Sea Mistress (10 page)

Seth caught her arms gently. He captured her hands and awarded her a tender smile, before kissing each of her palms in a feather-light caress that made her sigh with pleasure and shut her eyes.

“Turn around,” he commanded softly. He studied the row of hooks and eyes and felt a moment's impatience. He wondered if she wore a corset, and hoped she didn't, for his patience was barely enough for him to undo her gown. His fingers fumbled over the first hook and then grew steady as he went down her back, releasing each one.

He held his breath as he parted the edges of the cotton garment, exhaling again with a relieved sigh when he found no corset. He saw the bright white linen of her shift and longed to tear it away, to see beneath the undergarment to the soft, white flesh of his dreams.

Bess took control of undressing then, removing her gown, until she was clad only in her shift. Her breasts looked full and aroused as they pushed against the smooth fabric. Her waist was tiny, and her hips flared in perfect symmetry of form.

Seth's gaze roamed down her length, flaming as he studied her lovely legs . . . the shapely calves and thighs, ankles white and dainty. On her feet, she wore slippers, which she kicked off while he watched. Her bare feet gleamed white with small, pretty toes against the lush green grass.

“Seth?” Her voice was weak and nervous among the soft sounds of the night . . . the sigh of the breeze in the tall grass, the gentle lap of the water against the shore.

He looked up from her feet and stared at her, awed by her expression as well as her silken body.

“Seth, what's wrong?” She looked as if she was afraid she'd done something terrible.

“Nothing, my sweet,” he murmured, and then he opened his arms. “Come here.”

Without hesitation, she flowed into his embrace; and her trust in him heated Seth's blood, and made his heart sing in silent joy.

And then he kissed her, and the essence of his world became Bess Metcalfe. The honey taste of her lips . . . her tantalizing fragrance . . . the warmth of her soft womanly curves.

The kiss quickly escalated into a deep mating of mouths. Bess seemed as anxious to touch as he was to fondle. She moaned and responded as he sought to pleasure her. Her enjoyment of his touch heightened his desire, and his own pleasure was intense.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Please what?” he asked, pulling back to study her passion-drugged face. “Touch you? Kiss your bare breasts?”

She inhaled sharply at the mention of her breasts.

“Is that what you want, Lisabeth? For me to kiss you?” He touched the area where her left nipple formed a little peak of the soft cotton. “Here?” He saw her swallow as she nodded.

They reached for the hem of her shift simultaneously. Seth felt the heated brush of her hands as he helped her remove her only remaining garment. Then she was standing before him, naked, her smooth white body gleaming in the soft, incandescent light of the moon. And Seth gathered her against him before he lowered her to the ground.

“My God, you're so lovely,” he whispered with reverence.

She lay against the soft cushion of sweet-scented grass, her flaxen hair a contrast against the dark green.

Seth kissed her breast, her belly, and the curve of her hip and thigh. His original intention to go slowly vanished when Bess stroked him wherever she could reach. Their caresses became wilder, desperately seeking. Their mouths sought contact and then mated.

“Seth!” she cried.

He groaned when she opened her legs in invitation. He touched his fingers to her secret nub of desire and watched her shock. “It's all right,” he told her. “I won't hurt you.”

She bucked off the ground, thrusting against his hand as he played her, readying her for his entry. “Seth?” She was breathing hard. “Please . . .” she whispered. But he could tell she wasn't sure what she'd asked for.

He held himself rigid while he settled between her thighs. He wanted it to be good for her, and he had heard that virgins experienced pain.

She gasped when he probed her hidden temple of liquid warmth. “I'm sorry, Lisabeth,” he managed to grate out between teeth clenched with the need for control. “I promised not to hurt you, but I'm afraid—”

To his surprise, she pulled him closer, arching her abdomen up and taking him in completely. She froze for a second as he surged against her, and then she relaxed, and held him tight. “Yes,” she encouraged him. “Yes . . .”

With a cry of joy Seth thrust against her and set a rhythm that drew them up and up toward the peak of ecstasy's sweet desire. Bess arched against him, whimpering with pleasure.

Seth felt her climb the precipice and topple over with desire, and he allowed himself to let go . . to soar skyward and then take the plunge that would slowly, bring him and the woman beneath him back to earth.

Bess lay quiet after he'd spent himself. Had he been wrong and mistaken pleasure for pain? Or did she truly enjoy their sweet joining? He rose up on his elbows and eased himself to one side. He was unable to keep from fondling her as she lay there, her eyes closed, her bare breasts rising and falling as she breathed.

