Under Her Brass Corset

by Brenda Williamson

  “Would it make you feel better if I give it back?” he asked, knowing it was still safely on his ship.

  “Yes.”

  “Then come with me.” He offered his hand.

  She surprised him by accepting. The warmth of her gloved palm met his and he folded his fingers over hers. She stooped slightly, grasped her skirt and lifted it. He led her down the steps into the first passageway between the upper deck and his custom-built cellar level.

  “Where does this go?” she asked when he stopped at the second stairwell.

  “My cabin.”

  “How extraordinarily odd. I’ve never heard of an old ship like this having three decks.” She stopped and touched a glowing light fixture. “How are these lit?”

  “Electricity.”

  “On a ship?” She looked behind her at the other lights. “Do you have these everywhere?”

  “Yes. It’s much safer than candles or kerosene lanterns.” He went down the narrow steps first, guiding Abigail to the door at the bottom. Excited and anxious to show her the exquisite modification he had made to the hull, his heart thumped quicker. No woman had ever been in this part of his ship. He had dreamed of having Abigail there in his quarters, making love to her every waking moment of every day. To say he wasn’t nervous would be an understatement. He stepped back and watched her face for a favorable reaction.

  Chapter Four

  Abigail took in the surroundings with awe. Wide rectangular windows on the sides of the hull allowed visibility beneath the ocean’s surface. It reminded her of the aquarium at the London Zoo.

  She crossed the cabin to the closest glass. Even with the big ship sailing alongside them, varying sizes of colorful fish passed by in a lazy fashion as if they hadn’t a care in the world. “It’s beautiful,” she said, watching the large predators gobbling up the smaller fish.

  “You’ll sleep here in my cabin,” Captain Blackthorn informed her.

  When she turned to look at him, he motioned toward a large bed occupying the corner of the cabin.

  “That would be extremely improper, Captain Blackthorn.” She walked past him to the bunk. Images of herself nestled beneath the brightly colored quilt alongside him swam through her head.

  “No more than you journeying unescorted across an ocean with me.” He moved around her and reached for a lever above the wide, wood-framed mattress. A tug down on the handle dropped a narrower bed out from the wall. The frame folded down in much the same way as his makeshift lift on the side of the ship.

  Disappointment hit her in the pit of her belly. She stared at the upper bunk. The captain appeared to have one honorable trait that shot to hell her fantasy of him throwing her on the mattress and ravishing her with passionate lust.

  “You can have the bottom.” He smiled.

  The mischievousness twinkle in his eyes offered a new chance.

  Quickly accessing the situation, she said, “I’d prefer on top.”

  “On t-top?” The words sputtered from his lips.

  To hide her smile, she turned her back to him and pretended to access the condition of the upper bunk.

  “Is that a problem?” She stroked the wrinkles from the coverlet.

  “Not at all. You’ll find I can be very accommodating. Although I would think you’d prefer lying on the bottom. It doesn’t require as much effort.” He tapped the rungs of the ladder as if suggesting he meant climbing to the upper level.

  The little game of innuendoes fascinated Abigail, encouraging her to continue to play along. “Maybe so, but I’m young and agile. I don’t think I’ll have regrets getting on top or dismounting. The workout helps keep me fit.”

  “And I appreciate your endeavors.” He tilted his head to the side and looked her up and down as if assessing her shape. “Some women aren’t as aggressive.”

  “Some women aren’t me, Captain. I’m aware of all the benefits to my position on top.”

  She picked up the pillow and patted it to access its softness, then bent over and pressed her hands against the lower bunk’s mattress, and purposely wiggled her bottom while pretending to test the bed’s firmness.

  The captain’s sharp intake of air answered her question as to whether she had aroused him.

  “Is it to your satisfaction?” he asked.

  She glanced over her shoulder, not ready to give up the game. “I won’t know that until I’ve spent the night on it. I hope it’s as hard and stiff as it appears.” She let her gaze sweep slowly down the front of him. “And you’re sure you won’t mind me on top?”

