As he tucked the fabric into her hand for future reference, he said, "I'm sorry we didn't have time for you to change into something more comfortable, but your trunks will be in our stateroom, and Danvers has undoubtedly already selected something for you to wear once we board the Titan."
She wished she could suppress her curiosity, but she found she couldn't. "The Titan?"
"The ship we're going to cross on. It's big enough that I don't think you'll experience much seasickness."
"Oh."
"And if you do, I'll take care of you. I was sick as a dog the first time I sailed, too. The trick is to keep yourself busy—keep your mind off it."
Mari didn't want to think how he might propose to do that.
They passed the trip in a relatively companionable silence, although he had stifled each of her attempts to slip off his lap. Gently, but firmly, he kept her right where he wanted her, feeling her remain stiff against him for the longest time until his sheer determination to keep her near him wore her down and she finally—with obvious reluctance at first—relaxed against him. He found his arms automatically tightening to bring her even closer. He was doing his level best not to paw at or grope her, knowing she had no idea just how much he wanted her and how much it was costing him to control himself so tightly, despite how the evidence of such was making itself known quite rudely.
But he was of a mind that—as much as he had an idea that she resented having been forced into a marriage with him—he could see a spark of sensuality in her that he intended to exploit to his own—and her—benefit. Perhaps that might be the way to entice some more tender feeling from her towards him in the future.
She might have thought she was in love with Evan Holyoake, but he saw it as a childhood infatuation. What he felt for her went beyond the pure lust that was coursing madly through his veins, making him unable to keep himself from touching her—rubbing her shoulder, patting her back, even going so far as to cup her hip—all attentions that she did her best to shy away from, not that he allowed that.
He reached up and loosened the laces of the corseted bodice of her wedding gown—one that, upon his eyes lighting on her in it for the first time as she'd started down the aisle with her father, had only cemented in him the budding feelings he already had for her that terrified and enticed him at the same time.
Just when he was beginning to shift beneath her, his long since rampant cock cradled entirely too enticingly against her bottom, the coach came up short and they had arrived.
After helping her out by simply lifting her with a firm grip on her waist, he brought her down the promenade and then up the gangway and onto the ship. Suddenly, all of the normal hustle and bustle of seamen making a vessel ready to be underway stopped and a man in an elaborate uniform with a lot of scrambled eggs on his shoulder, who saluted him smartly, met them.
"Your Grace. We weren't expecting you this soon. We would have piped you aboard."
Mari saw him smile—really smile—for the first time. Granted, she spent most of her time avoiding looking at him, but it seemed that what she'd seen of his amusement was either slightly condescending or somewhat sarcastic—both of which were usually aimed in her direction. She'd often wondered—if he thought she was so stupid and laughable—why he had been so interested in marrying her.
"No need to bother with such formalities, Captain."
The crew had gathered and was standing at attention. Con returned the salute, saying, "At ease, men. I'm sure you all have work you should be doing rather than putting on any kind of a show for me."
The captain leaned a bit towards him. "If I may, Your Grace, I would like to take a moment to offer my congratulations—as well as that of the entire crew—on the occasion of your marriage."
"Thank you, Captain Lawson." He took Mari's hand in his, drawing her forward a bit and presenting her with something akin to pride in his voice, which startled her. "Captain Lawson, this is my wife, Marielle. Marielle, meet the captain of this fine ship, Sinjun Lawson."
They had been friends for more years than he would like to count, although the rascal was more of a corrupting older brother than the faint praise of "friend" could convey. They had fought and drunk and whored together all over the world during his stint in the Navy and were thus both of a mind that even a privately owned vessel needed strict discipline. All of his family's very successful ships were run in a manner patterned directly after the British Navy—that's where the majority of his crew had gotten their experience, too, so it just made good business sense and appealed directly to Con's love of order.
The captain bowed low over her hand, and when he rose, he commented slyly, his eyes still on Mari, "You always were one with a taste for fast ships and lovely ladies, but you've outdone yourself, sir, if I may say so."
Grinning broadly, he responded, "You may not, Sinjun, and stop drooling."
Was that teasing she heard between them? His words might have sounded like a reprimand, but it was suddenly apparent that there was quite a camaraderie between the two of them, which was something she'd never seen before in him.
Not that she'd looked for it.
"Do you want to take her out of port, sir?" the older man asked.
Con laughed. "No, no, on this trip, I'm just a passenger."
"No, sir, you will always be the captain of this ship. Anyone else is merely a faint stand-in for you as far as she and the crew are concerned."
She watched a dusky color begin to rise in her new husband's cheeks and realized with a start just how little she knew of the man she'd married.
"No amount of compliments from you are going to turn my attention away from my bride and get me to do your job, you old sea dog. Speaking of which, I'm sure my wife is exhausted from all of the excitement, and I believe we're going to retire to our cabin."
"The crew has taken great pains to make ready your old—my quarters—for you, sir, as a bit of a small wedding present for you and the Missus."
