He had chided her thoroughly. She'd called him a tyrant and left the cabin in a fury. But she'd deserved the chiding, or shirking the work he'd assigned. He was captain on his ship and he expected everyone to obey him. Everyone. without question.
An hour later, he saw her up on the poop deck, pretending to take the air but furtively watching Wrightman, who was reading the compass and fussing with the astrolabe. Determinedly he concealed himself and continued to observe her.
Rozalinde was watching Wrightman, and chafing unbearably while she did it. It was painful as a nettle sting, she thought with exasperation, to watch him holding the astrolabe wrong. If he didn't straighten it, he would get a false reading when he "shot" the sun. She was trying to be patient with him, despite what it cost her ... and despite what Kit said—that she had no patience worth mentioning.
Looking away at last—if she watched him anymore, she would do something rash, like shout at him or give him a well-deserved cuff—she struggled to pretend she enjoyed the scenery. Absently, she took a nibble from a chunk of ship's biscuit, what was left of her midday meal. It was so hard she could scarcely get her teeth into it, and so dry, she had to hold each bite in her mouth for some time before it would soften and slide down her throat.
She was so involved with her covert observations, it took her several minutes to hear the crewmen nearby. They were talking quietly among themselves, but eventually their words pierced her consciousness. "We'll never see land. We'll die of thirst."
"Or starve. This never happened before on board with the earl. It's her, I say. She's brought us bad fortune."
They were talking about her, Roz realized. It was positively embarrassing to be the object of their talk. What did they expect her to do? Jump off the ship so they could be free of her?
Boldly she turned and walked over to them. The faces of the three men registered their shock as she addressed them. "You must have faith in Wrightman." She swallowed her pride. "He is a very good navigator. He knows what he's doing. His lordship, your captain, has checked his calculations to be sure they are correct. You must trust him. Has he ever led you astray?" They shook their heads, astonished that she addressed their concern squarely.
"You must be of good faith," Roz went on, determined to cheer them. "We will see landfall by tonight, he says, I'm sure he's right."
Actually Wrightman had said nothing of the kind. Rozalinde had just determined it that morning herself. She had calculated their latitude, plotted their position based on the distance covered that night, and counted the hours before they made land.
The men said nothing in response. One of them eyed the piece of biscuit in Rozalinde's hand. His eyes were bleary and resentful, and Rozalinde could see the sallow look they all had, along with the slight puckering of the skin that meant too little water. She looked down at the biscuit, then held it out to the man. "Here. Take it. I don't have to work, as you do."
He snatched it without hesitation and turned away to eat it before anyone could comment. Later, he sent her a ghost of a black-toothed smile from where he worked, adjusting the rigging on a sail.
Her own stomach rumbled emptily, but she was glad he'd given it. If only they could catch some fish, but they had no nets, and they moved too fast through the water to fish with hook and line. They must sacrifice food for speed just now, and food could not help them once the water ran out. She was heading for her cabin to lie down when she noticed something odd about one of the younkers, as the youngest crew were called. His duty was with those who took turns endlessly swabbing the deck to keep the boards expanded and tight. As he stood among the others, Roz saw that he swayed dangerously on his feet. Suddenly he keeled over in a faint, hitting the deck with an ugly thud.
Rozalinde froze where she was as men calmly went to his aid. The ship's physician was called, but there was nothing he could do for the boy. Not enough water, the man pronounced, knowing the lad had had the last of his daily ration after mending broken rigging high on the mainmast. The boy was younger than she, Roz realized, looking at him from a distance. Perhaps a year older than Jonathan, seventeen and about to die for lack of water. It wasn't to be borne.
The others pulled him into the shade of the forecastle and left him there. Whirling purposefully, Roz hurried belowdecks to where the water supply was kept. The old man who guarded the precious casks stood when she appeared. Catching up the large tin measure they used, she held it out to him. "I want my ration," she said. "The rest I am due for today."
"All, mistress?" The man gaped at her. "Now then, you don't want to do that. 'Tis early yet, and you've already had a quarter. Take another quarter," he coaxed, beginning to fill the cup. "You'll have the rest for later on."
"I want my ration and I want it now," she insisted, wondering at herself.
The man gave it to her reluctantly. Carefully she carried the precious liquid up on deck to the fainting boy.
He was conscious when she got there, lying listlessly on his side.
"Can you sit?" She went down on her knees beside him. "Let me help you." Her arm encircled his shoulders and she raised him. When he'd fainted, she had been far away and judged him to be about Jon's size. Up close, she found him larger than she had expected. Clearly he would need all her water to be restored.
She brought the cup to his lips.
The boy didn't question. Only drank gratefully.
"Not too much at one time," Roz warned, taking the cup away but continuing to support his shoulders. "You don't want to bring it back up right away. That would be a waste. This cupful is yours, so take your time."
She spent an hour at his side, coaxing the water down him, watching it take effect. His eyes lost their glazed look. She tested the skin of his forearm, pinching it gently between thumb and forefinger, watching for it to spring back to show he'd had enough. Satisfied at last with his condition, she took him to the forecastle and had an older man put him to bed.
