“You men there,” Stoner boomed when all had drunk their grog, “fetch His Lordship a throne so he can plant his scaly behind during the upcoming proceedings.”
Two sailors scurried forward, setting an empty chicken coop in place for Neptune. He sat heavily, making the wood groan beneath him.
“Now,” he said to the three feathered sailors, “which of you wants to go first?”
They looked at each other, then all shook their heads.
“So be it!” boomed the throned figure. “I’ll choose. You there on the port end of the line. Step forward!”
The largest of the three sailors took a hesitant step away from the others.
“Blindfold him!” Neptune roared. “Blindfold them all. This will be too ugly to have them watch. It’s time we turned the cat loose.”
Persia felt her skin crawl. She watched in fascinated horror as the sailors tied rough sacking over their mates’ eyes. Two men were hustling the first initiate toward the mast. He was trying to fight them, screaming, “No! Please! Cap’n, you can’t let them do this to me! I ain’t done nothing to be flogged for.”
Persia gripped Zack’s arm. “Aren’t you going to stop them?”
“No,” he replied, his face stony.
“Then I’m going below!”
He grabbed her arm. “No, you’re not. You’re going to stay and watch this.”
Her stomach felt queasy. Her head was spinning. It would serve him right if she threw up or fainted. What kind of captain allowed innocent men to have their backs laid open for sport?
The poor fellow was tied to the mast now—begging, crying, praying. The other two were cowering together, wondering which of them would be next. They could see nothing, but they could hear everything.
“Shut up, you scruvy coward!” Neptune yelled, waving his foul-smelling fish for emphasis.
Persia watched, unable to look away, as Stoner stepped forward with the cat-o’-nines. He twitched it back and forth on the deck a time or two, getting the feel of it. She noted that close to the knots at the end, the leather was almost black. Perhaps stained by the blood of other sailors? she wondered. The thought made her cringe.
Something odd was going on, she couldn’t quite figure out what. Stoner still hesitated. And meanwhile, two sailors had moved the molasses barrel close to the man with the whip, and Neptune himself, ripe fish still in hand, had climbed down from his throne. He was now standing next to the man who was about to be flogged. On the other side of the unfortunate creature, the cook had taken his place.
“Ready?” Stoner called.
“No, please!” sobbed the victim.
The whip whistled in the air, bringing moans of dread from the other two who awaited their turns to be lashed to the mast.
Persia’s eyes widened. She felt a giggle tickling her throat. But it didn’t seem right to laugh when the two men were truly enduring mental torture. Still, when Stoner let the lash of the whip strike the barrel, the cook yelped in very real-sounding pain, and Lord Neptune whacked the bound sailor across the buttocks with nothing more hurtful than his dead fish, she couldn’t help but laugh. They all laughed, even the man receiving the smelly punishment. Only the screaming cook and the other two sailors were not crying with tears of mirth.
When Neptune untied the “flogged” man from the mast, he called out, “Might as well deep-six this one. He’s a goner!”
Several sailors rushed forward and tossed the man over the side so that he might wash off the molasses and feathers and join his laughing mates on deck as the other two received their punishment.
By the time the three men had been fish-paddled, released, tossed overboard, and helped back on deck, Persia was weak with hysterical exhaustion.
“Zack, how awful,” she said. “To scare those poor men that way.”
“I didn’t notice you trying to stop it. Seems to me you enjoyed the whole spectacle as much as any man on board. Come on now. There’s one more thing you must do.”
“Oh, no! You’re not tying me to any mast, Captain!”
He cupped her sunburned cheek with his palm and brought his lips down to hover over hers. She could feel his breath on her mouth as he said, “I’d like to tie you, Persia, but to myself, not the mast.”
“Time to cross the line,” Neptune announced.
Stoner had all three initiates lined up on the north side of a piece of rope stretched across the deck. Zack took Persia to her place beside the men.