Another big smile. "Why thank you, Captain, and please convey my thanks to the crew. In celebration of my recent nuptials, I should like it if every man could have an extra ration of beer. Will you see to that for me, please?"
"Thank you, sir, for your generosity." He came smartly to attention, as did the crew at his example, and they all saluted him again. Then, Mari was guided below decks to a large, substantial looking door that read, "Captain's Quarters."
Con opened it and stepped in ahead of her to extend his hand to her, asking softly, "Join me, wife?"
Mari knew what she wanted to do—she wanted to run back up the stairs and down the gangway and get lost in the crowds around the docks in London. But she also knew she couldn't do that—where would she go? To whom could she turn?
The answer was nobody.
She had begun to learn, during this horrible turn of events in her life, that the only person she could truly rely on was herself.
The man who held his big hand towards her notwithstanding.
Mari took a big breath, placing her hand tentatively in his. He didn't capture and crush it, didn't yank her into the room and fall on her.
Instead, he curled his fingers around hers just a bit, allowing her to decide whether they should remain there, pulling just a bit to guide her decision to come inside, closing the door slowly and quietly behind her.
Chapter 2
She took possession of her fingers back from him and gazed about the room. It was small in comparison to her room in her father's house, but was tastefully—if quaintly—decorated with flowers and pretty oil lamps that lent a gentle light to the room. The wood floors gleamed, and there were beautifully carved details on the walls that reminded her of scrimshaw. If she had been with Evan, she might have said that it was quite cozy, but her current circumstances dictated that she saw it as quite claustrophobic, especially considering that the most dominant factor in the room—besides him—was the enormous bed that was tucked against the back of the room—spanning its entire width. It was the large
st of its kind she'd ever seen and proved to be truly mesmerizing, her eyes landing on it again and again as she allowed her gaze to drift about the room, settling anywhere but on his enormous presence behind her.
Con could see how nervous she was growing and intended to do his best to ease her fears as much as he could. "Look—Cook has baked us a cake, and the crew have bought us a beautiful bouquet of flowers for our table." He reached out and drew her to him so that they could look at it together.
The table was attached to the wall rather than freestanding—she guessed for stability during high seas—and the cake was a surprise. But of course, it didn't have a stripe on the one they'd left behind that she knew for a fact had been lovingly baked by the woman who had known her since she was a baby and had been cooking for her family for years. The one before them was much more modest, a quite small tier on top and a larger one on the bottom—just two tiers rather than eight—but it was decorated with the red and blue of his coat of arms and even embellished on the top with their names and the date.
"That's nice," she agreed, attempting to take a step away from him.
"Mari," Con chided softy. "I know this isn't anywhere near as elaborate as the one you planned for us to have, but the men gave of their time and their own meager resources to do this for us, so please don't dismiss it offhand because it isn't the very best money can buy."
Shocked by the way he'd put such a fine point on his opinion of her—more so by the fact that he had judged exactly what she was thinking with amazing accuracy—she sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound as if I don't appreciate their efforts. I do."
He had a feeling that, underneath all of that spoilt little girl crust her parents had allowed her to build up over years of indulgence, there was a more tender heart than perhaps even she knew she owned. It, too, gave him hope that he hadn't made a colossal mistake in marrying a woman who was so obviously in love with someone else. He fully intended to nurture that side of her, while firmly and lovingly curbing the less appealing privileged brat she tended to show everyone else—but mostly him, it seemed—hoping to change his mind.
He knew it was a bit of a long shot, but he'd gambled a bit in his life and had been very lucky when the stakes had been extremely high. He hoped that his luck would continue with her, and was already prepared—he thought—to continue adoring her, even if she couldn't quite return the feeling.
She was so close to him, at last, that he was honestly feeling a bit rattled, in a way he hadn't since he was a youth with his first woman. He couldn't believe she was here, although he would have moved Heaven and Earth to get her. Parting with a bit of money was nothing—when he saw something he wanted, he got it, and now she was his.
Con couldn't help but to reach a curled finger out to tip her chin up so that he could see her eyes. "You are a very beautiful woman on the outside, my Marielle." He was pleased that she had the grace to blush at his compliment. "I find myself hopeful that it runs more than skin deep."
Her eyes widened, and she bit her lip. No one had spoken to her as he had. No one—not Evan, not even her parents—had expected her to be anything more than she was—a pretty decoration on someone's arm, able to converse on neutral topics that meant nothing to anyone, and just smart enough to catch someone who would add either money or prestige to the family dynasty, but nothing more. By giving in to nearly every one of her demands as she grew up, they'd not only overlooked but also had actively encouraged behavior in her that she had more than just a feeling her husband wasn't going to support. She had practical experience—and that he was going to remind her of that fact in an exceedingly unpleasant manner whenever she behaved in a way that caused him even the slightest consternation.
She was so deep in thought about what he'd said that, when his lips met hers tenderly, she gasped, opening her mouth slightly beneath his as he drew her even closer against him. He took advantage of catching her a bit off guard to slip his tongue past her lips, making her squeal softly as he explored those warm depths boldly.
