The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood
Chapter 14
She had been so incrediblybrave, so impressively strong, that when Philip saw her tears, he froze.
It was James who stepped up. Putting a hand to Philip’s shoulder, he spoke. “See to your wife. I will take care of your sister and the girl. No harm will come to them, I swear it.”
Feeling as if he were just coming out of a fog, Philip stared at the new captain of the Britannia.
“You did not have to shoot him,” he said.
“I did not,” James agreed.
“But I am glad you did,” Philip said with honesty. “He was a rabid dog.”
“Now that is an insult to one of the Good Lord’s most intelligent creatures. But yes, I take your meaning,” James replied.
The beauty of his rich, lilting voice was such a contrast to the impression of brute strength he exuded. And Philip knew something about being judged merely by one’s masculine presence.
James had a complexity to him as well as courage. This young man was too good for pirating. He possessed a conscience and a compassion for others which contradicted his profession entirely.
Not for the first time, Philip wondered how the young man had gone such a route.
“I was only sorry to have to do so in front of the young ones.” James inclined his head towards the girls who sat on the floor. Gracie had put her arms around her sister and was trying to calm her. Cherry watched them both with a stricken expression on her face. Her arms were still wrapped protectively around her little daughter.
“I...” Philip began, then stopped. “My sister. My niece.”
He had hardly taken in the fact that the baby had arrived.
A girl. A small version of Cherry herself. It was incredible.
“There will be time for that later,” James soothed. “Take your wife. Comfort her.”
Comfort her?
His wife?
Yes, he realized. He would like nothing better. If her sister would permit it.
Rosalind had intended to comfort Gracie. Her finger was surely broken, if her scream had been any indication.
Instead, she found her little sister’s arms wrapped around her tightly. As Gracie whispered reassuring words, all Rosalind could do was let the tears roll down her cheeks.
She was pathetic. At least she had not fainted.
She squeezed her eyes shut to try to cut off the flow of water, then abruptly felt herself being extricated from Gracie’s arms and picked up off the floor.
Strong arms wrapped around her possessively and began to carry her from the room.
By the time she pried her eyes open, Philip had already reached the corridor.
His face was grim, his jaw clenched.
Was he...angry with her?
She bit her lip.
“Put me down,” she whispered.
Then, more loudly, “Put me down, Philip! I am too heavy for you.”
The last was a lame excuse. Clearly, she was not, or he would have dropped her by now.
But there was something about being carried which immediately made one self-conscious.
Rosalind knew she had a plump, pleasing figure. Even so, here she was fretting over her weight as a man carried her through a ship.
“Put me down,” she said weakly, one last time.
She did not expect a response but she got one.
“No,” Philip said, empathically. He finally looked down at her. “Stop asking.”
He lifted her slightly higher and planted a kiss on her forehead.
“Besides,” he murmured. “You have a wonderfully soft bottom. Absolutely luscious.”
She squeaked as a hand squeezed her below, then blushed from the improper compliments.
She was beginning to realize they were too far past being proper.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, in a small voice.
“To the captain’s cabin,” came the reply.
“Oh. Why?”
He looked down again, this time clearly exasperated. “How many questions do you have? Can none of them wait until I have put you down?”
“Am I that heavy?” she gasped in embarrassment.
“Not at all,” he said, rolling his eyes. “However, I would prefer to be more comfortable when we talk.”
He stopped. “However, if you insist...”
“No,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry.”
She forced herself to silence and tried to enjoy herself.
It was rather pleasant, she had to admit. Besides the jostling as he climbed the steps. He did not drop her, however. Nor did he seem as if he were about to.
She leaned her face against his chest with a sigh, feeling something akin to contentment.
He had chosen her.
He had chosen her to take away with him.
He might have stayed with Cherry and the baby. He might have gone with James and Duffels to discuss the state of the ship, or to visit John Merriweather.
But instead, he had scooped her up and swept her away.
She was not sure what it meant, but whatever it was seemed rather promising.
She smiled and burrowed her face more closely against his chest, reaching a hand up to stroke his neck.
She had not been murdered by a pirate.
Cherry, the baby, Gracie, and all of the others were safe.
This strong and handsome man was carrying her in his arms.
That was more than enough to smile over.
Philip stole a glance downwards.
She was clearly exhausted.
Yet somehow, still perfectly lovely.
He had said he loved her in front of everyone.
Would she remember?
They had reached the cabin. He held her with one arm, while he pushed open the door.