“Bess, I'm sorry—”

She opened her eyes and caressed his cheek. “Don't be,” she said. “I'm not.”

 

 

Don't be
. . .
I'm not.
Those two astonishing words jerked Seth from the memory of the first time they had made love. His lips twisted as he lay on his bunk.
Love?
She had professed love for him only moments after they'd made love. And the week and a half of passionate encounters and stolen kisses that followed that night had made him believe her. She loved him . . . or so she said.

He scowled at the ceiling. She'd known he had to return to his ship. He had made a commitment; he had to go. But he'd promised to come back to her. Why the hell did she agree to wait if she had no intention of doing so?

Seth recalled the months on board ship. The knowledge of their love had kept him going, when he was drenched from the rain and beaten by the winds and tossed about like a lifeless doll as the vessel encountered stormed-brewed angry seas. Her love for him had made him smile when he'd been shivering from the cold, when the heat of the southern tropics had burned his skin a fiery painful red that had sent him to his bunk with fever.

And then had come her letter. She'd promised to write him, and he'd been overjoyed when after months of waiting, of sailing from one port to another, he'd received a missive from her.

He'd read her letter, expecting to be embraced by her loving phrases, but instead his world had been dashed by her cruel betrayal. Bess Metcalfe had changed her fickle mind, and fancied to find a man with wealth. Her avowal of love had been nothing more than words said in the heat of a passionate moment—the lying words of a woman who'd found physical pleasure in a lowly sailor's kisses and touch.

Trust Elisabeth Mary Metcalfe? Never again.

He came to her—finally—before the evening meal. Bess had known instantly that the knock on the cabin door was his. How she'd known, she had no idea. After all, Reeves had come to see her twice that day while Mr. Kelley had checked in on her once. Wasn't one man's knock much like another?

She felt dwarfed by his presence when she opened the hatch and stepped back to allow his entry.

“You came,” she said with a hint of bitterness. Looking at him, Bess couldn't still the fluttering in her stomach. His tall frame . . . his dark hair . . . the blue, blue eyes. He was the only man she'd ever loved . . . ever lain with.

Seth looked amused. “Miss me already?”

“In a hell's cold day!”

“Liar.” His grin was smug.

“What I miss, Captain Garret, is fresh air.”

He nodded, conceding her point. “It is a lovely evening. Would you like to go up now, or dine first?”

“If you don't mind, I'd like to go up first . . . please,” she added in an attempt to be civil. It was the supper hour for the crew, but Bess was suddenly too excited at the prospect of leaving the cabin to worry about her stomach. The cabin now seemed smaller to her. She felt stifled by the damp, musty-smelling air.

“Let's go, then.” He gestured for her to precede him. When they reached the ladder to the upper deck, he stopped her with his hand on her arm. “I'll go up first. It's safer.”

Bess would have protested, but she demurred instead. She didn't care who went up the ladder first as long as she was allowed to follow.

The night sky was a spectacular sight. The sun had set, but its light lingered in a portrait of vibrant colors from orange to rose to a soft gray. Bess went to the rail and stared out over the huge expanse of water. She took a deep breath, enjoying the sea-scented air, the freedom of movement allowed her on the upper deck.

The sea stretched as far as the eye could see, a rippling of color and light that was mysterious and beautiful under the dusky sky. Mysterious for all its hidden secrets . . . beautiful in its shimmering form. The waves lapped against the side of the vessel, their song like a mother's lullaby—calming, peaceful . . . but very much alive.

Bess was awed. The sights and sounds of a ship at sea were unlike anything else. She felt small in God's scheme of creation. Humbled by the thought, she gazed up at the tall masts, her attention caught by the flapping of the sails. It suddenly occurred to her what skill and strength was needed to run the ship. From below, she could hear the constant activity of the men above. Even now, during the dinner hour, there were men moving about, handling ropes and rigging, keeping a watchful, well-trained eye on the sails. Her gaze went back to the ocean.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” Seth's deep voice infringed on her thoughts.

She turned to study him. He was staring at the sea, a bold study in masculinity. Her breath caught as, for a brief moment, it was five years past, and she was passionately in love with this man. She leaned close, inhaled his scent, and closed her eyes, imagining the soft pressure of his mouth on her lips . . . the wonderful sensation of him cupping her breasts.