It wasn't long, though, before sharp white teeth caught the tip of his offending appendage. Con waited a few seconds for her to see her way to setting him free on her own, and when she didn't, he merely reached down to cup her bottom through her skirts. That act—not just that he was touching her there, where no one else ever had, but knowing full well that he was doing it as a reminder of what would happen to her if she continued on her current path—trumped the outrage she felt at the presence of his tongue in her mouth. This action caused her to lose him immediately and rear her head back, bringing a hand to her mouth and one to reach around behind her, trying to dislodge his grip on her behind but to no avail. She couldn't even really find his hands in the volume of her skirts—and even if she had, she knew she wouldn't be able to budge him regardless.
"Threatening to bite me, Mari, is never going to be a good idea," he scolded gently, one eyebrow up, the look alone making something flutter in her belly. "You will normally find yourself getting spanked for having done so. And, should you throw caution completely to the wind some time and actually bite me, I can promise you that I would make certain you would only ever do it once."
She hadn't realized that her mouth was hanging open until it finally clicked shut at his warning.
When he let her go, she nearly stumbled back, held so closely against him that she was forced to rely on his strength to support her.
He was there immediately, of course, to steady her, his arm coming to reside around her waist again in a gesture that was already becoming terribly familiar to her.
"What do you say we cut the cake and have some for ourselves, then share our bounty with the crew? I think they'd all enjoy having a bit of a sweet treat along with their beer."
He looked down at her and seemed to be waiting for her decision in the matter. Mari nodded, and he smiled at her in approval. Unexpected warmth suffused her at his pleasure in her, one that she nonetheless wished she didn't feel.
Unfortunately, the crew had overlooked a few things in their preparations—there were plates but no utensils and Con ended up having to look around the cabin for something with which to cut the cake when his eyes settled on something that would—at the very least—provide a good show. Seconds later, they were both standing about three feet from the table, their sides plastered against each other's, his hand around hers on the hilt of a ceremonial sword that Lawson had gotten on a visit to Japan. Con knew he wouldn't mind it being put to such good use.
"Ready?" he asked.
Mari had never held a sword in her life, and she found herself thoroughly enjoying the sheer power of it, although she knew that he was carefully bearing almost all of the weight of it for her. It was a silly, whimsical thing for him to suggest they do, instead of ringing for the cook or a cabin boy to fetch them a knife, and she liked that aspect of it, too, more than she wanted to admit to herself.
"Yes!" she said on an excited giggle.
Damn, she took his breath away with that smile and the mischief in her eyes. He thought it was the first time he'd seen her look completely happy—lost in herself and in the moment.
"Well, then, we're going to advance a bit together, then aim for the top cake. We'll slice it down the middle, then I'm going to turn it and we'll slice it again, into four pieces."
"Okay."
"I should say two of your steps should put us in the right position. One."
She watched him adjust his stride to hers as they bore down on the poor, innocent confection, moving together as if they were doing some exotic form of dance.
"Two."
When she would have done a sweeping motion, bringing the sword down on the cake, he restrained her. "It's only ceremonial, but if you attack it like that you're still likely to cut the cake, the plate and the table beneath it."
"Oh!" she said, surprised. Mari had assumed that it would be relatively blunt, since it wasn't meant to be used in battle.
In the end, he guided them into making two prec
ision cuts, then expertly using the implement itself to serve her a piece from the end of it.
"My, my, how did you learn to do that?"
He smiled. "I didn't learn to do this in particular, but I have a certain...prowess—an affinity for, if you will—for most types of blades. I have taken a considerable amount of training in their use and have even had occasion to use it while I was Captain of this very vessel."
Impressed despite herself, she still backed a bit away, as if he was actually brandishing the weapon at her with evil intent. "But I don't have a plate!"
Withdrawing his offering a bit, he reached out and captured her hand, arranging it palm up. "Hold steady now, matey, I don't want to cut you." Then he deposited the sweet treasure right there, doing the same thing for himself before turning back to her. She was standing there as if frozen, not having moved a muscle, and he had to chuckle, but she didn't seem to find any humor in the situation.
"I don't know what to do!" she whispered urgently.
"Well," he answered, swallowing down more laughter as he didn't want to hurt or insult her, "I think that, under the circumstances, you'd be happy if we dispensed with the usual feeding each other from our piece of cake and the mess that usually entails."
"Yes, please."
He frowned suddenly. "Did your parents never let you eat with your hands?"
"Not any time that I can remember. Certainly not from the time I sat at table."
"Well, then, it's time you did again." He demonstrated on his own slice, taking an enormous bite, his face practically melting at the taste and leaving traces of blue and red frosting on his face and in his beard.
Mari went to copy him and then decided to move closer to the table so she could eat over it and not risk getting anything on her dress.
And she knew that her face mimicked his when she took her first bite. It was heaven; it was better than Mrs. Carlisle could have done with all eight layers, and that was the God's honest truth. Even so, she managed not to get it all over her, eating it with much too much delicacy than the situation called for.
Man and Wife: A Sweet Historical Love Story Page 2