Cachet (16 page)

She let her hand slide lower. Morgan tensed, but didn't move. "When you show me more, I mean, other things, will it be painful?" she asked in a whisper, marveling at the feel of his velvet strength beneath her fingers. "The whores said some things are unpleasant."

"Whores?" Now he pushed her hand aside. "Whom in God's name have you been talking to? Surely no one in Crowshaven."

"My cousin owns a brothel outside Washington, near the seat of our national government. I visited the house as a girl."

"Your cousin's a madam? The proverbial black sheep?"

Rachel reflected momentarily on her cousin and the other relatives on her mother's side of the family. Most were called unconventional, even eccentric. But she knew every one of them to be harmless, if a bit unusual in their political and social views. "Not in my mind. I think she's terrific. A wonderful person. You'd think so too, if you knew her."

"If you say so," he capitulated easily. Then his words became thoughtful as he absently stroked her shoulder with gentle fingers. "Your notion of a man using a woman's body begins to make sense. But strumpets lie beneath men for coin. It's purely business being transacted, with no caring between the parties."

"So, it wouldn't be—"

"It will never be like that between us. Was it unpleasant just now? You seemed to enjoy it well enough."

She felt her cheeks flush scarlet. "More than I expected, actually."

"What?" he sounded affronted and his fingers paused in their caress. "Wait just a moment. Didn't your cousin and the trollops describe intimate matters in detail enough that you'd know what to expect when you married? About a woman's pleasure?"

"Sheila taught me how to kiss and said to open my legs to admit a husband between them. She said he'd show me everything else I needed to know, that I'd know when the magical thing happens. But something must be wrong with me. There's never been anything I'd describe as 'magical'."

Morgan's arms slid around her in a loving embrace. His deep baritone was soothing, lulling her back from nervous distress to the secure feeling she craved in his arms. "A woman needs male guidance for the magic she spoke of to happen. That's what I apologized for earlier. I knew I hadn't created it for you. But I will."

"You're sure? It's not me?"

Morgan's deep chuckle somehow reassured her more than his words. "I'm positive, little Colonial. Before we reach New York harbor, I shall prove it." She yawned against the pulsepoint in his throat. "You're tired," he observed.

She nodded and snuggled against his shoulder. His warmth all around her was a strong sedative. "Morgan, if you can prove that, show me what I don't understand about this business of being man and wife, I'm not sorry that I married you."

"Good," he whispered, "If that's what you meant about 'disappointing' me, you've no cause to fret. I disappointed you, Colonial. You're just too sweetly confused to know it."

Chapter 13

Morgan stirred shortly after dawn. Rachel was awake and watching him. "Good morning, Madam Tremayne." He gave her a lazy smile, letting his hand run from her bare shoulder to her buttocks. It rested there lightly in a possessive gesture that both charmed and slightly bothered her. She didn't need to be reminded first thing of how he'd won the battle to make her his wife. "Might have warned me you awaken with the chickens. Habit you developed in the Colonies on that farm, I expect."

Oh, but he looked smug, a conqueror gloating over the vanquished. She never should have let him see her vulnerability the night before. "My country has been an independent nation for nearly a century. It's populated with much heartier souls than yours, yet you persist in referring to it as some minor extension of the Realm."

"Heartier souls? You'd be an expert judge, naturally, having
endured
this lovely bundle of flesh being dragged over the dust in a...what is that charming term?
Prairie schooner
?" The wolfish grin widened as he laughed.

She shot past him and out of the bunk. She squirmed into a plain black frock. Morgan rolled onto his back, ignoring his blatant nudity and the fact the bedclothes had been knocked down around his knees. Rachel fought the urge to shift her gaze. He calmly laced his fingers behind his head. "Living on the Western frontier is supposed to prove you're hearty and independent?"

"I think it does."

