A Certain Latitude (7 page)

Allen thanked him and tapped on the cabin door. Clarissa was sitting sewing, head bent.

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very kind.”

“It’s a damnable situation,” he said. “As you said, we must make the best of it.” He paused, while concentrating very hard on opening the cask of cider with the minimum of spillage, and pouring some into the two cups Lardy Jack had provided. It was remarkable how difficult everything was when liquids wanted to move in unexpected ways and you didn’t seem to have enough hands—something he’d discovered earlier aiming, with only a fair amount of success, into the chamber-pot.

He handed a cup to her. She drank but refused food.

He was worried, now. She was getting seasick, he was sure of it. She didn’t look well, pale and with dark shadows under her eyes.

“Would you like to lie down?” He asked her. “If you’re getting sick, it might help.”

She shook her head. “As I told you before, I’m not seasick.”

“Good. I put a guinea on you in the stakes with the crew.”

“You—” to his relief she laughed. “I am flung about in all directions when I lie down. I have barely slept and my back hurts.”

Of course. She was so slender, whereas he filled his shelf—he really couldn’t dignify it by calling it a bed—and could wedge himself in.

He stood and grabbed her quilt, folding it. “Lie down, Miss Onslowe. I’ll put this beside you to keep you in place.”

“But you’ll be cold…” Despite her words she lay down with a sigh.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll use my cloak when it’s dried out.” He knelt by her. “Turn over. I’ll rub your back.”

She made a sound as though about to protest, but shifted, and let him put his thumbs on her lower back, where he kneaded and rubbed. A former mistress, who suffered greatly at such times, had shown him what to do.

She was lithe and taut beneath his hands, at first resisting—he could feel how she tensed, mistrusting—but then relaxed, her breathing deep and slow, as she fell into sleep.

He covered her up, tucking the covers around her, and knelt watching her sleep, her hair spilling over the pillow. Her lips were slightly parted as though awaiting a lover’s kiss.

Three days of rough weather followed—not rough enough for the hatches to be battened down, trapping them below, a possibility Clarissa dreaded—but bad enough for them to want to stay dry and relatively warm in the cabin. It was as though her courses dictated the weather, and she understood why sailors traditionally were wary of women aboard ships. Occasionally, she or Allen ventured onto the deck, to return shivering and drenched, or visited the unhappy Blights. Finally, in desperation, she dosed them with brandy and laudanum from Mrs. Blight’s medicine box and hoped she did not kill them.

She found, after the initial embarrassments of sharing such a small space, that she was surprisingly comfortable in Allen Pendale’s presence. They spoke occasionally, and learned to tell the time of day from the changing light and the clang of the ship’s bells. Allen’s watch had stopped some time ago, either suffering from some sort of mechanical seasickness or a dousing with seawater.

Allen produced a bottle of lime juice and insisted she take some, even though it made her mouth pucker. It was, as he pointed out, better than losing her teeth.

She didn’t know when they started to use each other’s Christian names; not often—there was little need for names in a small world where they were the only human inhabitants. She still smiled when she thought of Allen, stark naked, with a musky, salty scent about him, panicked over a mouse. And that particular scent, she realized, was semen. It excited her to think of his surreptitious pleasure. How did he look, had he wanted her to know what he did, or was he ashamed and frantic?

She stopped bleeding; the weather calmed.

“Clarissa?” Allen’s fingers brushed her arm. “Are you awake?”

“Mmm.” She caught his fingers in the dark, thick and strong, slightly rough.

“Shall we take a turn on deck?”

They both began the usual awkward scramble of getting dressed in the dark in the small space. She stood to lace her stays and found that, now, she could sway with the motion of the ship for the most part, as the sailors did, keeping her balance. She pulled her gown over her head and bumped into Allen as he descended from his berth, a brief, clumsy slide, his breath, sweet with cider, warm against her face, the rasp of his cheek on hers.

If either of them had turned their face a fraction, they would have kissed. She would have liked that very much and imagined his lips on hers—not the wet, open-mouthed, carnal greed of their first encounter, but a gentle greeting between strangers who had grown to like each other. She did like him, she realized, for his practicality and kindness, the grace with which he accepted their forced intimacy. He had rubbed her back that first day of her courses as gently as another woman might, soothing her into sleep as she released a few tears of humiliation into her pillow.

