by Louise Allen
‘Frustrations?’ The blue eyes glittered dangerously. ‘Allow me to demonstrate what frustration involves, Miss Ravenhurst.’
The yard was neglected, like the house, but at one time someone had constructed an arbour, screened with climbers. They were overgrown now and the seat within was rickety with age. It creaked ominously under their weight as Nathan scooped Clemence up and threw himself down on it, holding her across his knee with one hand despite her furious wriggling.
He is trying to frighten me for my own good, she thought, suddenly still, suddenly understanding. But I am not frightened and I want him to want me, want him to understand what he is giving up.
Her mouth was open under his as he thrust into the moist, soft interior and she let him, passive for a moment while she learned the rhythm, then her tongue joined his, touched, probed, fenced and her body curled against his, finding the places where they fitted together, feeling his erection under the curve of her buttocks, wriggling against it in wanton invitation.
Everything that his gentle caresses of the night before had aroused sprang into hot, urgent life again. Nathan growled, freeing her mouth, bending his head to see what he was doing as his free hand pulled down the loose neck of her damp muslin gown so that the newly burgeoning curves of her breasts were exposed to his gaze and his hot, avid mouth.
They ached and tingled and seemed to grow as he licked and nibbled and then his thumb rubbed under the corset edge and found her nipple and she arched, panting, her head thrown back on his shoulder, utterly unable to do anything but surrender to the impossible pleasure.
And then he stopped. He pulled up her gown, tied the ribbons, got to his feet and placed her on to the seat, then stood there regarding her as though absolutely nothing at all out of the ordinary had happened in the last few crowded minutes.
Nathan’s breathing was fast; she could see the rise and fall of his chest under the shirt ruffle, the vein in his temple standing out, but his voice was controlled and his bow, immaculate.
‘That, Clemence, is what frustration feels like. I am but a short walk from the highly skilled means of relieving it, just as I was last night. You, I regret, must learn the consequences of teasing a man, and especially, of teasing me.’
‘You…’ At least days on the Sea Scorpion had enriched her vocabulary; she searched for the worst word she could recall.
‘Tsk.’ He shook his head in reproof. ‘Ladies do not swear. Good day, Clemence. We will come to collect you and your baggage tomorrow morning at six.’
‘…bastard,’ she finished in a whisper as he picked up his cocked hat and strode out of the gate. He would not hear her, but she felt better for it. Her body was on fire with new confusing sensations, her pulse was all over the place; if he had intended to utterly wreck her composure, he had succeeded a thousand-fold.
‘Eliza!’
‘Yes, Miss Clemence?’ the maid called from the door.
‘A cold bath, if you please. I have become intolerably overheated.’ And then, to crown it, to be told he had gone to a brothel after leaving her bed and was going to one now! She hoped he had his pocket picked and his boots stolen and drank bad rum and felt like hell in the morning. Because that was how she felt now.
‘Miss Clemence? You’re crying, Miss Clemence.’ Eliza was patting her hand.
‘Only because I am so angry with that wretched man, Eliza, that’s all.’ But anger had never made her cry before. Never.
Nathan strode along the harbour front, his expression enough to send anyone in his path diving to the side. How that outburst over Conroy had happened he had no very clear idea. Of course Clemence was not flirting with the lieutenant, let alone contemplating any more shocking behaviour. They were two attractive young people who had been having strenuous fun in the company of a perfectly respectable lady’s maid and one disreputable ex-pirate.
But the sight of her in that light muslin gown, wet and clinging to those lovely long legs, the way it had draped, tan-talising, at the junction of her thighs, the way her breasts, sweet as apples, had curved above the demure neck of that gown, had driven him insane. The fact that he could tell, even if she was too innocent to realise, that Conroy had been equally inflamed by the sight had been the final straw.
The man had been behaving perfectly properly, he had no doubt. Conroy was a gentleman. And, damn it, so was he and a gentleman had needs and he going to find that high-class brothel that Melville had recommended. His conscience stirred at the recollection of Clemence’s face when he had taunted her with the implication that he had gone there last night.
