by Louise Allen
‘Difficult?’ Clemence queried softly, peering over the boy’s shoulder while One-Eye sat down panting beside them.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ he admitted glumly. ‘There’s something wrong, but I can’t see what.’
‘It’s Mr Stills, isn’t it? I’m very interested,’ she offered. ‘Why don’t you work down the page explaining it to me and perhaps you’ll spot the problem?’ She leaned over the notebook. ‘Come along, start at the top.’
She knew exactly when Nathan realised she was there and what she was doing; she felt his gaze on her like a physical weight, but she kept her head bent over the book, her finger tracing slowly along the lines of figures.
‘I don’t understand this,’ she prompted.
‘That’s the angle of the headland to the bows,’ Stills began confidently, ‘and you have to take it away from this one and that—’
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ Clemence finished for him, running her finger back. ‘Where is the error, do you think?’
A moment’s heavy breathing and Stills pointed triumphantly. ‘There, ma’am, I added it twice.’
‘Well done, Mr Stills,’ Clemence praised. ‘I think it all makes sense now, don’t you?’
‘Which is more than it does to me, Miss Ravenhurst,’ Nathan said, coming up to stand between them and placing one hand on each shoulder. Clemence made herself relax and resisted the temptation to sway towards him. ‘You are fortunate, Mr Stills. Miss Ravenhurst is a better mathematician than you, but better yet, she can read your appalling handwriting. It is no wonder you make mistakes. You may write out Thank you, Miss Ravenhurst fifty times in your best hand in your own time.’
‘Sir!’
Clemence smiled at the unfortunate youth. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’ She strolled on, feeling the three pairs of masculine eyes resting on her as she unfurled her parasol, raised it and gave it a coquettish twirl. Nathan had not seemed angered by her interruption of his lesson, but it was a very small step towards re-establishing their easy relationship.
Street was at home in the steamy confines of the galley, swapping Creole recipes for Mediterranean specialities with the ship’s cook.
‘Street, may I have a word?’
‘You shouldn’t be down here, Miss Clemence.’ He wiped his hands on his apron and came out on deck with her, slyly passing a bone to the dog as he did so. ‘What can I do, ma’ am?’
‘Have you seen Mr Stanier’s back, Street?’ she asked without preamble. ‘He doesn’t look comfortable to me and it’s more than three weeks.’
‘No, ma’am, not without his shirt, I haven’t. Needs oiling, I’ll be bound—a massage to get the skin supple again.’
‘What with? Goose grease?’
‘There’ll be palm oil in the galley.’ Street went back inside and reappeared with a jug. ‘Thought so.’
‘Then you’d better have a word with him,’ Clemence said. ‘And massage his back tonight.’
‘Me, ma’am? With these hands?’ He spread his great calloused paws out, palm up. ‘I’d take the new skin off, not make it better. You should do it, ma’am.’
‘Me? Street, that would hardly be proper.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘That’s out of the question, then. You won’t want to do anything that wasn’t proper, Miss Clemence, now would you?’
‘You—’ She subsided, knowing full well that Street’s suggestion was exactly what she wanted to do. ‘Thank you, I’ll see what I can think of,’ she temporised, taking the jug and calling One-Eye to heel.
Nathan was sharing watches, although he could have simply sat back and become a passenger. But it was not his nature to be idle and it gave him far too much time for thought. And with Clemence swaying in her hammock by day and gracing the wardroom or the captain’s cabin in the evening, he needed all the distraction he could get.
He had thought her attractive before, despite bruises, cropped hair and with her natural curves lost to grief and poor diet. Now with rest and air and good feeding she was blossoming, her hair growing into waves and curls, her figure becoming what it was meant to be.
She would never be buxom like Julietta with her lushness, but that was part of the problem, how very unlike his late wife she was. There was nothing about Clemence that reminded him of that turmoil of infatuation, love and hate.
A book fell to the floor, knocked by his coat as he eased it off. Damn, but he was feeling clumsy. Nathan untied his stock and began unbuttoning his shirt, conscious of the sensitivity of the skin as the cotton fabric moved across it. It was healed, but stiff and tender, and the continuing nagging discomfort was almost as tiring as the pain had been.