“Ready?” His voice interrupted her thoughts.

“My gloves…” She patted her bed.

“Try your cloak pocket.”

Like an old married couple, or brother and sister—neither comparison sat comfortably with her. She eased her cloak onto her shoulders and found her gloves. She bumped into Allen again as he moved to open the door for her, and she looked up to see a square of lighter black studded with pinpricks of light—the night sky. The hatch was open, which meant calmer weather and no chance of heavy seas crashing onto the deck.

The air was freezing, the twinkle of the stars brilliant against the night sky. Behind them, a slight lightening and a pinkish tinge to the sky at the horizon indicated that sunrise was not far off.

“It’s like a miracle,” he said softly into her ear.

Miss Onslowe, Clarissa, you’re a miracle.
Unsettled by the vivid memory of his hand up her skirts, she moved away and took a deep breath of cold, fresh air.

“It smells so clean,” she said.

He laughed. “Probably because I smell so bad.”

“No, you don’t. No worse than me. Besides, I…”
I like your smell
. “Oh, I’d love to wash.”

“Miss Onslowe, I’m devastated. I’ve brought you up to see the sunrise and, far from appreciating the poetic moment, you talk of hot water and soap.” He grinned and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. “I should shave. I think I can do it now without cutting my throat.”

She turned to watch streaks of pink and gray appear in the sky. A gleam of bright copper edged the horizon.

“What happens now?” she asked, hating herself for asking, yet not having the courage to say what she really meant—
what is it between us? I wish I was in love with you—it would make everything so much easier. Instead I like you—I think, sometimes—and lust after you, oh, definitely lust after you, Allen Pendale, and now I don’t know what to do
.

“We have breakfast, you’ll charm hot water from Lardy Jack and charm Peter into carrying it below, and I’ll shave.” He too stared at the sunrise. “The sun rises every day of our lives, yet consider how we take it for granted.”

Her cheeks and nose were pink with cold and, although he told himself a dozen times she was no beauty, nothing out of the ordinary, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Maybe it was the shock of cold air, the splintering brightness of the sunrise, and colors—they had lived in a monochromatic world below, in half darkness, like moles. And the scent of coffee from the galley fired him with an appetite like lust, his mouth watering.

He hardly noticed the pitching of the ship now, could walk as easily as a sailor—Clarissa, too, her hips swaying as she prattled on to Lardy Jack, who grumbled but put on a large kettle of water for her.

“You’re too early for breakfast with the Captain, miss. You can have porridge; poor stuff, it’s what the men eat, but you’re welcome to it if you want to fill your belly.”

“Oh, something hot! Wonderful. You are wonderful, Jack.”

“Get on with you, miss.” Lardy Jack dolloped a large spoonful of grayish, gluey stuff from a large pot over the fire, looked at her and Allen, hesitated and then put two spoons in it. “Save Peter time washing the plates, miss, sir.” He winked, poured coffee into a mug and handed it to Allen. “You don’t mind sharing, I hope.”

“Christ,” Allen muttered, after they’d thanked him and they’d moved out of the constricted space of the galley. “Does everyone know? I’d thought to save your reputation.”

“Of course they know. And I have no reputation.” She took a spoonful of the porridge and sighed with pleasure.

“But they—the sailors—don’t know that.”

“I’m sure Blight knows from talking to his wife. He doesn’t like me, or you.”

“Who gives a damn whether he likes you? I’m concerned about whether he shows you proper respect.” He dug his spoon into the porridge and offered her the coffee.

She handed him the plate of porridge and took the coffee, wrapping her hands around the mug.

“Allen?”

He paused halfway through a sticky, chewy mouthful and gave an encouraging nod.

“About my ruin. I’ve been meaning to speak to you of it.”

Where the devil was this leading? Obviously she was after something. He nodded again, having learned from his legal experience that silent encouragement encouraged a confession better than words.

“Well.” She stared into the coffee. “I’m not
that
ruined.”

Not
that
ruined
? What on earth could she mean? “Miss Onslowe, either you are ruined or not. I believe you are, for you’ve told me as such. You’re exceedingly metaphysical for so early in the morning.”

