by Eris Adderly
Sleep came only in brief spells and her mind had spun all night with disbelief as she’d relived the events of the previous day. It had been the night of the new moon, and with no light to speak of there hadn’t even been anything to look at for a distraction out the hazy window panes.
The hours in the dark spent listening to the slow breathing of the sleeping man next to her—a man who made an effective barrier preventing her from sneaking out of the bed—had still not been enough time to work though all her thoughts.
As she tugged the gown into place and got her arms through the sleeves she thought about the sham of a marriage she’d had with the late Ashley Collingwood.
Her well-meaning father had arranged the partnership. A marriage to the son of one of his colleagues—a successful financier in his own right—was meant to have been the sort of match any eligible woman of her twenty years at the time should have desired. And Hannah had thought she had desired it, at least at first.
Ashley had been handsome, witty, educated—truly all the qualities a young lady dreaming of a husband might hope for. When her father had informed her of the arrangement, she remembered how she’d spent the nights of her engagement awake imagining what it would be like to know a man’s touch at last. She’d been so pleased it would be this man, and not any of the other far more unappealing bachelors her father might have chosen for her.
The night of their wedding she’d waited in the strange bedchamber, nervous but secretly excited, to accept the amorous attentions of her new husband. The encounter she’d been idealising never came.
The fire, the swooning, the ravishment: all those rumours she’d heard about what it would be like were put to rest in the crucial first few moments of their time alone together. There had been awkward fumbling, some sundry unschooled pressing of lips that had made her feel a disappointing nothing, and several vain attempts on the part of her new husband to bring himself to consummate their marriage. Inexperienced though she was, Hannah was aware of the mechanics of the act, and the poor man simply could not maintain a … firm enough resolve … to do what was expected that evening.
She’d burned with shame rather than the expected lust, wondering what she possibly could have done wrong.
It hadn’t taken her very long to discover, however, the trouble did not lie with her at all. For though Mr Collingwood made a commendable effort to get Hannah with child very few months or so, he truly had no interest in any of the feminine gifts she’d had to offer beneath her shift.
Whilst not especially vain, Hannah had known that she was a comely enough young woman who should have had no trouble enticing her husband into bed. As she’d searched her mind for something to explain Ashley’s lack of ardour, her thoughts had eventually turned back to some of the more scandalous pamphlets and materials she’d found in her father’s library.
The old man probably didn’t even realise the like had still been in there, or surely he would’ve removed the documents for the sake of his daughter’s sensibilities. She’d read the essays decrying the prevalence and practices of catamites hidden away under the fair surface of society, and she’d even found, to her horrified curiosity, the frankly detailed transcript of the infamous sodomy trial of one Captain Rigby some years earlier. The graphic descriptions of what one man had the notion to do to another shocked Hannah, but they also made her wonder about the inclinations of her husband.
One evening she’d confronted him with her suspicions, after he’d returned from yet another long day spent with his “associate,” one Mr Andrew Pearce, and he’d looked away from her, tight lipped and at a loss for how to respond. Hannah had stymied him with the fact that she’d even known what a molly-house was, let alone dare to ask him about it.
She’d been surprised at the ease with which she’d accepted this information, and what it had meant for her marriage. Once she’d dragged a confession out of him, after many promises not to be upset, if only he would please just be honest with her, her world had seemed to align itself back into a stable pattern once more.
Fantasies of being swept up in the arms of a man, of nights delirious with unchecked passion, closeted themselves away with the rest of her childish notions, and Hannah had resumed her previous life of study and relative solitude as though little had ever happened. The friendship that grew between her and her husband had seemed enough, and their shared intellectual interests and quiet sense of humour had managed to appease her loneliness for the time.
She hadn’t begrudged Ashley the activities they never spoke of: she knew men like him had existed since time-before-never and more, there was little she could have done about it. She might have cried to her father and demanded a divorce, but if her reasons had become common knowledge, it would’ve brought scandal upon both of their families.
In fact, aside from the lack of fire in the bedroom, she couldn’t have asked for a more considerate partner. Because she kept his secrets and allowed him his ways, he left her to her own devices and permitted her to pore through her books and papers when most husbands would have insisted she give up any such pursuits in favour of the running of a household and the care of children.
Both of them had understood the pressure from their families to produce at least one heir to the estates, and so perhaps every other month would find Hannah face down on the bed with Ashley dutifully pushing his seed into her in hopes of filling her with a child. She’d faced away from him that way to keep her feminine form hidden as much as possible, so as not to distract him into impotency during the act.
After the first time or two, it had no longer been painful, and after that it was never particularly unpleasant, but that was as much as she’d even been able to say about the act. She remembered laying there in boredom, her mind elsewhere while his apathetic strokes went on and on, always to a silent finish on his part, with no cries of passion or urgent pleas for release from either of them.
