A Certain Latitude (2 page)

Her mouth watered.

With his own spoon he dug into the slice on her plate, and offered her the succulent, dripping mouthful as though he were feeding a baby.

Entranced, she parted her lips.

He whispered, “Full of sugar.”

Of course. She was seduced all the same.

Miss Onslowe had had a little too much to drink, Allen thought. Well, they all had, thanks to his Lemarchand’s claret and a bottle of rum Captain Trent had produced at the end of the meal. She ambled onto the deck, a slight smile on her face, her white spinster’s cap glowing in the twilight. The garment aged her ten years and made her plainer than she was. He’d yet to see her with her head uncovered, but why he should want to was a mystery.

He stood still against the mast and lowered his cheroot to his side, so she wouldn’t notice him too soon.

She looked around carefully and removed the linen cap. To his surprise she wore a whorish sort of ribbon—red and silver—in her hair. She removed the ribbon and shook out her hair on to her shoulders, its brightness catching a spark of fire from the setting sun.

He clamped his cheroot between his teeth, sauntered forward and bowed. “Miss Onslowe.”

“Oh!” She grabbed a handful of hair and pulled the offending cap back onto her head. “Good evening, Mr. Pendale.”

“Your servant, ma’am.  Would you care to take a turn on the deck with me?” He offered his arm.

Her look was suspicious. Of course: the reaction of an aging spinster faced with a rake, and she had every right to think ill of his morals. On the other hand, what did she think he could do? Ram her up against the mast?

Not a bad idea. Remember those ankles?
And where did that come from? He must be insane.

“Thank you, no. Goodnight, sir.” She stepped away toward the hatch.

“Miss Onslowe, I must warn you. Mr. and Mrs. Blight are, er, in residence in one of the cabins for an hour or so. Blight asked, and I could not help but agree.”

“Of course. Which cabin is it?”

“I’m not quite sure,” he lied, quite liking the idea of keeping her on deck a little longer.

“Probably yours. Mrs. Blight said ours was smaller.” She marched over to the hatch, and disappeared into the ship.

Allen drew on his cheroot, oddly disappointed that she had left, and gazed upward at the gentle billow of the sail and the moon pale against the darkening sky. The gentle meandering of the day had taken them and their escort of small sailing vessels far enough to escape the Bristol smoke; they had passed through the river’s spectacular gorge some hours ago, and occasional small clusters of golden squares announced the location of farmhouses and villages.

He watched the lights move slowly out of sight and listened to the splash of water and the creak of the ship’s wheel, blew out a puff of rich smoke and wondered exactly how long it would take Blight to perform his marital duties.

Despite her confidence, Clarissa listened carefully and tapped on the door of the cabin before entering. To her relief she found the cabin empty.

Mrs. Blight, she considered vulgar, pretty and, in her way, kind-hearted, although she tried far too hard to simulate gentility. Exactly what kind of a house had she kept? Mr. Blight, lean, with dirty blond hair tied back in a queue, was almost handsome, but there was something about him Clarissa disliked—the set of his mouth, the cynicism in his deep-set dark eyes. He was, she felt, a man who would carry a grudge.

Once in her narrow shelf of a bed—it was only just long enough for her and she wondered how a taller person would fare—she lay for a time in a pleasantly tipsy state. The small space was full of unfamiliar sounds: creaks of huge timbers flexing and pushing against the water, small rustles—the housekeeper in her tut-tutted at the blatant activities of mice and rats—and the slap of water against the outside of the ship, only a few feet away. The ship had seemed large at first, with its two towering masts, and then smaller in comparison to the clippers and barques on the Avon. She wondered how it would feel when they were out of sight of land and vulnerable on the vastness of the sea.

Warned by travelers’ tales, she had brought her own sheets and quilt and a plump feather pillow. She turned her face into the pillow and sniffed the faint odor of lavender; lavender she had picked, rubbing the wheat-like stems between her fingers for the pleasure of the rising scent. Did they grow lavender on the island?

The island
—that was how they referred to their destination, as though it were the only one that mattered, giving it a mystique that reminded her of Prospero’s island in
The Tempest.