Mugs of grog were being passed out again, and an expectant hush fell over the ship as everyone waited for the three sailors and Persia to “cross the line.”
“Ready, mates?” Neptune boomed. “Go!”
All four jumped over the piece of rope, and a great cheer went up.
Persia turned her glowing face to Zack. “Now there are no more greenhorns on board,” she said.
“But there’s still one woman,” he answered, slipping his arm about her waist.
Zack requested that their supper be served on deck that evening. After the long, hot day, the night air felt gentle and cool, scented with spices and flowery perfumes from islands far away across the sea. The stars glittered above, reflecting in Persia’s bright eyes. Everything seemed so good, so warm, so right between them now.
They sat at a little table, sipping iced white wine and listening to some of the sailors play flute, pipes, and fiddle. Gone was the raucous atmosphere of earlier in the day. Everything was quiet, subdued, magical. Soon voices joined the instruments—singing songs of home and love.
“I’ll be sailing my dreams tonight, back to a shore so bright, back to my own sweet love, with her lips of wine and her hair so fine. Wait for me, love! Wait for me-e-e…” One young sailor’s tenor voice, as sweet as the love he was singing about, filled the clear air.
“Wait for me,” Persia murmured, listening to the words and feeling a hard ache in her chest.
“That’s what every sailor hopes… that his lover will wait for him,” Zack said quietly.
“Is that what you hoped, Zack?” She tilted her head in such a way that a long wave of hair fell forward, hiding one side of her face.
He shook his head slightly and reached out to stroke her cool fingertips. She didn’t pull away from him this time. “I never dared hope at all.” His eyes were on her—caressing, fondling.
“Then why are you hoping now?” she asked.
“Maybe I’m not. Maybe I’ve given up all hope.”
She looked away from him suddenly. “That’s what I did. I gave up all hope.”
“Don’t, Persia,” he said softly, hearing the hint of tears in her voice. “It’s too lovely a night for that.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “It’s so lovely it makes me ache inside.”
“For home?”
She turned back to him, her gaze level, her lips firm, unsmiling. “For you,” she said simply.
He tried to laugh off her reply, but his mirth died a quick death in his throat. What was she saying to him? Had she decided to ignore her conscience and give in to her desires—desires he read plainly in her eyes every time he looked at her?
A long silence followed her statement. Only the background surge of the sea and the sailors’ soft singing disturbed the stillness.
“Rolling home, rolling home, rolling home across the sea. Rolling home to dear New England, rolling home, dear love, to thee.”
“Persia?” Zack clasped her hand, drawing it toward his lips.
She only smiled faintly and nodded.
Her hand, when it touched his mouth, felt as soft as cool velvet. It was scented with roses and lilac. Emboldened, he touched its back with his tongue, bringing a shiver from Persia. She tasted of honey with a faint, pleasing trace of salt.
“Where are we right this minute, Zack?”
He frowned slightly, unable to guess what sort of answer she desired. They were at a small table—on the quarterdeck of the Madagascar… in the Sou
th Atlantic… just below the equator.
“I don’t want our longitude and latitude. I mean, exactly where are we in time and space in relation to every other living being?” She paused, then hurried on. “Remember the tales of the explorers in ancient times, who thought the world was flat and who feared they might sail over the edge and be gobbled up by dragons? Well, maybe they were right. Maybe all that has passed and all that will come is only an illusion. Maybe right now, right here, this very minute, is the only time and place that really exists. Maybe we’ve sailed right over the edge already and this ocean is all we’ll ever see again.”
“Persia, you’re either talking foolishness or poetry. Which is it?”
“Neither! I’m discussing reality. And you and I are the only reality I believe in right now, this instant.”
“And?” He was intrigued.
She leaned close and brought his hand—still holding hers—to her lips. She kissed the coarse hair on his knuckles. “And, I can’t make any promises for the future. It makes no sense to live for anything except the present instant. And right now, my long-lost darling, I want you to make slow, careful, very thorough love to me.”
