by Renee Rose
“I think it might,” he said in a strangled voice. He stretched out his hammock and swung into it with grace, then opened his arms.
For some ridiculous reason, she began to cry again as she stumbled forward. He caught her up and pulled her on top of his body, her back to his belly, his arms around her. She shifted and wiggled until her hips turned to the side and nestled against him, one leg draped over his, her head on his shoulder.
“I am not really crying,” she said, her tears wetting his shirt.
“I know,” he murmured, wiping her cheek with his thumb.
He did not say another word, just held her as she sniffled, the trickle of tears seeming endless until they built enough steam and she broke into a sob, her entire body shaking against his.
“I am sorry,” he murmured.
She knew, somehow, he meant he was sorry for the entire situation, not for his role in it. Because he had done the only thing he could have done.
* * *
The agony of being so close to Corinne and not having her was a delicious torture. He spent the night listening to the beat of her heart and the rhythm of her breath, treasuring the feel of her small form nestled so snugly against his long one. She slept deeply, and it pleased him to be able to offer her some comfort.
In the morning, they woke to the sounds of vomiting. The girl and her mother who bunked near them both were green with seasickness. Corinne’s own face turned pale at the smell, her expression pure disgust.
The girl threw up again and began to cry as if her heart would break. She was covered in her own vomit, and her mother, who lay groaning beside her, was no help. Corinne surprised him by going to her.
“Come here. It will be all right. I will help you clean up. Of course that smell would make you sick again. Follow me.”
She led the sobbing child up the stairs to the deck, and he trailed behind, touched by Corinne’s compassion.
“Just being in the fresh air will help. Do not return to steerage until bedtime even though you wish to lie down. I suspect it only makes it worse.”
She led the girl to a barrel of sea water used for washing and proceeded to dump buckets of water on the girl, washing the vomit from her hair and clothing.
“Do you have any other clothes you can wear?” The girl shook her head.
Corinne craned her neck around to meet his eye. “Bring me your cloak?”
It was the only warm thing they had between them, and Corinne’s willingness to share with someone so far beneath her who would surely soil it with more sickness, surprised him. He retrieved the cloak, and Corinne pulled the girl into an area protected from sight, ordering her to remove the wet clothing.
“What is your name?” he heard her ask.
“Flora.”
“Flora, you will get your sea legs soon,” she said, emerging with the girl cocooned in the large cloak. “I want you to sit out here on deck all day, face the direction we are traveling and keep your eyes on the horizon. It helps your body understand why it is being jostled so.” Corinne gave her a warm smile and a wink, and Flora managed a weak smile in return.
She found her a place on deck. “I will find you just a bit of food. Not too much—just enough to soak up the juices in your stomach, all right?”
The girl nodded gratefully. “Thank you, mademoiselle.”
Corinne froze, looking up at him.
He shrugged and winked. If a child recognized her for the lady she was, he would not argue. His pride to be escorting the compassionate Mademoiselle Corinne de Gramont swelled.
His companion proceeded to prove she did not consider herself above menial labor by scrubbing out the girl’s clothing and hanging it to dry. She even carried buckets of sea water to steerage below to rinse the girl’s hammock and wash the floors. She urged the mother out to the fresh air as well, settling her beside her daughter, leaving the bucket for her to use when sick.
As the days passed, the mother and daughter recovered and Corinne continued to dote on her young friend, braiding her hair and teaching her to count in German and English.
Corinne did not sleep in his hammock again, seeming to grow shy with him, as if she had only just realized he was a man. But no, she had been aware of that before. Perhaps she had begun to care for him. The thought made his chest grow warm. But even if she had—it was impossible. He could not think of courting her, but that did not stop him from drinking in the sight of her every chance he had.
Even tired and miserable, dirty and dressed as a pauper, her beauty shone brighter than any woman on the ship. He became aware that nearly every man had noticed it, too. In the days that followed, he caught the leers from the sailors, the stares from the lower class in steerage, and the appraising interest from the merchants.
He disliked them all—grateful for the farce that she was his wife so he could act out his territorial responses. Not foolish enough to miss it, Corinne did not seem concerned. Whether it was out of trust in his ability to defend or naiveté, he did not know.
Four weeks into the journey, the captain rewarded his crew with the opening of a barrel of ale for their consumption. The sailors drank heartily, becoming increasingly boisterous. Even Moreau began to turn pink in the face with drink. He had ordered Corinne to serve them and had the audacity to slap her ass when she walked by.
Jean-Claude stalked over from where he had been sitting, ready to give the captain a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, Moreau’s action had set the precedence for his men, and the very next sailor she passed grabbed her ass and held it, squeezing.
“Do not touch her!” he bellowed, knocking over a stool as he barreled across the crowded foredeck.
Corinne dumped a pint of ale over the sailor’s head. The clod did not harm her but pulled her down on his lap, thrusting a hand down the neck of her dress to grope her breasts.
He yanked the sailor’s arm out of her dress and gave her a shove out of the way so that he could smash his fist into the man’s face. He recognized him—it was the same sailor who had molested Corinne on her first day on the ship.
