by Merry Farmer
And the smell of him!
Bourbon, sweat and salt.
Not that she’d presented the most ladylike of impressions herself, the brandy having gone to her head, but she’d carried herself with all the decorum she could muster.
Meanwhile, he’d been all sharp edges, from his slanting jaw to the jut of his brow—and just as fierce in his manner.
The way he’d spoken to her!
Not like any gentleman she knew.
But then, he wasn’t a gentleman. Though he owned a ship, and spoke tolerable English, he was anything but that. His accent seemed to indicate a Mediterranean influence, but he was bronzed far darker than any European she’d met, and his skin was densely tattooed—visible where he rolled back his cuffs, and up his neck.
Though he hardly seemed to shave, having a perpetual shadow of rough stubble on his jaw, the planes of his face were handsome, in a brutally masculine, menacing way. As his eye became less swollen, that was obvious, but there was a wildness to him that was utterly disconcerting—far too hot-blooded and hungry.
His presence was so dominating, so masculine—not like any man she’d met before. He was proud and aloof, yet scrutinised her with an intensity she found unnerving, his eyes, dark and unfathomable.
Meanwhile, though she was trusting her safety to his keeping, she knew next to nothing about him.
Their contract had been her choice—except what choice had there really been? Sebastian was all she had and, wherever he was, he must need help.
Who, if not she, would come to his aid?
The ship rolled violently again, almost tipping her onto the floor, and her stomach turned over.
Oh Sebastian!
She didn’t want to cry, for it changed nothing, but he might be lying thirsty and hungry, without hope of ever being found. He might be injured. He might already be…
No. She refused to submit to that way of thinking.
Bathsheba took several deep breaths and lay back against the pillows. It was warm in the cabin; too warm. Suffocating really—the air charged with the electricity of whatever storm raged outside.
She might take off her chemise. The door was locked. No one would know if she slept upon the sheets with nothing on.
The thought of nakedness was alluring—and wicked.
Not the nudity itself, perhaps, but the direction in which it made her thoughts run.
On the rare occasions Reginald had come to her bed, he’d preferred her to wear her nightgown. With the brush, she stroked through the light cotton of the chemise, prickling against the delicate skin.
She wanted lips, teeth, tongue where the brush teased her; the warmth of a man’s mouth—a man’s hands.
Another wave hit the prow of the ship, obliging her to grasp the sheets with her other hand, and jolting the bristles against the soft bud of her nipple—almost painfully.
Which man?
God help her, she dared not admit his name, even in the privacy of her thoughts. He was uncouth. Rough. Dirty. He’d probably bedded a hundred lovers and not cared even to know their names. Wasn’t that how such men behaved? Taking a woman’s body purely for pleasure? Paying them to do what respectable women would not?
She didn’t know why she found him attractive.
She shouldn’t.
Of course, nothing was going to happen. If it did, what sort of woman would it make her? Just because there was no-one to witness her behaviour wasn’t an excuse to ignore the morality she’d been brought up with.
Biting her lip, she stilled the brush.
This was what came of her being cooped up for hour upon hour, with nothing to occupy her mind.
It had been a wedding gift—the brush, with matching mirror; the last her mother had given, alongside that ridiculous book—presented a full month after Bathsheba had taken her vows.
During their courtship, Reginald had been rather gallant, even debonair. But, with five grown sons, he hadn’t married her for the purpose of filling a nursery. She’d married a man who wished for little more than quiet companionship.
She hardly knew what she’d expected, but…something more.
As her marriage wore on, there was nothing new; merely a change of seats within the same room. Her days had continued as a round of paying and receiving calls, of being seen in the right places at the right times, while wearing the appropriate costume, and of saying the right thing—which generally meant as little as possible.
Not that her mother had forced her to marry Reginald; no one had.
But nor had anyone seemed to care whether the marriage would make her happy—whatever that meant.
Reginald’s death had set her free, and the relief had been overwhelming—except that even her widowed state came with its own set of rules.
Strange, how she could think of that time, now, as if the marriage hadn’t been hers at all. Meanwhile, Bathsheba’s memories of her mother seemed to be growing dusty, though it was barely seven years since her passing.
Opening the drawer again, she drew out the pocket-sized volume with its leather binding. It had been silly to bring the book, even though it took up hardly any space: The Lady’s Guide to all Things Useful.
She’d never bothered to read the wretched thing. Even the title made Bathsheba grimace, for didn’t it represent everything she resented about that other world, with its rules and restrictions, and nuances of what was acceptable and what wasn’t. All those trite lessons, masked under the umbrella of useful advice.
Of course, some elements of that code were simply good manners—conventions designed to make other people feel comfortable—but it seemed that her whole lifetime had been spent learning those rules. A lady did not express opinions, nor argue. She didn’t raise her voice, nor betray emotion. She remained composed under any circumstance. In all things, she was modest—in her mode of dress and speech, and in the the way she carried herself. She did not overindulge, taking only the smallest of portions to her plate.
Whatever appetites a lady had for living, they were to be controlled and subdued.
The volume symbolised all that she wished to leave behind, yet here it was—still with her.