  The front panel of his breeches bulged.

  “I assure you, my place under you will be comfortable.”

  “Good.” She righted herself and turned toward him. “Now may I have my snow globe?”

  The captain opened a drawer in the bottom of the cabinet and took out a blue velvet satchel with a drawstring. He palmed the bag and stared at it as if to debate his options. “Try not to scratch it.” He carefully put it in her hand.

  She looked inside at the snow globe. What did she do with it now? They were on his ship. The captain could steal it again unless she hid it. But where?

  “I’ll entrust it to your care during our journey.” She handed it back, showing him a degree of trust.

  He gave her a nod and returned it to the drawer.

  “Why don’t you get acquainted with your accommodations while I check the rigging,” he said.

  She waited until he left and then roamed the cabin. Everyday things cluttered the small space. She imagined each object held a sentimental value, for why else did one keep a dented tin cup when there were half a dozen perfect ones hanging alongside it? The cozy atmosphere made her think of home. What would become of hers while she was away? Would the bank come in and take her possessions? She had to believe they didn’t move that quickly on a foreclosure. Prior knowledge suggested the process took months, not days, from the first notice.

  Abigail shook off the homesickness gnawing at the pit of her stomach. She suffered enough days with the unsettling upset of her future. Since she hadn’t been gone from home more than a couple of hours, she had to concentrate on bigger concerns—Captain Jasper Blackthorn. As he was no more than a stranger to her, he gave her plenty of immediate worries.

  She continued to distract herself with the cabin and the magnificent sight through the oversized porthole window. When she came to an opaque glass door, she carefully opened it and found an empty closet. At the top, a dozen pipes pointed at the floor, and there, in the wood planking, spaced just as neatly, were holes. It made her wonder how much water the ship took on that the captain needed such an elaborate drain system.

  As she shut the door, she spun around at the sound of another door closing.

  “I wasn’t snooping,” she blurted, holding the captain’s tranquil gaze. It delighted her he had two eyes and that they were equally beautiful.

  “You had my permission, remember?” He moved to a small mahogany writing desk and sat. “There are no secrets on my ship, Miss Thatch. Feel free to look inside everything and touch anything you desire.”

  Her thoughts immediately sprang to touching him. She knew the softness of his hair when she wrapped it around her fingers. But what of the hardness of his body? When he held her as she cried last night, he had cushioned her with a firm torso. It had been comforting. Throughout their kiss, she had imagined raking her nails over that muscled hardness.

  While the captain dipped a fountain pen into an inkwell, she tried to ease into a normal topic of conversation. If they were going to travel together, there was no sense in trying to be at odds with him, especially since he seemed more inclined to be a charmer.

  “You like to read?” She tried to pick up the book on his writing desk to see what he liked, but it didn’t budge. “It’s nailed down?”

  He finished writing and put the pen in the holder. “It’s not what it appears.” He shuffled papers together and tucked them into a journal much like the one she had found in her atti
c.

  She flipped open the cover of the immovable book and discovered to her delight, it was a box containing an assortment of chocolates. “Why on earth would you hide these morsels of confections in here?” She popped one in her mouth and promptly spit it back out into her gloved hand.

  “To keep people from ingesting them.” He extracted a lace-edged handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the half-chewed goop from the lace covering her palm. “They were designed to look more approachable to my cat. He detests what cats should eat, but loves chocolate.”

  “You have a cat?” She looked around, surprised that she hadn’t seen it.

  “Yes, Merlin, and he’s no good for the job of hunting. The lazy creature prefers I do the job for him.” He scraped the goop into an inconspicuous bowl beside his desk. Several seconds later, a white-furred cat’s head poked out from behind the piece of furniture. He snatched up the tidbit in his dish.

  “So, what’s in his candy-coated ball?” She watched the cat make quick, shy appearances to lick at the partially chewed food.

