The Seafaring Lady’s Guide to Love by Fenna Edgewood
Chapter 7
It was past midnightwhen Rosalind stepped out into the corridor. She had spent a pleasant evening with Cherry, talking and sharing stories, making one another roll with laughter until Rosalind’s stomach ached.
When they prepared to retire, Cherry noticed she had misplaced the little dress she had been working on earlier in the day. Rosalind quickly offered to go and retrieve it, urging her friend to lie down in her berth and rest while she darted up.
Cherry had yawned and immediately taken her suggestion, putting her feet up with a sigh of relief.
The ship was quiet this time of night. The hallway lit by only a single hanging lantern.
She shuffled slowly, feeling her way along the walls.
Midway along, she heard someone coming down the steps, singing loudly.
She recognized the song easily, although the words were somewhat slurred. It was a ballad the sailors sometimes sang on deck while working.
But this rendition was different.
A simple refrain about leaving one’s ship behind had become a mourning song.
Leave her, Johnny, leave her
Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her
For the voyage is done, and the winds don't blow
and it's time for us to leave her...
Rosalind’s heart constricted with sadness for the singer. There was something so plaintive and pitiful in the man’s voice that it felt as if she were seeing right into his very soul.
When he came to the line, “She would not wear and she would not stay,” she heard his voice catch.
She had paused in the hall, frozen in uncertainty as to whether or not to move forward. Now she decided it would be best to quickly move on, keeping her head down and walking past swiftly.
But it was too late.
He was stumbling towards her.
While she had never had the opportunity to hear Philip Calvert sing before, she had known it would be him, even before he stepped into the light.
His voice trailed off as he caught sight of her. He stopped beneath the single lantern and stared.
How did she appear to him?
She was half hidden by shadows, which she was thankful for, as she was once again in her night rail with only a thin robe overtop for modesty.
But, then, he had not seen her in her night rail the last time, she reminded herself, trying to remain calm. He had not seen her at all.
They stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity of time. He staring, she waiting patiently.
For what, she was not sure. She might have turned and left at any time. Yet she did not. She would not have been able to articulate why.
All she knew was that this man moved her in ways she could not describe. And now, here he was—exposing incredible pain, his song an excruciating cry of rage and sorrow.
He had passed through tragedy. She knew this beyond a doubt. He could not have sung as he had otherwise.
Nor would he have looked as he did now—a wounded, wild, desperate animal.
Finally, he spoke.
“Miss Gardner.”
His voice was rough and harsh.
Plainly, he had been drinking, and so perhaps it was the liquor that had brought such a wildness to his eyes.
His dark hair was dishevelled. He had lost his coat and cravat, and his white lawn shirt was unbuttoned. The snowy fabric contrasted with his dark brown skin, which now gleamed with beads of sweat.
He leaned a shoulder against the wall for support and folded his arms across his chest.
To a passerby, he would probably appear charmingly at ease, with all the residual elegance of a gentleman.
But Rosalind saw a man who had lost all inhibitions and had won the fight against the confines of his self-made cage.
She wondered how much he had had to drink.
He should have inspired her fear.
Yet what she felt was something so opposite and so troubling that she refused to give it name.
“Miss Rosalind Gardner.” He said her name more slowly this time, letting the syllables roll off his tongue.
Rosalind shivered.
He took a step towards her.
She had a sense of foreboding. As if she were standing on a precipice. It was not too late to go back. She could turn around and run.
Or she could stand and stay.
She had never been one for running.
“Have you come to observe me again?” he asked, the words slightly slurred.
She gasped. She felt the blood rushing to her face and put a hand against the wall.
He had seen her. How long had he known she was standing there? The entire time? Or merely at the end when the blasted floorboard creaked? Either way, she was mortified.
She could not imagine how violated he must feel.
“You didn’t think I saw you there, in the dark, outside my room? Did you?”
She shook her head numbly. “I am... truly sorry, Philip,” she whispered.
“Yes?” He raised his eyebrows. “Go on.”
She licked her lips. “I had come to see if you were resting comfortably. But I should have knocked to announce my presence. I should not have tarried. It was very wrong of me.”
“It was,” he said, pitching his voice deep and low. “But there is a more important question.”
He took another step towards her.
“Did you like what you saw?” he whispered, the hint of a wicked smile on his lips.
She backed against the wall, her palms flat against the wooden boards.
She felt a light draft as the fabric of her robe came open with the movement. She glanced down, then wished she hadn’t. The robe was gaping wide, revealing her curving shape in the fine linen night rail she wore beneath.
She moved a hand to draw it closed again.
Philip’s shot out and pushed it back down. Gently, but firmly.
He reached the other up and traced a careful line along her collarbone.
“So very fine. So very soft,” he murmured. He met her eyes. “I am waiting, Miss Gardner. Your answer?”
“I...” she stuttered. “I am not...”
“You liked it,” he interrupted, without giving her a chance to finish. He gazed at her consideringly. “You liked what you saw. I can see it. There. Written in your eyes.”
Rosalind closed her eyes quickly, blushing once more.
