Trust Elisabeth Mary Metcalfe? Never again.
Seven
He came to her—finally—before the evening meal. Bess had known instantly that the knock on the cabin door was his. How she’d known, she had no idea. After all, Reeves had come to see her twice that day while Mr. Kelley had checked in on her once. Wasn’t one man’s knock much like another?
She felt dwarfed by his presence when she opened the hatch and stepped back to allow his entry.
“You came,” she said with a hint of bitterness. Looking at him, Bess couldn’t still the fluttering in her stomach. His tall frame . . . his dark hair . . . the blue, blue eyes. He was the only man she’d ever loved . . . ever lain with.
Seth looked amused. “Miss me already?”
“In a hell’s cold day!”
“Liar.” His grin was smug.
“What I miss, Captain Garret, is fresh air.”
He nodded, conceding her point. “It is a lovely evening. Would you like to go up now, or dine first?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to go up first . . . please,” she added in an attempt to be civil. It was the supper hour for the crew, but Bess was suddenly too excited at the prospect of leaving the cabin to worry about her stomach. The cabin now seemed smaller to her. She felt stifled by the damp, musty-smelling air.
“Let’s go, then.” He gestured for her to precede him. When they reached the ladder to the upper deck, he stopped her with his hand on her arm. “I’ll go up first. It’s safer.”
Bess would have protested, but she demurred instead. She didn’t care who went up the ladder first as long as she was allowed to follow.
The night sky was a spectacular sight. The sun had set, but its light lingered in a portrait of vibrant colors from orange to rose to a soft gray. Bess went to the rail and stared out over the huge expanse of water. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sea-scented air, the freedom of movement allowed her on the upper deck.
The sea stretched as far as the eye could see, a rippling of color and light that was mysterious and beautiful under the dusky sky. Mysterious for all its hidden secrets . . . beautiful in its shimmering form. The waves lapped against the side of the vessel, their song like a mother’s lullaby—calming, peaceful . . . but very much alive.
Bess was awed. The sights and sounds of a ship at sea were unlike anything else. She felt small in God’s scheme of creation. Humbled by the thought, she gazed up at the tall masts, her attention caught by the flapping of the sails. It suddenly occurred to her what skill and strength was needed to run the ship. From below, she could hear the constant activity of the men above. Even now, during the dinner hour, there were men moving about, handling ropes and rigging, keeping a watchful, well-trained eye on the sails. Her gaze went back to the ocean.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Seth’s deep voice infringed on her thoughts.
She turned to study him. He was staring at the sea, a bold study in masculinity. Her breath caught as, for a brief moment, it was five years past, and she was passionately in love with this man. She leaned close, inhaled his scent, and closed her eyes, imagining the soft pressure of his mouth on her lips . . . the wonderful sensation of him cupping her breasts.
She sensed his gaze on her and her eyes flew open. Heat infused her cheeks as she jerked herself back to the present, and silently prayed that he hadn’t guessed her line of thought.
He smiled at her in shared enjoyment of the sea, and she relaxed and grinned back. Nothing in his expression made her think that he knew which way her mind had wandered.
But Bess frowned then, wondering at his relaxed manner. Earlier Seth had been irritated, even angered, by her presence. Since he’d come to bring her topside, however, there had been amusement and resignation in his behavior. It was as if he’d come to accept having her on board his ship. She hoped the rest of the crew would see things the same way.
“All these years and it still affects you like this?” she asked. His tone had been soft, implying that he felt the same as she. That they shared the same wonder about the sea disturbed her.
Seth nodded and then turned from the water to capture her gaze. “Some things never cease to amaze me,” he said. “The sea is one of those things. Beautiful, temperamental, unpredictable.” He paused. “Much like a woman.”
He turned back to the glistening dark waves. “I’ve learned how to deal with the sea.”
A tense silence followed that admission, which seemed to Bess both accusatory and yet sad.
