by Brenda Novak
“What ye got against the lieutenant, lad? E’s not a bad bloke, far as officers go. ‘E’s done pretty well for himself.”
Jeannette made no reply.
“And he’s done right by you. A boy in yer position ‘ought ter be grateful fer that,” he went on. “The navy’ll teach ye fast enough.”
“So I hear.” A blister burst, leaving raw skin exposed to the hammer’s handle. Shaking the pain away, she tried using her left hand, but her awkward wielding of the tool only earned her another sharp look from Simon.
“I’ve known girls what can ‘ammer better than the likes o’ ye.”
Jeannette was so cold, sore, and tired that, in utter resignation, she almost told him she was a girl—and that his beloved and revered Lieutenant Treynor knew it. Rather than do that, she pulled her shirtsleeve down to protect the sores as best she could and transferred the hammer to her right hand.
Many of the crew performed maintenance chores such as Simon’s caulking. Some retarred the rigging, sewed worn-out sails, or repaired a damaged cannon. Others worked in messes, preparing the main meal of the day to be served at noon.
Jeannette kept one eye on her work and one on the hatchway to the galley as the sour smell of cheese rose to her nostrils. She never dreamed she’d be so eager for such simple fare, but her stomach’s growl gave evidence that the bad-tasting “burgoo” of breakfast had long since passed through her system.
Catching sight of the petty officer who’d beat her in the roundhouse, Jeannette ducked her head. She had no desire to gain his attention, but the sight of him carrying a bucket tied around his neck piqued her curiosity.
She studied him from beneath her lashes. “What is that man wearing around his neck?”
When Simon glanced up, she gestured to indicate who she meant.
“‘Tis a spitkid.”
“A spitkid?”
“Aye. Lieutenant Treynor caught ‘im spittin’ on the deck. Now ‘e’s target practice for the rest of us.”
Jeannette couldn’t resist the smile that spread across her chilled face. Because they couldn’t smoke, most of the crew chewed tobacco. She had witnessed the telltale bulge in many a sailor’s cheek and had viewed, with great disgust, the steady stream of brown juice they spat from between dried, cracked lips. It was a pleasure to imagine them trying to hit the petty officer’s bucket and missing, as they often did.
Lieutenant Treynor stood at the wheel, deep in conversation with a fellow officer. Jeannette glanced covertly at his broad shoulders, noting how his uniform accentuated his lean hips and long legs. Was she the reason the petty officer wore the bucket? Had Treynor punished the man who’d harmed her?
Probably not, but if so, Treynor’s retribution represented yet another contradiction. He hated her. Why would he bother to punish one of his crew for hurting her?
Just before noon, Jeannette watched the master and the master’s mates measuring the angle of the sun as it reached its highest point off the horizon. Prodded by her many questions, Simon explained that they were calculating how far north or south the ship was by using quadrants, which also established the correct time.
A gangly youth changed the date and day of the week on the log-board, eight strokes clanged on the ship’s bell, and Bosun Hawker piped them to dinner.
Jeannette gladly relinquished her hammer as Lieutenant Treynor approached. Anticipating a tray of food to equal the one he had brought her the night before, she stood, even forced a smile to her lips, only to learn that he expected her to mess with Simon while he visited the wardroom to eat with the captain.
Remembering the eggs she’d tried to gather, the goats that roamed freely over the deck, and the pens of both cattle and pigs stabled below, all reserved upon slaughter for the captain and his officers, Jeannette jealously watched him disappear. Regular seamen’s rations paled in comparison to the sumptuous fare that graced Cruikshank’s table.
But there was nothing to be done to better her lot. Her disappearance from Treynor’s cabin had angered him such that he offered her no reprieve. She had to descend to the mess, like the rest of the rank and file, and take a seat on one of the sea chests the men used as benches while eating.
