Dear God, how difficult this was! “I—I shall not soon forget you, Gosse. Had I daughters, I could wish them to be as—spirited a child as you are—”
“Damn your gizzard,” she growled, her eyes narrowing. “I am not a child! I am a woman!” With an impatient gesture she threw down the boat cloak. The swinging lantern cast flickering shadows over her naked body.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathed, feeling a sudden tightness across his chest.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice soft and pathetic. “Is something the matter? Am I ugly?” She wrapped her arms self-consciously about her waist and hips.
“Ugly?” He laughed unsteadily, surprised at the tremor in his voice and the sudden quivering that seemed to shake him from head to toe. “Ugly?” He gulped, his mouth dry.
Her body was full and ripe, golden from the kiss of the sun, glowing and golden save for the dark triangular patch above her thighs, and the deep pink of her rosy nipples. Her waist was very slender, but her hips curved sensuously, and the voluptuous swell of her breasts made him wonder how she had managed to hide such beauty, such—womanliness—beneath her garments. He stepped toward her, hesitating, then stooped and plucked her cloak from the floor, his hands shaking, and wrapped it about her shoulders. His fingers grazed her collarbone, explored the hollow at the base of her neck, then slid down—almost with a will of their own—to caress the soft fullness of her breast. Beneath his shirt, his chest rose and fell with great heaving breaths, and his face twisted in agony; he closed his eyes and turned away, his hands tight-clamped fists at his sides.
“In the name of God,” he choked, “go to your cabin, or we are both undone!”
“No.” The voice soft, yet stubborn.
He turned back to her. She had cast off the cloak once again, and stood tall and proud, her chin held high, eyes glowing with defiance. Then she smiled, her lips warm, inviting, beguiling. Eve and Salome and Jezebel peeped from her gold-flecked eyes, sighed through her rosy lips.
With a tormented cry he crushed her in his arms, taking those lips for his own, tasting their sweetness as she yielded to him, her mouth opening to his searching tongue. He kissed her fiercely, hungrily, never wanting to stop, feeling his youth return to his body.
For this! thought Delphine, enveloped in his embrace. Sweet Mother of God—for this! All the weeks of misery, of aching, of confused longings and dark shadows—for this! It was like coming home to port after she had been lost at sea, knowing that this was where she belonged, the snug harbor that had awaited her all this time.
At last he lifted her in his arms and placed her gently on his bed, reluctant even to be parted from her for the time it took to pull off his clothes. Nestled on the straw pallet, she watched him shed his garments—shirt and boots and breeches—and cast aside the locket as though it meant nothing to him. She could feel no fear, only anticipation, joy, her lips still burning from his kisses. She had watched the men with their harlots, heard them talk of the brothels in port—she knew what was expected of her. She let her knees fall wide, smiling at him, watching, waiting. The men had talked of the wonder of it, the ecstasy—however crude and clumsy their words—and how could it be aught else, with this beautiful man trembling above her, with his hard-muscled body lowering onto hers?
And he would not hurt her. She knew that much from her talks with Copain, remembering the day she had slipped on the rigging and fallen spraddle-legged to the deck and felt a sudden sharp pain. Copain had teased her (“Your husband will think you are not a virgin,” he had laughed) and she had raged at him, but now she was glad. She did not want even a moment’s grief to spoil this beautiful night. Let him use her body as he wished—he could bring her nothing but joy. She sighed contentedly as his lips covered hers again, abandoning herself to him totally, trusting in his instincts. To her surprise he did not mount her at once, but let his hands roam her body, caressing her breasts and flat belly; she gasped at the flames that seemed to shoot out from his fingertips, tormenting her flesh wherever he touched her. When his mouth followed the path of his hands, moving down to her breasts, his lips and teeth teasing her nipples to hard points, she cried aloud and tangled her fingers in his hair, pulling his mouth back to hers, unable to endure another moment of such exquisite agony.
With a grunt, he dislodged her hands from his hair, rubbing his tender scalp and glaring down at her with a look that was part passion, part annoyance. “Are you so impatient you little savage,” he growled, “that you must scalp me? So be it!” He positioned himself above her, entering her, filling her, lifting her senses to heights undreamed of till now. She moaned and writhed as he thrust deep, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her thoughts spinning out of control until there were no thoughts left, only sensations, only the throbbing of her heart, the pulsing spasms in her loins.