She ought to have thrown it away, but she knew why she hadn’t.
Her mother had presented it to her and, however much the gift irritated Bathsheba, it had been given with good intentions.
The ship heaved high then dove downward, sending the book flying from her hand. With a shriek, she was flung several inches up in the air before she met the mattress again, her breath knocked flat out.
Above her head, the lantern swung precariously, casting great shadows around the cabin—dark and light alternating.
The book had hit the wall and was lying with its spine bent back. Rolling over to retrieve it, she glanced at the page now pushed open.
The chapter was entitled Fear.
Had she not felt so terrified, she might have laughed.
Is that you, Mother? Still watching over me?
Bathsheba squeezed shut her eyes. She’d never put credence by séances, but if her mother could hear her, she was ready to listen.
Are we going to capsize?
No—surely not.
She didn’t need a ghostly presence to reassure her of that. It was just a storm, and Old Tom hadn’t seemed the least bit worried. There were no sounds of distress from beyond her cabin door. The crew would steer the ship through.
Calming herself, she picked up the little book, peering at its small print.
Your life comes only once. Do not, then, waste it.
Know no regret—at adventures untaken, nor love untasted.
Shrink not from happiness for fear of hurt, or failure.
You own only this moment.
Embrace it well.
How strange. She flipped to the next chapter and found that it detailed forks: their variety and usage, and proper methods of cleaning. The one before spoke of fans.
As the cabin pitched, she hurriedly placed the book back in
side the drawer.
It’s going to be alright. Nothing to be frightened of.
She gripped the sheet in her fists, holding on as the room tilted again.
That word—happiness.
Have I ever been happy?
She knew what it was to be restless and bored, to feel frustration and inertia; but the deep contentment of happiness?
Reaching up, she doused the lantern.
Happiness would be knowing Sebastian was safe.
That was all she needed.
Chapter Five
Three days later…
Jorge slid the paperweights to each corner of the chart, laying it flat across the great mahogany desk.
They were in calmer waters now, the storm having passed over. Sailing somewhat wide of the islands, they’d avoided being dashed on treacherous rocks, as so often lay within sight of land, but it had blown them off-course.
Fortunately, the sky was clear enough to use the sextant—measuring the angle of the stars above the horizon. He needed merely to reference the chart to determine their position.
“Tell me again, Capt’n, why we be doin’ this.” Tom stood on the other side of the desk, his arms folded and a scowl upon his face.
“You know very well.” Jorge moved his magnifier to survey the warning shoals sketched upon the map. They were closer to San Cristobal than he’d have expected.
Tom stood his ground. “I heard you, right enough, and I gave up my cabin for her without a murmur, for I’ve no problem settlin’ in a hammock—but I can’t say as I understand, so mayhaps you’ll tell me again.”
Jorge gave an inward sigh, and reminded himself to remain calm. As quartermaster, it was Tom’s duty to question Jorge on behalf of the crew—to be assured of the prudence of their captain’s decisions. They were a democracy of sorts, each man not only receiving a share of the spoils but having a right to speak his mind, and have his mission explained to him—even if Jorge had ultimate say.
“She’s paying us, Tom—and it’s easy money. We’ll approach the island on the south-western side and I’ll row us in. Just her and I. No-one else needs to set foot there. You take the ship further out, then sail in to collect us at dawn when she’s had her three days.”
“Aye—as easy as that!” Tom rolled his eyes. “You’ll take a little stroll up the beach and then through the jungle, yodelling out for someone as won’t be answerin’ back—and we both know why not.”
A small silence fell between them, punctuated by the soft sound of waves meeting the hull, and its returning creak.
Jorge disliked dishonesty. His men weren’t averse to taking arms to defend themselves, and they’d follow any command he gave, but he preferred fair exchange to robbing others. Regardless of how the profits benefited those he cared for, he took no pleasure in the act.
Stealing and smuggling weighed heavily enough on his shoulders—but to lie barefacedly to the man he’d known all his life? Tom was more than a crew mate. More than a friend. He’d been on The Marguerite since Jorge’s grandfather’s time, following his liberation from a convict ship taking him to twenty years of penal servitude. However cantankerous the old curmudgeon could be, he was like family.
Jorge had made up his mind, however. They’d make the journey and pocket the fee. “We can’t know for sure her brother’s dead.” Glancing up, he pushed down the inner twist of shame. “There were two others with him, and who knows which of them I pulled out of the water.”
Tom rolled his eyes. “Even if it weren’t him, what chance do ye think those others poor buggers have on the island? All these weeks surrounded by the likes o’ them warrior devils?” He shook his head. “You’re spinning that bit o’skirt fancies if you tell her otherwise.”
Jorge bit back a retort. All his years in the South Seas hadn’t much changed some of Tom’s bigoted attitudes.
Not that Tom viewed The Marguerite’s islander crew in the same light; nor did he pay mind to the fact that Jorge was half-islander himself. They numbered forty in all; men strong of arm and back, drawn mostly from Tukalu. Others had joined them along the way—a motley gathering of former slaves, mutineers, and opportunists: Portuguese, British, some hailing from the Ivory Coast.