"Ah," he nodded. "You wanted to walk home alone in the village after dark, and would have undertaken this voyage alone. Not one night out, and the men were already trailing in your wake like hungry sharks. You, my dear little bride, are foolhardy, not independent. There's a difference."

"Foolhardy?" Rachel glowered at him, chagrin at his undress forgotten. "Foolhardy was believing you'd actually help me! Trusting
you
was foolhardy! I should have known better, with someone who regards other men as opponents to be outmaneuvered for coin, and women as outlets for his excessive lust."

"That's unworthy. I was kind and compassionate last evening. Another man might have used your body—as you charmingly describe it—until you were unable to get up and walk this morning."

"Well I still can, and I'm going to get something to eat." She opened the cabin door, letting in the acrid tang of chilly salt air.

She'd taken only a few steps across the open deck when her elbow was caught in powerful fingers. "I specifically warned you against this, Rachel," Morgan snarled. "You'll not come out here unescorted."

Her face was instantly on fire when she discovered a group of tars watching the exchange. They were plainly amused by the sight of her arguing with her naked bridegroom. "You're not dressed, sir!" she hissed.

"I know, and I'm freezing my ballocks off, thanks to you!" He jerked her back inside the cabin and pushed her into the chair. "Sit there until I put something on. We'll go to the mess together."

"I'll never survive with you hanging over me every minute for a month or more! Those men don't look as though they mean any harm. You just like bullying me. You've exaggerated the danger to frighten me."

He flung open the cabin door. "Goatish abuser of the fairer sex. Bully, liar...Your endearments serve their intended purpose, madam wife. Have full run of the ship." He gave her backside a rude push. "We'll see how long it takes before you're looking to be rescued from the clutches of yon seamen. Mayhap you'll appreciate the bully you married after you've had a taste of their treatment." He thrust her outside and bolted the door behind her.

Determined not to let the crew read her shock and dismay, she took a seat at an empty table in the ship's dining room. She kept an eye on the hatch as she buttered her bread, watching for Morgan's arrival, but he didn't come. She decided to take him at his word and ignore his presence completely.

She stood at the rail after breakfast and gazed at the broad expanse stretching before the bow. How like Morgan's eyes the ocean looks when it's calm like today, she thought. She glanced around at the sailors and found none, fit as they were, who could surpass him in build or rugged yet pleasing features. How could she expect him to understand what being his wife meant? It was complicated on so many levels, and there was no way to explain part without explaining all of it.

The familiar deep baritone reached her ears on the light breeze. She turned and saw Morgan talking to a knot of sailors. He glanced in her direction and purposely looked away a second later. She gnashed her teeth. He was out to spite her, of course! Wasn't that always the way he reacted when thwarted? And didn't his spite typically involve a pretense that he didn't know she existed?

Well, two could play at that game. She'd just find her own amusement. After all, he'd given her the run of the vessel.

So for a time she occupied herself watching the crewmen. They scampered up the rigging like agile monkeys, shouted nonsensical orders and remarks to one another that left her befuddled but seemed to make perfect sense to them, and bustled about in various activities. She stood at the rail letting the sea breeze whip her dark skirts and stared at the flat expanse of open seas before them, awed by the immense size of the Atlantic. She spun a mental fantasy that she was one of the staunch seamen, a rebel and a wayfarer, anxious to see the world and faraway ports of call. Daydreams in which she might go anywhere, pursue whatever opportunity presented itself, with no ties to any place or any person.

Instead of her reality, where a dark cloud of suspicion hung over her head, her father lay in his sickbed gravely ill, and her handsome husband misbelieved her to be an honest, trustworthy, if not terribly biddable, new wife.

She retreated back to the galley and offered to help the cook prepare the midday meal. He handed her a paring knife and pointed to a mound of potatoes. She tucked her hair into a loose knot and rolled up her sleeves.

It seemed she peeled a thousand potatoes in the next few hours. By the time she'd finished, her fingers were worn to the bone and she was completely without appetite. The cook asked that she stay and help serve.

