Gregory, Lisa (28 page)

Almost
immediately, Matthew regretted what he had done. Had he gone on, made love to
her, he would have made a large breach in her defenses, as well as bringing
himself great pleasure. But because of his damnable temper, he had humiliated
her once again. Perhaps it had been a step in proving to her his dominance over
her. However, he knew her well enough to know that it would harden her stubborn
determination to oppose him, to refuse to give in to her desires. If he hadn't
lost his temper, he might have been able to win her over then and there. Now he
was in for a harsh, bitter struggle; he would have to steel himself to be hard
and prepare himself to take her barbs and silences. He sighed and leaned
against the railing; to win her he was going to have to curb his temper.

The
wind was with them and the
Susan Harper
slipped swiftly across the waves
toward London. Katherine's and Matthew's private lives did not pass so
smoothly. She maintained a furious silence, speaking only when it was
absolutely necessary. He, nettled by her stony silences and barbed comments,
found it very difficult to keep his temper in check. She could make him angrier
faster than any woman he had ever known.

If
their days were a field of battle, their nights were more so. He made love to
her frequently; he was amazed that his desire for her seemed to increase daily,
rather than lessening as it usually did. No matter how many times he took her,
he never felt completely satisfied. It was because he never completely
possessed her, he decided. Always she lay still and stiff beneath him, no
matter how he battered at her senses. He varied his approach, hoping that the
uncertainty caused by changes would help crack her defenses. Sometimes he was
rough with her, at other times as gentle as if she were a sixteen-year-old
virgin. Now and then coldly businesslike, almost as if she were a chore. Often
he took care with her, assiduously stoking the fires within her, using every
trick that experience had taught him sent shock waves of desire through
females.

Only
once did she break her silence. She had cursed him roundly, using words she had
picked up from his men. His rage dissolved. He drew her into his arms and onto
the bed. "My little lioness," he said fondly, rubbing his cheek
against her hair. "Do you have any idea what half those words mean?"
Her huffy silence told him she didn't. "Shall I tell you?" She
blushed as he told her, but listened curiously. Soon the topic at hand, and the
feel of her soft body curled against him, made him feel desire for her steal
through him again. Gently, slowly, he began to kiss her, losing himself in the
warm sweetness of her mouth. Although he could not be sure, he thought he heard
a whimper of pleasure escape her throat. Except for that one time, however, he
elicited no response from her. Daily the tension increased in him.

Neither
was Katherine immune to the tension and frustration that pervaded their
relationship. Though she managed to keep herself from responding to him, it
took all her will and kept her irritable and constantly yearning in a way she
could not understand or explain. He was an expert lover, and his hands set her
on fire in ways she had never suspected existed. Mentally she recited all the
poetry she could remember, mathematical equations, genealogies of royal houses;
she walked through the streets of Boston, took inventory of her linen closet
and pantry. Anything to keep her mind off what he was doing to her.

Shamefacedly
she discovered that her pulse began to race as bedtime neared; that sometimes,
looking at him seated at his desk, she longed to go to him; that she daydreamed
that he came to her to beg her to forgive him and marry him. Of course, in her
dream she coolly refused him (at which he vowed to blow his brains out), but
still she wondered what it would be like to be married to him, to be able to give
in to the feelings he evoked in her.

It
was hard, too, to maintain silence with him. She missed her conversations with
her father, with Lieutenant Perkins, with Pegeen, even with Aunt Amelia. It had
been very interesting talking to him the day of the battle; she would have
enjoyed discussing such things more with him. Perhaps she could even persuade
him to explain the intricacies of navigation and charts and graphs. Moreover,
she was very curious about him; she would have liked to ask him questions about
his home, his family, his former life. Often she thought of things she would
like to tell him and visualized how she would make him laugh with stories of
her aunts. The long evenings were dull without conversation: he worked at his
desk and she read. The time dragged by, and all the while she brimmed with
things she wanted to talk about.

The
days were not so bad. Though she would have liked a little needlework to do,
she passed her time rather pleasantly, tidying up the cabin, reading, and
playing chess with Dr. Rackingham. She took several walks around deck every
day, either with the doctor or alone. Now and then Ensign Fortner joined her on
her strolls and enlivened the time with his cheerful exuberance. She visited
the men, at first to see her mending patients, but as time went on, to write
letters for them or to bring some comfort to one who was ill. Peljo for some
reason had become attached to her and was usually her self-appointed guardian
on these visits. He also decided that it was necessary to give her some
instruction in the art of using a knife. Although he assured her that he or the
captain would always be there to protect her, he thought knowing a little about
self-defense a wise precaution. Sailors tended to be a rough lot, he said, and
the docks and wharves were wild places. One never knew when something might
happen. He showed her where to thrust to go between the ribs and into the heart
or lungs, how to go in under the ribs and plunge upward, the way to attack from
front, side, or rear, and the art of thrusting a knife downward at the base of
the neck, avoiding the collarbone. Daily she practiced on a dummy Peljo fixed
up for her, and she progressed so rapidly that he soon increased her
instructions to include knife throwing. Katherine found to her surprise that
she enjoyed it. She had always been eager to learn new things, to perform well,
and this appealed to her especially because it seemed exciting, something her
femininity had always blocked her from doing. When they reached London, Peljo promised,
he would buy a knife for her, one in a little scabbard that could be strapped
to her arm and concealed beneath her sleeve.