He threw the shirt on a chair and kicked his shoes across the room, followed by his stockings, hearing in his mind Clem’s Tsk! of irritation at his untidiness. She was so close, only a thin bulkhead away. He spread his hand on the wood at the point where he guessed her bunk would be, imagining her lying in a thin nightgown, sheet discarded in the steamy heat, the perspiration dewing her brow and making that thick, short hair curl into sensual disorder.
God, but he missed her. Those brief moments when she had strolled along and helped Stills with his calculations and he had found an excuse to touch her, stand close enough to inhale her unique scent; those stood out like one coloured woodcut amidst a book full of black and white.
He tried to tell himself that, even if there were not the disparity in their fortunes, he was still not the man for her. Clemence needed love, even if she might think she was willing to settle for a marriage of convenience and friendship touched with desire. And he was not at all certain that he even understood what love was any more.
The draught of air across his back and a sharp indrawn breath were the only warning he had that he was not alone. Nathan stood very still as the door clicked shut. It was her, no one else would have entered without knocking or speaking, no one else brought the faint sensual drift of frangipani and roses on the hot air.
‘Oh, your beautiful back,’ she breathed in distress.
Nathan took a deep breath, telling himself that it was all to the good if she found his scars repellent, and turned.
Clemence was standing there, not in the thin nightrail of his imaginings but a most proper wrapper concealing her from chin to toe. He let out the breath, then almost choked as he saw the bare toes peeping from under the frilled hem.
‘Clemence, what are you doing here?’
‘Your back needs oiling, it will help relax the scarring and make it more comfortable.’ She put down a jug on the table beside his logs and began to roll up her sleeves. ‘Lie down.’
‘What!’ In the nick of time Nathan recalled the thinness of the walls and got the volume down to a hiss. ‘You cannot come in here with me half-naked and massage my back!’
‘But I can’t do it when you’ve got your shirt on,’ she said in the voice of someone humouring a fractious child. ‘It will do it good.’
He knew it would, he could feel the cool slide of oil across the tender skin even as she spoke. ‘I am sure you are correct, but you aren’t going to do it.’
‘I am.’ In the lantern light Clemence looked very determined. She held up her hands. ‘See? Smooth. Smoother than anyone else’s on board. It is important for your work that you are fit—don’t be a prude, Nathan.’
A prude? He had never felt less prudish in his life, which was half the problem. ‘Very well, then.’ He drew his belt through the trouser loops with a crack of leather and tossed it on to his shirt, then lay down on his bunk, buried his face in his arms and surrendered to whatever she wanted to do to him.
Chapter Sixteen
Nathan lay trying to follow Clemence’s actions with his hearing alone. There was a rustle of fabric, over by the chair. Her wrapper? Then the soft pad of her bare feet back towards him, the sound as she put the jug on the floor beside the bunk. At least it was narrow; that would restrict her reach somewhat.
Then there was pressure alongside his right thigh, then the l
eft, and weight came down on his buttocks. ‘Clemence!’ Nathan tried to buck her off, but she came down with both palms flat on his shoulder blades, flattening him back to the bed.
‘Lie still, this is the only way I can do this properly.’ He wriggled. ‘I can’t be too heavy.’
With a faint groan Nathan surrendered. At least the tickle of fabric at the top of his trousers told him that she was still wearing something, which was a mercy.
Then she bent down to pick up the jug and her weight shifted and her thighs tightened to help her balance and he realised that there was nothing merciful about this whatsoever.
‘The oil might feel cool,’ she warned. It dribbled into the small of his back, making him draw in a reflexive breath and shiver with sensual anticipation. ‘Sorry.’
He did not feel up to explaining that this was already verging on more pleasure than he felt capable of taking. In an effort to control his own reactions he said harshly, ‘I wonder you care to look at my back, much less touch it.’
‘They are honourable scars,’ Clemence said softly, putting the heels of both hands into the small of his back and pressing lightly as they slid upwards. ‘How could I be repelled by them? I know how much courage they represent.’
