A Certain Latitude (3 page)

He had so many possibilities in the pages of his imagination and memory, and the power to summon and direct her as he chose. Why not? She was a vessel, a catalyst of his pleasure.
Take me in your mouth. Now.

Her mouth…oh, yes, taking and teasing him to the limit, closing warm and wet on his cock, soft yet insistent. Her eyes were raised to his for approval, for permission, her hands stroking his thighs and balls while his hand on her head guided her. Yes, turn her, enter deep into her silky firmness, while she moaned and demanded more of him, twisting under him. That was how he wanted her, both of them greedy and fast, all tongues and hands and heat. And she’d welcome him with the tug and grip of her orgasm, her cry of delight as he spilled in a warmly glorious rush.

Yes. Like this. Like this.

Clarissa was on deck early the next morning, woken by the ship’s bell, followed by shouts and the thud of sailors’ feet as they ran on deck overhead. Fairly soon, she was sure, she would learn the passage of the day and nights by such sounds but, for now, it was mysterious and faintly exotic. Her breath steamed in the frosty air. She stood aside as the crew jumped from the shrouds, a few touching their forelocks to her, and smiled a greeting to Mr. Johnson and Captain Trent, who stood poring over charts.

Apart from the man at the wheel, the crew had disappeared below. The odor of frying bacon, bread and coffee hung in the air from the galley, a wooden structure perched on the deck. The door opened and a crewman, swathed in a linen apron, came on deck and whisked a piece of canvas from atop a large wooden cage. A chorus of clucks arose. He saw her watching and touched his forelock. “Hens, ma’am. Brought aboard last night.”

She drew closer, interested to see how chickens fared aboard ship. A dozen plump bundles of silver and gray feathers rose from a thick layer of straw, fluffing themselves, wings flapping. The sailor unlatched the cover and tossed in a bowlful of table scraps.

“Are those Dorkings?” Clarissa asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Good layers, and when they stop laying, I’ll cook them. They won’t lay when the sea gets rough.”

He bent to rummage in the straw, looking for eggs, and Clarissa joined him. “You’re the cook? Dinner was very good last night.”

“Thank you, ma’am. They call me Lardy Jack, on account of my being so fat.”

The man was as thin as a rake, hair tied back in an old-fashioned queue. He held out the pottery bowl for the eggs Clarissa plucked from smooth hollows in the straw, still warm from the hens’ bodies.

“Breakfast with the Captain in twenty minutes, ma’am.” He left with the bowlful of eggs.

The air brightened and the mist lifted, revealing the Welsh mountains to the starboard side and the occasional thin trickle of smoke against a pearly sky. They were apparently making good time— Captain Trent had said it might be two or three days before they would reach the open sea.

Sailors appeared on deck and busied themselves scouring the boards and polishing brass fittings, while others seated themselves cross-legged like tailors and stitched diligently at huge piles of canvas under the direction of a grizzled, elderly man.

Allen Pendale, in shirtsleeves and breeches, hoisted himself from the hatch leading to the cabins. Scowling and rubbing at his curly black hair, he tossed his coat and waistcoat aside. He yawned and bent over one knee, hands on thigh, stretching the other leg behind him, heel pressed to the deck, then repeated the action with the opposite leg.

He launched into a one-sided duel with an invisible rapier, lunging and feinting, light on his feet for such a solid man, as agile and graceful as a dancer, darting forward and back on the deck. Clarissa watched in fascination as his breath puffed into the air and damp patches appeared on the back of his shirt, molding it to his body.

When he stopped, he saw her, started, and bowed to her. “Beg your pardon, ma’am. I’m hardly decent.”

She shook her head, embarrassed that he had caught her watching. “It’s a pity you don’t have an opponent. Doesn’t Mr. Blight know how to fence?”

Pendale shrugged. “He’s not a gentleman.”

A simple, contemptuous remark made at the moment that Blight stepped from the hatch. Clarissa saw his expression, one of fury and humiliation, and looked away, not wanting to embarrass him further.

Pendale, either oblivious or indifferent that his comment had been overheard, bent to retrieve his outer clothes, pulled a neck-cloth from a pocket and finished dressing. Clarissa noted that both men seemed to have shaved, and determined that if they could have hot water delivered to their cabin, then so could she and Mrs. Blight. She would talk to Lardy Jack about it, after what promised to be an excellent breakfast.