“You may set me down now, Philip,” she said, looking up at him uncertainly. “Unless you mean to force me to bed?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh! I did not mean...” He watched in amusement as she colored.
“The idea has its appeal,” he admitted, frankly, and watched her blush deepen. “You are lovely when you blush. Did you know that?”
“Don’t be silly,” she said, wriggling her way out of his arms and turning away from him. “I blush constantly. It is just one of those things.”
“One of those things which adds to your charm,” he murmured loud enough for her to hear.
“You did not find me so charming when we first met,” she parried.
“First impressions can be deceiving,” he proclaimed. “Very. I have learned my lesson.”
He gently took her arm and turned her back towards him.
“I thought...” He hesitated. “I thought I might lose you, Rosalind.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “But you didn’t. We are both here. All is well.”
He touched her hair, smoothing it back from her forehead ever so gently.
She closed her eyes in pleasure and gave a little shiver.
It was the shiver which did it. He leaned in and kissed her lips lightly.
She returned the kiss, then put a hand to his chest.
“You said you loved me,” she said, not meeting his eye. “You did not have to lie on my behalf. I doubt it would have made any difference.”
“You are probably right,” he agreed. “Carew would have been diverted either way. He enjoyed pulling our strings.”
“But what makes you think it was a lie?” he said gently, putting a finger under her chin and lifting it so she was forced to meet his gaze.
Her lips parted, lending her the sweetest expression of astonishment.
“Rosalind.” He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek. Her other cheek. Her lips again.
He was buying himself time, he knew. Yet she was also delightful to kiss. Her skin was so soft and fragrant. He could breathe her in forever and be a contented man.
Why had he carried her here? He could have left her with the women. He could have told James the truth.
But he was choosing a different path.
It was either sheer folly or the wisest thing he had ever done.
He had a feeling he knew what Cherry would say.
For a time, he had thought he could push Miss Gardner away—to protect her and shield himself.
Protect her from the sordidness of his past. Shield his heart from ever again feeling pain and loss.
But it appeared to be far too late for either of those things.
For two years he had told himself that happiness was the domain of other men. He was not one of those fortunate souls.
There was a well of need and yearning, but he had battened down that hatch and never let it brim over.
But now the hatch had burst. Its contents were overflowing. Foremost among them, the desire to dream, to hope for a better life again. The one he had always wanted. The one that, for a time, he had naively believed he already possessed.
He pulled his lips away from her skin and forced himself to take a step back.
Only one, though. And he kept hold of her—a hand resting on either shoulder.
He watched her meet his eye, let her take in his serious expression.
“I have been fueled by rage for a very long time, Rosalind,” he said quietly. “I had almost believed there was nothing left of me but that. Even this voyage... Do you even know why I am making it?”
“To find Cherry’s husband,” she responded quickly. “Though, as you said, you believe that... man might have had something to do with it. I am sure it is not that, though, Philip. That would be...” She trailed off, looking uncertain.
“Too dreadful to imagine? Such things do happen.” He shook his head. “But no, the truth is that I was planning to seek out Martin long before we lost contact with Charles. That merely stoked the flame. Gave me another reason to... Well, to hate.”
“Hate,” he repeated, quietly. “Hate is a terrible thing, Rosalind. There is nothing satisfying about hate. It consumes without leaving anything behind but more hate, more bitterness. At first, I loved to hate. Anything was better than grief, than feeling so completely alone.”
“Oh, Philip,” she said, with a sigh, reaching a hand out to touch his cheek.
He caught up her hand and pressed it to his mouth.
“Rosalind,” he choked. Damned if he was going to cry while doing this. Damned if he was. He drew a deep breath. “Rosalind, I can hardly feel hate right now.”
He watched her eyes widen and gave a little laugh.
“I find it has been replaced by something so much sweeter.” He paused, watching her intently. “Do you know of what I speak?”
She swallowed, then bit her lip.
“I believe I may,” she whispered. “Philip...”
He felt a rush of need and knew he was about to come undone.
He felt like the most disciplined man in the world to have held off this long.
“I love you, Rosalind Gardner,” he said, leaning forward until his forehead pressed hard against hers. He put his mouth against hers and said it again. “I love you and I know I should stop, for I am certain I do not deserve you. Yet I find I cannot do so. Nor would I wish to if I could.”
She pressed her lips to his, trying to silence him, but he could not halt now if he tried.
“When you first came aboard, you said you had been desperately unhappy...”
He saw her startled look—yes, he remembered. Had she thought he would forget such desolate words?
“Do you—” He hesitated. “—still feel that way?”
