“I’m glad you didn’t.”
She stared up at him in the dimness of the room, his face soft in the lantern’s glow. He sounded—looked—as though he really meant it. Then, cynically, she thought that of course he didn’t want her to fall overboard. Not after he had spent so much money, gone to so much trouble. He didn’t want his bride to die on their wedding day, for goodness’ sake.
“It’s not what you think.”
She cocked her head, not understanding.
“I’ve got an idea what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong. I don’t care about the money I’ve spent. It’s you—I don’t want anything to happen to you. I still think we can have a good marriage, Angele.”
She stared at him over the rim of her glass, then took another sip before responding. “I’m going to try, I promise. And there’s something else I have to tell you. You asked if I met a man yesterday, and I did. His name is Mr. Montague, and he’s a stone cutter. I wanted him to make a monument for my mother’s grave.
“And there’s more,” she rushed to say before she lost her nerve. “I used the money I saved by buying cheaper trunks to pay him.”
“That’s all right. And if you had asked me for the money, I would have given it to you. I’d also have been glad to go with you to help make the arrangements.”
She set the empty glass aside, then absently, nervously, fingered the sheet. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something.”
Slowly, he pulled the sheet from her and drew it down to her waist. She was wearing a fresh nightdress. The one he had torn lay crumpled in the corner. “I’ll buy you a new one,” he murmured.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered nervously, seeing the heat in his eyes.
Gently, he cupped her breasts and began to softly caress them. “I’ll buy you anything you want, Angele. Just be good to me, that’s all I ask.”
Angele breathed deeply and closed her eyes as he began to take his clothes off. Then he slid the nightdress up over her head and tossed it aside. “I want to look at you—all of you. And I want you to look at me. You’ve nothing to be afraid of. I won’t hurt you. And this time, if you tell me to stop, I will. Now, open your eyes.”
She did so, staring up at him as he stretched out beside her. His eyes locked with hers as his fingertips began to squeeze her nipples.
She didn’t flinch or pull away. This time her back arched not in terror but instead yielded to pleasure as hot fingers of longing wrapped around her spine. In wonder, she found herself wanting to curl into him, to press herself yet tighter.
But it was he who moved closer, so that she could feel his hardness pulsating against her thigh. He slipped a hand down to her bottom and began to knead the firm flesh, and she marveled at the unfamiliar sensation.
Taking turns with her nipples, suckling and leaving them hot and moist, he raised his lips to hers, soft at first, then possessive and probing. He tasted of warm Cognac, and she wanted his tongue and leaned into him, deepening the kiss. As she did so, her breasts rubbed against his chest, the mat of hair deliciously tickling her skin. His tongue moved deeper, and her own danced around it, tasting, wanting more, dreamily thinking how she had never known such ecstasy could exist.
She was startled to realize how her breasts were actually throbbing, and, as he touched his penis to her thigh, her legs parted as though with a will of their own. Her hips began to undulate, only a little, but enough to find the hard ridge of his penis as she rocked against him with primitive instincts he had magically awakened.
She was not afraid, nor was she reluctant. It was as though his body was sending secret messages to hers that assured her he would not harm her, would not leave scars upon her soul…only memories of joy nonpareil.
He found her hand and pulled it to his penis. “Touch me. Feel me.”
Her fingers were paralyzed. “No. I…I can’t,” she all but whimpered in her protest.
“Maybe it’s too soon,” he murmured. And then he mounted her, slipping her legs about his waist. As he entered her, she stiffened and held her breath. His body pressed her down onto the bed as he gave a hard, steady jab, sheathing him firmly, deeply.
She cried out. He was hard, thick, and impossibly large, yet she took all of him and felt herself writhing uncontrollably around him.
He pulled back, but only a little, watching her intently as he did so. “Am I hurting you?”
She realized then that she was making crying noises due to the wondrous sensation, the pleasure that was close to sweet torture. Her heart was thudding, and she shook her head wildly and clung to him tightly, jolted by a strange, inner warning that something fierce yet wonderful was about to rip her apart.
His whispered words of masculine reassurance couldn’t be heard over the roaring in her ears. She continued to hold tightly, her nails digging into his back as he went deeper, harder. The bed moved up and down, creaking, straining, as he relentlessly pushed in and out.
She felt it coming. A dark, honeyed emotion that spread slowly at first, then crept into her belly and squeezed tight like a clenching fist. He rode her harder, as her climax spread like the waves in the windblown sea. She held her legs wider apart, convulsing and arching, and he had no mercy as he drove yet deeper and she wanted none. She craved only him, as much as he could give her.
She whimpered, shuddered, but on he drove. When he climaxed, his strong body bucked, and she struggled to breathe from the impact of his final thrust.
He was heavy on her, and she felt his heart thundering in unison with her own. He was damp with sweat, and so was she. She turned her face into his neck, embarrassed by how she had responded, the wanton, wild way she had behaved.
“It’s going to be all right, Angele,” he murmured sleepily as he continued to hold her. “We’ll make it all right.”
Angele knew she would be awake a long, long time.
She had just discovered what it really meant to be a woman, and she would savor the joy…as she wondered what it would ultimately mean.