“Gosse!” he gasped, and shuddered against her, wrapping her in his arms while she drifted down from the heights. Ah, Dieu, she thought, holding him close, unwilling yet to have him withdraw. How could it be so? A part of her body that had mortified her, that had been the symbol of her feminine weakness, her differentness from the crew—how could it be so? That it should bring her such pleasure—unknown, unimagined until now?
She opened her eyes to see him smiling down at her. “Am I a woman?” she demanded.
He stroked the side of her cheek, marveling at the delicate curve of her jawline. “By my faith,” he said, his voice husky in his throat, “you are indeed! I am the blind fool, not you. Not to have seen, not to have known.” He kissed her softly and rolled away from her, lying on his back, eyes closed, letting contentment fill his being.
She sat up, cross-legged, close to him that she might look at him as he lay. It seemed as natural to be naked with him as it was to swim with Michel, though different. Vastly different! “And am I—” she hesitated, afraid to say beautiful, lest he mock her “—pleasant to look upon?”
He opened his eyes and grinned. “Little minx! Yes. You are—pleasant to look upon!” He lifted up a lazy finger and touched her bosom, then stroked the inner edge of her thighs, so enticingly presented to him by her seated pose. She gasped as a shiver ran through her. He laughed aloud, delighted at her sensuality. “Mon Dieu! How did you keep all that passion hidden?” He smiled ruefully and rubbed his elbow, still discolored from the blow of the belaying pin. “But then, mayhap, you did not truly hide it!”
She dimpled prettily at him. “Do you like me better thus?”
“Without a doubt! And most assuredly without your lumpish clothes!”
“Damn your eyes! I could scarce climb the rigging in a skirt!”
“Hold your fire,” he laughed, pulling her down into his arms. “I meant merely that I preferred you with no clothes at all!” He kissed her roughly, while his hands played up and down her spine and she twitched and shivered, astonished at the sensitivity of her own flesh. Had it always been so, that—all unaware—her body had waited for the touch that would awaken it? Or was it only André’s touch that brought forth feelings that had never been there before?
Breathing raggedly she broke from his embrace at last and sat up, letting her eyes sweep his naked body laid out before her. “I think—that I prefer you thus, as well.”
“Indeed?” He smiled quizzically, unsure if the words came from Gosse the woman, or Gosse the innocent child.
“Yes.” She nodded emphatically. “You have a finer body than any of the crew, even Michel, though he is young and strong.” She touched his broad shoulders, pocked with a dozen or so small scars. “His skin is smooth. Were you wounded many times?”
“Not so many,” he said testily, vaguely annoyed that she should talk of other men’s bodies while she lay with him. “’Twas shrapnel from a cannonball.”
She frowned, mystified. What had she said to earn his sudden displeasure? “No matter,” she said quickly, “you are not one whit less handsome!” She curled, kittenlike, in the crook of his arm.
Placated, he turne
d sideways and stroked her hair, then smiled at her, his eyes already heavy with sleep. In a few minutes his eyes were closed, and his chest rose and fell with the gentle breaths of slumber. Delphine dozed sporadically, but she was filled with far too much excitement and wonder for deep sleep. At last she pulled away from his arm, that she might lie beside him and watch him as he slept, filling her eyes—her heart—with the sight of his long-limbed frame: bronzed and beautiful, flecked with golden glints from the fine hairs that covered his arms and chest, darkening to a reddish gold at his loins. Even in repose his muscles were hard and strong beneath the taut flesh, and his shoulders were extraordinarily broad. It made her tremble just to look at him. Softly, so as not to disturb him, she ran her fingers over his body, his chest, his hard belly, reveling in the feel of his cool skin under her hand. Ah, Dieu! she thought, feeling her heart begin to pound again, what a wondrous thing a man’s body could be! She hesitated, fascinated but uncertain, her hand poised above his flaccid member, before working up enough courage to touch him there. When she felt a sudden quivering beneath her hand she held her breath, her eyes darting to his face. He was awake, watching her through those warm blue eyes, heavy lidded and smoldering with desire. Embarrassed, she started to pull her hand away, but he held it there, his strong fingers about her wrist, until she had caressed him to a hardness. Delighted at her accomplishment, Delphine giggled and sat up, then composed her face to a more restrained mien. Mayhap it was not ladylike to seem so forward and eager. “If you please,” she said, very proud, very proper. “I should like you to do it again.”