She slowly shook her head.
“Good,” he said with relief. “For I would hate—I use the word lightly—to think that I was alone in feeling so damnably happy if you were still feeling desperately unhappy.”
“I’m not,” she whispered, a smile stealing forth.
“Good,” he whispered back.
“You said that already,” she murmured.
“Yes, well, you’re muddling me. I’m giving a speech again, can’t you tell?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying to hide a grin. “Pray, continue, Philip.”
“Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “You are the sunshine of my life.”
He slammed his hand over his face, hitting his nose rather hard.
“Good God, did I truly just say that?” He groaned.
“I believe you did,” she said, wide-eyed and serious, her lips twitching almost indiscernibly. “What on earth could be coming over you? Do you think there was something in the madeira?”
He glared. “That was hours ago, and it does not appear to have had an effect on you, if there was.”
“No,” she said serenely. “Well, I am just better at controlling my tongue, I suppose. Please, do go on. You were saying something about my being the light of your life?”
“The sunshine,” he said, through playfully gritted teeth. “You little vixen.”
“The sunny vixen,” she said, playfully. “What a wonderful name that would be for a ship, don’t you think? Much better than the Mad Pirate King.”
He burst out laughing, and for a moment she seemed shocked. Then she smiled. “I like to hear you laugh.”
“Do you? I must sound rusty,” he said, continuing to smile. “I feel as if I haven’t truly laughed in two years.”
She touched his lips lightly with her fingers. “That is a pity, for you have a very fetching smile.” She shot him a coy look. “I can see how talented a rake you must have been... in your youth.”
“In my youth!” he choked out. “Am I no longer youthful at the ripe age of one and thirty?”
She shook her head dolefully. “Oh, no, Philip. You are rather old, you know.” She touched his hair, peering up earnestly. “I believe you are going quite white, in fact.”
“Saucy minx!” He caught her wrist with his hand and pull it to his lips. “Why don’t I show you what this doting old man is still capable of?”
He shot her a wicked grin and moved forwards.
“Oh, my!” She gasped, stepping backwards away from him.
He watched as she backed right into the captain’s dining table, which gave him an excellent idea.
She couldn’t have drawn back any further from him if her life depended upon it. Which, perhaps, it did.
Certainly, it felt as if, in this moment, some change was about to occur from which there would be no turning back.
It was not only that the table held her at bay, but her beating heart pounded so in her chest that she felt as if she were delectable prey under the paws of some lithe panther closing in.
She leaned a little further back, her palms resting on the table.
He stopped and a strange expression crossed his face.
“You know, when you do that...”
“Yes?” She asked, confused.
“You simply—” He coughed into a fist. “—illuminate the display as it were.”
She glanced down.
Her breasts were thrust upward in her dress—she supposed that was what had captivated his attention. What held hers was quite different. It was the same dress she had put on so many hours ago, then crawled in, slept in, delivered a baby in.
It was wrinkled, soiled, stained with blood, and things quite natural in childbirth but rather unpleasant to be wearing around on one’s garments.
“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed in dismay. Her face burned. “I’m a disaster.”
She could see him trying to follow her train of thought, which was very admirable for it required him to avert his concentration from her breasts to the rest of her body and she could see the effort it cost him.
“Perhaps a little dishevelled,” he admitted. “But we can remedy that quite easily.”
“We can?” She said, peering down at herself skeptically.
“Of course,” he said. “There is still water in the basin, after all.”
He crossed the room and picked up the half full basin of water and a clean cloth, and came back to her.
“It buttons up the front, I believe?” He asked innocently, and she gave a small nod.
“Very well. But first, I think...” He dipped the cloth into the basin, wrung out some of the water, and stepping closer put the wet cloth to her chest.
The water was lukewarm. He moved the cloth gently over the space above her bodice—the cleft of her neck, the square of skin overtop her breasts.
As he wiped away the grime, she felt droplets trickling between her breasts.
She closed her eyes and imagined herself bared, the wet cloth sweeping over the swells of her skin, over rigid nipples.
His touch was solicitous yet subtly erotic.
And when he reached the buttons, there was nothing subtle about it at all.
“I believe these need to come undone,” he suggested, “for the sake of...”
“Efficiency?” she suggested, playing along.
She arched her back a little, enjoying his reaction as her curves lifted to dance nearly in his face.
“Exactly,” he said in a hoarse voice, his hands already beginning to fumble with the small red circles.
She wore no shift beneath.
She saw him realize that as he went and draw in his breath.