She’d have to ask someone, Captain Trent, maybe, about the lavender.

Or Allen Pendale.

Not that he’d know, but they’d have to talk about something for the next few weeks; a polite botanical discussion that might last, oh, a few minutes.

She smiled and let herself think of what had been intruding on her thoughts for most of the day: Allen Pendale. The shock of finding herself beneath him, his warm heavy weight, his legs sprawled over hers. He had smelled of leather and wool, slightly dampened with sweat, beer and tobacco, and some sort of scent—citrus, mixed with something earthier and more pungent—clung to him. And that voice, rich and warm, his large hands—he used them quite a lot when he talked, she’d noticed—and here she was, in a pathetic flutter because a man who wasn’t at all interested in her had pushed her down, flat on her back, and landed on top of her.

A delicious shiver ran through her belly.

Because he thought his mistress’s husband was trying to kill him
, she reminded herself. He’d probably come aboard ship directly from her bed.

Her shift rode up, whispered against her calves.

You’re a fool, Clarissa. The first time a man’s touched you in five years and you’re quivering like a silly virgin
.

And here she was alone, with the luxury of being able to think and remember, and let her mind ramble where it would. First to her Uncle Thelling’s house, where she had picked the lavender on a warm summer’s day abuzz with bees, the scent of crushed marjoram and thyme rising from under her feet. She had been happy then—or at least, she’d had happiness of a sort; Lord Thelling’s housekeeper was respected by the servants, her past forgotten and forgiven by them, at least. She’d had the pleasure of running an efficient and contented household, and the run of a good library.

All that had changed when Thelling had decided not to get up from his bed one morning and was dead a week later. Her cousin, Josiah, who’d inherited the estate and title, took Thelling’s deathbed instruction to look after Clarissa by accepting, on her behalf, this job as governess. She appealed to her father for permission to come home—surely after five years he could forgive her?  She received a cold, brief letter stating that she had made her bed and must lie on it. She was sure he had taken great pleasure in scratching out her name from the family Bible.

Whenever she wished she had had the moral courage to starve instead, she was glad that she had the good sense not to.  But the shame lingered deep inside, pricked at her conscience, even though she knew this was her one chance at redemption.

She thought again about Mr. Pendale’s solidity, his breath on her hair, his weight, the thud of his heart. And his voice; that beautiful resonant voice that reminded her of cream and silver, the richness of ordinary luxuries.

Mr. Pendale: dark and vivid, and very much alive.

Back to Thelling’s house: old-fashioned, dim, and creaky like this ship. Haunted, some of the maids had said, until Clarissa had shamed them out of their giggling terror. The only person who’d haunted that house was its housekeeper, wandering sleepless, late at night, restless with longing and desire.

Desire. Once she’d thought it a blessing; now it was a curse.

She shifted, restless, and her nightgown twisted and slid around her, the creases and seams of the worn linen irritating her skin. She sat, pulled the garment over her head and tossed it aside, her breasts glimmering pale in the darkness.
Such a waste, such a waste
, she thought as she cupped them in her hands. Pretty breasts, or so she’d been told once: small, but shapely. Lovely to see them in the dark like this, glowing like mother of pearl, or opals, or some other precious substance.

If she half-closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back in Thelling’s house, the creaks and rustles of the ship transformed into the sounds of ancient wood and masonry, the sounds you only heard at night when you were alone.

She slid from the sheets and onto her quilt, the pieced fabric slightly scratchy under her buttocks and back. Her body stretched out startlingly white, except for the patch of hair between her thighs, and her nipples appeared dark and strange, as though she were a different, bolder woman.

A bolder woman would slip out of bed and walk barefoot through Thelling’s sleeping house, cold air brushing against her skin, caressing her breasts, her puckered nipples hard beneath her fingers. She might pause at the window and push back the tapestry curtain to receive a splash of moonlight on her belly. Here. And here, running her hand down her body, stroking, parting her thighs, the thatch of hair mysterious and dark, springy. And now, as her finger dipped into her cleft—this bolder, wanton Clarissa, haunting a house she had left forever, where was she? Drifting down passages hung with grave-eyed portraits, rush matting rough under her feet, and then a doorknob, smooth, shiny agate, turning in her hand.