It silenced him, humbled him, too. ‘Clemence—’
‘Shh. Just relax.’
It seemed impossible. How could a man relax with that soft feminine weight pressing his loins into the firm mattress, shifting and clinging as she worked? Her hands were firm and gentle and she seemed to understand exactly how much pressure to apply to the new skin, just where the underlying bruising was still tender.
Gradually he found he was drifting, the rhythm of her hands and the shifting balance of her body almost mesmeric. The noises of the ship working around them faded and he slid into something that was not sleep—a trance, perhaps.
This was sensual in a way he could not have imagined contact with a woman could be. Clemence was not teasing or enticing, she had no intention of using this as a prelude to lovemaking, she was too much of an innocent for those sort of games. She was doing this for him in the same way as she had tended to him after the flogging.
Under her hands his back muscles relaxed as they had not since the moment he had realised that the punishment was inevitable. As the oil sank into his skin the soreness vanished and all that was left was a heightened sensitivity, a feeling of dreamlike power, the fantasy that they were part of one another.
Her hands slowed, slid up either side of his spine in one long sweep, then moved down until they were on the mattress, on either side. She bent forward and Nathan hung there in his sensual trance as her nipples brushed his back through the soft lawn of her gown and her breath feathered the nape of his neck.
‘Are you asleep?’ she whispered.
No. No, I want to roll over and take you in my arms and make love to you until you faint with pleasure, that was the honest answer. With will-power he did not know had, Nathan lay still, breathing deeply. After a moment she smiled, her mouth so close to his skin that he could feel the change in her breathing, then she straightened up and climbed carefully off his shattered body.
As the door closed softly behind her Nathan lay still, eyes closed on reality, and let himself drift into fantasy, just for once, just for that night.
‘You going to get up, Mr Stanier, sir?’ There was a thump and the sounds of clothes being shaken out. ‘Only it’s eight bells and the Bahama Keys are fine on the port bow.’
Nathan blinked and saw the bulk of Street, moving around the cabin like a pantomime housemaid. There was a tray on the fold-down table with what looked like bread and coffee. ‘Your back looks better,’ he added, picking up the oil jug and heading for the door. He sounded not one whit surprised.
‘Street!’ Nathan twisted round and sat up. Damn it, it was better.
‘Yessir?’ The ex-pirate was not cut out for looking innocent.
‘What do you know about that?’ He pointed at the jug.
‘If a certain party were to have asked me for some oil for your back, sir, I’m sure I’d have forgotten about it this morning. Amazing how stuff gets left lying around, isn’t it?’
He went out, hands full, leaving the door to swing behind him.
Nathan turned the chair to face the table and began to eat, his mind spinning. It seemed he was forgiven and Clemence would tolerate his company once more, a dangerous indulgence, but an irresistible one. The click of claws was all the warning he got before a wet nose nudged sharply into his ribs, effectively focusing everything on the fact that one large dog was after his breakfast.
‘Miss Eliza!’
‘Yes, Mr Stanier, sir?’ The lilting island accent came from right behind him.
‘Get this hound out of here.’ He did not turn round, realising his shirt had vanished along with Street.
‘Yes, sir. My,’ she remarked to an accompaniment of claws being dragged across the deck, ‘you’ve a fine set of muscles, sir, that you have. Enough to dazzle a lady. Pity to waste that, I’d say.’
When he swung round she was gone, the door latch falling.
‘Oh, there he is! Bad dog, running off!’ Clemence looked up from her book as Eliza dragged a reluctant One-Eye on deck. ‘Where was he?’
The maid tied the leash to a ring on the rail and flopped down in the shade. ‘Phew, I thought it would be nice and breezy on a ship.’ She waved an embroidery pattern to and fro in front of her face. ‘He was in Mr Stanier’s cabin trying to steal some breakfast. Sitting there with no shirt on, Mr Stanier was; he’s a fine figure of a man, I’ll say that. I’ll wager he strips well.’