A small smile played around the corners of his mouth. “Would you now?”
“Yes. But would you—contrive to take a little longer at the doing? I would you were not so abrupt this time.” Surely a lady would behave thus.
Now he was grinning broadly. “I will contrive as best I may, but ’tis not such an easy matter!” He laughed aloud and rolled onto his back, his arms flung wide beside him. “Mon Dieu! What a wondrous creature you are, Gosse!”
Her amber eyes flared with sudden anger. “Damn you, you shall not make sport of me!” She leaned over him, her fists poised to smash down onto his chest, but he grabbed her hands and rolled over with her, pinning her under his body. She struggled fiercely beneath him, her eyes shut tight with humiliation. Then, knowing herself trapped and helpless, she lay still, her eyes still resolutely closed, fearing to read mockery in his face.
His voice was gentle, caressing. “Come, open your eyes, Gosse. Please.” He kissed her softly, his mouth sweet on hers, until, relenting, she looked at him. She saw no scorn in his eyes, only tenderness. “I do not make sport of you,” he said. “You have given me back my life tonight. If le bon Dieu gave me the strength, I would make love to you all the night through.” He kissed her again, his mouth less gentle now, then laughed at the look of naked desire on her face. “Would that please you, my little savage?”
For answer she twined her arms around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers, nipping at his lip with her teeth, holding him fast, possessing and possessed, wanting nothing more than his mouth, his arms, his body—forever. When he took her, she clung to him, writhing beneath him, crying out in rapture, her nails raking across his back in violent and uncontrolled testimony to the fierceness of her passion. Their bodies moved together like a storm at sea, surging and swelling, wild as the tempest, the pounding surf; with a roaring crescendo the waves crested and they stilled at last, lying spent and exhausted in one another’s arms, like driftwood cast upon the shore.
After a long time, Delphine roused herself. André was sleeping again; she moved softly so as not to disturb him. There was much to be done. Swiftly she wrapped herself in the boat cloak and tiptoed to the door; then, filled with a sudden burst of emotion, she hurried back to his sleeping form and, bending, kissed him softly on his lips. You were wrong, Copain, she thought. You said that Delphine would come with tears—and lo! Here am I, my heart overflowing with happiness! Smiling down at André as he slept, she extinguished his lantern and quit his room. When she regained her cabin, she was aware that the fog must have dissipated, for the full moon streamed in through her small port; there was no need even to light a candle. She opened her sea chest and rummaged about until she had found what she was looking for: a dark green homespun skirt, cut short above her ankles in the peasant manner, and a linen petticoat. Smoothing them out with gentle hands, she laid them across her bunk while she cast off the boat cloak and donned her shirt. Son of a dog! Why had she left her only chemise in the cottage at Dieppe? She put on the petticoat and skirt, nervously wondering if he would think they looked silly with a man’s shirt. No. She would not think of that. There would be time enough for chemises—and gowns as well, when they were in Paris together. She was almost certain he would want her for his mistress—it had always sounded like a grand life when she read about it in Copain’s books. But, failing that, she would be content to be a servant in his household. She was young and strong; she did not fear hard work. And as long as he took her into his bed, what did it matter? Mistress or servant, she would please him so that, sooner or later, he would surely ask her to be his comtesse.
She took her few belongings from the shelf and stowed them in the chest, that she might be prepared to go ashore in the morning whenever he was ready. Then she yawned. It was still several hours before dawn; she could sleep a bit before it would be time to say good-bye to her father and Gunner. She stretched out on her bunk, spreading her skirts around her, and fell asleep, her mind filled with happy thoughts of beautiful tomorrows.