The Blue Room, the pride of the household, where once kings had slept, and a great bed hung with embroidered satin stood. The slight creak of the door as it swung open and the smell of the room: beeswax, the scorch of ironed cotton, wood smoke, lavender and the faint hint of mildew in a room not often used. A log settled on the fire with a low crunch and the warm red glow, seen through the half-open bedchamber door, was a beacon leading her onward.

Would he be asleep? Or waiting for her, his eyes bright and watchful, hot with desire?

I have dreamed of you coming.
That beautiful voice was low and husky with sleep, his skin glowed warm and enticing as he raised himself on one elbow, and held out a hand to her.

How could I resist?
She slid into his bed, opening herself to his touch and taste and weight, letting his hands go where hers were now, doing anything he wanted with her and to her. His touch would be different, harder and rougher—she’d follow his rhythm and open her thighs wide, wide, knees raising, so—

Like this. Like this.
A pulse beat beneath her fingertip, her whole body wrenched into heat and light and all things wonderful and joyous.

By the time Blight’s call came from below, Allen was heartily sick of his vigil on deck and regretted his spontaneous generosity. He blundered down the stairs in the dark, wondering when he would learn not to bash his head at every opportunity, and stumbled into the cabin. Blight lay snoring on the lower berth, already fast asleep, and the room stank of Mrs. Blight’s cheap rose perfume, sweat and the rankness of male and female secretions.

Allen opened the latch of the lantern, blew the candle out and promptly had it swing back onto his head in the pitch-darkness. With only another minor blow to his head, he undressed, climbed aloft, and settled into the linens his sister had insisted he take with him for the voyage.

Allen’s eyes, accustomed now to the darkness, picked out the small gray square of window. He thought about the day, the farewell to Bristol so rudely interrupted by Glenning and his idiotic behavior with Miss Onslowe.

Miss Onslowe. He had enjoyed the prospect of her confronting that fellow Blight and was almost sorry that the Captain had stepped in to soothe ruffled feathers. What a prickly, resentful sort of woman, an aging spinster who probably had missed the chance of marriage and now had to fend for herself—a gentlewoman who now had nothing to lose by giving way to a certain sarcasm and bluntness in her address, although her voice was low-pitched and attractive. The combination of a spinster’s cap and a whorish ribbon in her hair was interesting, too. He wondered if Mrs. Blight, who surely had a colorful past, had given the ribbon to her.

And what a fool he’d made of himself, knocking her to the deck within minutes of their first meeting, and how irate she’d been—quite rightly, too, with some boor of a fellow landing on top of her and squashing her hat. He remembered the way she’d squirmed against him, and then the glimpse of the woolen stocking sagging around her calf, those finely turned ankles…her lips parting, eyes on his, as she’d accepted his peace-offering—or whatever he’d meant by it—of blackberry pie.

Damnation, he was getting aroused, his cock prodding against the sheet; the stink in the cabin, an eloquent reminder of what had recently happened here, did not help at all.

Allen gave a loud cough and shifted to lie on his side with a thump.

Blight snored on.

There were distinct advantages to having a cabin-mate who slept as soundly as this. Allen turned onto his back with a thud and accompanying creaks.

Blight grunted, smacked his lips and resumed snoring.

Miss Onslowe. The image of her flashed into Allen’s mind like an artist’s sketch, of her scooting away from him, revealing her slender leg, the skirt lifting…and lifting… this time to her thighs. He was sure they were pale and slender, supple enough to wrap around him, strong enough to hold him while he arched and spurted. Soft skin on the insides: like velvet, fragrant, awaiting his tongue.

He imagined reaching to free her breasts into his palms and pinch her nipples. He guessed she had rather small breasts, but the Clarissa Onslowe of his imaginings had bigger breasts. And the rest of her body… he hoped that bright head of hair was reflected elsewhere, an invitation to lechery. And her mouth, those pretty lips parted for him—which should he choose?

Here, Miss Onslowe. To sweeten you up
.