He wished now, as he stood in front of the shady porch, the white muslin curtain blowing in the breeze and the scent of flowers drifting from the garden behind the high fence, that he had done. Which saint had said it was better to marry than to burn? He couldn’t recall, but he was certainly burning and here was the remedy.
Half an hour later, reclining in a hammock in that fragrant, shady garden, a glass of planter’s punch to hand and a pair of very lovely ladybirds slipping slices of fruit between his lips, he ruefully concluded that the flames might be doused a little by alcohol, but they were certainly not extinguished.
Confronted by Madame’s selection of highly skilled girls, he had realised that he did not want any of them. None of them was tall and slender and green eyed. None of them looked at him with a clear, innocent gaze that seemed to go right inside him and turn his brain to mush. His body wanted them, it would be impossible to deny the very visible evidence of that, but however willing the flesh, the spirit was decidedly disinclined.
‘Thank you, Madame,’ he had said, looking out at the hammock swinging between two breadfruit trees. ‘But I am hot, tired and in need of little refreshment, that is all.’
And now he was comfortable, cool, refreshed and feeling every bit the bastard Clemence had called him. But short of going back and making love to her—after which he would have effectively tied her to him—there was nothing to be done about it. Nathan closed his eyes and wondered just how many weeks it was going to take to get back to England and safety.
Chapter Fifteen
‘I really do appreciate you taking my dog as well, Captain Melville.’ One-Eye settled, hackles raised, into a corner of the cabin, showing none of the becoming gratitude his mistress was attempting to convey. The three sailors it had taken to get him up the gangplank had retired, grinning. She must remember to tip them later.
Captain Melville, with only the faintest suggestion of gritted teeth, waved away the remark. ‘Not at all, ma’am. Captain Stanier has explained that you are very attached to the animal and that, given that this is the first time you have been from home, it is important that you retain your, er…pet.’
‘Indeed?’ Clemence slid a sideways glance towards Nathan, who was further down the same deck, directing sweating sailors loading cannon balls. ‘How very thoughtful of Captain Stanier,’ she said sweetly, ‘but I know I am depriving one of your officers of his cabin. Who should I thank for this comfort?’
She had a very good idea, having seen a valise with the initials R.C. being carried out. She and Robert Conroy had rapidly progressed to first names as they’d struggled with the wet dog yesterday.
‘Mr Conroy, Miss Ravenhurst. He takes the Third’s berth and so on.’
‘And some poor midshipman ends up in a cupboard?’ Clemence said with a smile. ‘What happened to the Second Lieutenant?’
‘He has given up his cabin next door to Captain Stanier.’
That was useful to know; she must remember to be very discreet in what she said to Eliza. And it was distinctly disquieting to think of Nathan sleeping only the thickness of the thin partition away. They had exchanged the minimum number of polite phrases that morning. He showed no signs of suffering from an evening of dissipation, from which she could only conclude that either he had not indulged in one or had a remarkably hard head. Or had been otherwise engaged than in heavy drinking.
Whatever he had been doing,
she had most certainly not forgiven him for yesterday afternoon and he showed no signs of remorse, so the sensible thing would be to stop thinking about him. Or at least, to try, which was not easy when her body still appeared to be remembering the whole incident in graphic detail. Clemence put her new reticule on the lower bunk and surveyed her new home.
This was, in fact, an inferior cabin to the one she and Nathan had shared, less than half the size with the two bunks one above the other and only a flap-down table. And no privy cupboard, either; they would have to improvise with a chamber pot and a corner-curtain. Nor was there a porthole; their only ventilation came from louvres in the door. This was home for possibly two months; it was a good thing they had so little luggage.
Eliza was already putting things away as the captain took himself off with a bow and an invitation to dine with him and his officers that evening.
