HF - 05 - Sunset (21 page)

His mouth slipped from hers, and he pressed his cheek against her ear. 'Oh, Meg, Meg, how I have dreamed about you.'

'I have dreamed about you too,' she whispered. 'Take me with you, Alan. If you don't, you'll never see me again, I know it.'

He squeezed her so tightly her breath was lost. There was so much she must teach him, she thought, about the art of making love. So much there would be a pleasure to teach him.

And perhaps, after two years at sea, he would have something to teach her as well.

She got her hands between them, pushed him an inch away.
'Will you, Alan? Will you?'

'Aye, well
...
Margaret Hilton. Play on that. But leave the talking to me. The old man is a sentimental chap, and much overawed by money. Leave the talking to me.' He squeezed her again. 'Anyway, he's sure to fall in love with you himself.'

'Harrumph,' remarked Captain Weston, glaring the length of the table. 'Harrumph.'

His four officers and the two other passengers, one a company official and the other an overseer on his way to join a Jamaica plantation, looked suitably respectful. Meg went on smoothing the skirt of her blue gown, beneath the table. She had already formulated a dress plan; she would spend her days in her cabin, and alternate her two gowns at dinner. After all, the voyage should only take about a fortnight, even in this old tub. And it was certainly a tub, a three-masted barquentine already curtsying to the swell, and they had only just cast off their tug, were in fact still in the Thames Estuary. Perhaps, she thought, she would not have to pretend to stay in her cabin; no doubt she would suffer from sea-sickness.

But the captain was the one to be humoured. He could still change his mind and set her ashore in Southampton or some such place.

'Believe me, Captain Weston,' she said. 'My father will be eternally grateful to you.'

'If he's able, eh? If he's able? Sick, you say, eh? Sick? And this tyrant of a cousin would not let you return to his side? By God
...
if you'll pardon the expression, Miss Hilton
...
I'd not credit there were people that hard in the world. Indeed I would not.' Once again his glare swept the table, daring any man to argue with him. His officers nodded, and murmured their assent. 'And trying to force you into an unwelcome marriage on top, why, Miss Hilton, I declare, 'tis downright indecent. That it is.' 'I was desperate,' Meg confessed. 'And so you should be. Oh, yes, indeed, we'll see you back to your father, safe and sound. But you'll understand there are difficulties. Aye, difficulties. Women, ladies, why, Miss Hilton, this vessel was not built for them. There's not been a lady at this table since the last voyage of my wife, God bless here
...'
Once again the glare.

'God bless her,' agreed the ship's officers. Meg dared not attempt to meet Alan's eye; he had taken enough of a risk in introducing her in the first place, and they'd be sure to laugh.

'And she,' said Captain Weston, 'was an old hand at roughing it. But a young girl, now, and a Hilton, I can do no more than apologize, Miss Hilton, and there's a fact.'

'My cabin is perfectly adequate, Captain Weston,' she insisted.

'Aye, well, there are no facilities, you'll understand.' He flushed, and renewed the glare. 'I shall manage, Captain.'

'Aye, well, my steward here, Bowman
...
Bowman, are you listening?' Bowman was serving wine. 'Yes, sir, Captain Weston.'

'Aye, well, you'd better. You'll ah
...
see to Miss Hilton's requirements, as and when she requires them seeing to. You understand me, Bowman?'

'Aye, aye, Captain. You have but to call, Miss Hilton. I'm just down the companion.'

'Thank you, Mr Bowman.'

'But there's more to it than that,' Captain Weston growled, half to himself. 'A seventeen-year-old girl
...'

'I shall be eighteen in less than six months.'

'No better. No better. Alone, with no other female companionship
...'
He glared. 'I'll have no flirtations. Not one.'

Meg felt her cheeks burning. 'Oh, I
...
I'm sure your officers are all perfect gentlemen, Captain.'

