by Gwyn Cready
He swept her into his arms and kissed her. She gasped when they broke apart, still tasting the pear on her tongue. “Again,” she said. “Do it again.”
This time, he pressed her to the railing, his body a wedge between her and her thoughts. And lose herself she did. She wanted nothing but his hands and his mouth.
“You made it clear I was not to tempt you,” he said. “And I obeyed. But when I kiss you like this, I think I’ll die if I can’t have you again.”
“You canna die, or I will too.”
“Captain,” a familiar French voice called from beyond the cabin’s inner door. “The lookout has spotted a brig that seems to be behaving oddly.”
Gerard sighed heavily. “Yellow?” he called.
“Aye, sir.”
Gerard led Serafina in and opened the door. “What more can you tell me?” he said to Duchamps.
“She’s running parallel to us. She hasn’t done anything in particular, but she hasn’t asked us for a signal.”
“Have we asked for hers?”
“Not yet. That’s why I knocked.”
“Sit. I’d like to hear what you know of privateers in the region. Harris,” Gerard said, and Serafina jumped. In the swirl of emotions, she had forgotten she was a sailor.
“Please give the cook my regards,” he said to her. “The meal was wonderful. I should like a pot of coffee and make it hot.”
Serafina’s face must have shown her strong disinclination to take such an order because he cleared his throat and bent his head toward Duchamps.
Oh. She stood and saluted. “Aye, sir.”
“And be sure to gather the most current information about the unknown ship before you return. Duchamps and I will be engaged here for a quarter hour at least.”
She gave him a gratitude-laden nod and exited.
Twenty-three
As Serafina had expected, Duchamps’s tiny cabin could be explored in full by standing in one place and turning. His cot—the sort of coffin with a bedroll allotted to the officers that was such an improvement over the hammocks of the sailors—was neatly made and rocked quietly on its well-oiled chains. His locker, under the cot, was the only personal item in the space apart from a small, framed portrait of a young woman, probably his sweetheart, which hung on the wall over his small desk and chair. But it was not the portrait that brought her to a stop. Next to the ink pot, stowed away in a tin bowl for a future indulgence, sat a golden pear, the twin of Gerard’s.
She picked it up, letting the sweet scent fill her head—and with it the image of Gerard parting the tender flesh with his blade.
She thought of the warrior Paris in the myth and another golden fruit. Paris was required to choose which among Hera, Aphrodite, and Athena would possess a golden apple and with it the title of most beautiful goddess. Hera had offered him a great kingdom to command if he chose her. Athena offered him glory in battle. Serafina remembered from a book her father kept hidden that Paris had not been a principled judge. Even after receiving head-turning bribes, he had demanded the women disrobe so that he might view them in their skin to help him with his decision. But they were powerful goddesses, and their nakedness did not shame them. In fact, the painting in the book—which had made quite an impression on her young mind—made it look as if each one of them found the notion of having Paris see them quite pleasing.
Paris. She had once considered Adonis as her ideal but wondered if the honest, willing, hot-blooded Prince of Troy might be more her match.
Serafina had offered the Paris on the deck above her nothing—no empire, no great victory. Yet he’d chosen her. And she’d turned him down. Despite that, he’d continued to give her his friendship and support. He was a good man, and she wondered what would have happened if Duchamps had not knocked.
Ah, well. Perhaps it was for the best.
She was reminded that the bribe of Aphrodite, who in the end won the apple, had been to offer Paris the chance to marry the most beautiful mortal woman on earth—the already-married Helen of Troy, which drove the Spartans into war with the Trojans and eventually led to Paris’s tragic death on the battlefield.
There are good reasons we do not caper about like princes and goddesses, she thought philosophically, returning the pear to its bowl.
Serafina had no prurient interest in Duchamps’s belongings, but a search necessitated a certain degree of intrusion, and she slid the desk’s single drawer open with minimal reluctance. A few letters, a response started but not finished, and a candle nub were the only things to be seen. She pulled the locker from under the bed and placed it on the table. The lock was open—not a sign of a man with something to hide—and the contents revealed nothing more than two clean sarks, a wool waistcoat, a pair of twice-mended breeks, and a spare cocked hat. Guiltily, she put everything back. If the ship held Edward’s hidden cargo, it wasn’t hidden here.
She slipped out of Duchamps’s cabin and back up to the deck. She glanced toward the stern. You have time. The captain’s door is still—
She stopped. She was actually beginning to think of Gerard as the captain of this ship, which was completely ridiculous given the fact he couldn’t tell the bow from the stern, let alone a hawser from a halyard. But he carried with him a certain sense of expectation that was quite convincing on its own—an expectation that men would accept his orders, that women would climb into his bed, that enemy ships would reveal their hidden secrets. It was effective, she admitted with grudging admiration.
The yellow ship wasn’t visible. It might have sped to the west while she was rooting through Duchamps’s things, or it might be behind them, blocked from her view. The lookout, looking bored, clung to the overhead rigging just aft.
“What do ye see?” Serafina called.
“A ship,” the man said, and his shipmates tittered.