The beds were no more than thick, canvas hammocks, hanging by ropes from the ceiling in stacks of three. Corbett had been the last to claim one and had to take the least coveted, which was on top.
The men on each side of him, and beneath him, snored and grunted. Unpleasant odors assaulted his nostrils, and he knew he had never been so miserable in his entire life. And now he would have to put up with it for weeks, because he’d failed in his attempt to get rid of Angele.
Irritably, he yanked the worn, rough sheet over his head to try to shut out the noises and smells. It was hot, but he didn’t care if it worked.
He had failed, but somehow he would find a way. Clarice would help, and, together, they would succeed in driving the little fortune seeker from BelleRose.
And they would also make her wish she had never set foot on American soil.
Chapter Eleven
Angele was awakened by the rocking of the ship. Everything in the cabin that was not fastened to the floor was sliding back and forth.
She sat up but had to grab the chain holding the bed to keep from tumbling to the floor as the ship gave a sharp lurch to the side.
Still groggy, she managed to scramble to the porthole as the ship dipped in that direction…and what she saw made her stomach tilt along with the room.
The sky was dark, black almost, and the ocean was foaming with huge, choppy waves. It was a terrible storm, and the rain beating against the porthole sounded like rocks were being thrown against it.
The floor tilted the other way. She fell back on the bed and held on to the chain with one hand, the other covering her mouth. She knew she was going to be sick, and when the ship stilled for the very briefest of moments, she managed to reach the chamber pot.
There was a knock at the door.
“Go away.” She hoped it wasn’t Ryan. She didn’t want him to see her retching. In fact, she didn’t want to see him at all. She was too embarrassed over last night. Miss Appleton had said men didn’t respect
women who didn’t act like ladies, and ladies didn’t enjoy the terrible thing their husbands did to make babies. But she had enjoyed it, so what must he think of her now?
“Madame, are you all right?”
It was the steward, and she called feebly, “Yes. Just leave me alone.”
The floor moved again, and she and the chamber pot along with it.
He persisted. “Madame, your husband sent me to tell you he would like for you to join him for lunch.”
“Lunch?” Was it really that late? “No. I don’t feel like eating. I may never eat again.”
“Ah, you are seasick.”
He sounded amused.
“I’m afraid a lot of the passengers are,” he called, “but it’s just a squall. It will be over soon.”
“Not soon enough for me.” She managed to crawl back to the bed.
“I will tell your husband that you aren’t feeling well.”
“Don’t you dare!” she all but screamed.
When he didn’t respond, she knew he had left. She closed her eyes. Never could she remember being so sick, and the more the ship rocked, the worse she felt.
Her head began to ache, and her throat was burning. Worse, she began to worry that the ship would turn over and they would sink. Suddenly life in the catacombs and the guilt over robbing little old ladies seemed like paradise compared to what she was going through now.
She didn’t hear Ryan when he came in. She was curled into a ball, her face pressed into the pillow to stifle the moans she couldn’t hold back.
Warm hands touched her shoulder to gently roll her onto her back. She was too weak to protest.
“Angele, I had no idea you were sick.”
“Leave me alone. I think I’m dying.”
He chuckled. “No, you aren’t, and according to the captain, we’ll be out of this soon. It’s just a little squall.”
“I don’t care how little it is, it’s enough to make me want to die.”
“Nonsense.” He sat down on the side of the bed, bracing his feet against the floor as it tilted again. “The steward said he was bringing some ginger water for you to drink. It’s supposed to help settle your stomach. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Go away and leave me alone.”
He laughed again. “No, I’m not going to do that. You’re my wife, and it’s my duty to take care of you.”
Duty. Angele disliked the word and didn’t know why. After all, it was the most she could expect from him.
“I can see you’re really sick. If it were last night, I’d think you were faking.”
Her eyes were closed, because she was too embarrassed to look at him, but hearing the amusement in his tone made her angry. He seemed to be enjoying her misery. Eyes flashing open, she glared up at him. “I’m glad you think this is all funny. I wish it were you instead of me.”
“I don’t get seasick. I’m surprised you do. Didn’t you ever go out with your father in a boat?”
“No.” She closed her eyes again and folded her arms across her face. “I hate water. I told you that.”
“Yes, I remember, because that’s one of the few things you have told me about yourself.”
Grumpily, she retorted, “Well, I don’t know anything about you, either.”
Just then the steward knocked and called that he had the ginger water. He also gave him a message from the captain that they were moving out of the squall.
“Thank you.” Ryan could already feel the sea calming a bit, because the ship wasn’t tilting quite as bad.
He returned to Angele. Slipping his hand behind her neck, he gently raised her head so she could drink the ginger water.
“I’m afraid it will only make me sicker.”
“You have to try. Take small sips.”
It didn’t taste bad, and, after a few swallows, her stomach felt less queasy. She finally managed to drink all of it, and her headache seemed better.
Ryan set the empty glass aside. “Well, I’m glad to see that. As stubborn as you are, I figured I’d have to pour it down you.”
“I’m stubborn?” She looked at him, aghast.