Zack’s eyes met and held the unblinking blue of hers. There were no more doubts or dark shadows lurking in their depths. Without a word, he rose and drew her to his side. He started to kiss her, then remembered the sailors on deck.
“Come with me,” he ordered huskily.
She went—willingly, lovingly, without hesitation.
Chapter Twenty-One
Slow, careful, very thorough—that was the way Persia had requested that he make love to her, and Zachariah Hazzard meant to follow her every instruction.
The candle lamps bracketed to the wall cast a golden glow over the captain’s cabin. And the gentle rocking of the ship upon the waves seemed to imitate the motion of lovers’ bodies entwined as they entered the compartment hand in hand. Zack closed the door softly and stood staring at Persia.
She returned his gaze—nervous now, wondering how she could have been so bold. She wanted him—yes! But was she really a woman who could live for the moment alone? Still, there was no backing out now. Even if she wanted to, which she didn’t, she could tell by the hot gleam in Zack’s eyes that he wouldn’t allow her to thrust him away again. Not now. Not when they had come this far.
He moved toward her slowly, shortening his usually bold stride as if he meant to prolong the moment and keep her waiting as she had kept him. When he took her into his arms, it felt right. His hands were around her waist, drawing her closer and closer. His eyes held her a moment before his mouth came down to meet her.
In that instant, it seemed to Persia that nothing had ever been so right, so perfect. Her lips parted for him, but he seemed in no hurry to glide into her waiting mouth. His tongue smoothed over her lips, flicked at the corners, and finally—when she was aching for the taste of him—found its way through the opening to begin its thorough search.
Persia shuddered in his arms. How long had she waited and dreamed of this moment? Of feeling his heart beating against her breasts, his hands caressing her, his tongue stroking her?
After a long, long time, he pulled away slightly and looked at her, a tender smile on his face. “Ah, this is good,” he murmured.
“So good,” she echoed.
“Persia, remember the night in Boston?”
His question was purely rhetorical, she knew. How could he think she would ever forget it?
“Remember how you went behind the screen to undress? I wanted so to watch you, but you wouldn’t allow it. I want to undress you tonight—to see the woman I’m about to make love to.”
“Zack…” She started to object, but his hands playing over her bare neck and shoulders took away her last defenses. She nodded her assent.
Guiding her with his hands now on her waist, he sat down on the bunk and drew her onto his lap. She could feel his heat radiating up through her skirt and petticoat.
Slowly, as if she were made of some fragile china and might break at his slightest touch, Zack began untying the laces at the front of her white lawn gown. Soon his fingers spanned her chest, forcing the opening wide. He eased the gown off her shoulders and down to her waist, leaving only the thin camisole she wore beneath. His hands brushed lightly over her breasts.
“Look at your nipples strut for me, darling,” he whispered in her ear. She gazed down, slightly embarrassed, to see the dark, jutting circles that strained against the sheer fabric.
His moist lips trailed down her shoulders and over to her breasts. Her head fell back and she gasped as his mouth covered one nipple and sucked at it through the fabric. He released her, only to catch the strap of the camisole in his teeth and slide it down her arm. With one hand, he pulled the other down. And soon her proud, white breasts were free.
“Ah, so lovely,” he said with a deep sigh.
Persia could feel the long-remembered weakness creeping into her legs, as if she were walking into warm, gently stirring waters. His hands were holding her now—kneading her flesh, fondling her nipples, making her want to cry out for him.
He pressed her down on the bed and stood over her, hands on hips, staring at her with an appreciative smile.
“Do you love me, Persia?” he demanded.
Her eyes, which had been half-closed in ecstasy, flew wide. A tremor ran through her. His question was not what she had expected.
“Yes, Zack, I love you.” It was the truth! Why not admit it?
“Good! Love is all that matters.”