That day and the next passed pleasantly, with a holiday-like atmosphere aboard. The ship’s boat made frequent trips ashore for fresh meat, milk and cream, joining the
Daphne
as she meandered slowly toward the sea, the scent of salt becoming stronger each day. In the evenings they gathered on deck in the chill air, warmly dressed, and danced to music provided by one of the seamen, who played the fiddle, and Mr. Johnson, who proved adept on the flute.

Miss Onslowe, to Allen’s surprise, thrived. She lost her look of wary cynicism and her skin and hair acquired a slight glow in the winter sunshine. She had befriended the cook—Allen met her once on deck, cradling a large bowl in the crook of one arm, and beating its contents. “Egg whites,” she explained. “They won’t thicken in the heat of the kitchen.”

Mr. Johnson seemed enchanted by her, escorting her around the ship and explaining how the rigging worked, with Allen tagging along behind, feeling like a resentful child. The sight of one slim, gloved hand tucked into Mr. Johnson’s arm annoyed him even more.

Any day now he would feel jealous of those damned hens she had taken charge of. She’d even persuaded one of the sailors going ashore to pull whatever he could find in the way of greenery, groundsel, late thistles and grass, to encourage the hens to lay even better. Sailors with nothing better to do now hung over the chicken pen, discussing possible names for them with Miss Onslowe and asking her advice about their sweethearts.

It infuriated him and he couldn’t work out why.

Late that night, Captain Trent said, if the wind held, they would sail from the mouth of the estuary and into the open sea. He warned that they might find the movement of the ship a little livelier, but hoped no one would suffer ill effects. After a quantity of punch, the Blights excused themselves to go below, and Allen went on deck to stand vigil. Sure enough, there was a slight rock and dip to the ship’s barely perceptible forward momentum.

He had thought Miss Onslowe had gone below, but she was on deck, lurking around the henhouse, doubtless tucking the wretched birds into bed for the night. She wore, as usual, the unbecoming spinster’s cap and a long cloak. He drew his own cloak around himself, seeking a dark corner, and wondered if she had some sort of assignation with Johnson, who had gazed foolishly at her all through dinner.

She looked around cautiously and raised one hand to her head.

He burst from his hiding place, grabbed the cap from her head, and tossed it overboard.

“Why did you do that?” she shrieked, much as she’d done when he’d knocked her to the deck first within minutes of meeting her.

“Because it’s damned ugly and—”

The ship gave a decided lurch. She bumped up against him, grasped his coat for balance and shouted, “
I
wanted to do that!”

He burst into laughter. Together they watched the white cap bob on the waves—yes, definitely waves, here—and then sink from sight.

“Damn you, Pendale.” She bent forward to unlace her boots, kicked them off, and reached under her skirts.

“What—” he watched transfixed as her garters—pink ribbons—fell to the deck and those same dingy gray woolen stockings slid down her ankles.

She hopped on one foot and tugged one stocking off, then the other, with a swish of skirts, and maybe—or did he imagine it?—a flash of white thigh.

Barefoot, she tossed her stockings overboard, where they bobbed for a brief moment before disappearing from sight.

“Well!” She laid her hand on his sleeve for balance, grinning broadly.

He’d never seen her—or any woman, come to that—smile with so much abandon, her whole face lit up. She must be drunk—that was it. She’d had quite a few glasses of punch.

“I hated those stockings. I have been praying for them to wear out. I’m glad to see them go. Now I shall be forced to wear my silk ones, like a lady.”

“Miss Onslowe, do you imply you are not a lady?”

She ran her fingers through her loosened hair. “I do not wish to shock you, Pendale. You seem like a very respectable sort of gentleman.”

“Oh, please, Miss Onslowe, do shock me.” He grinned back. The atmosphere was becoming pleasantly erotic—a woman who, if not exactly pretty, was certainly interesting and had shown no shyness in stripping off her stockings, stood before him, her hips swaying with the motion of the ship.

The ship gave a sort of sideways swoop.

She lost her balance, laughed and fell against him, and they tumbled down against the hen coop, she with her legs splayed on either side of his.

He assessed the situation quickly. It was dark, although a nearby lantern threw enough light so he could see what he was doing. The helmsman was at the far end of the ship, facing the other way, and they were out of sight. If he could keep her quiet, and if a swarm of sailors didn’t rush onto the deck to do something with the sails—he should probably pray the wind kept steady—then he suspected the not-so-proper Miss Onslowe would let him do just about anything he wanted.