“I took it off,” she explained quickly. “To use as a bandage for Captain Merriweather. We had enough for Cherry, you see, but...”
“Yes, I see,” he said, in that strangled voice again, which made him sound as if he was struggling between laughter and something else. “I do see.”
He parted the sides of her bodice slowly, tantalizingly, while she watched with vivid interest—as if it was someone else on display, and not her at all.
But it was her. Those were her white swelling curves. Her pink rosy nipples which hardened instantly as he exposed them to the air.
“Oh, God,” he whispered huskily.
And then she could stand it no longer.
Leaning back to sit on the table, she reached out her arms and pulled him towards her.
She wanted his mouth everywhere. On her own to start with. But she was desperate to feel him on her breasts. And lower. Everywhere, anywhere.
And more. Much, much more.
His mouth was hot and strong on hers, his kiss forceful and fierce. She responded to it with an equal ardour, opening her mouth to him and taking him in, moaning as his tongue filled her deeply and perfectly. Her hands were on his shoulders, roaming his neck, tugging at his hair. As he stroked her harder, deeper, she dug her nails into the linen of his shirt, clutching the fabric between her fingers, desperately needing to be closer to him.
It was not fair. He had seen her—all of her. Yet he remained clothed.
Now she wanted all of him. His kiss sent blazing tendrils through every inch of her body, filling her with blistering heat that made her want to shrug the dirty frock off, tear at his shirt until she could feel the flesh beneath and press against it, laying herself alongside him as she already knew was inevitable and meant to be.
It was the waiting which was torture.
He kissed her again and even with only lips on lips, she felt an explosion of sensation throughout her body. Her breasts firmed, her nipples grew taut and tingling, and between her legs—oh, there, between her thighs, she felt a wet heat that was driving her mad with want. She craved him, without knowing precisely what she craved.
And that it was wrong or forbidden or that they should not be here now, doing any of this, was the farthest thing from her mind, for the one constant truth—the only thought she could hold in her head, was that all of this was how it should be. A pure perfection of feeling, a coalescence of time and occurrence, which had led them both to this particular place on this particular ship, and into one another’s arms.
She mewed in protest when he left her mouth to taste the corners of her lips, then nuzzle her cheek, her neck, dropping his lips to the hollow of her throat and forcing her head up and back as his own took his place there.
“Philip,” she whispered, pressing against him, not wanting to have to say the words, but wanting him to know.
“I know, my love, my vixen, my minx,” he murmured. “I know just what you want.”
His mouth moved down her chest, teasing and caressing, and when his hands finally moved to her breasts, heavy and ripe with desire, she felt a primal rush of longing, and thrust them harder against his hands. His thumbs scraped roughly over the tips of her nipples and she moaned in appreciation.
When his mouth found the rigid buds, she moaned again, hands clawing through his hair to pull him tighter against her, forcing his mouth to fill with her, tugging and nibbling, bringing her to greater heights of painful pleasure.
She wanted to thrash, to scream, to beg. Instead, she pulled at his shirt, yanking it in handfuls, up from where it tucked into his trousers, over his lean stomach and up over his broad bronze chest.
He pulled back to accommodate her, with an infuriating teasing smile, lifting his arms unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world.
When it was finally up and over his head, she gaped a moment, taking in his form.
There was a world of difference to seeing him clothed and seeing him like... well, like this. Nude and male, sleek and strong.
She ran her hand over the dark, tightly curled hairs that lay in the center of his chest, watching them spring back up as her fingers trailed down the middle and lower still until she reached the top of his trousers and grasping with both hands, pulled him flush against her, spreading her legs to pull him between them.
When she felt his hardness press against her wet center, she let out a slow low moan of frustration, and lifting her head a little, sank her teeth into the skin of his shoulder, feeling satisfied when she heard him gasp aloud.
“What do you want?” he whispered roughly. “What do you need? Tell me. Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Yes, anything.” She bit again, in a different place this time, while her fingers found one of his nipples and curled it gently between her fingertips, then harder, feeling it pucker.
“Anything, Rosalind,” he said again, with more urgency, and she pressed her bare breasts against his chests, rubbing gently, letting the tips of her nipples brush against those coarse black hairs.
“Oh, God,” he was gasping, his hands tangling in her hair, pulling out the ribbon she had bound it up with and letting the strands tumble around her shoulders. “Tell me.”
She gloried in her power, but had gloated long enough. Besides, they wanted the same thing, and she could hold out no longer.