If Gerard or Duchamps were on deck, the men would never dare to speak so. “Is she west of us or astern?”
“Disappeared—to the west.”
“How many men on board?”
“Canna see.”
“Maybe if you got yer fat ass up that rigging, ye would.”
The men tittered again. This time the lookout scowled. “I’d be happy to offer you a glass for a try—if ye weren’t so busy fetching the captain’s coffee.”
“Oh, is that what they call it?” another said. “He keeps the captain’s pen shipshape. I hear the captain likes it spit polished.”
“Explains the ink on his fingers.”
Serafina said, “I admit I’m surprised the captain didn’t pick you for the position. From what I’ve heard on my short time aboard, you’re the uncontested expert at one-handed polishing.”
The men roared.
“Now, are you going to get up to that barrel, or am I going to be doing your bloody job for you?”
The lookout made an acrobatic bow and extended the glass.
Serafina scrambled up the underside of the rigging and snatched the glass from the man’s hand as she passed.
The glass was long and light, with an ivory case and a lens wider than any she’d ever seen. She tucked it carefully under her arm. She was eager to see what information she could gather with it.
Higher she went, where the breeze grew stiffer and the air cleaner. She was a child again, as at home in the ropes as she was lying on her cot with a toy. She paused just before the barrel to scan the horizon. Here, twenty feet up, she could see thrice the distance the idiot who handed her the glass could. Whitecaps filled the sea. The merchant ships plowed forward ahead of them on the road, but the yellow one eluded her. The ship was neither to the west or astern. She would confirm that with a final look from the bucket before she reported to the captain—er, Gerard.
She swung herself over the barrel’s high edge and dropped to the bottom, nearly losing her balance when her foot touched down on a pile of canvas.
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The canvas said, “Ouch.”
She wheeled around to find Gerard sitting cross-legged on the bottom, barefooted and coatless, the core of the pear dangling from his hand. The gleam in his eye was piratical.
“I told you I could make it up here.” He took a last bite and tossing the core out to sea. “I’ll give you a choice. You can apologize for your assumptions and acknowledge me as a first-rate captain and a man you have chronically underestimated, or I can take you against the mast.”
Her eyes went to the rough-hewn wood, draped in loose coils of rope that hung a foot or two above her head. He had her dead to rights, and the hot knot in her belly only confirmed it.
She sniffed. “I choose an apology.”
He gave her an “as you wish” sort of shrug.
“But I can’t,” she said.
“Oof. Tough to be so proud.” He bent his head toward the mast.
“‘First-rate’ is coming at it a little high, wouldn’t you say?”
He pointed at her buttons. “I believe I’ll have you naked this time.”
“The sailors will see it.” The barrel was the largest she had seen, chest high and four feet across, but even then…
“Not if we’re careful. Try not to flail too much.”
She snorted.
“Of course,” he added amiably, “if you’d prefer, you can stay on your knees, safely out of sight, while I stand…”
“You are too thoughtful.”
“Is that shirt coming off or what?”
She took a deep breath and reached for the top button. He put his arms behind his head and stretched his legs.
She summoned Aphrodite, loosened the buttons, and let the shirt drop. Then she untied the knot that held the binding and unwound the canvas she’d used to bind her breasts. They fell free, and his pupils widened.
“It’s not too late to apologize, you know,” he said.
“Would you prefer that?”
“Truthfully? I’d prefer both.”
“No one can say you’re not honest.”
The next knot was the rope at her waist. When that was undone, the only thing between her and the goddesses’ own nakedness was the hand gripping her trousers.
Gerard unfolded himself and reached for her just as an enormous wave lifted the ship. The ship pitched forward and the barrel’s additional thirty feet of height sent it into a far larger, accelerating circle.
“Whoa!” He grabbed the barrel’s edge like a man grabbing a rescue line.
“Tut-tut, Captain. You can hardly have me at the mast with your hands glued in place. Besides, you need to learn to move with the ship, not fight it.” She insinuated herself against him, pressing her breasts into his side.
“Oh, Lord.” The ship rolled again. He grabbed one of the loops of rope at the mast and swung himself against the other side of the barrel.
“I’m not letting go,” he said. “Even for those…those…”
“Those what?”
“Those very good reasons.”
Still clutching the waistband of her breeks, she found the end of her braid and lifted it over her head, working the pieces loose one-handed.
He gulped and closed his eyes. “Can you turn the other way when you do that?”
“If ye dinna keep your eyes on the horizon, you’re going to get sick.”
He slitted an eye.
“Both,” she insisted.
He did it, and she turned away from him, shook out her hair, and let go of her trousers.
“Vixen,” he moaned.
“Goddess.”
After a long moment, he said, “I find myself longing for the other side of you as well.”
“Do you?” She bent as the mast made another loop.
“Oh. Oh, Jesus. Don’t.”
She followed the edge until she was back at his side. They were shoulder to shoulder now, he facing out, clutching the rope over his head, and she facing in. He flung an arm across her shoulders and tried covering his awkwardness with a caress. She chuckled.