“Captain.” A young sailor stood waiting to further address his commander. Bess noted the man’s green eyes and russet brown hair. He was young . . . very young, she thought, to be so very far away from home.
“Mr. Hawke,” Seth said, and Bess recognized the name as belonging to one of the two men who had been left to guard the ship the night she stole on board.
“It’s Conrad, sir,” Hawke said.
His face solemn, Seth dipped his head, clearly understanding the sailor’s unspoken message. “I’ll see to him, Mark. Thank you.” He faced Bess, a cold mask settling over his features. “I’m afraid your venture topside is at an end, Miss Metcalfe.”
“But I’ve only just come up—”
“It can’t be helped. I have business to attend to.”
Bess scowled. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing that you could put to rights.” His anger was fierce and sudden, and Bess gasped.
“Conrad,” she said. Her eyes widened with understanding. “The second mate.”
His gaze narrowing, he nodded.
“My God, you had him flogged!” she exclaimed, feeling again the same horror she’d known when Reeves had first told her.
His voice became laced with steel. “A necessary action unfortunately—thanks to you.” Seth instantly regretted his harsh words. Bess had gone pale with horror. It was true that the whipping was the result of Conrad’s “encounter” with Bess Metcalfe, but the man had been nothing but trouble since he’d first signed on with the Sea Mistress. It had only been a matter of time before the same punishment would have come his way for some other infringement of the captain’s rules.
Geoff Conrad had been stripped of his position of second mate and flogged. A harsh lesson to him and others to obey the captain or suffer the consequences.
“Come,” Seth said. “I’ll take you below to my cabin. Mr. Cookson will bring you something for supper. I’ll join you as soon as I’ve concluded my business.”
“Thank you, but no,” she said stiffly. Recalling his kiss, she could imagine what he had in mind. “I’d prefer my own cabin. There’s no sense going to yours.” It was a clear message that she didn’t want the pleasure of his company.
The captain tensed. “Very well then. I’ll see you to your cabin. I thought you’d appreciate using mine this evening, for it’s larger, but if it’s yours you prefer . . .”
He opened the hatch for her and gestured for her to enter. “A word of warning, Bess. Stay below unless escorted by me or Mr. Kelley. And for God’s sake, avoid contact with any of the crew.”
He left her at her cabin with the promise of dinner sent to her private quarters—and an evening spent without company.
The Sea Mistress encountered her first bout with truly bad weather on her sixth day at sea. A sharp crack of thunder woke Bess in the middle of the night. It sounded like an explosion until the second burst of sound came, followed by a low distant rumbling.
She scrambled from her bunk and went to the hatch. She could hear the scurry of feet across the upper deck, the unintelligible commands from the officers topside. Sailors hurried along the passageway and up the ladder.
“All hands ahoy!” someone shouted from above. “All hands ahoy! Tumble up here and take in sail!”
“What is it?” she asked one sailor as she spied him preparing to go topside. She suspected that it was a thunderstorm, but she wanted to be sure.
“It’s a squall, missy,” one older seaman said, confirming her suspi
cion. “A right good one. Best get back in yer cabin and brace yerself.”
The door to the captain’s cabin opened suddenly. Mr. Kelley came out of Seth’s quarters and approached her. “Best get back inside, Miss Metcalfe,” he advised, much as the old salt tar had done. “We’re heading into some rough water. The Sea Mistress—she’ll be tossed some. There’s rope in the trunk in your cabin. You may want to secure yourself on your bunk.”
“Tie myself in?” she asked, stunned.
“Aye, Miss,” Mr. Kelley said. “When the sea begins to dance, this vessel—she’ll tip and rock, throwing everything and everyone what’s not secured.”
The first mate, or “mate”, as he was referred to by the crew, disappeared, gone topside with the rest. He had assumed she would listen and obey him.
Bess debated what to do. Should she heed the mate’s advice, which was good sense? Or go up with the others in case she could help? She’d never been on board a ship during a storm before. It might be exciting to see it.
