She stood at the rail after breakfast and gazed at the broad expanse stretching before the bow. How like Morgan's eyes the ocean looks when it's calm like today, she thought. She glanced around at the sailors and found none, fit as they were, who could surpass him in build or rugged yet pleasing features. How could she expect him to understand what being his wife meant? It was complicated on so many levels, and there was no way to explain part without explaining all of it.
The familiar deep baritone reached her ears on the light breeze. She turned and saw Morgan talking to a knot of sailors. He glanced in her direction and purposely looked away a second later. She gnashed her teeth. He was out to spite her, of course! Wasn't that always the way he reacted when thwarted? And didn't his spite typically involve a pretense that he didn't know she existed?
Well, two could play at that game. She'd just find her own amusement. After all, he'd given her the run of the vessel.
So for a time she occupied herself watching the crewmen. They scampered up the rigging like agile monkeys, shouted nonsensical orders and remarks to one another that left her befuddled but seemed to make perfect sense to them, and bustled about in various activities. She stood at the rail letting the sea breeze whip her dark skirts and stared at the flat expanse of open seas before them, awed by the immense size of the Atlantic. She spun a mental fantasy that she was one of the staunch seamen, a rebel and a wayfarer, anxious to see the world and faraway ports of call. Daydreams in which she might go anywhere, pursue whatever opportunity presented itself, with no ties to any place or any person.
Instead of her reality, where a dark cloud of suspicion hung over her head, her father lay in his sickbed gravely ill, and her handsome husband misbelieved her to be an honest, trustworthy, if not terribly biddable, new wife.
She retreated back to the galley and offered to help the cook prepare the midday meal. He handed her a paring knife and pointed to a mound of potatoes. She tucked her hair into a loose knot and rolled up her sleeves.
It seemed she peeled a thousand potatoes in the next few hours. By the time she'd finished, her fingers were worn to the bone and she was completely without appetite. The cook asked that she stay and help serve.
Rachel hefted a platter of the boiled potatoes onto her shoulder and followed the cook's helper. A wave of catcalls and whistles broke out the instant she set foot in the dining room. She kept her eyes forward, ignoring the bawdy comments of the men. A heated flush stained her cheeks as she moved between the tables. She was chagrined to find a pair of alert gray eyes watching her from a corner. Morgan sat with the other men, clearly delighting in her discomfiture.
She lowered the platter and began ladling out servings to the men. She bent to dump a spoonful of the hot potatoes and felt a hand boldly cup her buttocks through her skirts. She reacted instinctively, dumping the spoon's contents onto the sailor's lap. The tar yelped in pain and shot to his feet, jumping up and down to free himself of the scalding glob stuck to the crotch of his pants. "Bloody bitch! Nearly burnt my pecker off!"
"Oh, dear! I am sorry," Rachel responded, the lie in her words revealed by the hard glint in her eyes. "I was aiming for your plate, but you startled me. Perhaps if you sat quietly and kept your hands down, my aim would improve."
A split second of quiet was followed by uproarious laughter. The seaman grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped furiously at the sticky potatoes. "Watch yerself, Thompson," someone shouted, "Keep rubbin' like that, she'll be pourin' stew o'er yer head next!" This brought more snickers. Rachel dropped a single potato on Thompson's plate before stepping aside to continue her rounds. As she reached her husband, every eye in the room was glued on them.
"Potatoes, sir?" She lifted a heaping spoonful.
Morgan raised both hands above his head in submission, inspiring fresh hoots and chortles. She slowly lowered the spoon, her eyes meeting his in a triumphant glare. She completed serving and returned to the galley. Emptying the remains from her tray back into the pot, she looked up to find Thompson blocking the doorway.
"Nasty wench. Harmless little pat. Didn't mean nothin'."
"I said I was sorry." Rachel kept her voice level as she glanced past him. No sign of the cook or his helper.
"High and mighty, like some bleedin' duchess. I don't think yer sorry 'tall. Little peck on the lips might console me."