“I can do a lot with one hand,” he said.
“So can I.”
She slipped the tips of her fingers down the waistband of his breeks, and he gasped.
With two flicks of her thumb, the top buttons popped. His cock, pressed against the wool, was as hard as an iron pipe.
“I wonder…” She edged the wool a bit lower, and it puddled at his feet. “Och. My apologies.”
“If I could let go,” he growled, “you wouldn’t be quite so jolly.”
“’Tis a big if.”
She drew her palm down his length and gripped the chiseled tip. She’d never felt a circumcised cock before and the shape intrigued her.
Standing on tiptoes, she whispered in his ear, “What’s it like without a foreskin?”
“Why don’t you find out?” He pulled her even closer.
She took his balls, tight and furred, and clasped them gently.
He inhaled. “I hope you don’t think this is a punishment for me.” He managed to peel his hand from her shoulder and found a place for it on her breast instead.
“’Twill be soon,” she said, “if ye canna free your hands.” She began to stroke the slippery flesh, feeling it stretch and thicken.
“I can’t even take my eyes off the horizon to watch you while you do it,” he cried. “You’re a godless wench.”
The first wet drops of release appeared. “Such a waste it will be, all that seed spent so carelessly.”
His eyes turned to brown velvet. “Will you put your mouth on it?”
“Someday, I’m sure of it. But I’m enjoying this, aren’t you?” She quickened the movement.
“When I get you in the captain’s cabin,” he said hoarsely, “I will show you what it means to yield, and in ways you haven’t dreamed—on your knees, on your back, bent over the railing of the balcony.”
“All you have to do is let go.”
“My hands?” he said wickedly. “Or something else?”
“Your hands. The other I forebear to consider.”
The cords of his neck tightened. The stroking was taking its toll. She tasted the salty damp of his shoulder and took in his windy, marine scent. His breathing was coming faster. How far would she take him?
“Inside you,” he insisted. “Not like this.”
“You command like a king, but where is your bargaining power?”
He swung them both in a circle, and she found herself pressed tightly between the barrel and his body. He released the rope, lifted her leg, and entered her.
“You’ve squandered every bit of restraint I can manage with you,” he said, grasping her hips, “and now you’ll pay the price.”
He hammered her roughly, hardly more than a dozen strokes before crying out and thrusting deeply. The release reverberated through him.
“God, the blood that runs in your veins!” He gazed at her, astonished. “I’ve never known a woman like you. You’re as smart as a fox and determined as a Viking—and fearless!”
She’d been told she was a great beauty countless times and found the praise unfulfilling. But smart and determined and fearless? Those were qualities she’d worked hard for.
“You aren’t like any man I’ve known either, Mr. Innes.”
“Oh?” He stretched, far too pleased with himself. “How’s that?”
“Well, I am hardly an expert at such things, but a dozen strokes? Abby and Undine say a man is hardly performing unless he can reasonably reach at least—”
The rest of her words were swallowed in a dry gasp as his fingers found her bud.
His eyes smoldered. “Oh, I’m quite eager to hear the rest of this.”
“He must…he must…” She tried to speak but found her throat unwilling to release the words.
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She closed her eyes, letting the slow circle of the ship, repeated between legs, take her away.
When she was close, he got to his knees and finished her with his mouth. She bit back a cry when the enormity of it filled her; then she dropped, liquidly, into his arms. He pulled her onto his lap.
In her hazy happiness, she apprehended only the place where her warmth met his and wondered what it might be like to know this closeness, this dependability, every day, and to live filled with joy instead of anxiety. She became aware of him brushing her cheek with his fingers.
“Why are you crying?” he asked gently. “What have I done now?”
She shook her head. “I dinna know. It’s not you. I’m happy, not sad.”
He took the tail of his shirt and touched her eyes. “It’s one thing to fail to deliver the required number of strokes, but to actually drive a woman to tears—and the first woman I’ve ever cared quite so much about pleasing… That would be disheartening, to say the least.”
She laughed. “You havena displeased me. ’Tis quite the opposite.”
He laced his fingers in hers and squeezed.
Somewhere below, the lookout cried, “Brig ahead—two points east of north. She’s signaling us to stop!”
Gerard reached for her shirt. “The worst timing.”
The lookout added, “She’s preparing her guns!”
Gerard slipped on his breeks and leaned over the barrel’s edge. “Battle stations!” he yelled, adding to her, “What did you find in Duchamps’s cabin?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. I need to know who I can trust.” He kissed her and swung himself over the edge. “Hurry down. I’m going to need you.”
Twenty-four
It might have just been his overly sensitive conscience, but Gerard could have sworn Duchamps’s eyes trailed up to the crow’s nest more than once after Gerard had arrived at his side.
“She’s not French,” Duchamps said, lowering his glass. “I’m sure of that. The way the sails are set is not a common practice in my country. Nor do the men on deck look naval trained. I see beards and untucked shirts”—Gerard surreptitiously reached for his shirttails—“an undisciplined crew under an equally undisciplined captain. A recipe for carnage.”