And get washed away when the waves come crashing over the side? an inner voice taunted her. The men above are experienced sailors. You’ll only hamper them and get in their way.
But what if she stayed out of their path and tied herself to part of the upper deck?
She could still drown. Bess decided to heed good sense and Mr. Kelley’s suggestion, and she went inside to find the rope.
The storm hit hard, tossing the ship on an angry sea, rocking the vessel as if it were a toy, jerking her from starboard to port, shaking her from bowsprit to stern.
After wrapping the length of rope about her waist, Bess secured herself on the lower bunk, looping one end of the hemp on a hook on the bulkhead, the other end about the post of the built-in bunk. It wasn’t long before Bess realized her mistake in fastening herself that way. The rolling motion of the vessel made her feel ill again, and the rope as it tightened about her waist with each of the ship’s movements made her feel worse. With each squeeze of the hemp about her belly came the threatening sensation of being on the verge of losing her stomach’s contents.
As the fury of the storm increased so too did the motion of the vessel; anything loose in Bess’s cabin, like her hairbrush, fell to the floor and skidded across the wooden decking. The ship lurched this way and that. Bess tried to free the knot holding the rope to the bulkhead, but the pull and sway of the Sea Mistress had fastened the knot more securely. There was nothing for Bess to do but be tossed about like a old cloth doll and pray that she didn’t get sick and roll into her own vomit.
The storm seemed to go on forever. The rope burned a mark into Bess’s waist as the ship tipped from side to side, rolling her from one edge of the bunk to the other. Several times she hit the wall with a force that momentarily stunned her. But it was the burning brand about her middle that gave her the most pain.
Suddenly, as quickly as it had come, the turmoil stopped. Bess lay there, winded, listening to the quiet. The roar of the storm had vanished; the only sounds now were the cries of the mate and a sound like rope sliding across deck, footsteps on the wooden deck boards, and the lingering churned-up water of an angry sea hitting against the Sea Mistress’s hull.
She didn’t know how long she lay there. Eventually, she became more aware of her position, because of the stinging of her belly, sides, and back. She tried to free herself.
Just then a knock on the hatch resounded about the cabin. She struggled to untie herself, but she was stuck. The ship’s movement made it difficult for her to work. Her stomach grumbled in protest.
The pounding on the cabin door came again.
“Come in,” she called, silently praying it was Reeves and not any of the disreputable crew, especially Conrad, the former second mate.
The hatch opened. Seth Garret stood on the threshold, searching for her with his piercing blue gaze, spying her on the bunk. “Are you all right?” His voice was soft.
She flushed from head to toe, embarrassed at her predicament. “I’m tied in, and I can’t undo the knots.” And I feel sick. She waited for his chortle of amusement. It never came.
Seth didn’t smile, but came to her bunk. He worked at the knot on the outer post, struggling ineffectively for several moments. Then, he reached into his pants’ pocket and pulled out a jackknife. After flipping open the blade, he carefully sawed the rope from the post.
Bess winced as he pulled the rope free.
His gaze narrowed upon her waist, where instinctively she’d put her hands. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She looked away.
“Let’s see.” He started to reach for the hem of her man’s shirt and stopped when she flinched. “Elisabeth, you’re hurt. Let me look.”
“No—” She winced as she shifted, and then she reluctantly gave a nod. With his help, she eased up her shirt, gasping with pain as fabric abraded her sore flesh.
Seth drew in a harsh breath. The rope had torn Bess’s smooth skin. A red band ran across her belly, about her sides, and no doubt along her back. The skin was broken in some areas where the rope had burned the spot raw.
“This needs dressing,” he said gruffly. He bent to better examine her injury, gently touching the surrounding skin. “Does this hurt?” His fingertips tingled as they touched her.
Her dark eyes met his gaze briefly. He saw her swallow before she shook her head.