As Hannah tried to straighten her hair into some semblance of order, alone in the stateroom of The Devil’s Luck, she compared all of those perfunctory sessions with Ashley to the rattling encounters she’d experienced the day before with the captain and the quartermaster.
That she was utterly scandalised and humiliated went without saying. Beyond being upset at the trickery that had brought her aboard this vessel in the first place, it was still difficult to comprehend the speed at which her situation had escalated. First there was the most improper handling of her on the part of the two men, and then the being stripped and displayed for an entire crew of sailors. Her imagination could never have conceived of anything beyond those two horrors, and yet the captain had shown her that there was still more to she might discover past even her farthest boundaries.
Hannah had long ago given up on even one man touching her with desire. When Mr Collingwood had died of pleurisy four years earlier, she’d taken that part of her life in calm hands and put it behind her. Yesterday, by some bizarre twist of fate, however, she’d found herself the object of lust for not merely one, but two men. Two rather physically appealing men, if she were to be honest with herself. She reddened at the thought.
Putting her burning shame aside, what terrified her most was her body’s eager response to the situations. Something in her had lit on fire when Mr Till had bent his face to her neck to take in her scent. She’d cried out in protest the first time the captain had dared to bring his fingers between her legs, but she could not deny now that the words had only come out of obligation. A proper lady should always object to such treatment, and the throbbing in her core had made her feel very improper indeed.
The final blow had been struck against her denials when Till became only the second man in her life to enter her. And his lusty strokes were nothing like the indifferent pushing of the late Mr Collingwood. Held over the captain’s lap, her thighs parted without grace to allow Till’s pumping, Hannah had forgotten for a moment her objections and was lost in pleasurable sensation.
There’d been no time to think when he�
��d moved to enter her mouth, and when Blackburn had taken up working at her with his fingers again she’d come totally undone. The feelings ricocheting through her body were more than she could handle. She nearly lost every shred of her sanity when he’d pushed that finger into her bottom. Who could ever imagine such a thing? She’d squealed and bucked like some untamed mare fitted with a saddle for the first time, and she was sure that the captain knew her for the fraud she was.
Her shame burned over her face and down her neck when she even dared to acknowledge the truth: somewhere beneath the veneer of the respectable Widow Collingwood was a curious unfulfilled Hannah whose pulse quickened and seat dampened at the unauthorised touch of two fiendish, cursed pirates.
* * * *
Edmund paraded his new prize forward across the deck, his hand at the back of her neck to remind her that there would be penalties if she attempted to move in any direction other than where he led.
Once she’d manoeuvred into the gown he’d found for her, Edmund had explained where he’d been about to take her, and the manner in which he would escort here there.
He knew she’d been embarrassed at the idea of requiring an escort to the head, with him to wait outside while she gained her relief, but he hadn’t wanted to leave her unsupervised to wander among his crew, and after a day on his ship, he knew her need must have been great.
The leisurely walk back to his stateroom saw him smiling to himself at the open stares of his men in the direction of the comely female he guided along the deck. He could tell by the way her hands pulled at the shoulders and sleeves of the dress, he’d brought her a far more showy garment than what she was accustomed to wearing. He knew the blatant eyes of the crew on her as she passed reminded her of the punishment yesterday at the mast.
The flush of shame on her cheeks pleased him so much that he thought he would stoke it further. “Mrs Collingwood,” he said, leaning forward to speak against her ear as they walked. “Do you think they heard you?”
“What?” she asked, broken out of her own string of thoughts by his whispered question.
“Last night,” he continued, in a voice pitched so only she would hear, “when Mr Till was ploughing into you, do you think some of my crew was able to hear all of those lovely noises you were making? It’s very quiet at sea, away from the noise of a port city …”
He watched as his suggestions had their effect. She would’ve come to a complete halt at the shock of the idea he’d placed in her head if he hadn’t been propelling her along. Her mouth opened slightly and her face whipped around to stare at him, eyes wide with dismay at the idea that a ship’s worth of men might have listened to her wanton cries.
Edmund chuckled as he prodded the stunned widow down the stairs again and through the council room. He couldn’t resist needling her further, so amusing was the look he’d brought to her face with his last comment.
“You find that idea worse than your punishment at the mast, don’t you? At least there, you could still claim you weren’t enjoying yourself. No one who heard the sounds coming from my cabin last night would believe you unwilling.”
He pushed her back through the doors of his stateroom as this last of his taunts left his lips, and as soon as he let her loose from his grip, she stepped to put the room’s central table between the two of them.
Her eyes glittered with furious indignity and she crossed her arms in front of her chest. This only pushed her breasts higher above the neckline of her new gown and Edmund smirked at the picture she made. No matter what shame he thrust upon her, she always seemed to recover to a posture of rigid propriety.
Shoulders drawn back in imperious defiance, lips pressed together in a tight line of disapproval, she refused to offer up any sort of verbal acknowledgement of his goading. She didn’t need to, however, as the outrage was plain on her face.
