Artemis - Kydd 02 (22 page)

Kydd held her in an intoxicated trance, not daring to move. Her leg interposed slowly, caressing between his thighs in an excruciating sensual invasion; his hands in response moved down her back.

'Thomas — I've never been with a man,' she blurted. Her hands slid down his body and discovered his arousal. She gasped, her breath came fast and ragged; he lowered her g
ently
to the floor.

As with a stranger's eyes he saw her tear off her shoes, and with a flood of sexual feeling he saw her pull up her dress to the white of knees and upper thighs. She lay on the carpet, writhing and vulnerable.

'Please, Thomas, my love, my love . . .' Her words were nearly incoherent but Kydd was not listening. He knelt between her legs, his head roaring at the sight of her under him, and he tore at his breeches. His hard manhood got in the way and in a rage of frustration he ripped the cloth.

They came together, hard, savagely, their bodies moving together in tidal surges of sexuality. The climax was explosive and uncontrollable. She clung to him while the spasms spent themselves. 'My darling, my dearest/ she murmured, over and over, clasping his body in hers with an immovable grip.

At last she released him; he drew apart and lay next to her. Wonderingly he gazed across at her, her body still racked by dying shudders, his own knowing only a beautiful, deep satisfaction. They lay there unmoving.

Kydd reached out for her, his arm across her bodice. There was something infinitely endearing in the sight of the trusting pale nakedness of her lower body, but he was becoming aware of the night's chill, cooling the hot wetness, and he clutched at his breeches.

Sarah stirred. 'My God
’
she said brokenly. 'What have we done?'

Puzzled, Kydd propped himself on his elbows and tried to make out her expression.

'What have we done?' This time it was a harsh, tearing sound, sending cold shafts of fear into him.

'Sarah?' he asked gentl
y.

She sat up suddenly, plucking feverishly at her dress. Her eyes showed their whites, like a frightened horse, and his unease grew. She lurched over to one of the straight-backed red chairs and sat with her head in her hands.

Kydd got to his feet and covered himself, but his breech flap hung down torn and useless. It seemed futile to pretend a dignity he no longer possessed, but he
softly
crossed over to her. Then the sobs began, quiet and endless. Clumsily he tried to put his arms around her, but she shrugged them off. The sobs turned to weeping; a hopeless, racking female sorrow.

In all the helplessness of a man he sat motionless, waiting. The evening turned to night, the lantern guttered low. He found his coat, put it around her and resumed his vigil. Long after the night noises of Macao outside had
settled
in slumber, he held her while the fitful weeping continued. The silent intervals between lengthened until at last it ceased.

'Thomas,' she said in a low voice.

'Yes?'

'It'll be all right if we love each other, won't it?' she said.

Kydd paused. His thoughts sped ahead. He had not even considered this, but then he realised that he could answer truthfully. 'Yes, Sarah, if we loved each other of course it would be all right.'

She sighed and reached for him. Her face in the dimness was a wet smear on his, but he kissed her dutifully, then g
ently
disengaged to trim the lantern. The renewed light revealed wild disorder. Sarah stood the table on its legs again and began mechanically to pick up broken pieces of crockery and congealed food from the carpet. Kydd tried to help her.

The coolness of the night was now a hostile cold. Sarah shivered and moved to a corner of the room. Kydd found a tasselled covering and he brought it across to where she sat hugging her knees. In a touching gesture she held it open for him also. He snuggled up to her and found her feminine warmth roused him again. He dared not reveal it to her.

'I — we must plan,' she said, in a small voice.

Kydd made no move, taking refuge in silence.

'Macao is a small place, people will know,' she said.

'Only if Ah
Lee tells 'em,' Kydd said stoutl
y. He saw no reason to panic.

She thought. 'She is discreet - she likes me. But Honrar Nunez, he would never lie.'

'And how would he know?' Kydd retorted.

'I - I could not lie to him, Thomas.'