‘Eliza!’ Clemence hissed, blushing all over at the thought of just how well. ‘Someone will hear you.’
‘And what if they do? There’s nothing wrong with my eyes, or yours, either, Miss Clemence. Why aren’t you marrying the man?’
‘Because he says he’s not good enough for me,’ Clemence confessed. ‘Apparently my having a duke for a cousin and owning a small fleet of merchantmen would make him a fortune hunter.’ She sighed. ‘And he’s still in love with his late wife.’
‘Man’s a fool, then.’
‘Eliza, that isn’t fair. I think his scruples are honourable, if infuriating, and as for his wife, I think it is very romantic—or, at least, I would do if it wasn’t for the fact it affects me.’
‘So you want him, then?’ Eliza picked up some of the endless hemming, but left it lying on her lap. Her brown eyes were wide with curiosity and concern.
‘Being a normal female in full possession of my faculties,’ Clemence said tartly, ‘yes, I do.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Short of alienating all my relatives and giving away all my money, there isn’t a lot I can do,’ Clemence said, staring out to sea.
‘You in love with him, Miss Clemence?’
‘Yes,’ she confessed. Eliza opened her mouth to speak. ‘And, no, don’t ask why I don’t tell him. Even if could bring myself to be so brassy, all it would achieve would be to make him feel sorry for me.’
They relapsed into thoughtful silence, Clemence pretending to read a very dull book of sermons the Third Lieutenant had offered her, Eliza idly basting the hem of a shift. One-Eye barked a greeting and a long shadow fell over them.
‘Ladies.’
‘Mr Stanier.’ Clemence schooled her expression into one of polite greeting and tried not to remember the feel of Nathan’s body gripped between her thighs, the heat of his skin under her palms, the strange feeling of power when he had lain quiescent under her.
‘May I join you? I find myself at leisure for an hour or two. With these light airs we will be tacking back and forth for a tiresome while longer, I fear.’
‘Please.’ The ship’s carpenter had rigged them up a table and an awning as well as fetching up chairs and the hammock.
Nathan dropped into one of the low chairs and stretched out his legs. He had shed his uniform coat for a light linen on
e and he had a wide-brimmed hat like the planters wore on his head. ‘My back is very much better this morning, Miss Ravenhurst.’ Clemence saw Eliza’s sharp gaze focus on their faces.
‘My suggestion that an oil massage would help proved successful?’ she enquired as though her own hands had been nowhere near either back or oil.
‘Miraculous,’ Nathan said, his lids lowered so she could not see what was going on in those blue eyes. ‘Extremely therapeutic. In fact, I can safely say I have never felt anything like it.’
‘Will it be necessary to repeat it?’ she asked, attempting to sound nonchalant.
‘It would perhaps not be wise.’ And then he did look fully at her and the heat blazed like firelight behind sapphires and the breath caught in her throat.
‘Eliza, I think this would be a good time to give One-Eye some exercise,’ Clemence announced.
‘Yes, Miss Clemence,’ Eliza said primly, folding her work and getting up. ‘Come on, lazy hound, let’s see what Street’s got in the galley for you.’ As she passed behind Nathan she caught Clemence’s eye and pursed her lips in an exaggerated kiss.
‘Clemence? What has occurred to put you to the blush?’
‘Eliza, drat the woman,’ she confessed. ‘She reads more into what I did last night than…’
‘I read only kindness,’ Nathan said softly. ‘And, considering recent events between us, considerable powers of forgiveness and trust.’
‘If we are speaking of forgiveness, I can still not forget how you came to be injured in the first place,’ Clemence protested. ‘And as for you refusing to marry me, I suppose I can accept that your scruples are honourable, although I find them misguided. If I had known about your wife, how you feel about her still, then of course, I would have refused immediately.’
‘How I feel?’ he queried, frowning at her.
‘You told me you loved her. And there was such emotion on your face when you spoke of her. You fought a duel over her, put your career at hazard to defend her honour—you do not need to explain any more, and I should not be intruding into those feelings in any case. I would not want to be a second wife under those circumstances, to know that my husband could not help but compare me to his first wife.’