Rachel took a deep breath. Years of dealing with Cletus' drunken spells had taught her showing fear was the worst mistake she could make. She picked up the paring knife and held it so the blade caught the light. She clucked her tongue. "Nasty accidents happen in kitchens. I'm afraid my husband wouldn't like you asking me to apologize by kissing you. He might decide to cut your tongue out."
"He might," came Morgan's steely voice in agreement. He stepped from behind Thompson to put himself between the sailor and Rachel. "Which would make it hard to explain to the captain how you came to be here instead of seeing to your duties. You were warned about pestering my wife."
"Foul-tempered tease, she is." Thompson glowered at her, then swung his gaze back to Morgan. "Makes a bloke all hot with them big teats, then laughs at him for it. My sympathies, wed to the likes o' her."
Rachel pressed close against Morgan's side. She slid her arm around his lean waist. Thompson stomped out. Rachel noticed the tension in Morgan's muscles didn't ease when the sailor left. "Happy now?" Morgan demanded, snatching the knife from her hand. "He could have disarmed you as easily. What then, Rachel? When I said move about the ship, I didn't mean become the bloody serving wench! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Why do you think innkeepers and tavern owners hire wenches for serving? The men sample more of them than the food and grog!"
"Well, innkeeper and traveler Tremayne," she shot back, "You would know, wouldn't you?"
He seized her upper arm and led her out to the main deck. "You're going back to our cabin. If you haven't eaten, that's too damned bad. You'll wait until supper, and have that alone in the cabin with me. You set one foot outside the door and I'll drag you back by your hair."
Rachel stumbled across the rough planking. He forced her through the doorway and slammed the door behind them. "Foolhardy, did I say? This goes beyond that, to a level of stupidity I cannot begin to comprehend! Sauntering up and down with your rump in their faces!"
She stared at the floor. "I suppose you're going to beat me now."
"That suggestion has a certain merit." Morgan tilted her chin up with one hand. "A bad jest, Rachel," he informed her stiffly. "I wouldn't strike a woman. I can't give you the same assurance about the other men, however. That filthy ruffian looked capable of anything."
"I put him in his place," she countered.
"And left him no pride when you did it. The entire crew saw you shame him. His manhood's at stake now. Not two days out and we've made an enemy!" He began to pace and ran a hand through his loose hair. "You had no business placing yourself within his reach. You refuse to see the danger from the men is very real. What will it take to convince you, the crew doubling you over a water barrel and lining up for a go? That's precisely what could happen! Stay the hell away from them!"
She sank onto the bunk. "I was trying to be helpful. Serving was cook's idea, not mine."
Morgan took a brandy bottle from his trunk and dropped into the chair. He rubbed his forehead absently and Rachel silently watched him take a long swallow. He raised the bottle to his lips a second time when she spoke. "That won't help your headache."
"Won't hurt it, either. You sorely vex me. I've explained why you must be sensible. Flaunting yourself is courting disaster. I only let you do it to teach you a lesson."
"I wasn't flaunting anything."
"Don't test my patience!" he snapped. "Insolence was aggravating in a clerk. It's intolerable in a wife. You gave your word to adhere to my instructions about safety before we sailed. You swore before God yesterday to honor and obey me."
She was furious now. He dared speak of honor after what he'd done? He thought he could trick her, p
urposely mislead her, and still she'd blindly obey? She grabbed the bottle from his hand, jerked open the cabin window, and tossed the liquor overboard. "You drink too much."
He shook her by the shoulders. "Don't you ever do anything like that again! I paid dearly for that liquor. Almost as much as I paid for you. You'll be back in America soon enough. You can go back to churning butter and flopping the hogs without me, if that's what you truly want. Meantime, keep your hands off my goddamned brandy."
"Slopping the hogs," she corrected.
Morgan looked about to explode. "I'll be on deck until supper," he snapped. "Should you need me for some reason—though God only knows why you would, being so hearty and independent—holler to the deckhand outside to fetch me. You unbolt the cabin door for anyone save me, and I swear I'll have you chained to the bunk for the rest of the voyage."
