by Jo Goodman
“I’ve been thinking of alternatives,” she said, unable to hide the frisson of pleasure that ran down her spine.
Sighing, Rhys sat back on his heels and began scrubbing again. This time the cloth covered her slender back in long even strokes, dipping below the water to touch the curve of her buttocks. “So? What weighty thoughts have occupied your mind?”
“Fresh fruit and coffee.”
“Again, please?”
“Fresh fruit. I miss it dreadfully. So must New Englanders in winter time. Oranges. Lemons and limes. Bananas from South America. All manner of fruit from the West Indies. And coffee. Judging by the Americans I’ve met, they cannot seem to get enough of the bitter stuff. Who are we to change their tastes? Canning ships will bring it to ports in the north in record time.”
Rhys stopped scrubbing a moment. “May I be skeptical?”
“Of course.”
“Well then, aside from the fact that a taste for coffee is not peculiar to Americans and that Lloyds of London had its beginnings in an establishment that served the bitter stuff by the gallon—”
“I concede your point.”
“How do you propose we transport our cargo? According to Johnson we have but one ship with a hold of any credible size, and we’re sailing on it. The others were lost in the war when they attempted to carry on trade in the face of English guns.”
“But we have the ones that carried the privateers. The light, swift schooners that could elude British frigates and capture prize ships.”
“Would that they had captured more. We wouldn’t be in this predicament.”
“It’s unimportant,” Kenna said airily. “These ships could be our beginning. The captain says they are like quicksilver gliding over the water. And from the plans he showed us, their holds are more than adequate to carry a goodly supply of coffee and fruit. More importantly they can carry it quickly, over an established route, and bring it north before the cargo spoils. With the profits we will build ships equal to this one, for the longer routes, say to China and India.”
“China? India? You have no small dreams, Kenna.” He began washing her arms though his movements were haphazard, thoughtful. “Not that I expected less. It would be possible, I think.”
“I know it would be.” She took the cloth from his hand, lathered it, and began soaping her neck, shoulders and breasts.
Rhys moved to the side of the tub and watched her. He wondered how guileless her gentle motions really were. There was nothing innocent about the sideways glance she gave him beneath her thick lashes. His heart began to hammer. He cleared his throat. “It’s an excellent idea.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
“You do realize that when we arrive in Boston, winter will be more than seven months away? Fresh fruit from the Indies may not be in great demand.”
“I think there is always a demand for fruit. Granted, the winter months would be more profitable, but we can earn enough for a good beginning. I think coffee will not present the same problem.” Kenna leaned back in the tub, raised one leg, and began to wash it with languid strokes.
“There may be other lines with the same idea.”
She nodded. “I already thought of that. Canning will simply be the best.”
“I believe you.” He reached over the tub and placed his hand on hers, stopping her movement. He took the cloth away from her. “Let me finish.”
Kenna closed her eyes in acquiescence as Rhys began washing her leg. At his hands bathing became a highly erotic experience and Kenna cheerfully gave herself up to the delicious sensations he created. He lifted her calf higher to wash the back of her knee and paid particular attention to her toes. Once he tugged on them with his teeth and she shivered in spite of the warm water that lapped at her skin. In turn he washed the other leg, though Kenna found his actions more of a caress and less of a good scrubbing. At some point he abandoned the cloth and continued with only the soap in his palm, dipping his hand below the water and lathering her thighs and belly until her lips parted on a near purring sound born of excitement and contentment.
Her tongue peeped out to moisten her lips then retreated when she felt the warmth of his face very close to hers. She waited, anticipating the moment when his mouth would seek hers. When seconds went by and he did not fulfill the promise of his nearness, Kenna cautiously opened her eyes.
Rhys’s face was indeed very near hers. His eyes were dark with desire, only a sliver of silver ringed the black centers. He was searching her face as if making a memory. The tenderness, the heat, of his gaze as it slipped over her brows, her cheeks, and settled on her mouth, touched Kenna’s soul. This beautiful man wanted her. And she wanted him no less.
“Rinse.”