As they began to serve the meal, Jeannette pictured Treynor enjoying his food while thinking with silent pleasure how he had made the Baroness St. Ives work like a common sailor. She vowed she’d get even. But it was difficult to stay angry with him when she saw the petty officer who’d struck her in the roundhouse attempting to eat while encumbered by his leather bucket.
Jeannette finished her salty beef and boiled peas just as a man with baggy clothes and a jagged scar across his cheek began to play a flute. She listened in a tired stupor until the others filed out, then she followed them to the main deck where she received her liquor ration from a barrel.
Although Jeannette doubted she’d require so much, she accepted the tankard the purser’s mate shoved toward her. The ship’s water tasted brackish already; she could hardly gag it down. And the beef had heightened her thirst. But Jeannette had never sampled anything stronger than wine.
The rum burned her stomach and warmed her body, boosting her flagging spirits. Grateful for this one moment of reprieve and relative enjoyment, she drank what was in her mug and returned for more.
Lulled by the lively notes of the flute that carried up from below and the first pleasant sensations she’d experienced since picking up that hammer, Jeannette drank far more than she had intended. She gave the last few swallows of her second tankard to one of the greedy fellows who had been hoping she’d do just that, then stumbled back to her detested task.
Simon was already at work, humming along with the notes of the flute. Jeannette added her voice to his as she plopped onto the deck and began pounding the fibers between the planks.
“This ship will be watertight thanks to us, no?” Her tongue slid and stumbled over the words as she tried to focus on Simon, who had suddenly grown fuzzy. Jeannette squinted to see his face more clearly, but could pinpoint only his bandanna, the one bright spot on his plain clothing.
He didn’t answer.
She shrugged and swung her hammer with more abandon. Her hands didn’t hurt so badly anymore, and she enjoyed greater warmth than at any moment since leaving Treynor’s bed.
Treynor …Jeannette giggled at the thought of him. He knew how to taunt a woman, but he certainly knew how to please one, too. She remembered his arms around her at the Stag, the soft furring of his chest against her breasts …
She closed her eyes, then opened them again when she swooned and almost toppled over. The deck seemed to be shifting more than before. She could scarcely keep her balance even though she was sitting down.
What had changed?
When she glanced skyward, she saw nothing but blue—blue all around, which only increased her dizziness. The whole world seemed to be rocking. She felt as if she’d be swept away if she stood, but she couldn’t find any handholds on the smoothly polished deck.
“Simon?” Jeannette studied the blurring shapes around her, but could not identify him. “Simon?”
“Be quiet, you’re drunk.” The voice didn’t belong to Simon. The words were harshly uttered and carried a note of warning, but Jeannette recognized their warm timbre and smiled at the sensual memories that voice evoked.
“Lieutenant?” She blinked up at him, confirming his identity by the shiny brass on his uniform. “I am doin’ a good job. Just ask Simon. I am doin’ a good job, am I not, Simon?”
She slammed the hammer into the deck again, but she couldn’t remember whether she’d stuffed a bit of oakum in the crack. She bent to better examine her work when long fingers removed the handle from her grasp.
“Ow,” she complained at the jolt of pain it caused. “My blisters.”
Treynor took her hand and ran his thumb over the skin of her palm. “I will take care of him, Simon,” he said. “The lad’s new and does not know any better.”
“Aye, sir.” Simon
’s voice floated to her as if from a far distance, right before Treynor’s acrimonious whisper sounded in her ear. “Walk, damn it. I dare not carry you.”
Jeannette laughed. “Do not be angry, m’sieu. You are far too handsome to be angry.”
“Hush.” Lifting her to her feet by one arm, he nearly dragged her along beside him as she tried to use her rubbery legs. Then, when they were out of eyesight of the others, he swept her into his arms and strode hastily to his cabin.
“You little fool,” he whispered. “You will get yourself caught yet. And me with you.”