Was he right? Damn his own eyes! Did hers truly reveal so much so easily?
She heard him give a deep chuckle.
“Your face is the prettiest shade of rose right now. Did you know that?”
She felt him stroke her cheek with the back of one hand and gave a little shiver.
“Oh, Rosalind...” He murmured. “Do you plan to lurk in the halls every evening, waiting for me to notice you?” His finger was moving lightly across her skin again. It reached the edge of the robe and ever so slowly began to gently push it down her shoulder.
She let out an outraged gasp, and prepared to retort, to say he was too full of himself for his own good, that she would rather be caught dead than lurking and waiting for him, like some girl trying to trap a husband. That she gave no thought to him at all. That she had been disgusted by what she had witnessed. That he was abhorrent to her.
But it would all have been lies.
“Rosalind...” It was almost a question. His voice was rich and husky.
Had she ever truly noticed what a beautiful voice he had?
There was the faintest hint of the melodic lilt which she could always hear in Cherry’s.
“Yes?” she whispered, cursing her indecision.
A proper young lady would correct him. Tell him she had not given him leave to use her given name. A proper young lady would tell him to take his hands off her this instant.
A proper young lady would not have watched him last night.
A proper young lady would not be on this ship in the first place.
When he came towards her, she closed her eyes, already knowing in her heart.
Yet nothing could have prepared her.
His lips burned as they touched her own. She gave a little gasp under his mouth before being completely smothered by his fire.
He wanted her, she understood in amazement. And it was not the fact that she was capable of attracting a man which surprised her—for she well knew her own value—but that it was this particular man, who had already filled her with a tempestuous rage, was now capable of making her feel quite another way. Of unlocking her with his lips, making her feel like a quivering flame within a frail woman's body, smoldering with a burning desire she had not even known she was capable of possessing.
The taste of him was heady, like the whisky he had drunk. She must have been having the same effect upon him, for his lips moved on hers with such urgency, as if her touch held something potent and intoxicating.
Her body had already surrendered. Her mind was following.
Her hands roamed over his chest as he kissed her, reveling in his male heat, his firmness, fueled by a craving for more and more and more of this.
Whatever this was.
Something incredibly, wonderfully, maddening.
His kiss was rough and savage. There was nothing gentle about his want or his intent to possess.
And what he wished to possess was clearly her.
The knowledge stirred her, fanning the flames of her own desire tenfold.
His hands moved over her shoulders and down to her hips, bringing her flush against him where the sensation of his arousal, hard against her, stoked her own wildly.
This was dangerous territory. Yet she could not break away.
Her mouth began to move against his own, pressing back with a physical ferocity she had not known herself capable of. She felt his hands digging into the skin of her waist almost painfully, as if he wished to be inside her, two minds with a single writhing body.
As he moved himself closer along her body, she found herself frantically wishing for that as well.
She was undone. She was overcome.
She feared this was just the beginning.
God, she was beautiful.
Beautiful and soft and ripe for the taking.
He could take her here. Now. Against this wall. Where any crew could watch.
That was how much he wanted her. Badly. Very badly.
The whisky had flooded his brain and his cock was doing all the thinking for him.
It said to take her, pull that little dress she wore up over her swelling hips, and take her, use her hard, bring her to climax over and over, until she begged for more.
A smaller but persistent, nagging part of his mind that he wished he could shut up completely said something else. She was a virgin, it said. She was under his protection. She had no idea what he could do to her. How he could ruin her.
Not to mention that it would start a riot if crew came across a half-naked Miss Gardner in the hall, her heavy bare breasts cradled in his hands.
He groaned against her mouth and pressed himself against her harder. If she felt this good when she was dressed, how would she feel completely unclothed?
Good. Bloody good.
He could do one thing at least.
It would not be ruining her, he told himself. It would simply be a taste. For both of them.
He pulled his mouth from hers sharply and clasping her hand, dragged her into the men’s passenger cabins, into the central sitting room.
Some perverse part of him left the door open. Just a crack.
Lest she should think he meant to ravage her against her will.
The door was there. It was still open. She could leave if she wished to.
Did she wish to?
He looked at her.
Her mouth was red, her lips parted. She was breathing hard, her large breasts rising and falling under the white shift she wore.
God, the tops of those orbs were lovely. What did the rest look like?
Stepping up to her, he pushed the robe from her shoulders, claiming her mouth with his own again as he did so, to distract her as her garment fell.
As soon as it dropped to the floor, his hands were upon her breasts, caressing and squeezing, his thumbs searching out her swollen nipples, rubbing mercilessly.
He heard her moan and felt a surge of gratification.
He would not take her. Not as he wished to. Not now. Not yet.
But there were other ways he could have her.
She was responding with a passion as his hands covered her breasts. Her arms wrapped around his neck, tugging his mouth even tighter against her own.
When her tongue tentatively reached inside his mouth, he was momentarily shocked.
He had thought to have to teach her all the ways there were to kiss. Yet here this little vixen was figuring it out all on her own.