“Good,” he said. He ran his finger to her side, probing the area very lightly, carefully. “How about this?”
Bess stiffened, and then her belly contracted as his breath caressed the sensitive skin of her storm-ach. Tension sizzled in the air as memories of tender caresses and soft words flooded her consciousness . . . memories of fiery touches and wild passionate cries.
“Bess?” he gently prompted her.
She had closed her eyes, and now she opened them again. There was nothing in his expression that said he had read her thoughts. “I’m fine,” she insisted. She was too aware of his nearness, his scent . . . everything about him.
He stared at her appraisingly. “Don’t move,” he commanded, and then he went to the hatch.
She didn’t dare argue with him. She felt too vulnerable, too overwhelmed by the storm and then his sudden presence in her cabin.
“Mr. Kelley!” he bellowed through the open door.
“Aye, captain?”
“Bring me the medicine chest.” Knowing he’d be obeyed, Seth closed the hatch and came back to her bunk. “I have salve to ease the sting and keep away infection.”
The thought of Seth spreading salve on her bare belly made tiny bumps rise along her skin. Her neck tingled, and she felt her stomach flutter in nervous anticipation.
Mr. Kelley arrived soon afterward with a large medicine chest. “Shall I call Mr. Jacobs?” the mate asked.
“No,” Seth replied. “I’ll handle it.”
Bess had tugged down her shirt to cover her rope burn and stomach from the men’s gazes. The first mate left, and Seth and Bess were alone.
The air was charged with a strange energy as Seth opened the wooden chest and dug through its contents until he came up with what he was looking for. He pulled out the container of salve, opened it, and lowered his fingers to the ivory-colored cream. He bent over her, instructing her to lift her shirt once again.
Bess’s heart jumped as she realized his intent. “I can do it,” she said in a strangled voice. She was afraid to allow him to touch her again. How can I still desire a man I detest?
But did she detest him?
Seth stared at her a long moment. With a silent nod, he handed her the jar of salve. He didn’t look away as she struggled with raising her shirt hem and holding the jar. With a mild oath, he grabbed the jar back and pulled up her shirt.
Bess gasped and then glared at him, jerking the garment hem away to shield herself from his regard.
“I can do it!” she insisted.
“Stop being so damned stubborn,” he growled. “You’re hurt and need help. I’ll have to do
your back, anyway. You can’t reach it! Just be still and let me put this salve on. I’m not going to ravish you, for God’s sake!”
They glowered at one another for several seconds. Bess looked away first. Seth was angry, but then so was she. Still, he was right. He wanted to doctor her injury—nothing more.
“All right,” she said, meeting his gaze once again.
With unsteady hands, she lifted her shirt and watched as Seth’s fingers made contact with the creamy salve. He bent over her belly and began to spread the cool ointment onto her reddened skin. As she felt some relief from the pain, Bess closed her eyes, enjoying the soothing sensation of his fingers and palm against her tender flesh. He carefully coated her stomach and side before he gruffly ordered her to turn over so that he could reach the rest.
Seth administered the salve to Bess’s back. His breath caught as he touched her. Despite his avowal that there was nothing sexual about his actions, he found his thoughts returning to the past. The memory of their lovemaking was crystal clear, and he could feel himself responding as he continued to apply the cream. Once he had caressed the same area in passion. He had touched and fondled every breathing inch of Elisabeth Metcalfe, and she had responded with an intensity, a fervor, that paralleled his own.
His jaw clamped tight as he fought the image, but with Bess there before him, he couldn’t fight it successfully. It had felt so good, so sweet, to be buried within her soft warmth. He closed his eyes and groaned inaudibly as he felt his shaft harden beneath his trousers.
“There. That should do it.” His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears. “I’ll leave the jar and check back later. You’ll need to keep a careful watch on that abrasion.” As he’d spoken, he’d avoided her glance in the pretense of closing the salve container and straightening the medicine chest.
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