Humbled (8 page)

* * *

“Stop them!” she screamed at the infuriating captain. Jean-Claude grew increasingly bloody, and the focus had left his eyes. Each time he stood, he swayed on his feet as if he saw double.

Moreau ignored her, cheering with the rest of the rabble.

“He will die! One of them will die! You must stop this madness!”

The sailor took another blow to his face and toppled to the ground. For a moment he did not rise, and the crowd yelled and chanted to urge him back to fight. She prayed he would not rise, that this despicable display would end. She prayed Jean-Claude would survive.

The sailor lifted his head and she groaned. He scrambled to his knees but struggled to rise to his feet. Jean-Claude marched forward and struck him again in the face. The man toppled backward, eyes closed.

The crowd began to count, “1… 2… 3… 4…”

What was this, some kind of game?

They stopped when they reached ten, and then someone grabbed Jean-Claude’s arm and waved it in the air, declaring him winner of the brawl.

Jean-Claude promptly dropped to his own knees.

She faced Moreau and swung her hand to slap his face. He was too quick for her, catching her wrist and yanking her against his torso, so she met him, nose to nose. “Not on my ship,
cherie
.” He bellowed over the top of her head, “Take them both to the medic cabin!”

Medic cabin. What a relief—she had not known such a thing existed. Two sailors grabbed Jean-Claude under the arms and hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him in the direction of the aft cabins. She trailed behind.

They dropped him on a cot, where she knelt beside him, using the skirt of her dress to wipe the blood from his face.

The medic handed her a damp cloth. “Use this.”

She cleaned up his face and slid his shirt up, revealing the contoured lines of his muscular abdomen and the already swelling red marks on his ribs.

The medic treated the sailor, not showing much concern over either man. She feared fights were a regular occurrence on
La Rose
.

Jean-Claude did not attempt to speak. At times his eyes opened and followed her; other times he sank back into unconsciousness.

She knew he would live, yet her body shook, her outrage producing hot tears, which she blinked back. The medic gave him laudanum for the pain since he did not “seem as drunk as the other one.” She was grateful for it. She stayed by his side, squeezing beside him on the small cot to pass the night.

The laudanum took effect quickly, knocking him into a deep slumber. By morning the other sailor had stood and staggered out and the medic was also long gone. She investigated the medicine options and found a liniment. Moistening the cloth with it, she lifted his shirt, gently swabbing the yellow-green bruises on his ribs. Noticing dried blood and a hole on his trousers over his upper thigh, she debated whether she ought to investigate. To do so would require the shameful act of lowering his pants, but Jean-Claude was in too deep a sleep to notice.

She swallowed, fumbling with the waistband. Pulling them down was more difficult than she expected, but she managed to roll his hips to the side to slide the fabric below his manhood and investigate. Averting her eyes from his sex, she discovered a shallow gash with bits of wood, as if a splinter from the deck had impaled his leg. She picked the slivers out with her fingernails and cleaned the wound.

When he opened his eyes, blinking at her, her heart slammed against her ribs as she prayed the opiate would keep him from realizing she had his pants down.

“Corinne?” he murmured, his manhood lengthening and standing on end.

She froze, staring at his length. His eyes closed and she exhaled, yanking up his trousers and covering him with a blanket. Settling beside him on the cot, she rested her palm over the hard muscle of his chest.

His hand tangled in her hair. “Corinne,” he murmured again, but his breath deepened as he drifted back to his drug-induced dreams.

She dozed a few hours beside him. She woke, thinking of his manhood. Had it stood erect because he understood she saw it? Or was it a reflex to being out? She tugged the blanket off him, peering in the direction of his trousers. Perhaps she should have bandaged his wound after she cleaned it. She had been hasty in restoring his clothing.