As for the men’s chance of survival on the island, of course, it was true. Jorge wasn’t just lying to Tom, but to himself.
Letting the chart curl up again, Jorge opened the desk drawer and pulled out a bottle and glasses. Unstoppering the cork with his teeth, he sloshed a good measure for each of them.
“Let me worry about that.” He held out the peace-offering. “I’ll satisfy the girl’s need to look for her brother, then break the inevitable when the time comes.”
“An’ that’ll be all yer satisfying, be it?” Tom sniffed the rum appreciatively. “I’ve seen the way ye look at her, or try to pretend yer not lookin’.” He gave a wry smile. “I wouldn’t be blamin’ ye, neither. She’s a tasty morsel, no question. But do ye really need to take her to the island to do yer seducin’?”
“It’s a business arrangement. Nothing more.” Jorge knocked back his own tot and cast the empty glass onto the desk.
“Right—o’ course!” Tom’s mouth quirked upward, and he tipped back the liquor, smacking his lips. “Well, I’ll leave you to muse on your ‘business’, and what it might look like out of its petticoats.” With a parting grin, he closed the door behind him.
Goddamn!
Jorge picked up the bottle. The temptation was strong to pour himself another measure, but it wouldn’t take away whatever he was feeling. With another curse, he shoved it away.
Barely three weeks she’d been on his ship, and locked away in her cabin for most of it, but it hadn’t stopped him being acutely aware of her presence.
Mrs. Asquith.
Of course, it was a financial transaction; a contract. Tom could speculate all he liked, but Jorge had no intention of interfering with that hoity-toity piece—no matter how inviting her lips.
If he wanted a tumble, there were women aplenty in Moresby, and in any number of other ports. Women who’d be only too happy to make him welcome. Women like Eloise Bisset.
The conjuring of that name brought forth an unbidden snarl. He’d vowed not to think of her, to cast her from his mind. Yet still she lingered, as if laughing at him from the recesses of his memory.
He’d thought himself in love; thought that she loved him in return. Thought, even, that she would marry him. But her wiles had served far shallower goals. She’d taken the pleasure he gave her when they were naked, but she’d never been what he thought she was. Had never returned the feelings he’d harboured. Had, apparently, wanted more than he could offer.
Some two years ago, he’d returned from a long sail to Fiji to find her preparing for imminent matrimonial, but not with him in mind. She’d married one of the junior officials under the British lieutenant governor and left with him soon after—on a posting to Europe, no less.
It had taught him plenty.
Mrs. Asquith was no Eloisa Bisset but, whatever she was, he could see enough to know she was from another world than the one he inhabited.
His life was the sea and The Marguerite, and the protection of Tukalu. Her Royal Majesty might have declared a protectorate over the southern Solomons, but the islands were too scattered for those authorities to act effectively.
Jorge had heard too many horrific stories, and witnessed the aftermath for himself: villages brutally subdued, the men carried off to provide plantation labour thousands of miles away, never to see their loved ones again.
When Jorge’s father had married his mother, herself from Tukalu, he’d vowed to keep safe not only his wife’s family but all the island, using the profits of his trading to buy powder and pistols. Tukalu now had a reputation for being able to defend itself, and it was Jorge’s duty to ensure it stayed that way. Even if it meant smuggling; even if it meant piracy. He couldn’t afford scruples.
In his father’s day, they’d carried cargo between the
Australian ports and those of Shanghais and Kowloon, but times were harder now. There were so many ships and too much competition. He’d been obliged to accept shipments he knew weren’t above-board, but years of small payments had ensured a blind eye was turned in the ports.
Perhaps, one day, he’d make a home with one of the young island women. His aunts were endlessly keen to matchmake, telling him that it was what his mother would have wanted—for her fine son to raise a brood of strong and happy children. It was true that he was as tall and broad shouldered as any pure-blooded Tukalun. That his father had been half Portuguese and half English didn’t matter to those he’d grown up with.
Yes, it would have made her smile to see him settled, but she’d known, also, that he was his father’s son—more familiar with the swell and sway of the ocean than the firmness of land. As soon as he was old enough, Jorge had joined his father on the The Marguerite but, as a child, he remembered the long months of waiting for his return, of his mother looking wistfully to the ocean, watching for a glimpse of tall sails.
What sort of marriage was that?
Jorge drew his hand over his brow. It wasn’t his way to dwell on what he couldn’t have.
The Marguerite was everything. It always had been. That and Takalu. Despite the strain of his current circumstances, he had his ship and his crew, and more freedom than most men could dream of. The open seas were his domain.
Every man felt restless now and then. It meant nothing.
Better to concentrate on the matter in hand.
Asking around, he’d heard about a ship—The Felicidad—having been hired by a small party weeks ago, and a British man among them.
When the ship had returned, it carried only crew.
Taking the key from his pocket, Jorge unlocked the uppermost drawer of his desk. Inside was the scrap of paper, the edges curling and tattered, and the ink faded—but readable still.
And the ring.
He’d only to show it to her and she’d confirm whether it was her brother’s. If it were, there’d be no reason to land upon Vanuaka.
