In an instant, she remembered her brother’s advice. She drove her knee, as hard as she could, into the soft tissue between his thighs, and when he loosed his hold on her hands to grab at his bollocks, she shoved him away.
Barely breathing, hardly moving but to tremble, she didn’t know if she could bring herself to step past the wounded animal at her feet, but she was certain she didn’t want to be trapped behind his anger when he regained himself.
A quick dance step around him was not quite fast enough to avoid his staying hand around her ankle, and she tripped over his wrist. She would have fallen to the floor if the door hadn’t opened, sending her flying into the solid, expansive chest of her husband.
One look at the man’s hand on her leg sent Myron surging into the room, but before he could take two steps into the cabin, almost knocking her down in his haste, Bella threw her arms around his waist, finally letting go of the sobs caught behind the terror in her throat.
Myron’s body shifted back and forth with her in his arms, almost as if they were dancing; he was clearly torn between soothing his wife, an activity not at all comfortable, and his more natural inclination, setting her aside to rip the sailor’s head from his neck. If the heat of his glare over her shoulder could have caught flame, the man would be cinders.
Myron held her close, his feet shuffling side to side, and turned her away from the sight of the nameless sailor. Stepping aside to let the captain into the room, they traded rapid and significant glances over her head. Finally, he said, “Just the man we were looking for. The example. And of course, it is Hawley.”
Hawley, finally uncurling his body from a tight ball, tried to scramble away when he heard he was to be made an example, but found his back pressed to the wall. As he tried to inch his way to a standing position, Johnson slammed a fist into his mouth, sending blood and a few remaining teeth flying. When he fell again, the captain slammed the toe of his boot between his legs, sending him back into the fetal position, where Johnson had perfect access to his kidneys.
Over the man’s tortured yelling, Myron snapped, “That will be as nothing compared to two hundred lashes.”
Captain Johnson nodded gravely, stepping back from his victim. “Just the man for it.”
“Two hundred?! That’ll kill me!”
“Just as it will kill the next man to lay hands on my wife. Slowly and painfully.”
“But… my lord…”
“If the Lord is smiling upon you, perhaps you will bleed to death before the cat rips the flesh from your bones. Though I cannot imagine Our Lord offering succor to a man like you.”
Captain Johnson subdued Hawley’s last attempts at escape with another fist to his face, then maneuvered him through the door, closing it behind him.
***
As soon as they were alone, Myron’s fingers moved to a bruise forming on her cheek. “Where are you hurt, my dear?”
Her sobs had ended, but tears still dripped down her face. “Nowhere particular, husband,” she sniffled, tugging at her gown as if the high neck and long sleeves were at fault for enticing the horrible sailor who would now probably die for the shipboard crime of frightening her.
Myron swiftly untied the bow at her throat, loosening the first few buttons at the neckline before she even noticed, but as he reached her collarbone, seeking out any further bruising, she yelled, “No!” She grabbed at her shawl, pulling it tight, face lightening to the color of the chalk hills the ship was passing.
With a concerted effort to moderate her tone, she entreated, “Please do not force me to immodesty, my lord.”
Holding out trembling hands, showing a lack of weapons and a stricken countenance, he said, “I do not offer to assault your dignity, Lady Holsworthy. You must allow me to assess your injuries, and while I might wish to leave you at peace, there can be no question of your compliance.”
Finally, she dropped the shawl, flinching away, eyes shifting as though she expected to be hit, but could still not justify disobeying. His large hands were clumsy on her buttons, but gentle tracing the shoulder seam as he pushed it away. What he found when he dragged the fabric away stopped him cold.
Bella cringed when he touched the days- and weeks-old bruises layered on her arms and chest. She had hoped she might be able to cover them with her nightrail and ask Myron to snuff the candle before joining her in the nuptial bed, but now, in the morning sun and under the light of half a dozen lamps, there was no hiding. His calloused thumb ran lightly across a particularly large, fist-shaped contusion between her breasts and she hunched her shoulders to draw away.
