Keeping Katerina (The Victorians Book 1)

by Simone Beaudelaire

  They stepped out of the weak February sun into the clipper's shadow, which rose high above them, a black shape of mammoth proportions. Masses of billowing white sails attached to three tall masts topped with colorful pennants rolled and snapped in the breeze, like a toddler dancing and straining on the verge of some coveted adventure. “Come on,” the wind seemed to whisper through the ropes and lines as it set them humming. “Come on,” it whispered through the rustling fabric of sails. “Life awaits us beyond the harbor. Let's go see what we can discover.” The prompt tugged at Katerina's heart. She knew the journey would take over a week, perhaps closer to two depending on the cooperation of the winds. They would hug the coast of Europe, skimming France, Spain, and Portugal before passing the Rock of Gibraltar. From there it was a straight shot across the Mediterranean to Livorno. Perhaps there I can understand how my story began, and why. Though she would never be able to put it into words, she had the strong sensation that knowing how she came to be would help her lay some of her ghosts to rest.

  Joining an endless queue of passengers, they made their slow way up to the ship and then headed to their cabin. A bed extended below the small room's porthole, made up with a deep blue coverlet. Dark wainscoting on the lower walls contrasted with plain white painted plaster above. There was a small built-in table and the matching chair looked to be heavy, which no doubt prevented it from falling over in rough weather. Katerina dropped her bag on the floor inside the door and sank to a seat on the narrow bed.

  “This is much smaller than we're used to,” he said.

  She shrugged. “I don't mind. Most of that space goes unused anyway.”

  He seemed to imagine them twined together, the way they normally slept, and the unspoken thoughts chasing across his face forced her to tug him closer, so they could share a hot deep kiss, twining their tongues sinuously and stroking each other with eager hands.

  “Enough, love,” Christopher told his wife eventually, his breathing uneven, “we should go above decks.”

  “Why?” she sulked, trying to draw his head back down.

  He wriggled out of her grip. “Don't you want to see the ship leave the harbor?”

  “Oh, I suppose.” She sighed. It isn't as obvious an answer as one would think.

  “We have many nights to spend in this cabin,” he reminded her.

  “True. One more kiss, and then we'll go up.”

  Christopher acquiesced, perhaps too willingly. By the time they emerged on deck, so many minutes had passed that all the spots along the rail were full. Thankfully Katerina was tall enough to be able to look over the heads of a passel of red-haired children and see the departure. The sunlight touched her face, a hint of warmth in the chill of deep winter. She took another deep breath. Though still cold, the sky looked less ominous, the gray lightening to almost a friendly silver. Reminds me of my husband's eyes. Fat billows of clouds, pure white and clean, meandered slowly across the heavens, so unlike the smoggy haze that hung perpetually over London. This place was fresher, and in it she felt cleaner and lighter. I'm leaving England for the first time in my life, and there's no telling what this trip to Italy will bring. She waved to strangers across the steely gray water for a long time, and then land disappeared from view and the vast ocean stretched before them. Behind them, a lone storm cloud floated ominously on the horizon.

  * * *

  They couldn't see him, but Giovanni Valentino stood on the docks, cursing vilely. He had attempted to snatch his daughter away in the crowd but had not managed it. A horde of urchins had rushed between him and his prey, hurrying to find a good position from which to watch the ship leave the harbor, and by the time the group had passed, she was out of reach. This isn't over, puttana. I'll get you one day, and when I do, you'll rue the day you thwarted me.

  Chapter 15

  In planning this trip, Katerina had failed to take one serious concern into consideration: seasickness. The motion of the boat made her nauseous, and she was sick often, gagging and retching at odd moments. Unpleasant as this was though, it only affected her during the day, when she was upright. As soon as she stretched out in the bed, it abated, and an entirely different sensation took her over.

