breasts.
He yanked the sailor’s arm out of her dress and gave her a shove out of the way so that he could smash his fist into the man’s face. He recognized him—it was the same sailor who had molested Corinne on her first day on the ship.
The sailor was not too drunk to fight, instantly tackling him and taking him to the floor. He dodged a fist in the face but lost his breath when the other fist collided with his ribcage. He bucked the sailor off and rolled like a log, springing to his feet.
A tight circle of sailors formed around the two of them.
“Stop them!” he heard Corinne scream and caught movement of her tugging at Moreau’s arm. “Why do you not stop them?”
The second’s distraction nearly cost him his teeth, but he just missed the flying fist and landed his own punch in the sailor’s gut.
The men cheered and he heard the sound of bets being made and collected. He threw his weight into the sailor, taking another blow to the gut but toppling the two to the deck, where he landed another fist in the man’s face. They rolled and wrestled, fists flying, more blows landing than missing. He took a particularly hard one in the same spot on his ribs, and his vision turned black. When it returned, he was still standing—by the grace of God and too much liquor on his opponent’s part. He wondered, briefly, if this would be a fight to the death. Just as humiliating Corinne was a form of entertainment to the captain, so it seemed were fights on La Rose .
* * *
“Stop them!” she screamed at the infuriating captain. Jean-Claude grew increasingly bloody, and the focus had left his eyes. Each time he stood, he swayed on his feet as if he saw double.
Moreau ignored her, cheering with the rest of the rabble.
“He will die! One of them will die! You must stop this madness!”
The sailor took another blow to his face and toppled to the ground. For a moment he did not rise, and the crowd yelled and chanted to urge him back to fight. She prayed he would not rise, that this despicable display would end. She prayed Jean-Claude would survive.
The sailor lifted his head and she groaned. He scrambled to his knees but struggled to rise to his feet. Jean-Claude marched forward and struck him again in the face. The man toppled backward, eyes closed.
The crowd began to count, “1… 2… 3… 4…”
What was this, some kind of game?
They stopped when they reached ten, and then someone grabbed Jean-Claude’s arm and waved it in the air, declaring him winner of the brawl.
Jean-Claude promptly dropped to his own knees.
She faced Moreau and swung her hand to slap his face. He was too quick for her, catching her wrist and yanking her against his torso, so she met him, nose to nose. “Not on my ship, cherie .” He bellowed over the top of her head, “Take them both to the medic cabin!”
Medic cabin. What a relief—she had not known such a thing existed. Two sailors grabbed Jean-Claude under the arms and hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him in the direction of the aft cabins. She trailed behind.
They dropped him on a cot, where she knelt beside him, using the skirt of her dress to wipe the blood from his face.
The medic handed her a damp cloth. “Use this.”
She cleaned up his face and slid his shirt up, revealing the contoured lines of his muscular abdomen and the already swelling red marks on his ribs.
The medic treated the sailor, not showing much concern over either man. She feared fights were a regular occurrence on La Rose .
Jean-Claude did not attempt to speak. At times his eyes opened and followed her; other times he sank back into unconsciousness.
She knew he would live, yet her body shook, her outrage producing hot tears, which she blinked back. The medic gave him laudanum for the pain since he did not “seem as drunk as the other one.” She was grateful for it. She stayed by his side, squeezing beside him on the small cot to pass the night.
The laudanum took effect quickly,
He yanked the sailor’s arm out of her dress and gave her a shove out of the way so that he could smash his fist into the man’s face. He recognized him—it was the same sailor who had molested Corinne on her first day on the ship.
The sailor was not too drunk to fight, instantly tackling him and taking him to the floor. He dodged a fist in the face but lost his breath when the other fist collided with his ribcage. He bucked the sailor off and rolled like a log, springing to his feet.
A tight circle of sailors formed around the two of them.
“Stop them!” he heard Corinne scream and caught movement of her tugging at Moreau’s arm. “Why do you not stop them?”
The second’s distraction nearly cost him his teeth, but he just missed the flying fist and landed his own punch in the sailor’s gut.
The men cheered and he heard the sound of bets being made and collected. He threw his weight into the sailor, taking another blow to the gut but toppling the two to the deck, where he landed another fist in the man’s face. They rolled and wrestled, fists flying, more blows landing than missing. He took a particularly hard one in the same spot on his ribs, and his vision turned black. When it returned, he was still standing—by the grace of God and too much liquor on his opponent’s part. He wondered, briefly, if this would be a fight to the death. Just as humiliating Corinne was a form of entertainment to the captain, so it seemed were fights on La Rose .
* * *
“Stop them!” she screamed at the infuriating captain. Jean-Claude grew increasingly bloody, and the focus had left his eyes. Each time he stood, he swayed on his feet as if he saw double.
Moreau ignored her, cheering with the rest of the rabble.
“He will die! One of them will die! You must stop this madness!”
The sailor took another blow to his face and toppled to the ground. For a moment he did not rise, and the crowd yelled and chanted to urge him back to fight. She prayed he would not rise, that this despicable display would end. She prayed Jean-Claude would survive.
The sailor lifted his head and she groaned. He scrambled to his knees but struggled to rise to his feet. Jean-Claude marched forward and struck him again in the face. The man toppled backward, eyes closed.
The crowd began to count, “1… 2… 3… 4…”
What was this, some kind of game?
They stopped when they reached ten, and then someone grabbed Jean-Claude’s arm and waved it in the air, declaring him winner of the brawl.
Jean-Claude promptly dropped to his own knees.
She faced Moreau and swung her hand to slap his face. He was too quick for her, catching her wrist and yanking her against his torso, so she met him, nose to nose. “Not on my ship, cherie .” He bellowed over the top of her head, “Take them both to the medic cabin!”
Medic cabin. What a relief—she had not known such a thing existed. Two sailors grabbed Jean-Claude under the arms and hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him in the direction of the aft cabins. She trailed behind.
They dropped him on a cot, where she knelt beside him, using the skirt of her dress to wipe the blood from his face.
The medic handed her a damp cloth. “Use this.”
She cleaned up his face and slid his shirt up, revealing the contoured lines of his muscular abdomen and the already swelling red marks on his ribs.
The medic treated the sailor, not showing much concern over either man. She feared fights were a regular occurrence on La Rose .
Jean-Claude did not attempt to speak. At times his eyes opened and followed her; other times he sank back into unconsciousness.
She knew he would live, yet her body shook, her outrage producing hot tears, which she blinked back. The medic gave him laudanum for the pain since he did not “seem as drunk as the other one.” She was grateful for it. She stayed by his side, squeezing beside him on the small cot to pass the night.
The laudanum took effect quickly,
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