possessions, complaining of damp and damage, lifting a shirt to sniff it. Of course it stank. At this point, all of their clothes did.
She scrubbed, regretting her teasing, but thinking, with a smile, that she would make it up to him later. And she could. She knew how to make him moan with pleasure, how to drive him wild with wanting, push him to the edge and then rein him in for her own gratification.
“You know,” he said, “this is not how a mistress behaves. You’re here for my pleasure.”
“You’re not my protector.”
“Indeed? What do you think we’ve been doing all this time? It’s not just a question of bed. That’s important, but…oh, the devil with it.” He produced a small knife and sharpened a pen. “This other ship is quite close. I expect it’s going to England. Do you want to write a letter to anyone?”
“No, thank you.”
He grunted and began to write rapidly on a small sheet of paper from his portable writing-desk. “As you will. I’m writing to my sister.” He scribbled a few lines more. “What about your family?”
“I’ll write to them when we arrive.”
“Very well.”
She scrubbed and listened to the small scratching sound of his pen.
“Captain Trent told me we’d probably be invited over to the ship. Since they’re a few days out from the island they’ll have better food.” He folded the letter. “Just the gentlemen, but I suppose Blight will come too.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“Like him? He’s a jumped-up servant.”
She sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. “So am I.”
“You’re different.”
“Why?” She rubbed the block of soap onto the boards.
“Because you’re a lady.”
“No I’m not. I’m ruined. But regarding Blight—do you really think it wise to make an enemy of him?”
He stood, tapping the letter against his thigh. “It’s somewhat too late to worry about that, Clarissa. If I were you I would not think about it. I assure you I barely think of Blight at all.”
“Mr. Pendale?” Captain Trent’s voice from on deck interrupted them. “We’re taking the cutter over to the ship, if you’d care to accompany us.”
Allen bowed. How ironic; the Earl’s son bowed to a woman who knelt at his feet with a scrubbing brush in her hand—and left dirty footprints over the freshly-scrubbed floor as he left.
His head ached liked the devil and he wished there had not been quite so many toasts to the King, Nelson, and God knows what else, last night. Clarissa was still cool with him—he’d somehow made it belowdecks without breaking his neck, and had fallen onto his berth with all his clothes on, although he’d fully intended to pay her some attention.
He blinked in the morning sun and looked at the very pleasant sight of Clarissa and Elizabeth Blight in their shifts, washing linen. Mrs. Blight’s shift, trimmed with lace, showed off her unfettered bosom to great advantage. Clarissa’s shift, however, was threadbare and almost transparent; he could see the outline of her slender body, the darkness of nipples and pubic hair through it. Although a piece of sailcloth had been strung across the deck to give the women some privacy, crew members drifted toward it frequently until Allen glared at them.
He had stripped down to a pair of cotton drawers and, dirty shirts, neck-cloths, and stockings in hand, hoped Clarissa would offer to wash them for him. She, however, had only smiled and returned to her own laundry. Beside her, Mrs. Blight, bosom jiggling, scrubbed industriously at one of Blight’s shirts. She glanced at Allen, a quick, appraising look, before bending to her task.
Blight looked at him and smirked. “Now, if she were mine, I wouldn’t stand for it.”
“I beg your pardon?” Allen made his voice icily cool.
“Miss Onslowe. She’s impertinent. She needs a good whipping.”
“Indeed.” He returned Blight’s sneer. “She’s not your property, or mine, either. I
She scrubbed, regretting her teasing, but thinking, with a smile, that she would make it up to him later. And she could. She knew how to make him moan with pleasure, how to drive him wild with wanting, push him to the edge and then rein him in for her own gratification.
“You know,” he said, “this is not how a mistress behaves. You’re here for my pleasure.”
“You’re not my protector.”
“Indeed? What do you think we’ve been doing all this time? It’s not just a question of bed. That’s important, but…oh, the devil with it.” He produced a small knife and sharpened a pen. “This other ship is quite close. I expect it’s going to England. Do you want to write a letter to anyone?”
“No, thank you.”
He grunted and began to write rapidly on a small sheet of paper from his portable writing-desk. “As you will. I’m writing to my sister.” He scribbled a few lines more. “What about your family?”
“I’ll write to them when we arrive.”
“Very well.”
She scrubbed and listened to the small scratching sound of his pen.
“Captain Trent told me we’d probably be invited over to the ship. Since they’re a few days out from the island they’ll have better food.” He folded the letter. “Just the gentlemen, but I suppose Blight will come too.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“Like him? He’s a jumped-up servant.”
She sat back on her heels and wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. “So am I.”
“You’re different.”
“Why?” She rubbed the block of soap onto the boards.
“Because you’re a lady.”
“No I’m not. I’m ruined. But regarding Blight—do you really think it wise to make an enemy of him?”
He stood, tapping the letter against his thigh. “It’s somewhat too late to worry about that, Clarissa. If I were you I would not think about it. I assure you I barely think of Blight at all.”
“Mr. Pendale?” Captain Trent’s voice from on deck interrupted them. “We’re taking the cutter over to the ship, if you’d care to accompany us.”
Allen bowed. How ironic; the Earl’s son bowed to a woman who knelt at his feet with a scrubbing brush in her hand—and left dirty footprints over the freshly-scrubbed floor as he left.
His head ached liked the devil and he wished there had not been quite so many toasts to the King, Nelson, and God knows what else, last night. Clarissa was still cool with him—he’d somehow made it belowdecks without breaking his neck, and had fallen onto his berth with all his clothes on, although he’d fully intended to pay her some attention.
He blinked in the morning sun and looked at the very pleasant sight of Clarissa and Elizabeth Blight in their shifts, washing linen. Mrs. Blight’s shift, trimmed with lace, showed off her unfettered bosom to great advantage. Clarissa’s shift, however, was threadbare and almost transparent; he could see the outline of her slender body, the darkness of nipples and pubic hair through it. Although a piece of sailcloth had been strung across the deck to give the women some privacy, crew members drifted toward it frequently until Allen glared at them.
He had stripped down to a pair of cotton drawers and, dirty shirts, neck-cloths, and stockings in hand, hoped Clarissa would offer to wash them for him. She, however, had only smiled and returned to her own laundry. Beside her, Mrs. Blight, bosom jiggling, scrubbed industriously at one of Blight’s shirts. She glanced at Allen, a quick, appraising look, before bending to her task.
Blight looked at him and smirked. “Now, if she were mine, I wouldn’t stand for it.”
“I beg your pardon?” Allen made his voice icily cool.
“Miss Onslowe. She’s impertinent. She needs a good whipping.”
“Indeed.” He returned Blight’s sneer. “She’s not your property, or mine, either. I
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