  Night after night found her pressed, purring against her husband, begging him to make love to her. Christopher was hardly going to refuse, and they passed the evenings at sea pleasurably engaged in learning each other's favorite sensations. Katerina was so aroused, so eager, that Christopher was able to teach her techniques he had feared she would never try. Who would have guessed her shattered heart could learn to trust at all, let alone so quickly? It humbles me. It also delighted him. Growing up as isolated as she had, Katerina had never been exposed to anyone's attitudes about sex and was completely without reservation. If Christopher told her something was good, she believed him, and if it sounded appealing to her too, they tried it. Only three nights into their trip found her crouched over him, his hands tangled in her hair as he taught her to use her mouth on his erection.

  “Good, love. That's good,” he groaned. “Just keep your teeth back. Other than that, be creative… oh, that's a good spot.”

  She reared back a little. “This is very nice,” she told him before opening and taking him in as deeply as she could.

  Christopher's reply wasn't exactly formed of coherent words. He let her play with him, exploring and teasing, until he was on the brink of exploding. It took every ounce of his willpower to slide past her warm clinging lips and press her down onto the bed.

  “Your turn,” he said, but he'd waited too long. His body clamoring for release, he ran his hand down the center of her body. She opened her thighs and he touched her. Thank God, she's drenched and ready. He rammed his sex home in one hard stroke.

  * * *

  Katerina's eyes opened wide at the rough entry. It hadn't hurt exactly, but where was the tender lover who had eased into her so sweetly night after night? He pulled back and drove deep again and this time she understood. He's wild with desire… for me. He wants me so badly he lost control. She bit her lip to hold in a flattered smile. This sophisticated, worldly man desires me this much. Me! Though she wanted to deny the possibility, such ample evidence made the conclusion obvious. She relaxed and lay passive against the passionate onslaught. The third hard thrust made her tingle. The fourth made her bite her lip and moan. The fifth sizzled like fire. One more was all it took, and Katerina screamed as a soul-deep orgasm crashed over her. It was fortunate she arrived so quickly because Christopher had only one more thrust in him, devastatingly hard, desperately deep, while she squirmed and clenched around him. He exploded with a roar.

  * * *

  As Christopher's awareness slowly returned, he noticed Katerina's strong, nimble hands stroking up and down on his back. He opened his eyes, concerned. She's still so new at lovemaking, so tight and innocent inside, and that was no way to take a lady. I hope I didn't hurt her.

  He needn't have worried. Her dark eyes glowed with satisfaction and amusement. “Are you all right?” he asked, still not quite certain.

  “Yes, darling. It was exquisite.” She touched his face as though to reassure him.

  “Really? I didn't hurt you?” he pressed.

  “No. Well, I might be feeling this one tomorrow… or next week, but I'm not hurt. It was lovely.” She giggled.

  “What?” he asked, relieved to see her smile and hear her laugh.

  “Now I know your secret,” she teased.

  “What's that?” he asked. If she's joking, she must be fine.

  “Underneath the proper middle-class gentleman lurks a wild man just awaiting the proper invitation.” She wrinkled her nose at him. He kissed the tip.

  “Love, that's no secret. All men are like that. Gentlemanly behavior is learned, not innate.”

  “I see.”

  “I'm surprised you're taking it so well, that you weren't frightened,” he commented idly tracing his fingertips over the swell of her breast.

  “Not at all. You weren
't angry. You were loving me. It's a vast difference.” She leaned into his touch.

  “Ah, I see.” He withdrew gently from her body, covered them both with the blankets and pulled her close for a long good-night kiss that rewarded her sweetly for her courage and for her honest, uninhibited sexuality. Being married is so much better than I expected, he reflected as her slender body relaxed in his arms. She's so brave, so unutterably sweet. How she had escaped her childhood with her tenderness and affection and sense of humor intact baffled him. Day after day, as he tried to help her heal, he was rewarded with an outpouring of the best of a woman's heart. It's close to love already. So close. He wasn't sure if she would recognize it in herself, but he did. And as for Christopher, he had been hovering on the brink for days. Tonight had tipped the scales. Any woman who could take a rough loving like that and emerge smiling was worth her weight in gold. I love her. I really do. I love my wife. It felt wonderful. He kissed her forehead and slowly drifted to sleep, amazed by the unexpected beauty of their relationship.