'Aye, well, they'd better be. Because there will be talk, Miss Hilton. Oh, yes, there will be talk. Not to put too fine a point upon it, there will be scandal. Oh, yes, there will be scandal. Your being here at all, is what I'm driving at. So the best we can do is find ourselves able to look any man, or any woman, in the eye and say, lies, lies, all lies. You understand me, Miss Hilton?'

'Of course, Captain Weston. I think you are absolutely right.'

'Right. Aye, well. That is what we're after, Miss Hilton. To do the right thing. By you, by us, by everyone. Aye.' He heaved himself to his feet. 'You'll excuse me. These are busy waters and the wind is changing. Mr Colt, you'll accompany me to the bridge. Goodnight, Miss Hilton. Goodnight.'

'May I take a last look at England, Captain?'

'Of course you may, Miss Hilton. But my word, it won't be your last. No, sir. England will be there or thereabouts for two or three days as we beat down Channel. Goodnight to you.'

How memory came flooding back. Oriole had used those very words, about Jamaica, not quite a year ago. And then had taken her down to the privacy of their cabin, and there
...
she felt the sex excitement swirling in her belly. It was never very far away, had never been very far away since that night in the mountains, had never needed to be very far away, because Oriole had never been very far away, and once Oriole had succumbed to her secret passion she had clearly felt a similar excitement on a similar continuous scale.

But Oriole was now gone, for ever, and there could be no more women. She was certain of that. Because, in the deep pit of her belly, it disgusted her? Because of the civilization to which she belonged? Because having known the rod, all other forms of love making could only be pale imitations?

Or very simply because she had encountered Alan again?

He was holding her chair for her, while the other officers waited, obviously interested. But they were old friends, who had known each other from birth. Otherwise she had not been here at all. So surely they could exchange a word.

'Will you walk with me on deck for a moment, Alan?' she asked. 'I have not had an opportunity properly to thank you for acting as my ambassador with your captain.'

'I
...
ah .
..'
He g
lanced at his fellow officers. ‘I
must get changed, Miss Hilton,' he explained. 'I'm due on watch in an hour.'

'Perhaps some other time,' she said, getting some chill into her tone. She buttoned her jacket, stepped through the doorway and up the companion ladder, to emerge onto the quarterdeck and hastily reach up to clamp her turban on her head. The wind had indeed freshened, and changed direction, and the
Wanderer
was lying over and making full speed under all canvas, with spray clouding over the bows, and the waves bubbling away from the quarter. England was a green blaze on the starboard beam, bright in the August evening sunlight.

And Oriole would be scouring London, calling upon the police to help her discover her disappeared cousin.

Who was preparing to be miserable? She had never
known
the rod, there was the trouble. She had only held it, and dreamed of it. And foolishly, over this past twenty-four hours, supposed she was going to have the opportunity again.

The wind was cold. She crossed the deck, uncertainly, gave a hasty smile to the officer of the watch - the captain was in the chart house - and descended the companion ladder into the comparative warmth of the cabin.

'Good night for bed, miss.' Bowman held the door for her.

'I shall sleep sound,' she agreed. He had already lit her lantern and attached it from its hook in the deck beam; from its angle and from its swing she could tell what sea conditions were like; rough and getting rougher.

And she had no nightdress. That had not occurred to her before. Sleep in her shift? No, no. That had to last her the entire fortnight; she would have to ration her petticoats as it was, but that would at least become a reasonable attitude as they moved south and it became warmer. She began to undress, listened to fingers brushing along her door.

Meg released the latch, pulled the door open; she did not have to stop to think who it was, who it had to be; her heart was pounding sufficiently to tell her that. She seized Alan's arm, dragged him inside. 'I can't come in,' he whispered.

'You are in,' she pointed out, and turned the key. 'Oh, Alan
...
I knew you would come. And yet I was afraid you wouldn't.'

'But Meg
...'