Kenna blinked at the command, terse yet huskily given. She hesitated a second too long as she realized his order was all in aid of teasing her.
“If you don’t rinse I’m coming in after you.”
Kenna slid lower in the tub and calmly brushed away the remains of soap on her shoulders. She had no idea that the smile that crossed her face beckoned him to join her anyway. Nor had she any conception of the willpower it required on his part to ignore her invitation. Her eyes followed his movements as he stood and skirted the tub to get the bucket of fresh water warming on the stove. Kenna stood, not only comfortable with her nakedness, but proud of it also. Some imp made her ask, “Do you remember the first time you saw me in a tub?”
Rhys began pouring the fresh water over her shoulders to wash away the last of the soap. Kenna tipped back her head, arching her neck and breasts to feel the water cascade over her tingling flesh. Rhys felt a hard knot of desire form in his loins and had difficulty understanding her question, let alone answering it. It was not until Kenna had casually relieved him of the wooden pail that he realized where it would have lead. He backed away from the tub but not quickly enough to get out of the line of fire.
“You practically drowned me on that occasion!” she announced, heaving the contents of the bucket in his direction.
Rhys sputtered and coughed and wondered why he had bothered lifting his hands to protect himself. That had certainly been a useless gesture, unless, of course, she had followed through by pitching the bucket. He came out from behind his dripping hands and grinned wickedly. “If you thought to cool my ardor, madam, your plan has failed.”
Kenna’s eyes dropped to the bulge wetly outlined in his trousers. “Oh, my!” She quickly jumped out of the tub and grabbed the towel that hung over the back of a chair, holding it up in front of her like a shield. She backed away from Rhys’s slow advance around the tub and bumped into the table. The candles swayed alarmingly, their yellow light flickering wildly. She would have liked to rub her bruised hip but it was clear Rhys was giving no quarter. Hastily she moved away from the table and looked for something to put between them.
Rhys laughed as he saw Kenna’s eyes dart about the cabin. “I suggest you see to your comfort, Mrs. Canning, for I swear I’ll take you anywhere I find you.” He pointed to the massive desk that Kenna was nearing. “Anywhere.”
Kenna’s cheeks pinkened at his announcement, knowing he meant every word. One afternoon he had surprised her while she was reading at the window seat, blithely unaware of the seductive picture she made curled in the corner, head tipped to one side as she studied a dusty old manual. On that occasion they never made it as far as the bed.
Kenna remembered the floor hadn’t become uncomfortable until after they finished making love, but then, it was horribly unyielding. The bed offered the most sensible alternative and Kenna nearly leaped for it as Rhys made a grab for her. Her towel tangled in her legs, offering no protection whatsoever. Kenna reached for the pillow and flung it at him as he approached the bed. Rhys brushed it aside with his arm, letting it fall to the floor, and began stripping off his wet clothes. Kenna observed him unabashedly, her attention riveted to the play of his muscles, the tautness of his belly, and the undeniable evidence of his need. Rhys watched her wat
ching him and was caught unaware by the pleasure her desire gave him.
“The bed was a wise choice, Kenna. We can save the desk for another time.”
She took the towel by its opposite ends, spun it so it wrapped along its length, and snapped him on the thigh with it.
Rhys was too quick for her and before she could haul it in he grabbed it. “That was too close,” he said pulling it out of her hands and tossing it beside the pillow. He knelt on the bed and took her by the shoulders. “If you have such strong objections to the desk, I wish you would voice them rather than attempt to do me grievous injury.”
Kenna’s hands slid along his waist then over his hips. “You appear none the worse for it.” Then she began to fondle him, smiling shyly up into his eyes.
Rhys growled deep in his throat as his mouth came down on Kenna’s. She savored the urgency of his kiss, the flavor of this special communion. She knew that she loved him and wished for the confidence to say the words. In the end she said it with her body, with the mounting tension in her flesh, hoping he would understand that her giving was the expression of all that she felt.