“I mean that, yes, I am ruined, but I…I know very little.”

He gave a snort of disbelief.

“You don’t understand.” Her voice was pitched a little higher than usual, and she handed him the coffee, fast, so some slopped over the rim of the mug. “I—I spent two nights with my lover. It was—I felt there must be more, and what he did seemed nothing to do with me—and then what you and I did behind the hen coop seemed entirely different, and—”

“You flatter me, Miss Onslowe.” Once again he felt like a fool, hands occupied with the plate and mug, while she spun a series of preposterous riddles. “Have a word with Mrs. Blight when she recovers. I’m sure she’ll provide the lurid details of which you claim to lack knowledge.”

“I’d rather you—”

“What?” His cock hardened so fast, he swore he could feel the blood rush from his head. Did she mean…oh, good God, what was she suggesting?

She, however, seemed ready for a good argument, bright-eyed, alert, and with hands unencumbered by breakfast. “You were of course unspeakably vulgar, but I trust in the future—”

“Unspeakably vulgar? Come, now, Clarissa, that was fucking, not an afternoon call from the vicar—”

“Sssh. You’ll shock the sailors.”

Sure enough a couple of men dropped from the shrouds, touching their forelocks. “Good morning, Miss Onslowe.”

“Good morning, Tom. Good morning, Ebenezer. Is your toothache better?”

“Much, thank you, miss. Good morning, sir. Still in good health, sir? I have my money on you.”

“Good day to you.” Sometimes the haughty demeanor of an Earl’s son was useful, even if he stood with a mostly empty plate, a gob of porridge hanging on the edge and threatening to drop onto his coat. He thrust both plate and mug at one of the sailors. “Take these to the galley, if you please.”

With both hands freed, and once the sailors had walked away, he reached to sort out his shirttails and hopelessly tangled cock.

She smiled. “You’re not indifferent to the idea, then, Mr. Pendale.”

“I’m only human. Of course I’m not indifferent, but I won’t be toyed with.”

“Of course not.” She swallowed. “You really would be doing me a great favor.”

He burst into laughter. “Miss Onslowe, what do you wish to find out?”

She swayed toward him, a seductress, as the rising sun behind her illuminated her bright hair and bathed her in fire. “Everything. Everything you know, Allen.”

“Water’s ready, Miss Onslowe,” Peter said from behind him. The boy staggered under the weight of a wooden tub that his arms barely reached around. Inside the tub a large kettle poured steam into the air.

“Thank you, Peter.” She smiled at Allen and followed the boy belowdecks.

Allen fingered his bristly chin and decided it was definitely time for a shave.

He hadn’t said yes. He didn’t need to, and she knew it.

He borrowed Mr. Johnson’s razor and shaved on deck, using some ugly gray soap that smelled of pigs and barely raised a lather, and a basin of rapidly cooling hot water, his fingers numb with cold. It was the best he could do. He hoped Clarissa would appreciate the effort, and that she would be equally appreciative of the rasp of his bristles against her skin. All over her. His hand shook and he came near to cutting his throat, as he’d predicted.

Belowdecks, he rapped at the cabin door and heard Clarissa bid him enter.

Clad only in her shift, Clarissa stood in the tub of water, combing out her wet hair. He suspected she’d only just put on the shift, as it clung damply to her, her nipples poking out against the worn cotton. She should wear silk on that fine skin.

“You look…you look very clean,” he said.

“I’ll call Peter to take the tub,” she said, smiling shyly at him.

“No. Let me wash. I shaved but I’m dirty.” God, he was turning into a pervert—first the same chamber-pot, now an erotic thrill from sharing her bathwater.

“Certainly.” She stepped away, sat on a box and reached for a towel to dry her feet.

He stripped off with little finesse, not like the other time he’d undressed for her, and she handed him a lump of soap flecked with some herb—lavender, like her sheets. He stepped into the tub, the few inches of water slightly warm and cloudy. He sank to one knee and poured water onto his head with a pewter bowl.

“Wait.” She stepped close to him, cotton brushing his shoulder and poured something cold and fragrant onto his hair.