Jeannette didn’t care what he said. He was holding her. That was all that mattered because it kept her from spinning away. She was becoming sleepy, so sleepy that she could hardly keep her eyelids open. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she nuzzled her face into the hollow of his throat, breathing in the sharp, clean scent of him, the same scent she had recognized on his bedclothes.
“You smell good enough to eat,” she announced.
He chuckled, his breath tickling her ear. “Are you admitting, my lady, that you are hungry for a man?”
Chapter 13
Jeannette began to wiggle in his arms as soon as they reached his cabin. “I must get these bindings off,” she complained. “I cannot breathe.”
As soon as Treynor deposited her in his hammock, she unbuttoned her shirt and began to worry the knots.
“Give me your knife. I cannot wait a moment longer.”
“No.” He brushed her hands aside. “Do not cut them. We will need them again.” His fingers worked to loosen the bands until they fell away, rewarding him with a full view of her bosom. He couldn’t help but smile at the glorious vision, his earlier consternation easily forgotten.
Jeannette didn’t bother to cover herself. She rubbed the welts that marked her flesh, propriety and embarrassment lost in drink and her marked relief. “Ah, that feels better.”
Treynor’s gaze fell to the pulse above her delicate collarbone. The soft flesh between that bone and the swell of a woman’s breast was his favorite part of the female anatomy.
He allowed his eyes to fall lower. Well, besides the breast itself, perhaps.
Following the direction of his gaze, Jeannette bit her lip and smiled uncertainly, but whether or not she blushed was hard to determine. Her face was already tinged with red from the rum.
“Do you want to touch me, Lieutenant?” she asked softly.
Treynor guessed his desires were as obvious as those of a dog who sits near the dinner table, wagging his tail and begging with his eyes. He cleared his throat and tried to turn away, but she reached out to stop him.
“Don’t go.” Her lovely eyes pleaded with him.
He raised his hand to her breast and felt his breath catch in his throat. He’d promised he’d not force her. Taking her while she was drunk was probably just as bad. He knew better than to stay, but the soft mound of flesh felt so good in his palm …
“I will be happy to oblige you in the morning, if you still desire my company.” Hearing the thickness of his own voice, he forced his hand to let go of its prize while he still had the power to do so. “Before anything happens, I want to know you are in full agreement.”
“I don’t think I want to be a virgin when I meet my next decrepit husband.” She giggled and went for his buttons. “Will that do?”
“What about your family?”
She couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than ridding him of his clothes. “After stowing away on a frigate, my reputation will be ruined. Besides—” she paused long enough to wave a distracted hand “—my husband wanted to send his male friends and relatives to my bed. What is so wrong with me choosing the first one?”
“What?” Treynor stilled her hands and forced her to look up at him. “Is that why you ran away?”
She nodded and went back to his buttons.
“He told you this?”
“No. My brother overheard some men at the wedding placing wagers on whose seed would take in my belly.” She frowned. “I think I even met some of the candidates.”
“What about your parents? Would they not protect you?”
“What could they do? We are powerless, even pitied in this country. But …do we have to talk about this now?” Slipping her arms inside his shirt, she pressed her cheek to his chest.
They had to talk about something or he’d be swept away by the lust leaping and burning through his veins. “You’re drunk,” he said.
Jeannette lifted her head. “And you are beautiful!”
Warmed by a smile that was as frank as her words, he laughed. Dear God but she was a difficult woman to refuse. Despite his anger at her and the difficulties she’d caused him, there was something about Jeannette that would not let him forget her. “I think that’s my line.”
He took in her curly hair, her small, pert nose and sensuous mouth, then lowered his gaze to feast on her firm young breasts and narrow waist. He’d undressed her before. He knew what treasures lay beneath her clothes, but he never dreamed he’d be invited to sample them, touch them, taste them.
With a groan, he tried to pull away, but her fingers roved over his chest, turning his will to mush. Perhaps if he made love to her, finished what they’d started at the Stag, they’d both be satisfied. She’d stop invading his thoughts at the most inopportune moments, and he’d be able to concentrate on his work.