‘Under there, dog.’ The maid pointed to the space beneath the lower bunk, but One-Eye simply ignored her.
‘I think we’ll have to chain him up outside the door,’ Clemence said, popping her head outside. ‘There’s a hook.’
‘Fred says he’ll take him for walks and deal with that sort of thing.’ Eliza stood in the middle of the small space, a pile of underthings in her hands, turning round and round as she tried to find somewhere to put them.
‘Fred?’
‘Street.’ Eliza looked decidedly self-conscious. ‘These will have to stay in the bags under the bunk, that’s all,’ she pronounced.
‘Eliza?’ The only response was a wiggle of her hips as the maid got down on hands and knees. ‘Are you and Street walking out?’
‘He should be so lucky,’ the maid remarked, straightening up. ‘I’ve only just met him. Still, he’s a fine figure of a man.’
‘He is certainly that.’ If one judged by sheer expanse. No doubt a responsible mistress would forbid her maidservant from associating with a man of bad character—even if he had recently reformed. But this was hardly a normal situation. Clemence tried to imagine arriving at whichever stately home was the Dowager Duchess of Allington’s current residence and introducing herself with her entourage of one mulatto maid, one ex-pirate, one decrepit hound and one small trunk.
For the first time Clemence started to wonder just what this unknown relative might be like and just how different life as one of the Ravenhurst clan would be from the one she was used to. The apprehension was almost enough to displace the dull ache of unhappiness about Nathan. But not quite.
But still, unpacking and making the best they could of their new quarters did pass the two hours before Midshipman Andrews presented himself with the captain’s compliments and the suggestions that Miss Ravenhurst might wish to see the departure from on deck.
‘You must never go on to the poop deck where the officers are without an express invitation,’ Clemence warned Eliza. ‘And we must do our best to stay well clear of the men working and not wander about the ship.’
‘Don’t see how we’re going to get any fresh air, then,’ the maid grumbled, clambering up the companionway. ‘This thing goes up and down a lot.’
‘It will be worse when we are at sea, so you must grow accustomed. But we can certainly take exercise; I’ll ask the captain at dinner where we may place chairs and where we may promenade,’ Clemence said soothingly, hoping that Eliza would prove immune to seasickness. A reproachful bark sent her back to untie One-Eye’s leash. ‘And as for you, behave yourself!’
She had seen the island so often from on board a ship that she had not expected it to be any different this time. But somehow the vista of hills and mountains, the buildings on shore, the jumble of shipping in the harbour seemed like a painting, something unreal and distant. This was no longer home.
Clemence stood, one hand gripping the rail, one tight on the hound’s leash, and stared, trying to fix the scene in her memory along with the smells that the soft off-shore breeze brought across the water. A hand removed the leash from her hand and replaced it with a large handkerchief before she was even aware that silent tears were rolling down her checks.
‘You will come back one day,’ Nathan said, looking not at her but at the island.
‘I know.’ Clemence dried her eyes, but held on to the white linen. ‘It is just that I cannot imagine what I am going to or what my new family is like or what they will think of me.’
‘They are good people, the ones I know,’ he said. ‘People with a strong sense of family who will love you because you are theirs and then, once they know you, because you are you.’
‘Oh!’ Charmed out of all self-consciousness, Clemence turned to face him. ‘Oh, thank you.’ She smiled and for a moment the blue eyes that smiled back into hers held the expression she had surprised in them sometimes aboard the Sea Scorpion, the look that had lingered on her face as they hung together in the cool waters of the pool. And then the shutters came down and it was the polite smile of a gentleman who had offered a minor compliment to a lady.
‘It is merely the truth,’ Nathan said, handed back One-Eye and walked abruptly away towards the poop.
By the time Clemence’s eyes were focusing properly again, the ship was sailing east along the coast and Nathan was nowhere to be seen.