There was no answer to that. They huddled stiffly together.

'There is a way — to save — my reputation,' Sarah said carefully. Kydd waited. 'Thomas, you shall marry me,' she announced. Thunderstruck, he stared at her. She was not looking at him but staring away dreamily into the distance. Her voice strengthened. 'I will leave Mr Tsoi's employ and you shall leave the sea, and we will set up house together, here in Macao.'

'Leave the sea?' Kydd couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.

'Of course, Thomas dear, you wouldn't want me married to a common sailor, now, would you?' He was shocked as much by the prim possessiveness in her tone as the content of what she was saying.

'But—'

'You will get used to being on the land again soon, dear.' There was now a hint of asperity. 'Tomorrow you shall see the Captain and tell him you are leaving the ship to se
ttle
down.'

'Sarah, we are at war. My duty—'

'Fiddlesticks! Young men go to war to protect those on the land, and now you are on the land. Leave it to the others to be heroes/ she said crossly.

There could be no reply to that at this time. He urgently needed to get away to think it through, to weigh the consequences of his act. 'Yes, Sarah/ he uttered, unable to muster a term of endearment. She looked at him doubtfully, but snuggled closer, her fingers twitching at his waistcoat.

In a dream-like state he made his way back to the boats. Half of his being exulted, sang with joy - the other half recoiled. When he had gone to the
residencia
to reclaim his sea-clothes Nunez had come to the door in a dressing-robe and had seen his state.

'Had an accident, fell down/ he had mumbled. The
honrar
had not said a word, but the atmosphere had been grim and reproving.

The sky in the east was just lightening when the last boat pulled listlessly for the
Artemis.
He was lucky: any later and he would have been put down as a straggler, his leave stopped. He went to his sea-chest to shift into his working clothes, heedless of the lewd comments from the others. They had spent their small mea
ns quickly, had littl
e chance of further frolics, and were curious about Kydd. He didn't enlighten them.

Pulling his striped shirt down over his head he emerged to see Renzi the other side of the chest. His face was savage, but he said nothing.

That forenoon they were paired on the painting stage hanging over the ship's side. They were to scrape back the broad yellow stripe that ran along the line of the gunports. Kydd wanted badly to talk with his friend, to let him work his logic on the situation, to resolve the skeins of worry and to come to a sound conclusion. Renzi worked next to him, his triangular iron rasping at the paintwork in vicious strokes.

'I saw Sarah last night,' he tried.

'And so?' Renzi replied acidly.

'We - we came to an understanding.'

Renzi's strokes ceased.

'Well, that is to say, she, er . . .' he mumbled. 'So you didn't have an understanding,' Renzi said sarcastically.

Kydd flushed, but persevered: 'It's not yet
settled
,' he said lamely.

'And you want it
settled
. Am I to understand you wish me to advise you how best to entrap Miss Bullivant?'

A dull resentment rose in Kydd. This was his particular friend with whom he had shared so much, and who when needed was proving an obstinate enemy.

'Last night Sarah and I — coupled. She wants t' marry me.'

Renzi's scraper tinkled once on the ship's side and splashed daintily into the muddy water below. His face went white, and he stared at Kydd.

'You careless lubbers!' shouted an angry figure at the deckline above. 'Show a bit o' life an' get a move on!'

Kydd resumed his scrapes half-heartedly, unwilling to look at Renzi.

'I — can only tender my felicitations.' Renzi's voice was distant, controlled.

Kydd said nothing, but scraped on. After a while he heard Renzi catch a replacement scraper before he, too, resumed the work.

'Thing is, I'm not sure o' the tightness of it all,' Kydd continued.

The strokes ceased again. 'Surely it's simple enough,'

Renzi replied; his voice was ti
ghtly
controlled, but no longer venomous.

'No, Nicholas, she wants me to swallow th' anchor and go ashore - for good 'n' all,' Kydd said warmly. 'Well, why not, pray?'