She slid her hand over his bare chest and down the taut muscles of his belly. Yes, the bulge in his pants grew taller, tenting his trousers. And yet he slept. Tucking her fingers inside the waistband of his trousers once more, she gently tugged them below the bulge. His manhood sprang out, as if eager to be free. She stared, fascinated. She had seen drawings before, but examining a man’s anatomy up close was a different matter. Just looking made her breasts ached, a slow pulse between her legs bringing her awareness to the moisture building there. Remembering some of the bawdy stories she had read, she gripped it at the base and marveled at the way his skin slid over the enormous muscle. Jean-Claude gave a loud groan, his eyes flying open.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, still looking feverish.

She ignored his question and continued her exploration, pleased when a drop of clear liquid appeared from the slit as she knew it to be a sign of his satisfaction.

In a flash, he pulled her down on top of him, his lips taking hers, his tongue demanding entrance. He licked into her mouth and her hips bucked in response, rubbing over his hardened shaft. His hands cupped her bottom, kneading her curves, encouraging her movement over his erection.

“Lift up your skirts,” he commanded. She raised her torso, trembling with desire, but hesitating from shame. He tugged the fabric of her skirt for her, positioning his cock at the entrance to her sex. When he rubbed the head over her slit, shocks of pleasure shot through her. She lifted her pelvis and impaled herself on his mast, pushing hard to get past the pain of his entry.

“
Oh God
,” he groaned. “Corinne…”

He gripped her hips, moving her slowly at first until she relaxed into the pleasure of it, then picking up speed. Jean-Claude wrapped his fists in her skirts, using them to leverage her closer each time she rocked forward.

“God,” he groaned again. “So sweet…”

She stopped, uncertain at the pain in his expression. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” he roared, yanking her in again.

She grinned as he resumed their pace, pulling her over his jutting length, showing her a new pleasure each time, until a sense of urgency overcame her.

“Oh,” she cried.

“Yes,” he encouraged.

“I want—”

“I know.” His eyes rolled back in his head and he gritted his teeth, thrusting his hips up as he yanked her down with each thrust. “Take it, Corinne.”

Take it?
She did not have time to ponder the command because panic shot through her and she took him as deeply as she could, a great shudder running through her body. Her muscles clenched around his length and he gave a growl.

* * *

He woke feeling sick to his stomach. The medicine the medic had given him had made him half delirious. He had dreamed of making love to Corinne. He sat up, groaning at the pain in his ribs.

“What hurts?” Corinne appeared at his side and the sight of her sent a jolt through his entire system. Memories of her applying something to his ribs came rushing back, along with a jumble of much more. He
had
made love to her.

“Corinne.” His mouth felt as if it were filled with wool.

She handed him a tin cup of water. He took it, drinking gratefully.

“Corinne,” he tried again. “Did I…?”

She averted her face, a flush creeping up her neck.

He caught her hand and pulled her toward him. “Forgive me. I am so sorry—I should not have…”

She flushed a deeper shade of pink but shook her head. “I have no regret,” she said with a stubborn lift of her chin.

He touched her face. “Did it hurt?”

Her eyes shot to his, as if surprised by the question. She gave a small shrug. “A little. At the beginning.”

“It gets better. I promise. It only hurts the first time.”

“You will show me?” she whispered.

His heart gave a double-beat to hear she wanted it again. The medic entered, causing her to jump to her feet and smooth her skirts. Even with an audience, it took all his self-control not to grab her and show her right then.

Chapter Five

Moreau saw the aristo and her peasant leave the medic’s cabin hand in hand. Curious about the unlikely pair, he invited them to dine with him. Were they married? Or lovers? How had such a match come about?

When the young man had offered to punish his “wife,” Moreau had not believed he would. He suspected Armand was a servant from the girl’s château, aiding her in escape. Yet when he had peeked in his cabin, Armand had the young lady over his knee and was looking quite experienced—even comfortable—in his chastisement of her. That small puzzle had lodged in his mind, causing his interest in the couple to grow.

He already regretted his little game with the girl. Humbling her had not proven to be the entertainment he had expected. In fact, she had worked as willingly as any of his crew and befriended other peasants in steerage.