She sensed his gaze on her and her eyes flew open. Heat infused her cheeks as she jerked herself back to the present, and silently prayed that he hadn't guessed her line of thought.

He smiled at her in shared enjoyment of the sea, and she relaxed and grinned back. Nothing in his expression made her think that he knew which way her mind had wandered.

But Bess frowned then, wondering at his relaxed manner. Earlier Seth had been irritated, even angered, by her presence. Since he'd come to bring her topside, however, there had been amusement and resignation in his behavior. It was as if he'd come to accept having her on board his ship. She hoped the rest of the crew would see things the same way.

“All these years and it still affects you like this?” she asked. His tone had been soft, implying that he felt the same as she. That they shared the same wonder about the sea disturbed her.

Seth nodded and then turned from the water to capture her gaze. “Some things never cease to amaze me,” he said. “The sea is one of those things. Beautiful, temperamental, unpredictable.” He paused. “Much like a woman.”

He turned back to the glistening dark waves. “I've learned how to deal with the sea.”

A tense silence followed that admission, which seemed to Bess both accusatory and yet sad.

“Captain.” A young sailor stood waiting to further address his commander. Bess noted the man's green eyes and russet brown hair. He was young . . . very young, she thought, to be so very far away from home.

“Mr. Hawke,” Seth said, and Bess recognized the name as belonging to one of the two men who had been left to guard the ship the night she stole on board.

“It's Conrad, sir,” Hawke said.

His face solemn, Seth dipped his head, clearly understanding the sailor's unspoken message. “I'll see to him, Mark. Thank you.” He faced Bess, a cold mask settling over his features. “I'm afraid your venture topside is at an end, Miss Metcalfe.”

“But I've only just come up—”

“It can't be helped. I have business to attend to.”

Bess scowled. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing that you could put to rights.” His anger was fierce and sudden, and Bess gasped.

“Conrad,” she said. Her eyes widened with understanding. “The second mate.”

His gaze narrowing, he nodded.

“My God, you had him flogged!” she exclaimed, feeling again the same horror she'd known when Reeves had first told her.

His voice became laced with steel. “A necessary action unfortunately—thanks to you.” Seth instantly regretted his harsh words. Bess had gone pale with horror. It was true that the whipping was the result of Conrad's “encounter” with Bess Metcalfe, but the man had been nothing but trouble since he'd first signed on with the
Sea Mistress
. It had only been a matter of time before the same punishment would have come his way for some other infringement of the captain's rules.

Geoff Conrad had been stripped of his position of second mate and flogged. A harsh lesson to him and others to obey the captain or suffer the consequences.

“Come,” Seth said. “I'll take you below to my cabin. Mr. Cookson will bring you something for supper. I'll join you as soon as I've concluded my business.”

“Thank you, but no,” she said stiffly. Recalling his kiss, she could imagine what he had in mind. “I'd prefer my own cabin. There's no sense going to yours.” It was a clear message that she didn't want the pleasure of his company.

The captain tensed. “Very well then. I'll see you to your cabin. I thought you'd appreciate using mine this evening, for it's larger, but if it's yours you prefer . . .”

He opened the hatch for her and gestured for her to enter. “A word of warning, Bess. Stay below unless escorted by me or Mr. Kelley. And for God's sake, avoid contact with any of the crew.”

He left her at her cabin with the promise of dinner sent to her private quarters—and an evening spent without company.

 

 

The
Sea Mistress
encountered her first bout with truly bad weather on her sixth day at sea. A sharp crack of thunder woke Bess in the middle of the night. It sounded like an explosion until the second burst of sound came, followed by a low distant rumbling.

She scrambled from her bunk and went to the hatch. She could hear the scurry of feet across the upper deck, the unintelligible commands from the officers topside. Sailors hurried along the passageway and up the ladder.

“All hands ahoy!” someone shouted from above. “All hands ahoy! Tumble up here and take in sail!”

“What is it?” she asked one sailor as she spied him preparing to go topside. She suspected that it was a thunderstorm, but she wanted to be sure.

“It's a squall, missy,” one older seaman said, confirming her suspicion. “A right good one. Best get back in yer cabin and brace yerself.”

The door to the captain's cabin opened suddenly. Mr. Kelley came out of Seth's quarters and approached her. “Best get back inside, Miss Metcalfe,” he advised, much as the old salt tar had done. “We're heading into some rough water. The
Sea Mistress—
she'll be tossed some. There's rope in the trunk in your cabin. You may want to secure yourself on your bunk.”