Her arms were round his neck, and she was kissing his mouth, and he was responding, embracing her, reaching for her thighs, and as usual seeming to freeze as he realized what he was doing, this time no doubt because he had discovered she was wearing only her shift.

'Meg
...'
he held her arms. 'This is terribly dangerous. There is still time for Captain Weston to put you ashore.'

'He won't know.'

'He must. Why, it's only half past seven. It's still daylight out there. I but wanted to tell you that perhaps, when I come off watch, at midnight, I could
...'

She shook her head. 'Don't you see? It is then, when you come off watch at midnight, that everyone will be supposing you
will
come to me, if you are coming at all. They will be watching. Whereas, at half past seven, as you say, it is still daylight.'

'But
...
I am due on watch in half an hour.'

'Half an hour is long enough,' she said, and backed towards her bunk, still holding his hands. Because it had to be now, now, now, both to preserve her sanity, to quench her bubbling excitement at having run away, and to expel for ever the memory of Oriole which clouded her senses. And who better than Alan? Why, their strange meeting after two years of never a word must have been an act of God. Why, she realized, as she sat down, I am going to marry him.

'Meg
...'
He stood above her, looking down, face reddened with mingled embarrassment and desire. 'Meg, are you sure?'

'Sure,' she said. 'I have never been so sure in my life.' She lifted herself far enough from the mattress to ease the skirt of her shift from beneath her, raised the garment over her head, threw it on the floor. 'Don't you want me, Alan? Just a little?'

'Want you,' he breathed, and dropped to his knees. She spread her legs to allow him between; crushed his head against her breasts, felt his tongue come out to lick her flesh, start her nipples into a harder tumescence than she had known before; hugged him tighter and felt his mouth slipping down her belly, and wanted to scream with joy.

And yet, this was no more than Oriole had done, save that he was a man. There was more to be done, and so little time. Her fingers tore at his tunic, while his lips caressed her flesh, sucked her hair. His head came up, perhaps to breathe, and she pulled off the jacket, reached for the shirt beneath. 'Quickly, my darling, oh quickly.'

He stood up, undressed. She stared at his pants, at his drawers, at the towering thrust of flesh which emerged. No more disappointments. Here was magnificent manhood, glowing with pumping blood, and desiring only her.

'Now,' she said, 'now'. She leaned back on the cushion.

'You will be dry,' he said, kneeling above her. 'You will be dry and I will hurt you.'

'I am not dry,' she said fiercely. 'I am not dry'. Now, she thought, it has to be now, before my courage fades and I scream for help.

She stared into his eyes, watched his body lowering, slowly, felt the caress, braced herself for the coming thrust, told herself that she must relax and relax and relax, and yet only half accomplished that. After the soft touch of the glans the thrust took her by surprise, and the pain also took her by surprise, because she way dry, and because, she supposed as her mind swirled away, of her virginity.

His body worked on hers. His face was next to hers, his sweat mingled with hers, and the pain eased. But there was no ecstasy. Oh, there had to be ecstasy. There had always been ecstasy. But his movements were quickening, and so was his breathing, and she was filled with heat. And he was lying on her chest and belly, now crushing the breath from her, kissing her ear. He loved, and he had demonstrated his love.

But there had been no ecstasy.

Yet there would be ecstasy. It would happen, naturally, between them, as it had happened, naturally, between Oriole and herself, between Cleave and herself. She had to believe that.

And Alan had accomplished one certain triumph. She was no longer a virgin. Her maidenhead belonged to him, and therefore, by every historical convention,
she
belonged to him; it was merely a matter of being patient.

And in the meanwhile, holding him in her arms, tight, as she knew he liked to be held, and feeling the sex excitement, still bubbling unquenched in her belly, start to rise again as she felt his member moving against her thigh. Perhaps it would be possible again, now. Now she felt,
even if he hurt her, that she would achieve her goal. Now.... she sat up at the knock on the door, half pushing him to one side.