  * * *

  All told, the voyage took nine more days. They were fortunate. The winds hurried the vessel along but only turned once into a storm. That had been a difficult night for Christopher's poor seasick wife, but at last they sailed smoothly into the port of Livorno and within a short space of time emerged down the gangplank over the glistening turquoise waters of the Mediterranean and onto solid ground.

  “I quite understand why some travelers kiss the earth after a sea voyage,” Katerina told her husband fervently. “The thought of doing this again makes me feel faint.”

  “It won't be soon,” he reminded her, “we'll be here until the middle of March.”

  “Thank heaven. You know, it's only a little warmer here than in England.” She snuggled deeper into her shawl.

  “You're right,” he agreed. “I suppose winter is winter.”

  “I suppose, and this is not the southernmost part of Italy either,” she said. Though the words sounded calm, her insides fluttered at the sight of such un-English looking buildings, brightly colored and clustered close, one behind the other, to the top of a hill. Boats large and small bobbed in the harbor behind them, awaiting their next adventure on the Mediterranean. Though far from warm, the light that trickled down on them seemed stronger than anything she could recall, as though this more southerly climate lent it power. It kissed her face in a teasing way.

  “True,” Christopher said, shaking her from her reverie. “Well, love, are you feeling courageous?”

  Something about this place spoke to her enough that she felt able to respond, “Perhaps. Why?”

  “I don't speak Italian,” Christopher reminded her. “If we're going to get anywhere, it will be up to you to handle the conversations.”

  “Oh, that's right.” Shyness made her squirm, but she steeled herself against it. “I think I can manage.”

  Last month she would not have been able, she knew, but Christopher was like the Italian sun, all warmth and life-giving brightness, and in his arms, she was blossoming like a spring flower. It had taken no time at all for the affection and gratitude of their wedding day to deepen and strengthen. This… thing she felt would be good for their lifetime, and she looked forward to exploring it every day.

  He hailed a cab and she arranged for it to take them to the train station. The driver, a man on the verge between middle aged and elderly, quickly loaded the baggage and the couple took a seat inside, and then stared out the window at the sight of their first Italian town. How different this was from London; colorful and sun-drenched, the winter sky a dazzling blue.

  Behind a marble counter, a young man with curly sideburns and a few pimples sprinkling his cheeks regarded her with a bored expression.

  Katerina took a deep breath and requested in Italian, “Two tickets to Firenze, please.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I thought you were English.”

  It wasn't his business, so Katerina ignored the comment. “When does the train leave?”

  “Two hours,” he replied, sulking that his nosiness had been rebuffed. He collected her money and sent her on her way.

  Katerina regaled her husband with the account as they walked to a little restaurant whose façade was covered in creamy plaster. They sat outside at a little wrought-iron table, enjoying the scenery of the golden stone buildings with their bright red roofs. The aroma of roasted garlic washed over them. The bowls of soup they devoured were perfectly suited to counter the chill of the wind, though Christopher's puzzled expression showed he found the taste strange. He seemed to prefer the accompanying triangles of flat bread soaked in the best olive oil. Katerina found the food comforting. Her parents' original cook, who had left after her mother's death, had come with them from Italy, and this tasty concoction of vegetables and white beans recalled a childhood that felt… better than her adolescence, though still tense and filled with uncertainty.

  They made that simple lunch last a long time, busily examining the square.

  “You look happy, love,” Christopher told his wife.

  “I think I am,” she replied.

  “Not sure?” He regarded her quizzically.

  “Well, I have a good feeling,” she said, trying to explain what she didn't understand fully herself. “If this is happy, then yes. I am. Something about this place speaks to me, though I've never been here before. I'm so glad to be exploring it, and having you here makes it best of all.”

  “How sweet.” He captured her hand and kissed the knuckles. “Thank you, love. This is quite an adventure for a staunch British sort like me.”

