"Dr. Murray! You made a rude joke!"
He leaned back, as if affronted, but used the opportunity to shrug out of his coat and pull his shirt over his head.
"You know I never joke, Miss Farnham. I am a natural philosopher and have a reputation to uphold," a statement at odds with his actions as he kicked off his trousers and hopped into the bunk alongside her.
She turned on her side to accommodate him and propped her head on her hand, her hair spilling over in a golden waterfall that gleamed in the low light.
"About this examination," she said huskily, running her finger down his arm.
"We will continue to monitor your pulse, Miss Farnham. Arterial palpation of a heartbeat can tell me a great deal about your general health. For example," he said, putting his hand on her neck, "the carotid artery, here, can be a noticeable indicator of your state. Unless you are wearing something high-necked, it is easy to touch and see your pulse."
Her eyes glowed like dark sapphires as the pupils expanded to accommodate the low light and her emotional state. The delicate lids were heavy, not with sleep now, but with arousal, and he kissed each lid, fluttering like butterflies beneath his lips, before running his fingers along her jawbone to highlight the location of her facial pulse, a sensitive spot that made her gasp and arch her neck. Since that area responded so well to stimulation, he felt he had to experiment again--because, as he explained to the woman in his arms, that was what a serious natural philosopher did--and kissed her at her temple, seeing if he could locate the superficial temporal artery with his tongue. That experiment, too, was a success and spurred him on to rove down and check the pulse at the artery in her neck.
"One has to be careful with the carotid artery, Miss Farnham. Too much pressure can cause unconsciousness."
"Why, Doctor," she whispered. "I am not a surgeon, but I suspect if you used your lips and not your fingers, I might yet swoon."
"There is only one way to find out," he murmured against her neck.
He did use his lips, and his tongue. The light sheen of moisture on her delicate form, her heightened respiration, the flush of excitement spreading through her skin, all signs telling him what she experienced. His own body responded to those signs, his cock growing so hard that it was almost painful. Daphne, clever girl, took matters in hand and demonstrated for him her own technique, which made all the blood rush from his brain into other regions, and for a brief instant, he feared he would be the one swooning.
He refused to be distracted from his task, delightful as that distraction was. After using his lips and his tongue to check her carotid artery, he demonstrated with his fingers for her edification how the veins and arteries moved down to her heart, that organ beating now beneath his hand.
"Dr. Murray, this is fascinating," she murmured. "I never knew the study of anatomy could be so stimulating! Tell me more."
Rather than tell her, he demonstrated, which meant she had to unhand him, to his regret, as he moved to the posterior tibial artery behind her inner ankle bone.
"I thought my posterior is where I sit?"
"It is, and it is magnificent. But there are more posterior parts to Daphne Farnham than just that one. And this is not the only spot at your lower extremities where I can check a pulse."
He rested his fingers on the top of her feet and she giggled when he rubbed his thumbs over a spot there that was ticklish.
"Why are you doing that?"
"You have a spectacular dorsalis pedis artery, my dear."
"Another artery? They are everywhere! I had no idea!"
"I will show you the popliteal next, but for that you should roll over."
She did as he requested, and he sat back, studying the form before him on the narrow bunk. He sighed with satisfaction.
"It is a truly magnificent posterior."
She looked over her shoulder and giggled at that, and again when he demonstrated the location of her popliteal artery, behind her dimpled knee, an area needing special attention.
"You feel how I compress the area here, where the skin is especially soft?" He then leaned down and kissed her there. "And fragrant, also."
She was so sweet smelling and healthy and delicious that he had to give her a most thorough examination indeed, though like a child hoarding a sweet he'd saved the best for last.
"Roll over onto your back again, Miss Farnham."
She giggled again at the formal tone of his request, which, he'd admit, may sound odd coming from a naked man, but she did as he asked. He knelt between her knees, his hands easing her legs apart until they were at the edges of the bunk and a shiver ran over her frame.
"Are you cold?"
"Just the opposite. I fear I am fevered, Dr. Murray," she said throatily. She ran her hands up her body, cupping her plump breasts.
"I feel swollen and especially sensitive, here," she said, circling her taut nipple with a slender finger.
He sat up, his hardened member twitching, and he feared he'd be reciting mathematical formulae again if he wanted to bring this exam to its proper conclusion. He clenched his teeth and focused his attention even as beads of sweat dampened his hairline.
"Let me see...does it hurt when I do this?"
He licked his thumb and forefinger and clamped her rosy nipple applying gentle pressure. Her back arched off the bunk and her eyes went wide.
"No! Yes! Not sure, try again!"
So he did, and then repeated the motion on the other orb.
"Your right side is more sensitive than your left."
"Are you certain? Perhaps you should check again. Oh yes, more of that, right there. Dr. Murray, this is the best examination ever!"
He wanted to agree with her but found himself incapable of talk, only action, the action of tonguing her rosy tips until they stood up like rubies above her alabaster flesh. She writhed beneath him, and wrapped her arms around him to pull him closer. He had to brace one foot against the deck to maintain their balance in the cramped bunk, which brought him so close to her entrance that he almost gave in to the temptation to thrust himself into her and never release her.