“Tie myself in?” she asked, stunned.

“Aye, Miss,” Mr. Kelley said. “When the sea begins to dance, this vessel—she'll tip and rock, throwing everything and everyone what's not secured.”

The first mate, or “mate”, as he was referred to by the crew, disappeared, gone topside with the rest. He had assumed she would listen and obey him.

Bess debated what to do. Should she heed the mate's advice, which was good sense? Or go up with the others in case she could help? She'd never been on board a ship during a storm before. It might be exciting to see it.

And get washed away when the waves come crashing over the side?
an inner voice taunted her.
The men above are experienced sailors. You'll only hamper them and get in their way.

But what if she stayed out of their path and tied herself to part of the upper deck?

She could still drown. Bess decided to heed good sense and Mr. Kelley's suggestion, and she went inside to find the rope.

The storm hit hard, tossing the ship on an angry sea, rocking the vessel as if it were a toy, jerking her from starboard to port, shaking her from bowsprit to stern.

After wrapping the length of rope about her waist, Bess secured herself on the lower bunk, looping one end of the hemp on a hook on the bulkhead, the other end about the post of the built-in bunk. It wasn't long before Bess realized her mistake in fastening herself that way. The rolling motion of the vessel made her feel ill again, and the rope as it tightened about her waist with each of the ship's movements made her feel worse. With each squeeze of the hemp about her belly came the threatening sensation of being on the verge of losing her stomach's contents.

As the fury of the storm increased so too did the motion of the vessel; anything loose in Bess's cabin, like her hairbrush, fell to the floor and skidded across the wooden decking. The ship lurched this way and that. Bess tried to free the knot holding the rope to the bulkhead, but the pull and sway of the
Sea Mistress
had fastened the knot more securely. There was nothing for Bess to do but be tossed about like a old cloth doll and pray that she didn't get sick and roll into her own vomit.

The storm seemed to go on forever. The rope burned a mark into Bess's waist as the ship tipped from side to side, rolling her from one edge of the bunk to the other. Several times she hit the wall with a force that momentarily stunned her. But it was the burning brand about her middle that gave her the most pain.

Suddenly, as quickly as it had come, the turmoil stopped. Bess lay there, winded, listening to the quiet. The roar of the storm had vanished; the only sounds now were the cries of the mate and a sound like rope sliding across deck, footsteps on the wooden deck boards, and the lingering churned-up water of an angry sea hitting against the
Sea Mistress's
hull.

She didn't know how long she lay there. Eventually, she became more aware of her position, because of the stinging of her belly, sides, and back. She tried to free herself.

Just then a knock on the hatch resounded about the cabin. She struggled to untie herself, but she was stuck. The ship's movement made it difficult for her to work. Her stomach grumbled in protest.

The pounding on the cabin door came again.

“Come in,” she called, silently praying it was Reeves and not any of the disreputable crew, especially Conrad, the former second mate.

The hatch opened. Seth Garret stood on the threshold, searching for her with his piercing blue gaze, spying her on the bunk. “Are you all right?” His voice was soft.

She flushed from head to toe, embarrassed at her predicament. “I'm tied in, and I can't undo the knots.”
And I feel sick.
She waited for his chortle of amusement. It never came.

Seth didn't smile, but came to her bunk. He worked at the knot on the outer post, struggling ineffectively for several moments. Then, he reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out a jackknife. After flipping open the blade, he carefully sawed the rope from the post.

Bess winced as he pulled the rope free.

His gaze narrowed upon her waist, where instinctively she'd put her hands. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” She looked away.

“Let's see.” He started to reach for the hem of her man's shirt and stopped when she flinched. “Elisabeth, you're hurt. Let me look.”

“No—” She winced as she shifted, and then she reluctantly gave a nod. With his help, she eased up her shirt, gasping with pain as fabric abraded her sore flesh.

Seth drew in a harsh breath. The rope had torn Bess's smooth skin. A red band ran across her belly, about her sides, and no doubt along her back. The skin was broken in some areas where the rope had burned the spot raw.

“This needs dressing,” he said gruffly. He bent to better examine her injury, gently touching the surrounding skin. “Does this hurt?” His fingertips tingled as they touched her.

Her dark eyes met his gaze briefly. He saw her swallow before she shook her head.

“Good,” he said. He ran his finger to her side, probing the area very lightly, carefully. “How about this?”