He crooked his finger under her chin, tipping her head back, but even so, she turned toward the wall, refusing to look him in the face.
“These are not today’s injuries.”
“No, my lord.”
“Your father?”
She nodded shortly, but wouldn’t meet his gaze, so he added, “Brothers?” The lump in her throat seemed to double in size. “Did Lady Effingale have any part in this?”
Her eyes snapped to his instantly. “Aunt Minerva? No! She’s not—I mean… she only…”
“She only beats you down with her words.”
Bella nodded. His thumb brushed across her cold, white cheek and the lump melted under the tears beginning to roll silently down her face.
“I begin to regret leaving England so soon. Would that I could avenge every one of these wounds,” he said, gently pulling the dress off, leaving her in her chemise and slippers. Bella should have felt ashamed of being undressed before a man at midday, but his touch was no more threatening than a physician, sure, firm, and curiously gentle, with no hint of titillation. His hands felt like Uncle Howard’s had, the first time she had run to the manor house in the dead of night when she was nine, covered in at least as many bruises on a much smaller frame. He guided her to a chair, then covered her up with a blanket.
“Remain here, my dear, while I retrieve the doctor.”
Between the fear of being left alone in an empty cabin and the fear of being seen in dishabille before any man on the crew, she flew up out of the chair, begging him to stay.
“I don’t mind, my lord. I’m used to it. The marks will be gone in no more than a fortnight, and you’ll not hear me complain, nor will I shirk my duties to you. Please, my lord. Please. Do not let him in here.”
“Lady Holsworthy,” he pronounced, proving beyond doubt he had discovered the tone of voice that would cow her whenever required, “You will see the doctor immediately, in my presence and under my protection, and you will follow his instruction to the letter. Is that understood?”
Thoroughly intimidated, at the same time oddly cherished, she nodded and pulled the blanket tight around her arms, curling up into a ball in the chair.
“Will you return quickly?”
“Yes, my dear, in only a moment,” he replied, kissing her hand, “and I shall lock the door when I go.”
Chapter Thirteen
An hour later, the doctor had prescribed plenty of rest until she was properly healed and regular application of a tincture of arnica, with which Bella was well-stocked in the coffer of salves and tinctures she had prepared and transported from the kitchen garden at Brittlestep Manor. Myron had enforced a soak in a hot hipbath, with fresh water from a stock he admitted he had brought on board purely for her convenience.
Bella sat quietly at the mirrored table built into the wall, dressed—at her husband’s express command—in a heavy flannel nightrail, woolen stockings, and Myron’s banyan, pulling a boar-bristle brush through her fine, straight hair, from the crown to the tips that fell past her waist.
“Your hair is the precise color of the candle flame,” he said from the doorway between her cabin and their sitting room. “It glows… it is quite… breathtaking.”
He was a bit breathtaking himself in what Uncle Howard would call undress: a loose linen shirt, ties undone at the throat, no jacket, waistcoat flapping open, and nankeen breeches. His cravat had been untied
and hung over his shoulder, hair falling from its queue, long, grey locks draping over his face. He reached up to brush it back at the same moment he caught her eye in the looking glass.
She had thought she would be jumpy and nervous considering they would share a bed within the hour. All day long, she had been hoping for mal de mer to reappear and delay the inevitable, but she had felt nothing but the tiniest bit of queasiness—the same weakness and upset stomach she had experienced after every beating of her life, easily managed with a cup of peppermint tea. It seemed she might turn out to be a good sailor after all.
Now, though, her nerves had been shot by the horrible experience with Hawley, and she was far more frightened of being alone than being bedded. It helped that her husband had been nothing but solicitous since the moment, one week ago, that he handed her down from the carriage at his parents’ farm in Saltash, but the past two hours had proven to Bella, unequivocally, that he would always act as her champion. It was time she demonstrate her gratitude by doing her duty by her lord.