“You,” she whispered breathily in his ear, running her hands over his shoulders, and lifting her pelvis ever so slightly to press against his want. “You.”
His hands were already on her thighs, pushing her skirt up. Hers worked on his buttons, fumbling, undoing, opening.
For a virgin, she felt rather shocked with herself. Yet proud as well—impressed with her own boldness and passion. She was taking what she wanted, and if that made her unladylike, well, wasn't that why she had boarded this ship in the first place? To take and to plunder what she desired from life?
Now she was pillaging him, lifting his heavy cock from the trousers and cradling it in her hands—not quite certain how to hold him or what to do, but hearing him groan his gratification and press against the palm of her hand.
His hands finished lifting her skirt, pushed it up around her waist. Hot fingers found her quim, rubbing between wet folds, and suddenly she understood exactly what she wanted and where.
His thumb began making lazy circles over the bud at the top of her cunny. She tugged him gently closer, spreading her legs wider and leaning back a little.
“We're doing this on the captain's table, are we?” He said with a grin, moving his hands back up to her breasts to rub and cup, before filling one hand with her hair and lifting her lips to his.
His cock rubbed against her then and she gasped against his mouth.
“This?” he whispered, and she nodded rapidly as he rubbed himself against her slowly.
“This?” he said again, and pressed harder—the force sending waves of pleasure through her but also alerting her to the possibility of pain.
At this point, however, she was beyond concern for pain. She knew the pleasure would overtake it, and the quicker they got to that part of things the better.
She thrust a little against him and heard him gasp in turn.
And then he slid inside her fully and breaking the kiss, she arched her back and let out a deep moan.
“Have I hurt you?” he whispered hoarsely, looking down with worry.
She shook her head.
“Is there much pain?”
“A little. More. More please.”
He was watching her with lust but something more than that, too. Love and desire mixed into a heady, beautiful mix that reminded her there was more to this than simply physical fulfillment.
She needed this man, body and soul.
“I love you, Philip,” she whispered, and watched in surprise as his eyes filled with water. He brushed a hand roughly over his face, and she melted knowing she had moved him so.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him more firmly down against her, forcing him deeper, feeling him come into her fully. He paused cautiously, watching to make sure she was truly all right.
Then he began to move. He thrust long and slow, then harder. Steady strokes that lit her on fire, inside and out. Her breasts quivered against his chest. Her head tossed back and forth, wordless cries emanating from her mouth.
When he moved a hand back between them to rub her clit, his thrusts became faster, bringing whatever was building inside her to a climax, and sending her over the edge and into another world where there was only feeling, and a hot wave washing over her, turning her to molten flame, carrying her up to the highest peak of sensation.
Slowly, she came back down to herself, and realized he had been similarly altered. He lay against her, breathing heavily, trembling.
She felt overcome with tenderness and wrapping her legs around his torso and her arms around his back, held him tightly against her. She closed her eyes, the intensity of her bliss fading but still pulsing with waning pleasure.
“And to think, that was only our first attempt...” She murmured.
“The first of many,” she heard him reply, with a smile in his voice.
“Perhaps the next will be in a bed,” she conceded, trying to draw a breath. She had not minded being pounded against the table—there was something incredibly arousing about the urgency of having taken each other in such a way—but now that she was coming to, it must be admitted that her back did ache a little.
He lifted himself carefully off her, looking down with concern.
“Oh, I am fine,” she assured him. She laughed seeing his strained expression. “Philip, it is all right.”
“I took you on a table, could not even wait for a proper...” he was mumbling.
“And it was perfect,” she said, softly, pulling him back down. “Shall we go again?”
“We’ll be married tomorrow,” he murmured, tiredly, much, much later.
“Will we?” she teased. “I do not recall being asked.”
She watched in glee as he glared at her.
“That won’t work any more,” she said, mischievously.
“What won’t?” he said with what she was fairly certain was faux-crossness, narrowing his eyes.
“Your grumpy persona has no effect on me, Philip,” she said cheerily. “I know the real you now, you see.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” His eyes remained narrowed.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, striving to look innocent. “Your crossness is merely a cover. You, Philip Calvert, are an egg.”
“An egg?” He sputtered.
“A boiled egg. Hard on the outside. Soft and runny on the inside,” she explained. She poked his chest. “Ouch.”
“Perhaps not entirely soft?” He suggested, smirking.
“As I said, a delightfully hard exterior,” she persisted. “It’s the inside that’s soft and runny.”
He rolled his eyes and pulled her onto his lap. They were sitting in a chair beside the captain’s table.