After two weeks out at sea life had settled into a routine. To Clemence it sometimes felt as though this was real life and everything else was a dream. She and Eliza had made themselves as comfortable as they could in their cabin and Eliza, at least, now knew the ship from stem to stern thanks to Street and his excuses of either needing to take One-Eye for a walk, or asking advice on his mending or cajoling the maid into joining him and the ship’s cook in the galley.
‘I hope he intends to make an honest woman of you,’ Clemence said severely one morning after Eliza had come back to the cabin in the small hours.
‘He will, if I’ll take him,’ Eliza had chuckled, her fingers busy whipping a hem.
The awning that the men had rigged over the chairs, table and hammocks that had colonised the ‘ladies’ corner’ of the main deck flapped idly in the light breeze. Clemence fanned herself and rocked in her hammock, too idle to sew or read one of the books she had borrowed from the officers.
The Straits of Florida were proving hot and humid and they were experiencing an uncomfortable combination of heavy squalls interspersed with virtual calms and the officers, Nathan included, appeared to be able to think of nothing other than navigation.
They all made polite conversation at dinner, of course, scrupulously avoiding matters relating to the running of the ship, but Clemence never lingered, certain they greeted the sight of her retreating back with relief so they could relax and get back to talking of naval matters.
She adjusted her pillow now and tipped her straw hat over her nose, secure in the knowledge that she could peep through the gaps in the coarse weave and scrutinise the comings and goings on the poop deck unseen.
Nathan was up there now, in deep conversation with the officers on watch as usual. He was so scrupulously polite and reserved in her company that anyone who did not know would assume he had never met her until she had boarded the Orion. She had hoped, for the first week, that he would think better of his attitude towards marriage, but the respectful way she was treated by his fellow officers only confirmed what he had said—as a Ravenhurst, it would take more than an adventure on a pirate ship to ruin her standing.
And the more she thought about his late wife, the more convinced she became that he still loved her. There was more behind his refusal to wed her than the fear of being thought a fortune hunter, Clemence was certain. She was certain, too, that if she could only get close to him again he might come to realise that, precious though his lost love was, there was another waiting for him, one that was alive and warm and wanted him.
But a frontal approach was not going to work, he was armoured against that, she told herself, lying awake at night and hearing him moving around in his cabin. But what would happen if she waited until all was still and then
slipped next door and into his bed? One night she had got as far as putting one foot out from under the sheet and then had snatched it back with the thought of just how humiliating it would be when he rejected her again.
As she thought about it the bo’sun appeared, the two youngest midshipmen at his heels. ‘Sir, I’ve got Mr Markham and Mr Stills for their navigation lesson, like you said, sir. I’ll be more than grateful if you can get these two sorted, they’re beyond my powers.’
Nathan came down the steps. ‘I gather that you two are finding your mathematical studies a challenge.’ There was an exchange of sheepish looks and two nods. ‘Right, well, take your notebooks and the theodolites over there and we’ll see if we can keep this vessel off the Grand Bahama.’
The bo’sun knuckled his forehead and took himself off, the boys ran to do as they were bid. And Clemence, still watching furtively, saw Nathan stretch his shoulders and flex his back with a grimace that spoke of more than stiffness. His back must be healed by now, surely, but the skin must be taut and tender.
Concerned, Clemence swung her legs out of the hammock and stood up. The hound opened his eye and looked hopeful. ‘Oh, come on, then. I’ll just take a stroll along the deck,’ she said, waving Eliza back to her sewing. ‘Where’s Street?’
‘In the galley, I dare say, that’s where he usually is.’ Eliza bit off her thread and folded the petticoat. ‘I’ll just have all these finished by the time we get to England,’ she grumbled. ‘And then you’ll be wearing them three at once on account of the snow.’
‘Not in early September, surely?’ Clemence queried, watching Nathan’s progress along the deck to the waiting boys. No, he wasn’t moving as well as he had before the flogging.
By the time she drew level with the hatch cover that Nathan was using as his makeshift classroom, one midshipman was being put through his paces with the theodolite while the other stared glumly at a page covered in figures.