But he held back, wanting to make this as perfect as possible for her. Their castaway dreams were ending, and they'd soon return to civilization and their former lives. Their proper lives. If he could not hold Daphne forever in his arms, he needed to imprint himself on her, make these memories so strong that she would never forget their magical time together.
He knew he would never be free of this woman who was the sunshine to his clouds, the light in his life that lifted him out of the darkness of death and disease, lonely nights stretching into a bleak future without color or brightness.
His urge was to clutch her to him and tell her all those things he dared not say with their separation looming. Instead he showed her, reveling in these moments of laughter and lovemaking, a respite from their troubles.
"Do you still feel feverish, my dear?" he asked, propping himself up on one arm.
"Yes, Doctor, I feel my heart racing and my body is so overheated, I do not know what to do!"
He arched an eyebrow at her, running his finger along her mouth, and a moment later her tongue peeked out to lick those lush lips, a gleam of wetness that made his muscles clench. But he would not be rushed, not now when he was so close to completion.
"I happen to have a sovereign remedy for that fever, Miss Farnham. It will restore all your humors to their proper balance." He leaned forward, and instead of kissing her on her soft mouth, moved down her body, his tongue tracing a path over her shivering belly, detouring briefly to her navel, and then lower still.
"You have another spot, yes, right here," he murmured against her groin as he tongued her femoral artery.
"Another pulse?" she whispered.
"A very important one, my dear. It is beating strongly, carrying blood through your body," he said, raising her leg and licking along the softness of her inner thigh, the musky fragrance of her body calling to him like the sea calls to a sailor,
and he moved closer between her legs, and did what he'd been longing to do for so long, separating the golden curls with his trembling fingers, then taking her thighs and spreading her wide before lowering his head to take her into his mouth.
Had he not been holding her she might have jumped out of his hands. Clearly this was a new experience, and he felt a fierce rush of satisfaction that he was the man to show her all the delights her body could hold. He tongued her again, and she made a throaty noise and tugged at his hair.
"Alex--is that allowed?" She gasped.
He paused from his task and raised his head.
"Trust me, Daphne, I am a surgeon."
"You are a scoundrel!"
"The two are not mutually exclusive. No more talking now, I am busy."
She stopped talking, but the noises she made as he licked and sucked at her let him know what she was experiencing and feeling. He used his tongue and his teeth and finally his fingers, tasting all of her, feeling all of her until she rose up off the bunk with a cry, her trembling body hovering there before relaxing in his grasp.
He had no intention of letting her think that was all he could offer. Kissing his way up her curves he positioned himself over her and with one hand braced on the bunk, he guided himself to her slick opening.
She encompassed him, enfolded him, welcomed him into her body, and as he glided home he knew it was not enough, memories alone would never be enough. For now, he took his cue from his woman. He lived in the moment, feeling her embrace him with her arms while other muscles tightened around him until he nearly lost his rhythm and his mind. It took every ounce of determination to hold back, to watch Daphne's eyes close, her mouth open, the whispering cries he drew forth from her as he thrust himself deeper, again and again, until finally she clenched around him and went still, the muscles of her neck standing out with the force of her climax, her fingers digging furrows into his shoulders. He barely pulled out in time, fighting every instinct within himself, to spend on the sheets rather than in her womb.
He stroked her hair as her breathing returned to normal and fought his own desire to close his eyes and sleep in her arms. He still had work to do and a long night ahead of him.
"Alexander?"
"Hmmm?"
"Is there a word for--for that thing you did? With your tongue?"
He smiled, though he knew she could not see it, and kissed her atop her head.
"As a matter of fact, there is a word for that, Daphne. It is Latin."
"Ha! I should have known the Greeks would invent such a thing."
"Romans, not Greeks, Daphne. And while they may not have invented it, they did give us a name for it."
"It is too bad you already taught me my new word for today, Alexander, otherwise you could teach me that one also."
He started to reply that he could teach her that word, but she rolled in his arms and put her hand over his lips, her eyes twinkling.
"No, not now. Wait until tomorrow. Why, I would wager there is a word that goes along with your Latin, Dr. Gravitas, that illustrates what would happen if I did that to you. You could teach it to me." She frowned. "Not exactly the same way, of course, because your parts are different, but you know what I mean."
He took her fingers in his hand and kissed them.
"There is, I shall, and we will discuss this in the morning."
"Good," she said, yawning hugely. "I am sleepy now. You come and fetch me if you need me during the night, Dr. Murray," but the words were no sooner out of her lush lips than he heard a soft snore, and he carefully disengaged himself from her and exited the bunk, pulling the covers up over her.
He spent a long, precious moment watching Daphne sleep before he sighed, pulled his clothes back on, and returned to his duties. Alexander paused in the doorway, ready to blow out the lantern, and looked over his shoulder at the woman he now knew he loved. At least this night, for one more night, he would not return to a cold and empty bed.