  The captain’s short laugh turned her toward him.

  With one brow arched as if she’d said something unbelievable, he looked back at his papers. “I don’t think you want to know, and Merlin there hates hearing about anything good for him.”

  Abigail rolled her tongue around the inside of her mouth, trying to guess. “You can tell me. I’m not squeamish. If the cat can eat it, I’m sure it can’t hurt me,” she said, unsatisfied by his reply.

  The captain’s grin practically screamed Surprise!

  Irritated by the feeling she was the brunt of some joke, she peeled her gloves off, folded her arms and stared at him with determination not to react to whatever he said. “Well, what is it the cat is eating?”

  “Remember how I said I had to do his job for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really need me to spell it out?” His brows rose.

  Her stomach made a queasy lurch toward expelling its contents as the meaning sunk in. “Ew! Don’t tell me that was the remains of a…a…Oh, I can’t even say it.” She hurried to what appeared to be a tin wastebasket.

  “I said you didn’t want to know.” He picked up a decanter and poured a full measure of liquid in the cup. “Here, this will cleanse the palate.”

  Abigail spit several times into the empty metal receptacle. She tried not to think about dirty little rodents. Worse, she hated how she reacted when she wanted to stay calm and collected in front of the captain. Her trust in him hung on the precarious thread of an instinct she continued to cling to, even though her head reasoned she shouldn’t.

  She took the glass he offered. The rim barely touched her lips as she threw back her head and downed the shot of whiskey. With one gulp, she tried showing her tolerance to liquor. Though she hated she had indulged to the point of passing out the night before.

  “That might work better if you swish it around before swallowing,” the captain advised.

  “That’s what this one’s for,” she said, reaching for the decanter and pouring another healthy dose.

  Without hesitation, she turned the glass on end and dumped the whiskey into her mouth. A few shakes of her head churned the whiskey around the interior. A bit of sloshing between the teeth cleaned her tongue and gums. While she had drunk hard liquor on occasion, it didn’t always agree with her insides. This time the potent liquor warmed her belly. Add to that the captain’s soft laughter, and she had heat spreading all the way up to her flushed cheeks. The pleasant sensation caused her to put a hand to her midsection and pat her belly.

  “Feeling sick?” He touched her arm, brushing lightly up and down her sleeve.

  Neither her wishes nor his consolation successfully soothed the flutter of excitement running through her body. It left her at a loss as to what to do next. Then a shock of static startled her.

  “I’m all right.” She moved away, afraid her expression might show him her desire to have his hands caressing all of her.

  “What’s this?” She paused in front of another contraption she didn’t recognize.

  “A clock,” he answered casually. Yet nothing about the device was ordinary.

  “Certainly not. It has no gears.” She looked around the side and back, and fingered the steel stake in the middle of a metal disk that sat on a brass box.

  “Magnets. They react to the polarity of the North and South Poles. And it’s not for telling time. I just call it a clock. It’s for navigational routing. More like a compass.” He rose out of his chair. “Shall we go above deck and get this ship moving faster?”

  Mindlessly, Abigail seized the captain’s arm. The thrill in touching him continued to baffle her. With her brain turned to mush, she let him escort her to the upper deck.

  “Do you want to help?” He led her to steeper steps that formed almost a ladder up to the quarterdeck.

  “I don’t know anything about sailing. How can I possibly help?” Surprised by how easily he made her discard her anger and feelings of betrayal, she climbed the ladder, accepting that she was interested.

  “First I’ll need to calculate the speed of the air current with that of the water.” His arm went around her back and his hand rested on her hip as he guided her to the ship’s wheel.

  She stood positioned in front of the monstrous thing, and being helpful, grabbed hold.

  “Not yet,” he told her.

  She pulled her hands back, feeling slightly stupid for trying to guess what he’d want her to do. His attention, however, seemed aimed at what needed done.

