Read Online A Certain Latitude by Janet Mullany - Free Book Online Page B

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.
    “I can do that,” he said, embarrassed that she was washing him, and then gave himself up to the pleasure of her fingers working through his hair, rubbing his scalp. More lavender, something else…
    “Rosemary and sage,” she said as he sniffed. “And lemon verbena in vinegar. I distilled it last summer.”
    She helped him rinse his hair and then sat on the box, still close enough to touch him if she wished, while he stood and soaped himself. She watched with open interest, particularly when he soaped