  “Ha,” she replied. “In a bygone generation you would have gone to sea as a privateer.”

  Christopher's eyebrows drew together. “Why do you say so?”

  “I don't exactly know,” she replied, smoothing an errant strand of dark brown hair from his face. “You wear the trappings of a middle-class gentleman, but there's a wild romantic adventurer in your soul. I mean, just look at what you did for me.”

  His lips turned up in a half smile and he shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps. At any rate, I'm glad to be here with you as well.” He stroked her fingers. She trailed them over his cheek. “Well, sweet girl, shall we go back to the station and await our train?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  * * *

  The train ride to Florence took a little longer than their previous one, and full dark had closed in by the time they arrived at the station. The couple emerged and were immediately set upon by an Italian gentleman. He appeared about sixty years of age, but in robust health, with gleaming white hair that contrasted with his bushy black eyebrows.

  “Katerina?” He bore down on her with the lumbering gate of a water buffalo.

  “Sì.” She gave her husband a worried glance. He laced his fingers through hers.

  What followed was a conversation in lilting Italian of which Christopher could understand nothing. His years studying French provided little help because the sounds of the languages were so different.

  Then the gentleman dragged his wife into a tight embrace, squashing her. She beamed. “Christopher, this is my nonno, my grandfather.”

  Christopher reached out and shook hands with the other man. Katerina's nonno had a powerful grip. Here is another man who works with his hands. Christopher squeezed back, not to challenge the old lion, but to prove he was no dandy. The bushy black eyebrows shot up and then an unrestrained grin broke across the tan and wrinkled face.

  “Nonno, this is my husband, Christopher Bennett,” Katerina said as they released each other, seemingly unaware of the silent assessment passing between the men.

  “Pleased to meet you, signore, I am Alessandro Bianchi. Katerina's mother was my daughter.” Despite his heavy accent, Christopher could understand him easily enough.

  “A pleasure, sir. I've been looking forward to meeting the rest of my wife's family. I admit, I wasn't impressed with her father.” He compressed his lips in contempt.

  “B
astardo,” Alessandro muttered under his breath. The meaning was obvious even to Christopher, and Katerina blushed and giggled. “Step into my carriage, and let's head home. It's quite a drive and there is a lovely hot dinner waiting for us.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Christopher assented. “We've had nothing since a bowl of soup in Livorno, and I don't know about my wife, but to me a hot meal sounds very promising.”

  “Yes, I agree,” she seconded. “Thank you, Nonno.”

  He nodded in acknowledgement and sent them up into the carriage. Once everyone was comfortably seated, Alessandro took up the conversation again. “So, Signor Bennett, what do you do?”

  “My father owns a cotton mill. We make fabric,” Christopher replied, slipping his arm behind his wife's back.

  “Cotton mill?” The bushy eyebrows came together in an unmistakable expression of disapproval.

  “No, Nonno, not that kind of mill,” Katerina defended her husband. “Christopher and his father run a progressive mill. They have safeguards for the employees and pay decent wages. They do everything they can to make their mill a pleasant place to work. They're so generous that some social reformers won't buy fabric from anyone else.”

  The busy brows returned to their normal position. “Ah, I see. Well then, Mr. Bennett, I suppose you know where I can get good quality cotton fabric?”

  “I think that can be arranged,” he agreed. Exporting to Italy. Now that would be new. I wonder what Father would think of the opportunity.

  “Do you offer a family discount?” Alessando asked with a sly smirk.

  Christopher grinned. “Perhaps. I'll have to talk to my father, but it seems likely.”

  “Buono,” Alessando replied, leaning back against blue velvet upholstery.

  “And you, sir?” Christopher asked to continue the conversation.

  “Our family has owned a large olive grove for generations. We export oil all over the world. We also have a small vineyard. It's not as expansive as the orchard, but we make a good amount of wine which the people of Firenze buy for restaurants, and for our family to use. Would you be interested in a glass with your dinner?”