Bending, he took the tip of one breast into his mouth.
Jeannette started in surprise, then arched toward him. Her head fell back on his pillow and her eyes slid closed as he began to trail tiny kisses up her neck. She felt as greedy as he did; he could see it, sense it in the tension of her body.
But she was drunk. And she was young and probably untouched. As much as he wished to justify taking what he wanted by telling himself his lovemaking would give her a positive experience for her first time, he could not.
Letting go of her, Treynor raked a hand through his hair, but he didn’t move far enough away that she couldn’t guide his hands back to her body. Sweet torture, what was she doing to him? Was she trying to amuse herself by discovering how the other half lived? Or was she merely trying to prove that she could make him want her, take her, and beg her for more when he was done?
Her skin was warm and smooth to his touch, her lips wet, parted. He longed to tear their clothes away and enter her warmth, to push past the barrier of her virginity and feel her close tightly around him. He wanted to carry her with him like the wind buffets a leaf, higher and higher until, together, they plunged off the tallest pinnacle to fall freely through space, suspending both time and reality until, eventually, they swirled gently back to earth.
But Jeannette was uninitiated in the ways of love. And he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. She needed a nobleman and a wedding.
“Show me what it is like to make love with you,” she said. “Let me feel you inside me before it is too late, and I am doomed to never know.”
The enticement echoed in Treynor’s ears, challenging everything he believed himself to be. “Perhaps another day,” he managed, but it felt like he might burst if he didn’t take her. “When you know your own mind.”
“But I do,” she protested. “This is exactly what I wanted the first night I met you.”
He grimaced at the thought of how that night had gone and tried to move back. He wanted to slow the rapid pounding of his heart, but the temptation of her body shackled him to the bed.
“I did not mean to hurt you that night,” she whispered.
“Then you know very little about the anatomy of a man.”
“Show me.” She touched his hardness through the fabric of his uniform, and he gasped at the sensation.
“I don’t think you want to do that.” He meant to move her hand away but ended up covering it with his own. “I may not be able to stop myself.”
“Do not worry, I will stop you.”
There wasn’t a shred of commitment in her words, but they w
ere enough to make Treynor teeter on the edge of indecision. The feeling of her naked breasts against his chest would be worth the cost of drawing closer to the flame—worth almost any cost.
He pulled her against him, marveling at the pleasure of such a simple thing.
Jeannette seemed to like the contact as much as he did. She gave him a sultry smile, wound her arms around his neck, and turned her face up to receive his kiss.
Treynor took his time with her lips, then gently explored her small, straight teeth and velvety tongue.
She responded tentatively at first, until she grew confident in what she was doing. Then her lovemaking took on a wild abandon that stole his breath. When he felt her quiver against him, his hands moved to finish with their clothing. But this last barrier was all that stopped him from possessing her completely. Were he to remove it, he knew he’d be powerless against the animal inside him.
“Damn it!” he groaned.
“What?” She gazed up at him as if thoroughly confused as to why he might be unhappy.
Staring at Jeannette’s wide eyes and her lips, swollen from his kisses, Treynor knew he couldn’t win. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to proceed; his need wouldn’t allow him to stop.
Finally, he extricated himself from her arms and stepped away.
She blinked at him in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere but here.”
“You’re not leaving….”
“Yes.” He quickly buttoned his jacket. “But I must be the stupidest bastard in the world.”
The war between his mind and his body was making him angrier by the minute. Why did his damned conscience have to intervene at a moment like this? At the very peak of sexual desire? How long had it been since he’d wanted a woman as badly as he wanted Jeannette?
Never came the answer. And that terrified him. God, he prayed, not her. Anyone but her.
Silently, he railed at himself and cursed Jeannette, too. But, considering the situation, only one thing could set his world right again—besides another fifteen minutes with the count’s daughter.