"See that he rests," she admonished before heading for Kit's cabin. If she could escape in sleep, she would forget her own thirst, though that seemed unlikely. Here she had the rest of the afternoon and evening before her, with nothing to drink until midnight.
It was a lowering thought. She stretched out on the bunk and dozed off, resolved to bear it. Much later she awoke as the latch rattled and someone came in. Stubbornly, she kept her face turned to the wall.
"My countess?"
She wouldn't move. She wouldn't answer him. He was lording his victory over her. Moreover, he didn't love her, and she was unwilling to settle for anything less. "Rose?"
His hand came to rest on her hip. He stood directly behind her, apparently, for she could feel his palm move slowly along her side.
"Umm." The sigh broke from her involuntarily, though she refused to turn his way.
"Ah, she answers to that. I am getting somewhere. So she would rather be my flower than my countess."
"The lesser of two evils," Roz replied testily. "I see."
His hand retreated from where it seared her hip. She heard him cross the room, peel off his doublet and toss it across a chair.
Rozalinde closed her eyes and drifted. The image of water formed before her eyes. The vast body of Lulworth creek tempted her senses. Looking the way it had that night, a few short months ago. The Spanish galleon floated on it, the magic of the Beggar King enticed her. Oh, that water. She wanted to leap into the delicious depths of that creek now, gulp mouthfuls of it to wet her parched throat, she could almost hear the sound of falling water, its rich, cooling trickle refreshing her. Her body cried out for water, she was so thirsty....
Rozalinde jerked to a sitting position as she realized the sound of water was real. "What is that? I ..."
A moan escaped her. Kit bent over the table, squeezing half lemon into a cup that, by the sound of it, held water.
Putting down the lemon, he came to her side.
"Drink." He sank on the bunk and pressed the cool metal to her lips.
She dran
k gratefully, watching him over the rim of the cup, her hand wrapped over his as the delicious water tinged with lemon delighted her throat. Not all of it though, she would not drink all. This was his day's water ration he gave her.
Partway through, she forced the cup from her mouth and pushed it back toward him.
"Your turn," she whispered, then watched him take the
cup. He drank from the same spot she had, his lips full and enticing against the metal as he swallowed the last drop and put the cup down.
"I saw what you did. You have my deepest respect."
She brought her lips to his in answer. They met like a rush of dreams, fulfilling her expectations. His mouth felt warm and tender, making something deep within her belly stir. Lifting her hands to his shoulders, she felt the magnificent swell of muscles. Eagerly her fingers sought his arms, his back, exploring.
"You gave me your last water," she began.
"I would share everything I have with you."
It was a small admission compared to the one she wanted. Yet it showed his generous nature. Besides, he had promised her passion, not love.
He pressed her back onto the bunk, then left her side for an instant. The other half of the lemon looked small and shriveled. Several black spots scattered across its rind. But the flesh, when he turned it toward her, looked firm and yellow. He held the fruit suspended above her lips.
"Open."
She obeyed. The juice of the lemon dripped into her mouth like liquid gold, its tang so sharp it was blinding. The room, Kit, his touch, seemed to grow radiant and vibrate as the lemon shocked her senses. Still, Kit wouldn't stop. He urged her to take more.
"It will wet your throat," he insisted, laughing when she shuddered and pursed her lips. With a chuckle, he dripped some of the lemon into the cleft between her breasts, just above her bodice. In a leisurely manner he bent over and let his tongue lave away the juice. "Great heaven," he groaned between probes of his tongue. "You are a maid of contrasts. Sweet and sour."
The core of Rozalinde's being quaked violently at his touch. A tension infused her limbs. Her breath came more quickly. "You are the one of contrasts. You give me relief and torment at the same time." She shuddered again as he pulled her smock away from her skin and let his eyes feast on her bare flesh.
Watching her face intently, he reached inside her smock. His warm hand caused a havoc of wanting to course through her.
Her body shuddered again, as if he'd given her more lemon. Grinning ruthlessly, he began to unfasten her bodice. Their garments melted away, as magically as snow in springtime. With the juice of the lemon he anointed each part of her body, let his tongue stroke it away. A small drop on her neck. His lips kissed it', away. More of the lemon's treasure beside her ear. His teeth caught her earlobe and tugged until she trembled. "What are you doing to me?" she whispered. "Guarding you against scurvy," he teased, holding out the lemon.
She watched as he crushed the fruit between strong fingers, then she looked into his face, her gaze questioning, drawing back, he returned her stare, the power in his gaze daring hers. He'd held her in his spell since the beginning,
the shop. Even as he captured her mind, his hands reached for her body. The liquid from the lemon felt cool on the sensitive tips of her breasts before the heat of his mouth seized her. Her vulnerability flared and she thought. for a minute she would lose control. That was it—he made her vulnerable, each time he did this. His mouth drew strongly at her flesh, and she cried out, not knowing what words she spoke. He moved to the other breast, anointing the tip, then covering it with his mouth and drawing until she felt a throbbing between her legs and cried out again. Moving lower still, he let a drop from the lemon fall just above the curls that covered the juncture of her thighs. The faintly rough texture of his tongue rasped against her bare skin. She could see he was ready. Lost in a dangerous rapture, she reached for him. He groaned as her hand closed. The sound wrung a similar confession from her. "Please, Christopher," she pleaded, caught in the throes of her desire. That she should desire him—it astonished her. He laughed, an opulent sound to her ears, parted her legs and thrust himself between them. In no time at all they soared to fulfillment. He understood the needs of her body. When it was over, he sat back, and she followed him, refusing to let their intimacy end. "Why wouldn't you love me that first time?" she asked, settling against his chest and arranging his arms around her middle. "My intent was to give—not to take for myself."