Rachel hefted a platter of the boiled potatoes onto her shoulder and followed the cook's helper. A wave of catcalls and whistles broke out the instant she set foot in the dining room. She kept her eyes forward, ignoring the bawdy comments of the men. A heated flush stained her cheeks as she moved between the tables. She was chagrined to find a pair of alert gray eyes watching her from a corner. Morgan sat with the other men, clearly delighting in her discomfiture.

She lowered the platter and began ladling out servings to the men. She bent to dump a spoonful of the hot potatoes and felt a hand boldly cup her buttocks through her skirts. She reacted instinctively, dumping the spoon's contents onto the sailor's lap. The tar yelped in pain and shot to his feet, jumping up and down to free himself of the scalding glob stuck to the crotch of his pants. "Bloody bitch! Nearly burnt my pecker off!"

"Oh, dear! I
am
sorry," Rachel responded, the lie in her words revealed by the hard glint in her eyes. "I was aiming for your plate, but you startled me. Perhaps if you sat quietly and kept your hands down, my aim would improve."

A split second of quiet was followed by uproarious laughter. The seaman grabbed the hem of his shirt and wiped furiously at the sticky potatoes. "Watch yerself, Thompson," someone shouted, "Keep rubbin' like that, she'll be pourin' stew o'er yer head next!" This brought more snickers. Rachel dropped a single potato on Thompson's plate before stepping aside to continue her rounds. As she reached her husband, every eye in the room was glued on them.

"Potatoes, sir?" She lifted a heaping spoonful.

Morgan raised both hands above his head in submission, inspiring fresh hoots and chortles. She slowly lowered the spoon, her eyes meeting his in a triumphant glare. She completed serving and returned to the galley. Emptying the remains from her tray back into the pot, she looked up to find Thompson blocking the doorway.

"Nasty wench. Harmless little pat. Didn't mean nothin'."

"I said I was sorry." Rachel kept her voice level as she glanced past him. No sign of the cook or his helper.

"High and mighty, like some bleedin' duchess. I don't think yer sorry 'tall. Little peck on the lips might console me."

Rachel took a deep breath. Years of dealing with Cletus' drunken spells had taught her showing fear was the worst mistake she could make. She picked up the paring knife and held it so the blade caught the light. She clucked her tongue. "Nasty accidents happen in kitchens. I'm afraid my husband wouldn't like you asking me to apologize by kissing you. He might decide to cut your tongue out."

"He might," came Morgan's steely voice in agreement. He stepped from behind Thompson to put himself between the sailor and Rachel. "Which would make it hard to explain to the captain how you came to be here instead of seeing to your duties. You were warned about pestering my wife."

"Foul-tempered tease, she is." Thompson glowered at her, then swung his gaze back to Morgan. "Makes a bloke all hot with them big teats, then laughs at him for it. My sympathies, wed to the likes o' her."

Rachel pressed close against Morgan's side. She slid her arm around his lean waist. Thompson stomped out. Rachel noticed the tension in Morgan's muscles didn't ease when the sailor left. "Happy now?" Morgan demanded, snatching the knife from her hand. "He could have disarmed you as easily. What then, Rachel? When I said move about the ship, I didn't mean become the bloody serving wench! Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Why do you think innkeepers and tavern owners hire wenches for serving? The men sample more of them than the food and grog!"

"Well, innkeeper and traveler Tremayne," she shot back, "You would know, wouldn't you?"

He seized her upper arm and led her out to the main deck. "You're going back to our cabin. If you haven't eaten, that's too damned bad. You'll wait until supper, and have that alone in the cabin with me. You set one foot outside the door and I'll drag you back by your hair."

Rachel stumbled across the rough planking. He forced her through the doorway and slammed the door behind them. "Foolhardy, did I say? This goes beyond that, to a level of stupidity I cannot begin to comprehend! Sauntering up and down with your rump in their faces!"

She stared at the floor. "I suppose you're going to beat me now."