Humbled (7 page)

“We are at the mercy of the captain for the remainder of this trip, and we have only been sailing for one day! Do you think you could have held your temper?”

“No!”

“No,” he sighed, still spanking steadily.

The door opened and he threw Corinne’s skirt down to cover her bare flesh, glaring at the intruder. The captain stood in the doorway, a wide crocodile grin spread on his face.

“Did you not give me leave to use your office?” he asked peevishly. It was bad enough to whip Corinne in hearing distance of the voyeurs, but allowing Moreau to watch was out of the question. He fixed the man with a challenging stare. “Or do you deem her punishment to be fulfilled?”

“No, you may continue,” Moreau said, his eyes glittering as he stepped back out onto the lower deck. “I just wanted to be sure you found the strap.”

The door closed and he rubbed his hand over Corinne’s covered bottom, the heat evident even through the muslin.

“How are you taking it, Corinne?” he asked in a voice too low to carry outside the room.

Chapter Four

She gave a frustrated wiggle. “Terribly. How am I supposed to answer such a question?”

“Tears, Corinne. Tears will end it,” he reminded her.

She felt him lifting her skirt again, and too soon, he resumed the whipping, each new weal igniting a searing flame across her throbbing bottom.

“You could at least make sounds. A scream or two might help.”

“Go to hell.”

“Wrong answer,” he said, applying a little more force to his swings.

Unable to keep silent, she grunted with the pain, although in truth, her anger kept her from acknowledging much of it.

“I am not your enemy, Corinne, although I would have spanked you, regardless, for endangering yourself.”

“And I am not in danger now? From you?”

He chuckled. “Yes. You are in danger of being whipped all night long because you are too stubborn to shed a few tears and look remorseful.”

“They don’t deserve my remorse.”

“I agree.”

His agreement surprised her. He stopped the steady leathering and lifted her to stand, then pulled her onto his lap. Sitting on her swollen flesh made her gasp.

“I hate you,” she repeated.

He did not answer, merely pulled her head against his shoulder, stroking her back. Even though exhausted by the pain and her emotions, curious flutters of excitement flitted in her chest at his embrace. She marveled at how easily he handled her; no one in her life had been so intimate, so infuriating, and so understanding all at once. Was this what it was like to have a husband? Somehow she didn’t think so. She doubted her parents’ marriage held any moments like this. No, Jean-Claude was something unique.

“When you go out there, you must apologize to the pompous ass.”

“I will not!”

“Corinne, my arm is not nearly worn out, and as it is, I doubt you will sit comfortably tomorrow.”

She drew her head from his shoulder, feeling blood rush to her face as she glared at him. He returned her gaze steadily, his hand at her nape, thumb drawing lazy circles in the tendrils of hair. She expected him to look stern, but instead she found sympathy.

“You don’t have to mean it, but you have to say it. You may look as angry or as scornful as you like.”

She hesitated. She hated the idea of apologizing, but now that she was sitting upright on Jean-Claude’s knee, she did not want to be turned over it again. Especially when he had shown her the small measures of kindness. He was right—he was not the enemy.

“Very well.”

He helped her to stand and guided her out with a hand at her low back. He led her to the table and stood next to her, moving his hand to her shoulder in what felt like a gesture of support.

She kept her face devoid of emotion—to show anger or resentment would only allow them to win. “I apologize for spilling your wine, monsieur,” she said with a curtsy.

“Citizen,” he corrected sternly, but his friends did not play along with goading her this time, as if everyone was in agreement she had suffered enough.

The captain studied her with his hawk-like interest, but even he seemed finished with the game—at least for the night. He gave a flick of his hand. “You are dismissed. Citizen Roux will take care of the rest,” he said.

She gave a deep curtsy in his direction. “Thank you, Captain.”

He did not correct the title, nor did he answer. Jean-Claude gave a gentle tug on her shoulder to lead her away.

Exhausted, she stumbled toward the stairs to steerage.

“I believe I need to carry their tables back into the saloon. I will be down when I am given leave.”

She nodded and headed down to her dank quarters. It smelled even worse than before, and she realized the mother and daughter near their hammocks were both seasick now and the stench came from the bucket of vomit between them.

Dear God, how disgusting.
She closed her nose, breathing through her mouth to keep from retching herself. Spreading Jean-Claude’s cloak on the floor, she curled up on it, closing her eyes to pretend she was somewhere else. Except she was not somewhere else. She lay in the stinking belly of a packet ship with a throbbing backside and no semblance of pride. Her gay vision of Louisiana seemed so remote now. How would she even survive the passage?

She felt grateful for Jean-Claude, despite his brutish ways. He was on her side, and considering he was the only one, it was something to be valued.

Tears smarted her eyes and leaked out down her nose. She sniffed. She heard the creak of wood behind her but did not turn around, not wanting Jean-Claude to see her crying, if it was him. To her surprise, she felt him nestle his body behind hers, curling his long form around her as he had done on the nights she was cold in the forest.

She sniffed again, the tears falling more rapidly. He wrapped an arm around her and brushed at her cheeks with his fingers.

“I still hate you,” she choked, interlacing her fingers over the tops of his and drawing his hand into her chest.

“I accept it,” he murmured, pressing his lips against her hair. She shivered at the gesture, a creeping of heat warming her neck with the sudden awareness of the way their fingers tangled together. Her breath grew short.