Her fingers began the familiar ritual of braiding her long hair for nighttime.
Myron, for his part, was removing his heavy boots, having already stripped off his waistcoat. As the second boot thumped to the floor and Myron stretched his legs to rid himself of stiffness, Bella asked, as casually as she could, “Will he really be flogged two hundred times, my lord? Will that not kill him?”
“Aye,” he answered carelessly, “if Our Lord has any sense of justice, and I believe He does. Though Johnson has successfully argued to halve the strokes, which is still no surety he will remain among the living.”
She tipped her eyes away in the mirror, hoping he would not see her upset. “Nautical retribution is unforgiving.”
Forcing eye contact in the looking glass, he said, voice deep as a grave, “While I recognize the sin in it, I am unforgiving when it comes to your care. Another such violation, I can assure you, Hawley will not survive. I may yet throw him overboard with my own hands.”
He turned her on the seat and gently took her chin in his right hand, looking her in the eye with all the solemnity of an undertaker. “No man on this crew—no man anywhere—will lay a finger on you while I draw breath, Lady Holsworthy. I am a peaceful man, in the main, but there is no person I will not kill to ensure your safety, and you may rest assured that, after thirty-five years aboard ship, I am well equipped to do so with any weapon at hand, or none at all.”
She grabbed at his wrist with both hands, pleading, “You must not kill him, my lord. You must not.” Kissing his hands, she implored, “It will be a stain on your soul, and I do not wish to be the cause.”
“You, my sweet, are not the cause of anything. Hawley carried his own death warrant when he entered this cabin with intent to harm my wife.”
“But I cannot in good conscience—”
He pulled away, sat back down on the edge of the bed, and pulled his shirt over his head. Stealing quick glances at his muscled chest and its thick mat of greying curls, she blushed at the sudden thought of him taking her to bed.
“Steel yourself, Madam." She looked up, wondering if he had read her mind. "Your presence will be required when he is brought to account.”
Bella recoiled, all thoughts of romance thrown out of her head. “What?! Surely, you cannot expect me to—”
“I can, will, and do expect it.” He raised his eyebrows and punctuated his points with a fingertip. “Do not mistake my intent, my lady. I do not mean to torture you, but should these men believe you cannot stomach the sight of the captain’s discipline, they will find reason to court your favor by means fair and foul. So, you will appear, head high, without tears or carrying on, and you will accept the command of your captain, no matter what might occur.”
Her throat worked faster, swallowing every response before it could move from mind to mouth.
Taking pity, Myron picked her up, slid into her seat and settled her onto his lap. He stroked her hair while she tried to hide her face in his shoulder, twirling one fingertip in the curls on his chest.
“Johnson will lay down his life to protect you, and so you must do anything he requires to assist that effort. In this instance, you will watch your attacker be flogged, perhaps to his death, to show the rest of the men you are not squeamish.”
She mumbled against his neck, “But I am squeamish.”
Myron’s volume rose just slightly, and his gravelly voice deepened, but he stroked his hand down her shoulder, displaying no more rancor than he ever had. “You will not be on the morrow.”
She turned her head away, but didn’t change her position on his lap, and didn’t remove her small hand from his very large chest. One fingernail scratching along a scar on his collarbone, she gave the only possible answer: “Yes, my lord.”
He held her hand tightly and kissed her fingertips. “Now then, though I find you enchanting with your hair and eyes aglow, and would gladly keep you close the night through, I will not endanger your person further by my indecorous attentions. I shouldn’t like to cause you inadvertent pain.”
She sat back and tipped her head inquisitively, her hand curving around his wide shoulder. She had never considered he might delay the consummation of their marriage simply because she had a few bruises, though she understood why three days of vomiting had put him off. She didn’t understand his motivations in the least.