“That’s right. Look what a hard time I had last night making you enjoy yourself. You were so damned determined not to.”
Mortified, she turned her face toward the wall. “That’s not a nice thing for a man to say to his wife.”
“My God, do you really think that?”
“Please, Ryan, I don’t feel like talking about this.”
“All right.” He stood. “Maybe later. I want things to be good between us, Angele, and they can be if you’ll stop being afraid of me. I’m not going to hurt you, but there are a few things I expect from you.”
She didn’t respond, and he went to the door. “I’ll leave you now, but I’ll be back to check on you later. If you’re up to it, I’d like for you to join the ladies.”
“I don’t want to.” She turned over and sat up. The ship wasn’t lurching anymore, and the ginger water had quelled her nausea, but she had no intentions of sewing with the women. She hated sewing, tatting, knitting—anything that kept her indoors. It had been a bone of contention with her mother, as well as Miss Appleton. She much preferred being outside riding or hiking—anything to keep her in nature, because she loved it.
He closed the door and walked back to the bed to tower over her. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to, I said it was what I wanted. If I’m going to present you to my family and friends as a well-bred lady, you’re going to have to learn a few things. Sewing is one of them. You can also learn how to carry on a conversation. I’ve noticed when we’re around other people you won’t talk because you’re so insecure.”
Insecure. She wished the word were a club so she could beat him over the head with it. “I don’t like to waste my time with silly things like sewing, and the reason I don’t talk is because I’m not interested in anything anybody is saying.”
“But if you understood the subjects they were discussing, you would be.”
“I doubt that. The women gossip about other women. They make fun of their hats, their gowns—everything about them. And the men talk politics. No one wants to talk about anything I’m interested in.”
“Like what?” He leaned closer, for she had his full attention.
“Like…” She floundered, not wanting to go too far, and quickly made up a story, which was becoming easier and easier to do. “Like animals. I knew a man who had a farm, and he let me help take care of all his animals.” That was not altogether a lie. There had been a lot of animals on their estate in England—sheep, cows, goats, pigs. And she had loved being around them, much to her mother’s dismay. Her father hadn’t cared, because he had always wanted a son, anyway, and didn’t care if she sometimes behaved like a tomboy.
Ryan shook his head as though he hadn’t heard her right. “You like taking care of animals?”
“That’s right.”
He slapped his palm against his forehead. “We’ve got more work to do than I thought if we’re going to turn you into a lady by the time we reach New York. Stay in bed the rest of the day, but bright and early tomorrow, my dear wife, your lessons begin.”
After he left, Angele glared at the closed door as though she could still see him standing there giving orders. She would cooperate but only because she had to.
And, she thought with a mischievous smile, if he thought it would take a lot of work to turn her into a lady, then far be it for her to prove him wrong.
She managed to appear sick on into the next day, thus postponing the dreaded time when she would have to join the ladies. Worse, Ryan had taken it on himself to tell Annette Marceau that Angele didn’t know the first thing about sewing. And, of course, Mrs. Piermont said she’d be delighted to teach her.
That night, Angele decided to go to dinner. She was tired of warm broth and tea and wanted real food. She was also bored with staying in the cabin.
She dressed in one of her favorite gowns
among those she’d had made. Fashioned of peach silk and satin, an embroidered lace bib draped from the scoop neckline, with matching lace sleeves to her wrists. It was very delicate, much more suitable for a ball instead of a ship, and she almost changed her mind about wearing it. Then Ryan came to escort her to the dining room, and there was no time.
“You are stunning, Angele,” he said, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe. “Absolutely stunning.”
Feeling a bit shy, she murmured, “Thank you,” and took the arm he held out to her.
When they entered the dining room, once again heads turned at the sight of her.
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Annette Marceau beamed up at her when they reached their table. “And your gown is so pretty, my dear.”
Angele thanked her for the compliment as the men politely stood. A waiter held her chair for her.
There was a tray of small loaves of bread on the table, and she felt like throwing one at Ryan when he said to Annette, “My wife can’t wait for her sewing lessons to begin. What time should she meet you and the other ladies tomorrow?”
Annette was pleased. “Ten o’clock will be fine. And she’ll probably want to join us after lunch for our literary group. Nanette Lanierre is going to talk about Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey.”
“Wonderful,” Ryan said. “I’m sure she’ll enjoy that.”
Angele fumed over how they discussed her like she wasn’t there. And the thought of having to discuss Northanger Abbey made her want to run for the chamber pot again. She’d had to read the book in her English literature class at Miss Appleton’s school and had been bored silly. She would much rather discuss Austen’s Emma but would, of course, have to pretend ignorance of such cultured topics as authors and books.
Concentrating on eating solid food for the first time in two days, she mostly ignored the conversation going on around her. But she took notice when she heard Corbett ask Ryan how one of the Anglo-Arab mares was doing.
“Her leg is still bothering her,” Ryan said. “Unfortunately, none of the crew down there know how to do anything except toss hay and rake out a stall. I’m afraid it will have to wait till we get home so Jasper can see to it.” He swept everyone with an apologetic look. “I’m not much good at doctoring horses. I’ve always depended on my stableman to do that.”
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