When she awoke the sun was high in the sky and Olympie was creaking into the harbor. She could hear the cheery yo-ho-ing from the men on deck as they braced the yards around and let go the anchor, and the voice of Gunner roaring his commands. Smiling, she sat up and opened her small porthole, filling her nostrils with the familiar harbor smells of pine tar and pitch, of rotting seaweed and fishnets hung to dry in the morning sun. André’s door was still closed; she nearly tiptoed in, minded to tickle him awake, then thought better of it. She had not seen Dieppe for nearly six months; there would not be time later, amid the bustle of farewells, to take a last look at her beloved port. She steeled herself for the jibes the men would direct at her skirt, then shrugged, determined to ignore them. After all, had she not many times donned her skirt when the work was through, and gone ashore with the crew in some foreign harbor? And just because her heart was fluttering in anticipation did not mean that—to watching eyes—she appeared any different than she had in the past. Sure enough, only Michel, grunting under the burden of a heavy bale of furs, took note of her skirts and accused her sulkily of avoiding her share of the work by dressing like a helpless woman.
While the pinnace and the longboat were lowered into the water to begin the ferrying of cargo to shore, Delphine leaned against the railing and drank in the morning. The stone quai and the chalk cliffs beyond the beach had never seemed more white and clean, the sky never more blue, the sea sparkling and sun-kissed. She could scarce tell if she saw with her eyes or her heart, but she nearly wept for the beauty around her. Oh, André, she thought, awake and see the day that God has fashioned for you and me!
After half an hour had passed, she could no longer contain her impatience. “Sink me, father,” she laughed lightly as Fresnel passed her on deck to speak to Brise, the carpenter, “but our fine gentleman will sleep the day through!” Would her father hear the tremor in her voice?
“Not he,” said Fresnel, turning. “He has gone long since. He feared to miss the coach to Paris and would not wait for us to drop anchor. Thanks be to God a fishing vessel was coming in to port just at dawn, and we were able to transfer Monsieur le Comte and his belongings to be taken ashore.” Fresnel patted the leather wallet at his belt. “I wish him a safe journey home. He was more than generous. I could hope for such fine passengers every voyage.”
Delphine gripped the railing tightly until her knuckles gleamed white. �
�Pah!” she sneered, her face twisted in contempt. “The scurvy whoreson had naught to give but his gold! Good riddance, says I!”
“Fie, Delphine. Fie! He took special pains to wish you good-bye. He was loath to disturb your slumber, but he charged me to bid you farewell as a fond friend.”
“Did he? A fond friend, say you?” Her lip curled in disgust, tasting the last bitter dregs in her cup. “A fond friend! D’you hear, Michel? D’you hear, Gunner? Sink and scuttle me! I’ll see him upon a Spanish rowing hell ere I call that knave friend! Eh, Michel?” She tossed back her head and roared with laughter.
“Aye!” he agreed, laughing in his turn. “Good riddance! I liked not the man from the first day he came aboard.”
“A loyal comrade and true, Michel,” she said, throwing her arm familiarly about his shoulder.
He grinned, emboldened by this sudden show of warmth. “To be sure, you had more cause than I to hate the man! Eh, Gosse?” And slapped her on her rump.
She whirled on him, her eyes glowing. “Damn your liver! Don’t you touch me! Don’t you ever dare!” Growling in anger, she pushed him away so he toppled over a barrel.
“God’s blood, Delphine,” sighed Fresnel. “Can you not—”
“Damn you!” she shrieked. “I am Gosse! Do you hear? Gosse! I shall never be Delphine! Never!” And fled to the refuge of her cabin and the release of burning tears.
Chapter Seven
“By Neptune’s trident, father, I shall not starve!”
Fresnel frowned and stomped to the open door of the cottage, leaning against the jamb and scowling past the grassy dunes to the sheltered cove beyond. “I like it not,” he growled. “You have never stayed behind when Olympie called!”
“God’s blood! We have scarce been ashore for two weeks! Why must you sail so soon again?”
He turned to her, his eyes dark with accusation, his arms gesticulating excitedly as he talked. “Monsieur Ramy offers to underwrite a short voyage—it is June, name of God, and there are no storms! We shall take lumber to the Levant and return with silks and wax and leather. Three months! Three months—and shall I tell him I do not wish the commission because my daughter Delphine has not had her fill of being ashore?”
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