Thank God. I would never have worked out how to seduce him
.

The suddenness of his response alarmed and delighted her. He was under her skirts almost as soon as she landed—as she bumped against his erection, one hand gripped her bottom and the other snaked its way up the inside of her thigh, warm and rough and foreign.

“Miss Onslowe, Clarissa, you’re a miracle,” he said, his fingers probing. If he hadn’t been so enthusiastic about the wetness he encountered, she would have been horribly embarrassed by her condition. “I wanted to do this to you as soon as I saw you. I wish to God I had more hands.”

“So do I,” she said with a silly giggle she regretted. Didn’t men hate gigglers?

“Unbutton me. Show me your breasts. Take this damned scarf off.” His voice became muffled as he pushed the lawn scarf at her bodice aside with his lips and kissed her collarbone, wet and hot.

“Now I need more hands,” she said, honestly confused as to which he wanted her to do first.

“Be quiet, woman. Enough talking.” He reared up against her, the hand on her bottom leaving to grasp the back of her head and pull her head to him, kissing and kissing, his tongue doing things to hers as extraordinary and shocking as his fingers below—good God, what was he about, two fingers, three inside her, and his thumb, oh God his thumb, there,
there, don’t stop, keep doing that, please, please.

He stopped, his mouth wet and puffy, eyes bright. “Christ, you have a big tickler.”

“A big
what
?”

“Your clitoris. It’s big. Hard. Shows you’re a lecherous woman. Insatiable. You like this, don’t you?”

“I—”

“Look,” he murmured, and tipped her back into the circle of one arm, pulling her skirts back with the other. He parted the folds of her quim. “Look, like coral. Hard as coral, too. Like a little cock. Pretty.”

Sure enough, there was enough light for her to see her clitoris erect and glistening between his thumb and forefinger. Her tickler. She’d never heard it called that before. But then, how often did she have conversations about her womanly parts?

He stroked her and laughed as she quivered. “You know why it’s so big, don’t you, Clarissa?”

“I’m sure you’re going to say something obscene.”

He put his mouth to her ear and licked, a lascivious slurp. “Playing with yourself, my love.”

“I don’t—” she said as her face heated.

“Liar,” he said with extreme cheerfulness.  “I’ll show you something else big now.”

His hand dropped to the fall of his breeches and she tried not to show too much interest, but in reality she was intensely curious. Her only experience with an erect male member had been unsatisfactory: a glimpse of a white shirt distended by what lay underneath and then something surprisingly large and springy bumping against her in the dark. The ensuing tight shove and squeeze was surprising and disappointing at the same time, because the rest of it, the kissing and stroking, she’d very much enjoyed.

Oh, heavens. She regarded the blatant, dark red rearing thing with trepidation. Like the rest of him, it was broad and thick, powerful, rising blue-veined from a mass of tight black curls, a drop of liquid welling at the tip. She ran her tongue over her lips. “And how did that get to be so big? You must have been playing with it for years.”

He grinned, regarded his cock with pride, and gave it a friendly little shake. “Yes. And I’ve let others do so too. I’m a generous man. Touch it. It won’t bite.”

She ran a finger up its length and to her immense gratification saw him bite his lip and swallow.

“Very nice,” he murmured. “Now show me your breasts and I’ll frig you again. You’re going to come for me.”

Oh, God. She could swear her clitoris twitched at the thought. With shaking hands she undid the drawstring fastening of her gown, holding the neckline open as he fished her breasts out from her stays. Her nipples hardened in the cool air.

“Ah,” he groaned. “Very pretty. I couldn’t quite decide how they were to look the other night.”

“Which night?”

He lowered his mouth to her breast and sucked while she squirmed in shocked delight, her hands on his head, fingers buried in his hair.

“Now, pay attention, Miss Onslowe.” He shifted under her, returning one hand to her quim, the other to her aching nipples, twisting and pinching, a hair’s breadth from pain, while she gasped and heard herself make strange whimpering sounds. His fingers inside her did magic things, finding a spot that made her jump like a startled horse, while his thumb circled her clitoris, her tickler—
oh, God, I can’t, I can’t
—and then she could—oh, yes!—and he captured her mouth with his, while she shook and spasmed.