Katherine
smiled at that. Apparently it never occurred to him that she might use such a
knife against his captain. Or that she would not sail with them from London. He
must think that she and Hampton loved each other—or at least liked one another
and enjoyed their relationship. No doubt he thought that, like other women, she
had succumbed to the Southerner's lazy good looks and his expertise in bed.
Well, she was made of sterner stuff.

Katherine
awoke in the dead of night. Something was wrong. For a moment, she lay quietly,
listening to Matthew's steady breathing. What had awakened her? Then she
realized: the rhythm of the ship was altered; the pitch and roll of the ship,
to which she had become accustomed, had suddenly grown stronger, more violent.
There must be a storm approaching. Just as she decided that, there was a loud
knock at the door.

"Cap'n!
Wind's up."

Hampton
opened his eyes and said quietly, "Damn."

"Cap'n!"
The voice sounded again. "There's a storm brewing."

"Yes,
I'll be there in a minute," Hampton called, sitting up and sliding from
the bed in one fluid motion. He dressed quickly, muttering to himself, "Damn
North Atlantic storm is all I need."

"Captain?"
Katherine said sleepily, struggling to sit up.

"Go
back to sleep, Katherine. It's just a storm."

"Just
a storm," she repeated derisively.

He
smiled briefly. "All right, so you've heard about North Atlantic storms.
But not even you, my dear, could command the waters to be still. So I suggest
you try to get some rest—you may need it later."

"All
right." She yawned lazily.

He
opened the door; an icy blast swirled into the room. Katherine snuggled down
deeper into the covers, edging into the warm spot left by Matthew's body. She
felt very snug and secure, shut away from cold and wet and wind. Matthew would
take care of it, she told herself groggily, then slipped pleasantly back into
sleep.

When
she woke up the next morning, the roll of the ship had greatly increased. She
had difficulty keeping her balance enough to climb out of bed and get dressed.
It was even more difficult to choke down her cold and soggy breakfast, the way
her stomach was swaying with the ship.

"It's
bad outside, miss," Peljo informed her, for once without his usual grin.
"Captain says you're to stay in here."

Katherine
could not find the heart to protest; she had no desire to go up on the pitching
deck. After Peljo left, she spent the day attempting to control her wretched
stomach. Sternly she reminded herself that she was not some ordinary frightened
landlubber. She had grown up around ships, had sailed many times, and never
once had she been seasick. (She ignored the fact that never before had she
sailed the mid-Atlantic, her longest trip having been from Boston to
Philadelphia.)

Lunch
was never brought down, but she did not notice its absence. The only things she
did notice besides her stomach were the lashing of the rain, the wind whipping
around the vessel, the agonized groans of the ship as it tossed about in the
sea. Katherine huddled on her bed in terror. The elements were an awesome
enemy. There was so little one could do to save oneself, and nothing one could
do to defeat them. Incoherently she mumbled prayers.

"Don't
punish him for his wickedness; don't kill us all. Don't let the ship break up.
Make it strong enough to withstand the storm. Forgive me. Forgive me. I have
sinned; I am in sin. But please don't let it capsize; please let him pull us
through."

She
lost all track of time. Once Hampton came in, soaked and weary, to gulp down
some food. She could barely raise her head to ask how they were doing. He
tersely replied that he did not know yet, that the gale still blew strong as ever.

"Please
save us," she whispered, and he smiled briefly.

"I'll
try."

"I
have never been so scared."

"I'm
sorry." He came to the bed and looked down at her, curled up into a tight
ball, her face deathly pale. "I shall do my best to keep anything from harming
you."

"God
is punishing us."

"Don't
be absurd, Katherine. And don't work yourself up into a lather." He bent
and brushed his lips against her forehead. "What kind of a God is it that
would kill you and a whole crew of men, just to punish me? Do you want me to
send the doctor to you?"

"No;
it's only
mal-de-mer.
I'll try to pull myself together." She forced
herself to assume a more normal air. "Shouldn't you rest? You look
dreadfully tired."

"No.
I can't take the time now. I have to leave. Try to eat something, you'll feel
better."

The
terrible pounding of the ship continued. The
Susan Harper
lurched
sickeningly from side to side, threatening to break up and fall apart under the
pressure of the huge waves. Katherine fell into a semisleep, often waking,
always aware of the constant noise and tossing of the helpless ship.

Gradually
the storm began to abate, so slowly that Katherine did not notice, but was
lulled into a deeper sleep. She didn't awaken until Hampton came into the
cabin.

"What
is it?" she said groggily, trying to collect her wits.

"I
think we've made it," he replied, his voice heavy with exhaustion.
"The wind has died and the waves have gone down. It's still raining hard
as hell and we have been blown off course. But I think we're safe."

She
sat up and a joyful smile lit her face. He was right. The awful noise was gone
and the rolling much less. He had brought them through safely. Thank God he was
so skillful!

He
took off his slicker. Even beneath his slicker, his clothes were soaked.
Katherine saw that they were also stiff with ice particles.