The sailor was not too drunk to fight, instantly tackling him and taking him to the floor. He dodged a fist in the face but lost his breath when the other fist collided with his ribcage. He bucked the sailor off and rolled like a log, springing to his feet.
A tight circle of sailors formed around the two of them.
“Stop them!” he heard Corinne scream and caught movement of her tugging at Moreau’s arm. “Why do you not stop them?”
The second’s distraction nearly cost him his teeth, but he just missed the flying fist and landed his own punch in the sailor’s gut.
The men cheered and he heard the sound of bets being made and collected. He threw his weight into the sailor, taking another blow to the gut but toppling the two to the deck, where he landed another fist in the man’s face. They rolled and wrestled, fists flying, more blows landing than missing. He took a particularly hard one in the same spot on his ribs, and his vision turned black. When it returned, he was still standing—by the grace of God and too much liquor on his opponent’s part. He wondered, briefly, if this would be a fight to the death. Just as humiliating Corinne was a form of entertainment to the captain, so it seemed were fights on La Rose.
* * *
“Stop them!” she screamed at the infuriating captain. Jean-Claude grew increasingly bloody, and the focus had left his eyes. Each time he stood, he swayed on his feet as if he saw double.
Moreau ignored her, cheering with the rest of the rabble.
“He will die! One of them will die! You must stop this madness!”
The sailor took another blow to his face and toppled to the ground. For a moment he did not rise, and the crowd yelled and chanted to urge him back to fight. She prayed he would not rise, that this despicable display would end. She prayed Jean-Claude would survive.
The sailor lifted his head and she groaned. He scrambled to his knees but struggled to rise to his feet. Jean-Claude marched forward
and struck him again in the face. The man toppled backward, eyes closed.
The crowd began to count, “1… 2… 3… 4…”
What was this, some kind of game?
They stopped when they reached ten, and then someone grabbed Jean-Claude’s arm and waved it in the air, declaring him winner of the brawl.
Jean-Claude promptly dropped to his own knees.
She faced Moreau and swung her hand to slap his face. He was too quick for her, catching her wrist and yanking her against his torso, so she met him, nose to nose. “Not on my ship, cherie.” He bellowed over the top of her head, “Take them both to the medic cabin!”
Medic cabin. What a relief—she had not known such a thing existed. Two sailors grabbed Jean-Claude under the arms and hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him in the direction of the aft cabins. She trailed behind.
They dropped him on a cot, where she knelt beside him, using the skirt of her dress to wipe the blood from his face.
The medic handed her a damp cloth. “Use this.”
She cleaned up his face and slid his shirt up, revealing the contoured lines of his muscular abdomen and the already swelling red marks on his ribs.
The medic treated the sailor, not showing much concern over either man. She feared fights were a regular occurrence on La Rose.
Jean-Claude did not attempt to speak. At times his eyes opened and followed her; other times he sank back into unconsciousness.
She knew he would live, yet her body shook, her outrage producing hot tears, which she blinked back. The medic gave him laudanum for the pain since he did not “seem as drunk as the other one.” She was grateful for it. She stayed by his side, squeezing beside him on the small cot to pass the night.
The laudanum took effect quickly, knocking him into a deep slumber. By morning the other sailor had stood and staggered out and the medic was also long gone. She investigated the medicine options and found a liniment. Moistening the cloth with it, she lifted his shirt, gently swabbing the yellow-green bruises on his ribs. Noticing dried blood and a hole on his trousers over his upper thigh, she debated whether she ought to investigate. To do so would require the shameful act of lowering his pants, but Jean-Claude was in too deep a sleep to notice.
She swallowed, fumbling with the waistband. Pulling them down was more difficult than she expected, but she managed to roll his hips to the side to slide the fabric below his manhood and investigate. Averting her eyes from his sex, she discovered a shallow gash with bits of wood, as if a splinter from the deck had impaled his leg. She picked the slivers out with her fingernails and cleaned the wound.
When he opened his eyes, blinking at her, her heart slammed against her ribs as she prayed the opiate would keep him from realizing she had his pants down.
“Corinne?” he murmured, his manhood lengthening and standing on end.
She froze, staring at his length. His eyes closed and she exhaled, yanking up his trousers and covering him with a blanket. Settling beside him on the cot, she rested her palm over the hard muscle of his chest.
His hand tangled in her hair. “Corinne,” he murmured again, but his breath deepened as he drifted back to his drug-induced dreams.
She dozed a few hours beside him. She woke, thinking of his manhood. Had it stood erect because he understood she saw it? Or was it a reflex to being out? She tugged the blanket off him, peering in the direction of his trousers. Perhaps she should have bandaged his wound after she cleaned it. She had been hasty in restoring his clothing.
She slid her hand over his bare chest and down the taut muscles of his belly. Yes, the bulge in his pants grew taller, tenting his trousers. And yet he slept. Tucking her fingers inside the waistband of his trousers once more, she gently tugged them below the bulge. His manhood sprang out, as if eager to be free. She stared, fascinated. She had seen drawings before, but examining a man’s anatomy up close was a different matter. Just looking made her breasts ached, a slow pulse between her legs bringing her awareness to the moisture building there. Remembering some of the bawdy stories she had read, she gripped it at the base and marveled at the way his skin slid over the enormous muscle. Jean-Claude gave a loud groan, his eyes flying open.