“My lord, I… I mean to… do my duty…”
“Your only duty to me now is providing me a strong, healthy wife as soon as possible. As such, I will delay the pursuit of an heir for the nonce.”
No man of Bella’s acquaintance would have done such a thing. But then, no man of her acquaintance had ever taken the trouble to lie about her being enchanting or say she was a wonder. This new husband was certainly a cipher.
He grinned and moved her hand to meet his lips, pressing a warm kiss into the palm. “Do you play backgammon, Lady Holsworthy?”
She shook her head.
“Excellent. Then I will be sure to win. Have you any hairpins to wager?”
Chapter Fourteen
The following morning, the sun rose high in the clear blue sky, no rain, as Bella had hoped, to keep Hawley in the brig and give her a reprieve from the horror about to occur. Not that she was at all certain rain would be a deterrent.
“One hundred strokes,” the captain told the assembled crew. “And double it should any of you attempt such a thing again.”
The cat o’ nine tails sat soaking in a bucket of salt water, and when Bella whispered, “Will the salt not—?” Myron answered tersely, “Yes.”
Every man cringed and much muttering arose until the captain took a slow walk across the deck, eyeing every man to impress the lesson of the discipline on each in turn.
“So, this is the way we welcome the master’s bride—a new crew member, and an important one at that—to the flagship of Seventh Sea? I’d hang Hawley from the yardarm, gentlemen, but Her Ladyship begged mercy for his worthless hide…”
Her Ladyship started when she heard that, as she had been precisely told not to ask mercy for his worthless hide. Hawley was not a popular man, Bella noted, judging from concern for work details, not his health and safety, but from the looks she got from the men who had not yet met her, it would tally up in her favor if she had championed his cause.
“To be clear, so no one on board can say he did not know, you address Lady Holslworthy respectfully at all times and keep your hands well away from her person. She is Her Ladyship, my lady, or Lady Holsworthy, and nothing else. She is not an object of lust or derision; she is the mistress of this ship and has more influence on the man who pays you than even I, so were I a sailor on this crew, I would treat her with the same respect and dignity you consistently show the ship’s master and to me. Is that understood?” Slowly, one tar at a time, men began removing head-coverings, giving quaint bows or respectful nods in her direction. She wasn’t sure how to react, so she did what she would do if they were tenant farmers i
n Evercreech. She inclined her head, but did not smile. They were here to witness a flogging; surely, it was no place for charming introductions.
She shivered, and Myron’s heel tapped against her slipper.
She stood, back straight, feeling as though the mal de mer might have taken root after all, her eyes trained just above Captain Johnson’s head. Myron held her hand tightly in the crook of his elbow, pinching her finger when she gasped at the sight of the sailor being hauled across the deck, already stripped to the waist. Dark bruising covered his face, dried blood ran from the corner of his mouth, and a cut scabbed across his eyebrow.
She would have asked if Myron had caused the damage, given his ferocious anger, but he had spent every moment with her once the ship’s doctor had left her cabin, which meant other men were causing injury in her defense. She wasn’t certain how to feel about such a thing. Gratitude seemed as though she condoned the violence, but ingratitude might anger the potentially aggressive men whose respect she needed to cultivate.
Hawley was struggling to get free of the shackles and the men dragging him by them, screaming and begging for mercy. One tiny squeak from Bella’s throat resulted in another pinch, this time on her wrist. She swallowed hard and stared at a cloud forming in the distance.
When the man began beseeching her directly, “Please, Yer Ladyship,” crawling toward her feet, Myron kicked a boot into his bared chest, throwing him hard into the wooden deck, and growled, “Do not speak my wife’s name, you foul cur! Lay one finger on the hem of her gown, and you will hang.”
A grating had been rigged at the ship’s side, leather straps in place at the four corners, and most of the merchant crew were eyeing it—younger men with trepidation, older ones resignation, and a few out of the corners of their eyes as they pretended to attend to other tasks.
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