  Abigail watched him flip open a lid on a box fastened to the helm. Lined with worn red velvet, the casket housed an intricate cogwheel-designed mechanism made of chrome and brass.

  “What’s that?” She touched it when he lifted it out.

  “It’s a mechanical counter.” He sat the device into a frame with a pulley. “Old-fashioned, but accurate. It will help me calculate our speed more efficiently so we can have the best possible velocity for flight.”

  “H-huh?” she stammered.

  “This machine will tap the paddles and total the distance of the length of rope I release.” He drew his watch fob from his pocket. “I’ll observe the time at the start and stop of the calculations. Now, if you’ll toss that piece of wood overboard, we’ll take a reading.”

  Abigail picked up the ordinary-looking stake and flung it out to the water. As she watched the captain reel in the line, she felt the woozy side effects of the alcohol. The rippling swells undulated around the ship, raising and lowering the vessel. Her gut seemed to move with the motion. It wasn’t a good feeling.

  “I think we have enough wind,” the captain announced, dragging the rope and chunk of wood back on deck.

  Worried she’d heave the remnants of the captain’s cat treats out in front of him, she stayed at the railing.

  “Miss Thatch? Are you all right?” He put an arm around her shoulders. Even though it exceeded all protocols of polite society, the gesture had the endearing quality of the closeness she kept experiencing with him for some reason.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I’m just not used to the constant movement.” She tightened her grip on the rail and closed her eyes, hoping not to experience the worst kind of embarrassment by heaving out the contents of her guts.

  “I’ll be right back.” When he let go, it made everything worse.

  The ship’s constant rocking agitated her stomach. Willing away the seasickness didn’t work, so she was glad when he hurried from the quarterdeck to the main deck. She watched as he grabbed a long wooden handle and cranked a large-toothed gear. Suddenly the billowing canvas snapped over sideways.

  “The sails are falling down!” she cried in fear, and then put a hand over her mouth to squelch her loud belch.

  “No, it’s working perfectly,” he yelled on his way back to rejoining her.

  When the ship rose off the surface of the water and made her sway, she staggered into him.

  “What�
��s going on?” She half turned, gripping his shirt to steady herself. “I’m seeing things that aren’t possible.”

  “We’re flying.” He answered as if it were a natural occurrence with any sea vessel.

  The hum and rattle and hiss of the sail’s steam engine accompanied the popping canvas sails bowing into a new position. Folded out like huge kites, the big wings swept them magically off the water and into the air.

  “Oh my,” she gasped, looking over her shoulder at how far they rose above the ocean. “Dirigibles float like big balloons, but your ship actually sails on the wind.”

  “It does help to have the augmentation of steam to push us up and propel us forward fast enough to glide on the air currents in the same fashion as birds do.”

  Abigail glanced below at the spitting and sputtering apparatus. “What if it stops working? Do we fall from the sky?” Her life looked bleak, but she had no wish to die because of her foolish quest for a fortune.

  “Like a rock,” he answered seriously.

  At her uncontrolled small squeak, he grabbed her hands and held them tight to his chest. Amusement finally emerged from the depths of his blue eyes.

  “A small jest,” he said, giving her a contrite smile.

  “That wasn’t funny. Not amusing in the least.”

  “I know, and I apologize. Forgive me?”

  She nodded, not having the energy to be angry. A light-headed happiness also got in the way, and she blamed it on the liquor. After the amount she drank the night before, she should have known her body would not tolerate more in such a short time.

  “The shape of the sails will hold us up,” he explained. “Now come, let me show you more of how it works.”

  Something in his attitude had changed the moment she stopped treating him as a villain. His behavior became animated, his voice energetic. A boy with his toys, she thought.

  He steered her to the ladder, and she waited while he went down several rungs and then jumped to the main deck. She started to descend backward. When she was halfway down, he grabbed her by the waist, lifted her off and lowered her to the deck as if she weighed no more than a feather. If that weren’t enough, he took her hand and hurried her across the length of the ship to the stern.