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
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
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