He knelt beside the bunk then and drew off her slippers. His strong fingers slid up her legs, under her petticoat, seeking the tops of her stockings. Finding her garters, he released one and then the other. Then slowly, with great deliberation, he rolled each stocking down and drew it off. By the time he pressed his warm palms to the naked soles of her feet, fingering her toes gently, Persia was aching with exquisite need.
Slowly, patiently, he divested her of the rest of her garments, kissing her bare flesh as he explored each part of her with his eyes, his hands, his tongue. She thrashed and moaned, sighed and begged. But he would not be rushed.
“You said thoroughly, my love,” he whispered. “I will give you nothing less. This is what you’ve been waiting for all these years. And you shall have your full measure. That I promise you!”
The candles were still burning. He was still fully clothed. To Persia’s mind, there seemed something utterly pagan about the scene. It was as if she were about to be sacrificed on some heathen altar. Suddenly she remembered stories Fletcher had told her about virgins on far-off isles being thrown into volcanoes to appease angry gods. Yes, this was like that! She might not be a virgin, but Zack looked every inch the angry god!
Giving up the nipple he had been torturing so tenderly with his tongue and teeth, he rose from the bed and strode across the floor. Persia thought he meant to get out of his clothes, but instead he opened one of the cabinets and peered in.
“Yes, this should do nicely,” he commented, holding up a green-glass bottle as he started back toward her.
She raised up on one elbow, unaware of how tantalizing a picture she presented in that pose with her breasts thrust toward him.
“For what?” she asked.
“Never mind. Just turn over,” he ordered. “On your belly.”
Persia lay there, tense, unable to see him for the hair tangled over her eyes. She had no idea what he was about to do to her.
“I got this idea today when I saw the men dipped in molasses,” he said matter-of-factly. “I thought what a pleasure it would be for me to lick away all that sticky sweetness if it were on my Persia.”
“No, Zack!” she cried.
She tried to rise, but he put one arm across her waist, holding her down. And just then, she felt the first drops of liquid dribble across her shoulders. It felt cool and soothing, not sticky at all.
Zack laughed softly
as he massaged the creamy ointment into her skin. “Had you going there, didn’t I, darling? No, I’m not going to drown you in molasses. You’re sunburned, that’s all. You’ll be in a great deal of pain by tomorrow, if it’s not tended to. And after all, I am the ship’s doctor. I’d be remiss in my duties if I didn’t see to this.”
She relaxed and smiled. His hard fingertips were working magic on her neck, shoulders, and back. She didn’t even protest when he moved lower, pouring the cool ointment onto her buttocks and down the backs of her legs—where she couldn’t possibly have gotten the least trace of sun.
He rubbed, he kneaded, and finally his hard fingertips did some exploring as well. She might have tensed with shock at this unexpected touch, but he had worked his magic on her mind as well as her body. She was completely, totally his—to do with as he would.
“Not sleeping, are you, love?” He leaned close to her ear and nibbled as he asked.
“Hardly,” came her breathy answer.
“Then turn over.”
She did as he ordered and was rewarded for her compliance by more magical liquid from his green bottle. He trailed it drop by drop across her chest and shoulders, onto her breasts, down over her belly, and into the silky triangle at her thighs.
She lay perfectly still, waiting and watching him, as he straddled her and pulled off his shirt. His palms came toward her and rested lightly on her erect nipples, making lazy circles and sending incendiary sparks through her blood. His hands flattened then, and his fingers gripped her breasts. At the same moment, her own hands shot up, grasping the top of his britches in a near desperate hold.
“Go ahead, darling!” he encouraged. “Unbutton them.”
He was sitting astride the very top of her legs. She could feel his heat and the pulse of him against her own quickened flesh. Slowly, she drew the bone buttons through their fabric notches. As each was released, the coarse man-hair of his belly sprang free to tingle her fingertips. The hair was dark, not frosted like that on his chest.
Hot Winds From Bombay Page 27