She caressed him with her hands and mouth, whispering words that she never could have uttered in any other circumstance. She grew brave, taking the initiative and becoming the aggressor, stunning Rhys with the force of her passion. He let her explore his body until she knew the sensitivity of his flesh, knew precisely where to touch him to trip his heartbeat or cause his breath to catch. In turn she surrendered her body to the same exploration and offered herself up to the skillful hands of her lover. Nothing he did to her was shameful or ugly. Kenna could find only beauty and pleasure in the touch of his mouth on her breasts, at her hip, and between her thighs.
Rhys gently urged Kenna to lie on her stomach then knelt behind her and raised her hips. His palms stroked her back, came under her to caress her breasts, and then he thrust deeply into her. The unfamiliarity of her position gave Kenna a moment of alarm, then her senses took over and she welcomed the sensations that flooded her.
Her fingers dug into the feather tick as Rhys carried her with him on a sharp crest of pleasure. For long minutes after he had given her his seed her flesh still tingled.
Rhys waited for his own breathing to still before he slipped out of bed, giving Kenna a kiss on her mouth as he did so. Eyes closed, Kenna heard Rhys washing at the commode then rummaging through the wardrobe. Curious, she opened her eyes and saw him pull out his dressing gown. But instead of putting it on he carried it over to the bed, searching its pockets all the while.
She lifted the covers as he slipped back into bed and turned on her side. “What are you looking for?” Rhys palmed something, then threw his robe on a chair. “I amend my question. What do you have in your hand?”
Rhys did not answer her right away. He made a fist around the gold band in his palm. “I don’t know if this is the proper time. Hell, I don’t even know if there is a proper time. I thought I would wait until we were in Boston and I could have it fitted, but I realize I want you to have this now. I’ll understand if you don’t want it; it was rather forced on you the first time, though if you recall, you did agree to the ceremony.”
“Rhys, what are you talking about?”
“This.” He held up her wedding ring between his thumb and forefinger and waited for Kenna’s reaction.
She stared at the ring in mute astonishment.
It was not quite the reaction Rhys was hoping for. He could read neither pleasure or dismay in her expression. “Translation, please. I haven’t any idea what you’re thinking.”
“You dear, dear man,” she said as tears glistened in her eyes. She cupped his face and covered it with kisses and tears.
Rhys was overwhelmed. He knew what the ring meant to him. Dare he hope it meant the same to her? He took her trembling hand and slid the band on her finger, then he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. Kenna very nearly hugged the breath out of him, admiring the ring from over his shoulder.
“You always meant for it to be a real marriage, didn’t you?” she asked wonderingly.
“I think that’s what I meant when I said there would be no divorce,” he said dryly.
“No divorce,” she echoed, drawing him down on the mattress and snuggling close. “You said something about this being forced on me the first time. What did you mean?”
“I gave you that ring when we were married. I gather you don’t remember.”
“No,” she said sadly. “But I wish I did. So much of that time is vague.”
“It’s just as well. It was not exactly filled with pleasantness.”
Kenna refused to dwell on that unhappiness. “Tell me about our wedding. I think I recall what I was wearing and I remember a ride to the church. Someone was with me, holding me.”
“That was Polly. I wish you had been able to know her, really know her. There is not another like her.”
Even with a ring on her finger Kenna was not so secure that she cared to hear the virtues of another woman, especially one she thought held a great deal of her husband’s affection. She wondered why she was plagued by the vision of the women Rhys had held in his arms when there were so many things she had forgotten.
Rhys was blithely unaware of the turn of Kenna’s thoughts. “It was Polly who arranged the marriage. She knew a priest, you see, who regularly tried to save those souls living at the Flower House. She convinced him it was his duty to marry us.”
Kenna frowned, thinking hard. “Rhys, who is Polly? And what is the Flower House?”
“You have forgotten rather a lot, haven’t you? The Flower House is an establishment much like Mrs. Miller’s and Polly Dawn Rose is the proprietress.”
Kenna couldn’t credit it. “Do you mean that I was rescued from one brothel and hidden in another?”
“Does sound rather unlikely, but that’s the gist of it. Of course no one at Polly’s was preparing you for—” he groped for a delicate word—“for service. The girls there simply wanted you to get well. When they took you from Mrs. Miller’s they hadn’t the slightest notion who you were.”