He arrived hours later with a tray from the galley. Rachel saw a single serving. "Aren't you eating?"
"I'm not hungry." He pulled off his boots and undressed without another word. He crawled into the bunk and closed the bed curtains.
"Are you still upset with me?" Rachel asked softly. "I'm sorry, Morgan."
"Leave me be."
They'd quarreled often enough in the village for her to sense something was different now. He could be spiteful, but he seldom carried a grudge. In fact, a brief separation typically cured his sour moods. But not now, Rachel silently mused. Now they were married. And apparently he intended to punish her with silence.
She ate alone without saying another word. She glanced at the still curtains and decided she'd risk a minor disobedience by unlocking the door to set the empty tray outside. She'd just closed and rebolted the door when she heard the scrape of the chamber pot from behind her and violent retching. Rachel had never been seasick, but she'd seen other passengers suffer. Morgan's body needed to acclimate to the ship's movement. Until it did, he'd be miserably ill.
She undressed and put on her robe. She set the chair beside the stove and curled up to sleep herself, leaving the lamp burning low. She was awakened by more retching and a deep groan. She opened the curtains to find Morgan doubled over, both arms clutched across his abdomen. He'd broken out in a clammy sweat. Her mind was made up in a second. To hell with his orders, he needed help. She took the chamber pot to the rail and dumped the contents overboard before scurrying to the galley.
She found a basin and filled it with fresh water. She met the cook on her way out and quickly learned that most of the crew was sick, too. It wasn't seasickness. They'd eaten spoiled meat at midday. She returned to the cabin and forced water between Morgan's lips, holding the chamber pot as he vomited again. When at last his stomach was empty, she used one of her handkerchiefs to mop his bare chest and face. "Sorry, Rachel," he croaked.
"Never mind, Englishman. You and the men ate spoiled food this afternoon. Thank goodness you didn't let me eat or I'd be sick, too. Get some rest. I'll be in the chair by the stove if you need anything."
"No!" he winced. "Not safe alone. Sleep here with me." She removed her robe and gingerly climbed over him. She slid beneath the bedclothes, but Morgan moaned as another spasm racked his body, and she began massaging his abdomen with her fingers to ease the painful cramping. He groped with one hand and pulled her closer, then rested his head on her bare left breast. "I could die happy here," he rasped.
"You're not going to die," she chided softly. "You didn't sell your granary and trick me into marriage only to expire over a bit of spoiled beef! You'll be better soon."
His writhing and tortured cries awakened her some time later. "Annaliese, I would have done anything! I love you. How could you do this? Don't leave me, please!"
Rachel pressed his head against her breast again, whispering soothing words until he quieted. He began taking slow, even breaths. The warmth and nearness of his lips made her nipple pucker. His hand moved over her bare stomach and muscles deep inside her clenched. She marveled at her body craving him like this. She'd never lain beside Cletus burning for his touch, but she wanted Morgan. And the wanting made it a long while before she fell back to sleep.
She was seated at the table using her sewing kit to patch a sailor's torn shirt when the bed curtains parted. She glanced up. "Feeling better?"
"It appears I haven't left you widowed again, after all." He swung his legs to the floor and tried to stand, but he swayed with the effort. Rachel pushed him back onto the mattress. She scowled down at him and pulled the quilt up over his chest.
"You're still too weak. I'll get you some hot tea and have the cook heat water for a bath and a shave."
He caught her arm in fingers that had lost some of their iron. "Rachel, I didn't mean what I said about you going back to churning butter without me. I don't want that. You said you didn't regret marrying me...Do you now?"
She smiled kindly. "I know you didn't mean it. We both said things we didn't mean. Let's get you cleaned up."
His voice was hoarse but insistent. "I haven't been so sick in years. I'm sorry you had to see me like that and play nursemaid."
"Stop apologizing. You're still not yourself. The Morgan Tremayne I know doles out apologies once every six months or so. I'll be right back." She pressed a kiss on his forehead and swept out of the cabin before he could protest.