She was entirely nude and grateful that they had thought to draw the cabin curtains when they had entered.
“Philip?”
“Mmm?”
“I have no clothes,” she whispered.
That got his attention.
“You...don’t?”
“No. There is no way I am putting that dress back on and, as we have already established, I have no shift.”
“Or stockings. Or drawers,” he said, running his hands over her bare calves, then higher to her thighs.
“Ooooh,” she shivered. “Stop that!” She playfully pushed his hand away. “It is nearly night. What are we going to do?”
“There is also the matter of food,” he agreed.
She felt her stomach rumble in agreement and he grinned.
“I suppose I must go below then,” he said, gently pushing her from his lap and rising. “Let me just go over here and fling this door wide open. I’m sure the crew are back at their posts and working hard. They’ll be delighted to see you in such fine condition...”
“Philip!” She gasped, looking about wildly for something to pull over herself. Finding no garments, she leaped for the bed and began to pull a blanket from it. “Don’t you dare touch that door! What will they think? I’ll be... ruined! More ruined.”
“Oh,” he paused, scratching his head. “I had not thought of that. I suppose you’ll just have to marry me.”
“Murder you, more like!” She hissed. “Was that your attempt at a formal proposal?” She dropped the blanket and put her hands on her hips.
“Oh, God,” he moaned. “You win. You may have whatever you want. What was it you wanted again? Clothes? Anything but clothes.”
He stepped towards her and pulled her into his arms, his hands roaming over her soft curves and settling contentedly on her derriere.
“You have the most beautiful Rubenesque figure,” he murmured.
“Oh, yes?” She said, smiling to herself. “What else?”
“Venetian hair...”
“Venetian?”
“A strawberry blonde color, I believe.”
“Ah, I suppose it has gone lighter from all of the sun.”
“Of course, your figure is all Botticelli,” he said, stepping back to admire it, his hands lightly resting on her hips.
“Oh, is it?” She asked, fluttering her lashes. “I thought you said Rubenesque.”
“Both. A masterpiece of both schools. But you know all of this already!” He grinned. “You merely want to hear me sound like a love-smitten fool.”
He tickled her in a delicate place and she shrieked and jumped backwards.
“I most certainly do not know this already!” She insisted. “Do you think I regularly stand in the nude in front of strange men and demand they compare me to famous paintings?”
“I do not know you very well at all, really,” he said, seriously, a finger to his chin. “Perhaps you do. Have you ever modeled for artists?”
“I have not,” she proclaimed. “But perhaps when we are married, I shall start if you have no objections...”
“No objections!” He glared. “Wait. When we are married, you say? You accept my proposal, then?”
“It was not very romantic,” she said with a sigh. “But I suppose the rest makes up for it.”
“The rest?” He nuzzled his face against her neck.
She gave a little embarrassed shrug. “You know...”
“I do not know. I need you to tell me. In explicit detail. Leave nothing out,” he said, making her squirm under his lips.
“Philip!” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I really must insist on some clothes.”
“Very well,” he said, finally, stepping back and pretending to be sad. “I shall go.”
“But not—” he said hastily, as she made for the blankets again. “—through the front door.”
“Oh!” She said with understanding.
“Yes, I believe I will take the alternate route.” He nodded towards the hatch.
“What will you tell them?” She suddenly asked, thinking of Gracie and Cherry.
“I will tell them you were exhausted and fell asleep as soon as I carried you up to the cabin,” he said, with a devilish grin.
“Cherry won’t believe that for a moment,” she moaned. “Nor will Gracie.”
“Well, they can believe what they want. Perhaps it will distract them when I invite them to our wedding tomorrow?” He had opened the hatch and began to climb down.
“Oh! Yes, very good point,” she agreed, brightening. “And tell Gracie she must wear a dress. No more trousers!”
“I think you know what her reply to that will be...” He muttered, continuing down the ladder.
When he was gone, she sat on the bed, with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl.
She truly was exhausted. Part of her was shocked they had managed to stay awake as long as they had. It felt as if she had not slept in weeks. Nor eaten!
With a yawn, she decided she would curl up on the berth while she waited and rest a little.
Was she truly engaged? It was to be a short engagement, but she could enjoy it for a few hours.
When Philip returned, she was snoring and smiling, the captain’s wool blanket having fallen from her shoulders, exposing perfect curving shoulders.
He watched her sleep for a little while, then ate hurriedly and climbed in to take his place beside her, his arm wrapping around her waist protectively.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Calvert,” he whispered. “I do love you so.”