quarters. It smelled even worse than before, and she realized the mother and daughter near their hammocks were both seasick now and the stench came from the bucket of vomit between them.
Dear God, how disgusting. She closed her nose, breathing through her mouth to keep from retching herself. Spreading Jean-Claude’s cloak on the floor, she curled up on it, closing her eyes to pretend she was somewhere else. Except she was not somewhere else. She lay in the stinking belly of a packet ship with a throbbing backside and no semblance of pride. Her gay vision of Louisiana seemed so remote now. How would she even survive the passage?
She felt grateful for Jean-Claude, despite his brutish ways. He was on her side, and considering he was the only one, it was something to be valued.
Tears smarted her eyes and leaked out down her nose. She sniffed. She heard the creak of wood behind her but did not turn around, not wanting Jean-Claude to see her crying, if it was him. To her surprise, she felt him nestle his body behind hers, curling his long form around her as he had done on the nights she was cold in the forest.
She sniffed again, the tears falling more rapidly. He wrapped an arm around her and brushed at her cheeks with his fingers.
“I still hate you,” she choked, interlacing her fingers over the tops of his and drawing his hand into her chest.
“I accept it,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her hair. She shivered at the gesture, a creeping of heat warming her neck with the sudden awareness of the way their fingers tangled together. Her breath grew short.
“Corinne.”
“Yes?”
“This floor is filthy, and I think I hear rats.”
She scrambled up to her feet with a shriek.
He chuckled and followed her to standing. “Why not give the hammock another try?”
Because I enjoyed lying next to you.
She drew in a breath. “Do you think it could hold two people?” she asked, her heart hammering in her chest. She did not dare look at Jean-Claude, but she sensed he stopped breathing.
“I think it might,” he said in a strangled voice. He stretched out his hammock and swung into it with grace, then opened his arms.
For some ridiculous reason, she began to cry again as she stumbled forward. He caught her up and pulled her on top of his body, her back to his belly, his arms around her. She shifted and wiggled until her hips turned to the side and nestled against him, one leg draped over his, her head on his shoulder.
“I am not really crying,” she said, her tears wetting his shirt.
“I know,” he murmured, wiping her cheek with his thumb.
He did not say another word, just held her as she sniffled, the trickle of tears seeming endless until they built enough steam and she broke into a sob, her entire body shaking against his.
“I am sorry,” he murmured.
She knew, somehow, he meant he was sorry for the entire situation, not for his role in it. Because he had done the only thing he could have done.
* * *
The agony of being so close to Corinne and not having her was a delicious torture. He spent the night listening to the beat of her heart and the rhythm of her breath, treasuring the feel of her small form nestled so snugly against his long one. She slept deeply, and it pleased him to be able to offer her some comfort.
In the morning, they woke to the sounds of vomiting. The girl and her mother who bunked near them both were green with seasickness. Corinne’s own face turned pale at the smell, her expression pure disgust.
The girl threw up again and began to cry as if her heart would break. She was covered in her own vomit, and her mother, who lay groaning beside her, was no help. Corinne surprised him by going to her.
“Come here. It will be all right. I will help you clean up. Of course that smell would make you sick again. Follow me.”
She led the sobbing child up the stairs to the deck, and he trailed behind, touched by Corinne’s compassion.
“Just being in the fresh air will
Dear God, how disgusting. She closed her nose, breathing through her mouth to keep from retching herself. Spreading Jean-Claude’s cloak on the floor, she curled up on it, closing her eyes to pretend she was somewhere else. Except she was not somewhere else. She lay in the stinking belly of a packet ship with a throbbing backside and no semblance of pride. Her gay vision of Louisiana seemed so remote now. How would she even survive the passage?
She felt grateful for Jean-Claude, despite his brutish ways. He was on her side, and considering he was the only one, it was something to be valued.
Tears smarted her eyes and leaked out down her nose. She sniffed. She heard the creak of wood behind her but did not turn around, not wanting Jean-Claude to see her crying, if it was him. To her surprise, she felt him nestle his body behind hers, curling his long form around her as he had done on the nights she was cold in the forest.
She sniffed again, the tears falling more rapidly. He wrapped an arm around her and brushed at her cheeks with his fingers.
“I still hate you,” she choked, interlacing her fingers over the tops of his and drawing his hand into her chest.
“I accept it,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her hair. She shivered at the gesture, a creeping of heat warming her neck with the sudden awareness of the way their fingers tangled together. Her breath grew short.
“Corinne.”
“Yes?”
“This floor is filthy, and I think I hear rats.”
She scrambled up to her feet with a shriek.
He chuckled and followed her to standing. “Why not give the hammock another try?”
Because I enjoyed lying next to you.
She drew in a breath. “Do you think it could hold two people?” she asked, her heart hammering in her chest. She did not dare look at Jean-Claude, but she sensed he stopped breathing.
“I think it might,” he said in a strangled voice. He stretched out his hammock and swung into it with grace, then opened his arms.
For some ridiculous reason, she began to cry again as she stumbled forward. He caught her up and pulled her on top of his body, her back to his belly, his arms around her. She shifted and wiggled until her hips turned to the side and nestled against him, one leg draped over his, her head on his shoulder.
“I am not really crying,” she said, her tears wetting his shirt.
“I know,” he murmured, wiping her cheek with his thumb.
He did not say another word, just held her as she sniffled, the trickle of tears seeming endless until they built enough steam and she broke into a sob, her entire body shaking against his.
“I am sorry,” he murmured.
She knew, somehow, he meant he was sorry for the entire situation, not for his role in it. Because he had done the only thing he could have done.
* * *
The agony of being so close to Corinne and not having her was a delicious torture. He spent the night listening to the beat of her heart and the rhythm of her breath, treasuring the feel of her small form nestled so snugly against his long one. She slept deeply, and it pleased him to be able to offer her some comfort.
In the morning, they woke to the sounds of vomiting. The girl and her mother who bunked near them both were green with seasickness. Corinne’s own face turned pale at the smell, her expression pure disgust.
The girl threw up again and began to cry as if her heart would break. She was covered in her own vomit, and her mother, who lay groaning beside her, was no help. Corinne surprised him by going to her.
“Come here. It will be all right. I will help you clean up. Of course that smell would make you sick again. Follow me.”
She led the sobbing child up the stairs to the deck, and he trailed behind, touched by Corinne’s compassion.
“Just being in the fresh air will
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