“What are you doing?” he whispered, still looking feverish.
She ignored his question and continued her exploration, pleased when a drop of clear liquid appeared from the slit as she knew it to be a sign of his satisfaction.
In a flash, he pulled her down on top of him, his lips taking hers, his tongue demanding entrance. He licked into her mouth and her hips bucked in response, rubbing over his hardened shaft. His hands cupped her bottom, kneading her curves, encouraging her movement over his erection.
“Lift up your skirts,” he commanded. She raised her torso, trembling with desire, but hesitating from shame. He tugged the fabric of her skirt for her, positioning his cock at the entrance to her sex. When he rubbed the head over her slit, shocks of pleasure shot through her. She lifted her pelvis and impaled herself on his mast, pushing hard to get past the pain of his entry.
“Oh God,” he groaned. “Corinne…”
He gripped her hips, moving her slowly at first until she relaxed into the pleasure of it, then picking up speed. Jean-Claude wrapped his fists in her skirts, using them to leverage her closer each time she rocked forward.
“God,” he groaned again. “So sweet…”
She stopped, uncertain at the pain in his expression. “Am I hurting you?”
“No,” he roared, yanking her in again.
She grinned as he resumed their pace, pulling her over his jutting length, showing her a new pleasure each time, until a sense of urgency overcame her.
“Oh,” she cried.
“Yes,” he encouraged.
“I want—”
“I know.” His eyes rolled back in his head and he gritted his teeth, thrusting his hips up as he yanked her down with each thrust. “Take it, Corinne.”
Take it? She did not have time to ponder the command because panic shot through her and she took him as deeply as she could, a great shudder running through her body. Her muscles clenched around his length and he gave a growl.
* * *
He woke feeling sick to his stomach. The medicine the medic had given him had made him half delirious. He had dreamed of making love to Corinne. He sat up, groaning at the pain in his ribs.
“What hurts?” Corinne appeared at his side and the sight of her sent a jolt through his entire system. Memories of her applying something to his ribs came rushing back, along with a jumble of much more. He had made love to her.
“Corinne.” His mouth felt as if it were filled with wool.
She handed him a tin cup of water. He took it, drinking gratefully.
“Corinne,” he tried again. “Did I…?”
She averted her face, a flush creeping up her neck.
He caught her hand and pulled her toward him. “Forgive me. I am so sorry—I should not have…”
She flushed a deeper shade of pink but shook her head. “I have no regret,” she said with a stubborn lift of her chin.
He touched her face. “Did it hurt?”
Her eyes shot to his, as if surprised by the question. She gave a small shrug. “A little. At the beginning.”
“It gets better. I promise. It only hurts the first time.”
“You will show me?” she whispered.
His heart gave a double-beat to hear she wanted it again. The medic entered, causing her to jump to her feet and smooth her skirts. Even with an audience, it took all his self-control not to grab her and show her right then.
Chapter Five
Moreau saw the aristo and her peasant leave the medic’s cabin hand in hand. Curious about the unlikely pair, he invited them to dine with him. Were they married? Or lovers? How had such a match come about?
When the young man had offered to punish his “wife,” Moreau had not believed he would. He suspected Armand was a servant from the girl’s château, aiding
her in escape. Yet when he had peeked in his cabin, Armand had the young lady over his knee and was looking quite experienced—even comfortable—in his chastisement of her. That small puzzle had lodged in his mind, causing his interest in the couple to grow.
He already regretted his little game with the girl. Humbling her had not proven to be the entertainment he had expected. In fact, she had worked as willingly as any of his crew and befriended other peasants in steerage.
He ordered the table set just for the three of them and watched as they approached, both looking suspicious.
He stood when they arrived, acknowledging the presence of a lady. Being accustomed to such treatment, she did not notice at first, but the courtesy did not escape her companion.
“I have decided I no longer require your service,” he announced when they settled into their seats. “You may enjoy the rest of your passage as paid cabin guests.”
Armand kept his face impassive. “Why the change of heart?”
He shrugged. “It is not so interesting to watch an aristo lowered when she has already made a liaison beneath her. Now I would very much prefer the sight of a lady on my ship, as we have no others this trip.”
“And you still do not,” the lady insisted while Armand flushed an angry red. The food arrived and she again showed her perfect table manners while her companion ate like a commoner.
“Let us not carry out this farce any longer. You can no more pretend not to be an aristo than your companion can pretend he is a silversmith.”
She drew herself up in indignation. “He is a silversmith! He made that ring in his own forge!”
Armand appeared both dismayed and pleased by her passionate defense.
“He made it for you?” he probed.
She stilled, not breathing, staring at him. “For my mother,” she admitted.
“Who is your mother?”
She hesitated. Armand frowned and shook his head.
“Does your mother know you have her ring?”