift up.”

  “What about my pleasure?” As his cock bumped against her naked buttocks, she was afraid he’d take her there and then, when she wanted his delicious teasing to continue.

  “Hold your shift up. That’s right. Now watch.” His hand, dark and square against her belly slid between her thighs, parting her, touching her exactly where she yearned to be touched. His other hand pinched and stroked her nipple. He murmured that he wanted to frig her all the time when he wasn’t fucking her; he wanted her to come and come; he wanted her lovely quim squeezing his cock; he wanted her wet and soaking him, milking the honey from his ballocks—crude, shocking things in his beautiful, resonant voice, words that made her pant and moan with excitement.

  Then he stopped as her thighs tensed for her orgasm.

  “But, first, we’ll take off this shift.” He stripped it from her and turned her around to face him, cupping her breasts in his hands. “You’re a pretty woman, Miss Clarissa Onslowe. And I’ll do all of that for sure to you. But first…”

  His cock reared dark and hard against her belly. She stroked one finger down its length and smiled as it jumped, a drop of fluid stretching and dripping onto her hand.

  He caught her wrist to stop her. “Later.” His voice was rough, and she realized then his excitement matched hers. “Sit down. On my box, I think.”

  She sat.

  “Open your legs for me.”

  “What—”

  He knelt before her, put a hand on each knee and pushed her thighs wide apart, quite firmly, as though not brooking any argument. Her secret parts were exposed, vulnerable to his gaze—he was looking between her legs, at her cunny. She was wet and swollen, embarrassed, vulnerable, excited.

  He raised his gaze to her. “You want to come, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Oh, you’ll come, Clarissa.” He stroked one finger slowly, too slowly, down the ridge of her clitoris—she shook with pleasure—down between her swollen labia, pushing just inside her for one moment, and then back up, circling. “I’m told women like this way the best.”

  Before she could protest he dipped his mouth to where his fingers played and replaced them with his tongue. She’d heard maids at Thelling’s whisper of it, tipping the velvet, giggling to each other that it was the best thing a man could do, although they thought so highly of their cocks … and, oh, yes, what a strange and wonderful thing it was. Who would have thought a tongue— tempting and wicked in her mouth—could be used so, and his lips, and even a hint of his teeth. His hands stroked up her sides, closed on her breasts and pulled her nipples hard, and she gripped the edge of the box tightly, torn between wanting to watch what he did and flinging herself back to enjoy his touch. She caressed his head, the springing curl of his black hair, pushed against him—yes, Allen, please—then grabbed with both hands to steady a world flying apart. Coming, oh, not nearly enough of a word for what happened, for the glorious tumult of spiral, rolling, boiling over-ness—she laughed, still gripping his head, and repeated his name. Allen. Allen. Allen.

  She slumped forward, her head on his shoulder, gasping for breath and still laughing. He’d never before had a woman who laughed when she came, and he wondered whether he should be insulted. But, no, it was a splendid thing in its own way; he certainly preferred it to women who wept. At least this way he could be certain she’d enjoyed herself.

  “Thank you,” she said, which made him laugh too.

  “My pleasure. No, your pleasure. Our pleasure.” He touched a finger to her open quim, wet with his saliva and her own excitement, stroked and watched her face. “Shall I do it again?”

  “Oh.” She looked quite thrilled, like a child at a fair being offered a second gingerbread man. Then she glanced at his erection and giggled.

  “And what is so funny?” He tried to sound appropriately outraged.

  “It’s—would you like to—to fuck me?” Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and this extraordinary woman who had avidly watched him finger and tongue her cunt and play with her breasts actually blushed. “I thought you might be uncomfortable.”

  “Uncomfortable with lust for you? That’s one way to put it.” He grabbed her legs, locking them around his arse, his cock bumping up a
gainst her. “How do you like to do it best?”

  “Best?” she echoed him.

  He glanced around at their surroundings. If he took her on a berth he’d get splinters in his arse, and there’d be nowhere for his knees and…he wanted a big feather bed with bedposts to tie her to, and big and soft enough to spread her out and fuck her and fuck her…somehow the fucking part would happen here, but he wasn’t sure how.

  He stood and opened the door, shoved the tub and bucket outside, and grabbed the quilt from Mrs. Blight’s bed. “Come here.” He tossed the quilt to the floor and pulled her down with him. “Tell me how you like it,” he repeated.

  She looked confused.

  What the devil had her lover been about?

  “You know, on top, on your side, standing up, sitting, from behind…let’s try a few positions and you can tell me what works best.” He positioned her on her back, spread her legs and thrust forward, making, to his great embarrassment, a small whimpering sound as he entered her.

  He wanted to come. Oh, Christ, he wanted to come.

  “Well, this is quite pleasant,” she said in a voice of cheerful determination that made him laugh again.

  “If I were a more sensitive soul I might slink away and kill myself. ‘Quite pleasant,’ indeed.”

  “I beg your pardon. Ecstatic, wondrous, like me to make me swoon?” She frowned. “I did it this way before.”

  He sighed in mock dismay. “Miss Onslowe, please do not boast of your conquests to me. It is most unseemly. Unless”—he bent to nip her ear and she squirmed beneath him in a most satisfactory manner—“unless you seek to arouse me unbearably by recounting an experience of absolute filth.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t find it particularly arousing then.”

  “No need for apologies. Let’s try this.” He turned onto his back, hoisting her on top of him, admiring the neat drop of her breasts into his hands.

  She looked at him, confused, aroused.

  “Move, darling,” he said, thrusting upward.

  “Like this?” She rose, slid, sank. And again.

  “Oh, yes.” He gripped her hips, his balls and buttocks tightening. “Clarissa, I won’t last like this. Let’s try another way.”