She twisted her head and searched his sea-blue eyes. "I don't understand. Why?"
"I've always had an excess of passion. I needed to control it."
"You?" She pushed away and turned to examine him, hands resting on her thighs. "You may have passion, but most of the time you behave in the most dispassionate, self-contained manner I've ever seen."
"Only in the last year," he said moodily, looking away.
"But don't you see?" Roz went on, determined to say what was on her mind. "You're too controlling. You control yourself far too much and you insist on controlling others as well. Their feelings, their actions, your own. It's positively—"
"Just one minute," he interrupted abruptly. "What exactly do you mean by that—I'm too controlling?" His gaze snapped to meet hers. A curious, agonized expression hovered in his eyes.
"Just what I said," Roz continued carefully, suddenly sure of what she said. "You don't want to be like your father. But you are, at least in some ways. Your father was obsessed with controlling others. And such an obsession is a type of passion all its own. Think about it," she urged. "You'll see I'm right."
Kit squeezed his eyes closed. At Rozalinde's bidding, pictures appeared in his mind—scenes of his father controlling him, controlling others. It had been a passion to him. The earl had centered his entire life around control. And Kit was his father's son.... The thought was a disturbing, confusing one—to imagine his cold, unfeeling father having a passion for something, an obsession that eventually destroyed people around him....
Kit got up from the bunk, sat down heavily at the table and leaned on his forearms, staring at nothing.
"It's an ugly irony." Rozalinde's voice came from behind him. "But it's true, that a person could fix his entire life's passion on depriving others of pleasant feelings. I believe he—"
She stopped speaking as Kit turned suddenly, crossed the distance between them in a single bound and crushed her against his chest.
"By God, but you have the right of it." He gripped her as if his life depended on it.
"Yes," she breathed, trying to wiggle free so her nose wasn't squashed against his left nipple. "It makes our passion reasonable in comparison." Her lungs emptied and filled rapidly, making her feel breathless and giddy all over again, despite her earlier fulfillment. Looking down, she saw it was the same with him.
"I promise to wed you as soon as we reach port." His voice cracked on the last word.
"Yes, yes, you said that before." She pulled free of his crushing embrace and moved to where she could kiss him.
Without further words, he took her. But it was as if he meted out his passion in precise, methodical portions. He entered her carefully, sliding his entire length into her, making her gasp with pleasure at the feel of him, it was still so new. His measured motions, for all that he controlled them, sent her mind spinning into oblivion, until all she knew was the surge of feeling as he buried himself within her, then withdrew, only to return with renewed intensity. But it wasn't enough. It was too reserved.
Rozalinde exhaled deeply as he immersed himself once more and buried himself with a slowness that made her want to scream with frustration. Heaven above, how could he do this? His mind acknowledged his sorrow, but his body, his heart, did not. Unconsciously he still repressed that passion his father condemned him for having, that his father had himself, in a different form. With a groan, she realized she hadn't reached him yet.
The thought ebbed abruptly. She hadn't imagined it possible for her to be arouse
d again so soon. But she was. Troth, but she felt like the powder in a cannon, teased with the slow match until the final moment when the blazing instrument would thrust to her center and she would burst into flame. Her breath came in short bursts and she felt sweat beading at her hairline. But Kit—his chest and back were cool and dry to the touch. He wasn't even panting.
It made her so angry, she thrust her hips against his, grinding, seeking to pleasure him as he pleasured her. Instinctively she lifted her legs, twined them around his. She felt his answering shudder.
"No!" He raised himself on his elbows to look at her and cradled her cheek with one hand. "I am in command of myself. There is no release until I permit it."
"Then permit it," she cried, struggling to create that penetrating friction between them. "Don't hold back from me. If passion is what you have for me, I want all of it. Stop controlling."
He stopped instantly and stared at her strangely. "You want me to be uncontrollable, like an animal?"
"Yes," she almost shrieked, thrusting herself against him, taking him deeply within her so that he groaned involuntarily. "But you're not like an animal. I want you desperately. I want you to want me, too."
"I do want you," he said, mystified. "I couldn't be doing this if I did not."
He grinned at her and moved his hips, making her writhe with excitement at the way he impaled her.
"Then show me," she insisted, reaching up to maul his shoulder with her teeth. "Show me how much."
A ripple of darkness descended over his features. "Just this once, then."
She smiled at that and prepared herself. But she couldn't have been ready for what happened next.
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