Chapter 22
Arnold was alive the next day, though Alexander knew the greatest danger still lay ahead if the wound became septic. In the meantime he monitored the man's progress and diet and administered to the other wounded pirates. He taught Daphne more Latin, to their mutual delight, and talked with her late in the evening. He never raised the largest issue on their minds, the question of what would happen after landfall.
They were lying now in the bunk, but at opposite ends, Daphne braced against the bulkhead while Alexander held her foot in his hands, massaging it, rubbing out the soreness from her ill-fitting footwear. Sails's efforts kept her feet covered and warm, but wouldn't win accolades for style or comfort.
"I never truly appreciated the pleasure of soft kid slippers made to fit my foot. Oh, that feels so good." Daphne sighed in satisfaction. "I am looking forward to ordering many new shoes when I return home. Soft, pliable, shoes. With rosettes."
He knew it was just idle chatter, but it stabbed him like a needle. Daphne took for granted all the things her money purchased for her. In his world there were sturdy work shoes, not kid slippers with rosettes.
He bent his head over his task.
"What do you want when you return to England, Alexander?"
"You" hovered unspoken in the air between them.
"I want to set up my surgery, perhaps in London, though I am not averse to living in the north."
"You still want to be married, don't you?"
It was said calmly, but when he looked up from the foot he caressed he saw the tension at the corner of her eyes, the stillness as she waited for his answer. He owed her the truth. After all they'd been through, there was much he could not give her, but he could give her the truth.
Daphne pulled her foot back and leaned up on her knees.
"I can be that wife, Alexander." She ticked off points on her fingers. "I can boil an egg. I can cook fish stew. I can start a fire--and that is important for your wife to know. I can scrub pans clean with sand. I can keep a garden. I know words like physiognomy and gravitas and atrophy," her voice dropped, "and some other Latin words."
Her hands twisted in her lap, and she looked down at them.
"I know the man is supposed to ask, but you know I do not always do the proper thing. Will you marry me, Alexander Murray?"
Time stopped, though the rigging still creaked overhead and the men shouted to one another. Alexander had heard the tenor of the commands change, about two hours past.
Daphne still looked down at her hands, her head bowed, the golden curls reflecting the lantern light, and it made his heart ache to see her so. But he needed to be strong, for her and for himself. Alexander put his fingers beneath her chin and lifted it so he could look into her eyes.
"Land was sighted, Daphne. If the weather holds, we will be in England tomorrow."
She looked at him, and for once he could not read her face, the face that was normally as open to him and as easy to read as a picture book.
"You didn't respond to my proposal, Alexander."
"It is a dream, Daphne, a dream only suited to desert islands or pretending on a pirate ship. It is not real, not for the two of us."
He said it as gently and calmly as he could. Why did it feel like hearing a pronouncement of a terminal disease, a disease that would eat at his heart until there was nothing left of him but the husk of a man? Someone who walked, and talked, and moved through his day, but was as soulless as a wind-up automaton.
He did not want to be that man, dead inside, but if he truly cared for Daphne, he would put her first. She might think she would be happy as a surgeon's wife, living off of his carefully invested prize money and what he earned at his craft, but it would not be enough. The first time there was disappointment in her face when she could not buy kid slippers with rosettes because the money was needed for rent and food would be the beginning of the end for them. Only fools believe that love alone will sustain them. He'd been out in the world enough to know better. He'd seen it living with Janet Murray and her shattere
d dreams.
Alexander's mind flashed back to a bleak evening when his mother sat at the scrubbed kitchen table by the sputtering flame of a rushlight. They could not afford candles. The stipend she received each quarter was small, and becoming smaller as the years passed.
He was consumed with the self-righteous indignation of an adolescent who feels life is not fair, and has not been out in the world enough to know that "fair" and "life" do not go together.
"Why? Why did you give yourself to that man without marriage so now we must live on his charity?"
She'd looked up from where she'd been gazing at her careworn hands, at the empty finger of her left hand. Her white hair combined with the lines of worry made her look far older than she was. He longed to erase those lines from her face, but the words kept tumbling out of his mouth, the anger breaking free.
"You should not have done it, Mother! To give in to your passions that way..."
Janet's soft eyes looked on him with love, despite his anger and words that made him wince inside to recall now.
"My passions brought me you, Alexander. I can never regret that. It is not always a bad thing, to feel. To love."
"Better I had not been born than you should be shamed this way! Taking the stipend from Fieldhouse, bearing the insults of these people who think themselves better because they hide their sins before they go to kirk! I will not give into my passions, Mother. I will control myself!"
"Will you now?" Janet had said, looking at the scraped knuckles of the hand he ran through his hair, disarranging the careful combing. A hand bearing the marks of his latest fistfight with another boy who called his mother names. "Then I feel sorry for you, my Alexander. For without some passion, what is life? Nothing but one empty day following another, without joy."
"I will spare myself the pain and suffering you experienced," he swore.
Those memories gave him the courage now to do what needed to be done, for Daphne's sake.
"You know it is the right thing to do, Daphne. You belong in your own world, in London, not with me."
Castaway Dreams Page 30