“Corinne.”

“Yes?”

“This floor is filthy, and I think I hear rats.”

She scrambled up to her feet with a shriek.

He chuckled and followed her to standing. “Why not give the hammock another try?”

Because I enjoyed lying next to you.

She drew in a breath. “Do you think it could hold two people?” she asked, her heart hammering in her chest. She did not dare look at Jean-Claude, but she sensed he stopped breathing.

“I think it might,” he said in a strangled voice. He stretched out his hammock and swung into it with grace, then opened his arms.

For some ridiculous reason, she began to cry again as she stumbled forward. He caught her up and pulled her on top of his body, her back to his belly, his arms around her. She shifted and wiggled until her hips turned to the side and nestled against him, one leg draped over his, her head on his shoulder.

“I am not really crying,” she said, her tears wetting his shirt.

“I know,” he murmured, wiping her cheek with his thumb.

He did not say another word, just held her as she sniffled, the trickle of tears seeming endless until they built enough steam and she broke into a sob, her entire body shaking against his.

“I am sorry,” he murmured.

She knew, somehow, he meant he was sorry for the entire situation, not for his role in it. Because he had done the only thing he could have done.

* * *

The agony of being so close to Corinne and not having her was a delicious torture. He spent the night listening to the beat of her heart and the rhythm of her breath, treasuring the feel of her small form nestled so snugly against his long one. She slept deeply, and it pleased him to be able to offer her some comfort.

In the morning, they woke to the sounds of vomiting. The girl and her mother who bunked near them both were green with seasickness. Corinne’s own face turned pale at the smell, her expression pure disgust.

The girl threw up again and began to cry as if her heart would break. She was covered in her own vomit, and her mother, who lay groaning beside her, was no help. Corinne surprised him by going to her.

“Come here. It will be all right. I will help you clean up. Of course that smell would make you sick again. Follow me.”

She led the sobbing child up the stairs to the deck, and he trailed behind, touched by Corinne’s compassion.

“Just being in the fresh air will help. Do not return to steerage until bedtime even though you wish to lie down. I suspect it only makes it worse.”

She led the girl to a barrel of sea water used for washing and proceeded to dump buckets of water on the girl, washing the vomit from her hair and clothing.

“Do you have any other clothes you can wear?” The girl shook her head.

Corinne craned her neck around to meet his eye. “Bring me your cloak?”

It was the only warm thing they had between them, and Corinne’s willingness to share with someone so far beneath her who would surely soil it with more sickness, surprised him. He retrieved the cloak, and Corinne pulled the girl into an area protected from sight, ordering her to remove the wet clothing.

“What is your name?” he heard her ask.

“Flora.”

“Flora, you will get your sea legs soon,” she said, emerging with the girl cocooned in the large cloak. “I want you to sit out here on deck all day, face the direction we are traveling and keep your eyes on the horizon. It helps your body understand why it is being jostled so.” Corinne gave her a warm smile and a wink, and Flora managed a weak smile in return.

She found her a place on deck. “I will find you just a bit of food. Not too much—just enough to soak up the juices in your stomach, all right?”

The girl nodded gratefully. “Thank you, mademoiselle.”

Corinne froze, looking up at him.

He shrugged and winked. If a child recognized her for the lady she was, he would not argue. His pride to be escorting the compassionate Mademoiselle Corinne de Gramont swelled.

His companion proceeded to prove she did not consider herself above menial labor by scrubbing out the girl’s clothing and hanging it to dry. She even carried buckets of sea water to steerage below to rinse the girl’s hammock and wash the floors. She urged the mother out to the fresh air as well, settling her beside her daughter, leaving the bucket for her to use when sick.

As the days passed, the mother and daughter recovered and Corinne continued to dote on her young friend, braiding her hair and teaching her to count in German and English.

Corinne did not sleep in his hammock again, seeming to grow shy with him, as if she had only just realized he was a man. But no, she had been aware of that before. Perhaps she had begun to care for him. The thought made his chest grow warm. But even if she had—it was impossible. He could not think of courting her, but that did not stop him from drinking in the sight of her every chance he had.

Even tired and miserable, dirty and dressed as a pauper, her beauty shone brighter than any woman on the ship. He became aware that nearly every man had noticed it, too. In the days that followed, he caught the leers from the sailors, the stares from the lower class in steerage, and the appraising interest from the merchants.

He disliked them all—grateful for the farce that she was his wife so he could act out his territorial responses. Not foolish enough to miss it, Corinne did not seem concerned. Whether it was out of trust in his ability to defend or naiveté, he did not know.

Four weeks into the journey, the captain rewarded his crew with the opening of a barrel of ale for their consumption. The sailors drank heartily, becoming increasingly boisterous. Even Moreau began to turn pink in the face with drink. He had ordered Corinne to serve them and had the audacity to slap her ass when she walked by.

Jean-Claude stalked over from where he had been sitting, ready to give the captain a piece of his mind. Unfortunately, Moreau’s action had set the precedence for his men, and the very next sailor she passed grabbed her ass and held it, squeezing.

“Do not touch her!” he bellowed, knocking over a stool as he barreled across the crowded foredeck.

Corinne dumped a pint of ale over the sailor’s head. The clod did not harm her but pulled her down on his lap, thrusting a hand down the neck of her dress to grope her 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
.