“This is a Banbury tale if ever there was one.”
“Quite. Now do you want to hear about our wedding?”
“Later,” she said, intrigued in spite of herself. “If they didn’t know me, why did they bother taking me from Mrs. Miller’s? Was that your doing?”
“No,” Rhys sighed, realizing he was going to have to explain the whole of it. He told her everything, beginning with the search for her that covered all of London and finally how he found her at Polly’s and his connection to the Flower House.
Kenna was shaking her head when he finished. “It’s as if it happened to someone else. I am going to compose a letter on the morrow, thanking Miss Rose and the others, and send it on the first packet back to London.”
Rhys grabbed Kenna’s wrist, unaware he was hurting her. “No! No letters. Polly is the only person in all of England who knows you’re alive. Even her girls think you’re dead. If one of them came across the letter and spoke without thinking, you would not be safe.”
Kenna stretched her fingers when Rhys let go of her wrist. “No letter, then,” she said.
“I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?”
“No.”
Rhys massaged her slender wrist anyway. “Why are you smiling?”
She shrugged a trifle self-consciously. “I was thinking how fierce you can be at times, then so tender. I like you both ways.”
“You can be fierce yourself.”
She had no illusions as to what he was referencing. She could hardly deny that she had bitten his shoulder earlier.
She kissed him where she thought the mark should be. “And tender, too.” She laughed when he made a playful grab for her. “I think you’d better finish telling me about our wedding,” Kenna held her hand a few inches from her face as he spoke, letting the candlelight catch the burnished gold. When he was done she turned her face to him. “I’m glad you didn’t wait
until Boston to give this to me, Rhys. I didn’t know how much importance I had placed on a ring until tonight. It’s ridiculous, but it’s as if there is more permanence now. I’m not so afraid.”
“It’s not ridiculous,” he said softly. “I didn’t know you were afraid.”
She nodded. “Sometimes, when I wake and you’re gone, I think you’ve left me. Then I’m frightened.”
Rhys understood that emotion. He had thought Kenna was lost to him for so many years that when she wasn’t in his sight it had the power to chill him. “I’m not going to leave you, Kenna.”
“I think I know that now.”
For a long time after Rhys fell asleep, Kenna stayed awake, watching him. She would always remember it as one of the most uniquely peaceful nights she spent in his arms.
That memory helped sustain her until the following afternoon when, in the course of three hours, Rhys called her sprite more than a dozen times. He was sitting at the desk, studying some papers, and Kenna was sitting on the desk top, leaning over the very same charts. They were trying to determine the extent of the cargo their schooners could carry as well as a realistic timetable for the run from the Indies to New York and Boston. She set her teeth the first time he had casually dropped the odious nickname, but when it tripped off his tongue again and again she could no longer let it pass. Did he want a wife, a lover, a partner, or a child?
“Approximately once every eleven minutes,” she said, scribbling down a few numbers on a scratch paper. She pushed the paper in front of him.
“That can’t be correct, sprite,” Rhys said good-naturedly. It was not often she made a mistake like that.
Kenna took back the paper, scratched down a few more figures and gave it to him again. “You’re right. Make that closer to every twelve minutes.”
Rhys leaned back in his chair. “Kenna,” he said patiently. “How can we send off a ship every twelve minutes? We’d need a fleet of vessels larger than…well, beyond my imagination anyway.”
Kenna was tapping her fingers on the desk. “I was not referring to our shipping timetable,” she said sweetly. “These calculations are based on one hundred eighty minutes, which is the length of time we’ve been working here, and fifteen, which is the number of times you’ve called me by that preposterous nickname. Have done, Rhys!” She jumped to her feet and walked away from the desk, spun around, arms akimbo. “Do I look like a sprite?” she demanded. “Sprites are small, airy things, impossibly delicate and equally mischievous. Forget I said the last,” she added when she saw a smile tug at his lips. “I am not small, nor am I airy, and above all I am not delicate!” To prove it she stamped her foot against the deck so hard the papers on the desk shuddered.