She darted her sweet tongue in again, touching his, and he groaned. Even the thin layer of linen that kept his hands from her skin was too much.
With a swift motion, he grasped her shift and yanked it from her shoulders.
As it fell down around her hips, she gave a gasp and broke away from him, stepping back and trying to fold her arms across her chest.
She was far too well-endowed a woman to cover the luscious swells, however, and the sight of tempting flesh peeking out from between her hands drove him even more wild with desire.
“Take your hands away,” he heard himself demand, hoarsely. “Put them down, Rosalind.”
He looked at her face. She must be terrified. This had to end. Now.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said, quietly. He ran his hands through his hair and stepped back. “We must stop this. Now.” He began to turn to find her robe on the floor.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” he heard her whisper. “Philip.”
He turned back. Her arms hung by her sides.
In a single step he was standing before her, kissing her hard and swift in a kind of passionate gratitude for her courage, before lowering his mouth to her breasts, suckling first on one ripe, juicy nipple and then the other.
He could not help think of them that way. Ripe fruit for his mouth to savor. His tongue flicked and licked around her areole, then took the sweet, lush bud into his mouth and tugged hard. As if from a distance he heard her cry out and felt her hands in his hair, pulling almost painfully.
But it was not enough.
He let go and standing upright, took each of her hands in his own and stepped towards her. One step, two steps, until she was backing away. She hit the wall and he raised her hands over her head, pressing them up high against the wood. He could feel her breasts heaving and quivering against his chest.
“You want more,” he breathed into her ear. It was not a question.
He let go of her hands and without another word, pushed her dress down the rest of the way.
He took a small step back.
There she was. Naked as the ship’s figurehead. All lovely curves, and flushed red peaks. The soft swells of her stomach. The fine hills of her wide hips. And down below—that mysterious thatch of golden hair that hid a region promising untold delights.
He came back to her like a panther to his prey, his lips burning with need.
When she felt his hand move between her legs, he watched as her eyes widened in shock and felt her struggle for a moment against his mouth. He would have released her in an instant if he had thought she wished him to, if she had given the merest indication in word or gesture. But she stilled, trembling but with lust not fear, and returned his kiss as he moved his fingers into the soft wetness of her folds, stroking back and forth.
When he felt her buckling against the wall, he freed her mouth and took a deep, quavering breath.
“Should I stop? Do you wish to go? Say the word and I will release you, Rosalind.”
For a terrible moment he waited in suspense. Then he felt her head move against him. She was shaking it.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
He thrust a finger inside her and she cried out in ecstasy at the pleasurable intrusion, parting her thighs to give him better access. He moved his thumb over the top of her mound and began to rub expertly, luxuriating in the exquisite torment of knowing she writhed beneath his touch—but not beneath him.
When he took his hand away, he heard her whimper and giving a wicked smile, put a damp finger to her lips.
She was his. He would take her. Any way he could.
When he went to his knees, he saw the confusion in her eyes. Then they grew larger as she saw his head move to the place between her legs.
His tongue dove into her wet center. A moment later, she was whimpering again—this time in unmistakable pleasure, her hands tangling tightly in his hair, pulling as she moaned.
He licked her slowly at first. Savoring her taste. Salty like the sea. Fresh like water. And something all her own. Womanly and utterly intoxicating.
He was elated when she started to chant.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...”
He was not sure if it was a prayer or a plea, but hearing her fervency he worked himself harder, faster, to bring her to pleasure, sucking and nipping gently, rubbing between her legs with a finger, then putting one, then two, then three inside, and thrusting gently.
She made no protest, only moaned her pleasure, spreading her legs for him wider and wider, moving against his mouth, his hand.
Her chanting intensified. She was close.
When he felt her climax, her hands fell away from his head, dropping to her sides, and she gave a cry from deep inside of pure release and shuddered against his mouth.
He longed for the same satisfaction, but seeing her have her release would be enough.
“Philip...” Her breathing was ragged. Her forehead a sheen of sweat.
She was naked and lovely. She was his. He pressed his lips to her forehead, and enfolded her in his arms.
In the whisky haze, a voice whispered she was not his to claim. That he had crossed a boundary. Broken an unspoken rule. Stolen away something that did not belong to him.
He ignored the voice, shoved it away into a dark recessed place, pretended he had never heard it.
“You little minx,” he whispered, tenderly. “You little vixen. You enjoyed that, yes?”
He spoke the words teasingly, intending only to praise her. He had been moved by her lack of restraint. Her passion. He had delighted in her freeness, her ability to let herself go. With him.
When, to his surprise, she let out a little choked cry and pushed him away from her, he knew he had said something terribly wrong.
“My clothes...” She stammered. “Please. I wish to go.”
He found her robe and turned away as she pulled her night rail back on. His mouth was full of ash. No words would come.
She snatched the robe from his hands. As she ran from the room, he heard a sob escape her.
He ran his hands through damp, tangled hair and licked his lips, savoring the remnants of her flavor.
It was a bittersweet taste. For somehow, he had hurt her.
And he now knew that was the absolute last thing he wished to do to Miss Rosalind Gardner.