He ordered the table set just for the three of them and watched as they approached, both looking suspicious.

He stood when they arrived, acknowledging the presence of a lady. Being accustomed to such treatment, she did not notice at first, but the courtesy did not escape her companion.

“I have decided I no longer require your service,” he announced when they settled into their seats. “You may enjoy the rest of your passage as paid cabin guests.”

Armand kept his face impassive. “Why the change of heart?”

He shrugged. “It is not so interesting to watch an aristo lowered when she has already made a liaison beneath her. Now I would very much prefer the sight of a lady on my ship, as we have no others this trip.”

“And you still do not,” the lady insisted while Armand flushed an angry red. The food arrived and she again showed her perfect table manners while her companion ate like a commoner.

“Let us not carry out this farce any longer. You can no more pretend not to be an aristo than your companion can pretend he is a silversmith.”

She drew herself up in indignation. “He
is
a silversmith! He made that ring in his own forge!”

Armand appeared both dismayed and pleased by her passionate defense.

“He made it for you?” he probed.

She stilled, not breathing, staring at him. “For my mother,” she admitted.

“Who is your mother?”

She hesitated. Armand frowned and shook his head.

“Does your mother know you have her ring?”

She lifted her delicate shoulders. “She and my father were in Bourges when the revolution began. I have no word of their safety.”

“I see. And so you decided to marry Citizen Armand and set sail for La Nouvelle-Orléans?” When she did not answer, he turned to Armand. “You made the ring?”

The young man gave a single, wary nod.

“You have the muscles of a blacksmith, not a silversmith,” he observed.

Armand’s lips curled at the edges. “Is it idle curiosity that motivates your interest, or do you have another game to play out?”

He returned the smile. “My game is finished. And I suppose I am indulging idle curiosity. Were you her father’s blacksmith?”

“Silversmith,” the lady interjected.

“Yes. I believe he made the ring,” he said slowly, putting the pieces of the puzzle together. “Have I guessed correctly?”

Armand gave a single nod.

He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “You will find the social classes in La Nouvelle-Orléans to be more mobile than those in France. It would be easy for a man with ambition to position himself at a silversmith, no matter what his background.”

He saw the glint of interest in Armand’s eye and the lady sat up straighter in her seat.

“And while I cannot say with certainty, I doubt the same terrorizing of aristocracy will occur there. A silversmith with an aristocrat for a wife would do well.”

Armand appeared troubled.

“Unless you are not actually married?” He watched closely. They both sat and blinked at him, rather than dismissing his guess. “In which case, a recommendation from a known member of
la noblesse
would go far in securing a new silversmith’s reputation.”

The lady’s eyes darted to Armand’s.

“Either way, I recommend you declare yourselves at port in the manner you wish to be recognized by society. Do not disembark as a married couple if you wish to marry in the future. Give your real name so you may use your aristocracy to your advantage—and I do believe it will be of great benefit in La Nouvelle-Orléans. There will be no revolution there because of the social mobility I already mentioned.”

Armand stared at him. “If only I knew whether your advice can be trusted.”

He grinned, liking the young man.

* * *

True to his word, Moreau offered them their own private cabin, where he had left a trunk of various articles of lady’s clothing. The fashions were several years old, but they were of fine quality and there were even hoops to wear under Corinne’s skirt.

“I do not like it,” Jean-Claude said, pacing the room. He gestured at the gowns. “You are nothing but a puppet on a string to him. First he wants to see you grovel like a dog, lowered from your station, now he gives it all back to you, as if he were the King of France, conferring a title. I do not trust him.”

She took the dresses out of the trunk and laid them on the bed, one by one, examining them with a critical eye. “What do you think about his advice for when we arrive? Is it a trick?”

Jean-Claude sighed and sank on the bed, running his hand through his hair. “I know not,” he said miserably. “It sounded reasonable. Yet I cannot see his game, and that worries me.”