He was dozing when she returned. She closed the bed curtains and inched the metal tub from beneath the bunk as quietly as she could. She gathered clean clothes from his larger trunk and set his straight razor on the table. Fresh water was a precious commodity. She undressed, planning to bathe first herself, then awaken him.
A gruff voice at the door announced the hot water was ready. She pulled on her robe and threw back the bolt. The door swung open and she took an involuntary step back.
"Mistress High and Mighty! Heard yer man's got the stomach knots."
She blanched at Thompson's malicious glower. Another seaman followed him inside. Beyond them the open deck was deserted. Rachel knew most of the men were below in their quarters, prostrate as Morgan was. Thompson chuckled aloud. "Russell, lad! I've been admirin' her ladyship's robe, but wouldn't you like seein' her without it?"
Russell turned and bolted the door. The first wave of panic swept over Rachel.
Thompson was staring, his eyes slightly glazed. She recognized that look. Remembered too well what it presaged. Maybe their voices would awaken Morgan. He'd know men shouldn't be inside the cabin for more than a moment. Know there was trouble.
She'd drop something or make sounds to alert him. Then her spirits sank. What good would it do? Morgan was too weak to even stand, let alone fight off a pair of wiry men
Morgan was ailing. But the two intent on raping her looked robust indeed.
Chapter 14
"My husband's a very light sleeper. If he finds you here, Thompson," Rachel announced in a clear voice, "he'll kill you."
"What's he gonna do, spew his innards all over me?" Both men laughed. Thompson spotted Morgan's razor on the tabletop. Rachel took a step forward. Too late. Thompson mimicked her at their previous meeting, holding the blade aloft. "Lady wants a bath, Russ. I say we give her one."
Rachel's eyes swept the cabin. Morgan's liquor was locked away. Not a single bottle sat out in the open. She debated trying a dash to the bunk for the guncase. She'd never pull it out and get to a pistol before the men stopped her. Trying it risk giving their enemies arms to turn against her and Morgan.
Thompson held the only available weapon. The only thing she had left was reason. "Look Thompson, I know you want an apology—"
"Did. Now I want ya beggin' for mercy. Fill the tub, Russ, and don't be splashin' all over the place. Can't disturb his lordship," he snickered.
Russell concentrated on his pails. Thompson glared at Rachel. "Keep yer mouth shut and show me a good time, yer man lives. Open it, I'll give him a new smile. Nice big one from ear to ear. Take that off," he commanded, waving to indicate her robe. "Give me a look at what her fancy bastard's been hoardin'."
In that instant, her decision was made. Even if it cost her life, these men were not going to rape her.
Her face had gone bright red, but she refused to drop her gaze from Thompson's face. He gave the orders. He was the one she had to watch. All she needed was a second's distraction. A momentary shift in Thompson's attention. She tensed her muscles and got ready for action. She ignored the man kneading her flesh. Her concentration was on Thompson. She tried a minor diversion.
"Morgan keeps a loaded pistol inside the bunk," she warned low. She felt rather than saw Russell's frustration. His attentions to her nipples brought no reaction. The points didn't tighten any further than they had from the cool cabin air. He wasted his motions; her body wouldn't respond. Not like it did for Morgan. Her eyes darted to the closed bed curtains.
"Pistol, eh?" Thompson echoed. "Russ, take this." He passed the razor to his partner. "You watch the bitch, I'll see about yon pistol." He crossed to the bunk. Before his fingers could touch the curtains, a bronze forearm shot out to seize him by the throat. "Russell!" he choked. The curtains parted slightly, revealing the black muzzle of a gun pressed against Thompson's temple.
Russell turned, but seemed too confused to react. Rachel wasn't. She dashed to the door. Her fingers closed over the bolt and threw it back. A fingernail snapped back and tore. She paid no heed to her throbbing fingertip and the blood welling there, but stumbled onto the deck. Russell cursed close behind her. Something struck her on the shoulder. She screamed and sprawled face first on the decks. The world went black.
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