After shutting the double doors behind him, Edmund tossed his hat onto the table and sauntered around to an armless, straight-backed chair where he seated himself with a lazy flourish. He was in what passed for a jaunty mood, compared with his usual solemnity, and he suspected it had to do with the prospect of having some novel amusement aboard for a time, even unanticipated as it was.
He held Mrs Collingwood’s gaze as he sat there, the corner of his mouth threatening to turn up as she all but quivered with resentment. The widow was still a beauty to look at, despite her disposition toward him. As a man who no longer travelled in polite circles, he’d forgotten the clean grace of respectable women. The well-chewed flesh and vacant stares of whores were what he knew now, not the fine limbs and piercing intelligence he saw judging him from blue eyes across the cabin.
It would be most entertaining, he thought, to continue toying with her mind as well as the body he’d come to covet during their encounter the previous night. Edmund wanted to draw those noises of surrender from her again, but wasn’t interested in anything as common as throwing her down immediately and parting her legs for his use.
No, he wanted to see her confusion again. To watch her struggle with what society had taught her was right and proper as it played against the sensations he knew he could rouse from her body. Before they reached Nassau, he swore to himself, she would call his name and plead for him to have her.
In light of the current distasteful expression that iced her features, he’d best be about his work now, if he expected to achieve such a difficult end in the weeks remaining to him.
“My dear lady,” he began in smooth tones, “you’re going to be aboard this ship for some time, I’m afraid. Perhaps you’d like to make yourself more comfortable?”
“How long do you intend to play at these silly games with me, Captain?” she said, not mollified in the least as she fired back at him.
“I will amuse myself with you for as long as I like,” he said, “and you will be grateful to sleep in the finest room on the ship, instead of below decks as a plaything for the rest of the crew. Now stop being stubborn and come sit with me.”
He patted his thigh, a signal for her to sit, to which she made an instant noise of disgust and disbelief.
“Really, Captain, you cannot expect me to come perch on your knee like some common tavern girl. You strike me as a man who knows better.”
“You are correct, Mrs Collingwood,” he said, amused, “I do know better. And yet I still expect you to oblige my whims, whatever they may be. I grow tired of having to remind you of the consequences of your choosing to do otherwise. Now be a dear and stop testing my patience.” He repeated his gesture indicating where he wanted her to sit, his tone brooking no delays.
The widow’s eyes narrowed at him, but he saw that his thinly veiled threats had served their purpose. She stalked over to where he sat, her carriage all stiff tension compared with his casual lounging in the chair. Coming to a stop just outside the space between his knees, she looked down at him as though to say she felt she’d come quite far enough.
What a pleasant nut to crack this one will be.
“On with you then.” He prompted her with a smile of triumph, nodding down at his empty thigh.
She made a final sound of exasperation and flounced down onto his left leg, crossing her arms again, the picture of affront. He could see her slippered feet peeking out from under the hem of her skirts, one of them tapping in irritation. Edmund fought to hold down a chuckle; he could tell he was wearing at her. Hannah Collingwood didn’t seem like the sort of woman who flounced and pouted.
It was as well she’d only sat on one of his legs, her body perpendicular to his, or Edmund’s next move might not have worked. He gave the now occupied knee a quick bounce, jolting her a bit out of her composure, and as there were no arms to the chair, she reflexively clutched at his shoulder to prevent his movements from jouncing her onto the floor. In her momentary lapse of vigilance, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her several inches closer.
Regaining her bearings and looking down now at the reduced space between them, she turned her shocked expre
ssion back to him.
“Why, you—”
“Careful, Mrs Collingwood,” he said, revelling in her outrage, “you don’t want to say something I’ll have to make you regret.”
She snapped her mouth shut in haughty indignity, turning her face forward in her attempt to ignore their new proximity. He squeezed at her hip and found it pleasantly malleable through the fabric of her skirts.
“You see?” Edmund said to the side of her face. “This isn’t so horrific, now is it? We’ve even left your clothes intact today. That’s already an improvement upon yesterday, is it not?” There was no response as she stared straight ahead attempting to ignore him.
He thought about what it was he wanted out of this encounter with the lovely but prim Widow Collingwood and an idea came to him as to how he might achieve it. Threading the foot of his free leg beneath her crossed ankles, he goaded her again. “You’d rather not look at me, is that it?”
“There is some sense in you yet, I see. Yes, you’re correct. I’d rather not have to look upon the villain who treats me so.”
“Villain?” he said, feigning mild shock. “It was not I who brought you aboard this ship.”
“Yes, but it was you who took what he wanted without permission. You and your man.” All this she said while refusing to look at him.
“My lady,” Edmund said, holding back half a grin, “if you set down a feast before a starving man …” He left the rest of the thought hanging in the air.
“And a starving man is entitled to steal food that doesn’t belong to him? By virtue of hunger alone?”
The widow had a quick mind, he gave her that, and she knew how to argue. All the more fun for you, old boy.