Kydd thought and could not come up with other than the truth. 'I've found m'self since I've been t' s
ea, and don't hanker after the
longshore life.'

Renzi bit his lip. "The nub of it, I believe,' he began, with a slight tremor to his words, 'is whether you love her enough.'

For long moments Kydd hesitated. 'I don't know.'

'You must know.'

Kydd faced his friend. 'That is th' point, d'ye see?' His earnest expression made Renzi drop his eyes. 'I lay with the woman, I must own, but I cannot in all truth say before you - that I love her.'

The stage swung with a small movement of the ship. Renzi sat motionless.

'So where does m' duty lie?' Kydd asked.

For a long time Renzi mechanically picked at the sea-faded paintwork. The problem was not of a class that could yield readily to logic. And without the confidence and comfort of solid reasoning at his back he felt diminished. 'Duty,' he admitted finally, 'is a stern mistress.' He was uncomfortably aware that he had been overborne by emotion in the last few days, and now he was failing his friend. There was such an entanglement of ramifications in this problem, rooted in society, personal feelings, obligation — and his own reactions.

He pulled himself together. 'My dear friend, in this matter, alas, I cannot help. It distresses me, but I would rather not betray your trust with glib emollients or superficial observations. I am sorry, but . . .'

Kydd nodded once and turned back to his work.

Instead of hurrying ashore at noon, Kydd slowly climbed to the bare foretop. He could be sure of being undisturbed there, and the clean, seamanlike expanse spoke to him of other things. He sat with his back against the foremast and gazed unseeingly across the anchorage.

He had lain with Sarah: that was the solid fact at issue. The question was, did he therefore owe her a moral obligation? She was a warm, passionate woman who in marriage would see to his needs and more — that was clear. But marriage, he intuitively realised, might involve more than that. A woman needed security and stability; his mind shied at the images of domesticity that this idea generated, the dreary round of politeness, social calls, suffocating conformity. And love. For some reason she had been attracted to him. But he sensed the emotional power that ruled her actions and was instinctively repelled. He himself could never relinquish control like that. He sighed, deeply. In all this, he knew that he must do what was right for Sarah, not himself. His sense of personal honour and moral duty ran deep and true — he would not be able to live with it for the rest of his life should he make a selfish choice.

On deck Cundall stared upwards, trying to make out what Kydd was doing. 'Foretop ahoy!' he shouted.

There was no reply. Cundall took another pull at his
bottle
. 'Kydd, yer sad lobcock, you mopin' after some syebuck biddy? You—'

From the other side of the bitts, Renzi appeared, his eyes murderous. 'Stow it!' he snapped. Rowley emerged aft on to the quarterdeck. The drunken shouts had been audible over the whole deck.

Cundall squared up to Renzi. 'An' what's it ter you?'

Renzi's fist took Cundall in the stomach, doubling him up. The second, a moment later, hammered the chin, straightening Cundall before he crumpled to the deck. Renzi stood over him, his chest heaving, then moved back to the forebitts and resumed his vigil. Rowley deliberately turned and gazed out over the stern.

In the foretop, Kydd pondered on, oblivious. So what was his duty? To Sarah, that was now obvious. So he should marry her and give up the sea? If that was what she wanted. But was this decision the best one for her? What if he could not give her love, security, stability? He knew, too, from his previous experience of exile from the sea that he could never counterfeit happiness in a land-based existence, and he would end up the poorest of companions for her.

No, this was impossible, she deserved better than that. She deserved a lover who would be able to provide her with the solid, respectable marriage she needed. He felt a strange pang at the thought of another kissing her, possessing her, but the conclusion was inescapable. He felt the lifting of a dreadful cloud. In her best interests, he must be strong for both of them and refuse her. It would be hard, but any day the frigate could be released to take up her mission of war and they would part. Kydd tested the decision every way he could, suspicious that it was based on hidden motives, but it held firm. Therefore he would implement it, see it through without flinching.