“The idea was mine,” he was saying modestly. “There may be a veritable tempest above deck, but your plate will remain just where you place it.”
She looked blankly at the heavy pewter dishes.
“Loadstones,” Scargill said, lifting a dish for her inspection. “Ye see these strips here? Ye set the dish along this line and it will take a man’s heavy hand to pry it up. If ye will be seated, madonna, I’ve a tasty lamb stew for yer lunch.”
The talk of loadstones flitted from her mind, for the smell of the lamb stew made her mouth water. She did as she was bid, wondering while she sat down at the table why he had called her “madonna.” She ate her fill, all the while keeping her eyes upon her plate.
The earl regarded her from time to time, but remained silent, guessing that any attempt at conversation from him would make her forget her hunger. He regretted the storm that had kept him away from her throughout the morning. He knew she was in turmoil and he wanted to be with her, if only to give her the chance to lash out at him. He cursed the fickleness of the weather.
At the close of the silent meal, the earl tossed his napkin on the table and rose. “I am sorry to leave you again so soon, my dear, but Mr. Donnetti is laid up with influenza and Angelo is uncomfortable at the helm in such weather. My strong hand is much needed, elsewhere.”
Cassie thoughtfully sipped her wine. “I will pray that you fall overboard, my lord, though I doubt that even the fishes would be interested in your carcass.”
“Excellent. And I had feared your wits had grown dull in my absence.”
He gave her a bow, and left the cabin.
Cassie’s shoulders sagged within minutes of his leaving. The lamb stew did not settle well in her stomach and she stared resentfully around the cabin, knowing her nausea would only increase if she remained confined. She walked to the window and pressed her cheek against the glass, trying to ease her discomfort by watching the tossing sea outside. Her disgruntled stomach slowly righted itself, and she resumed her ferocious pacing. She considered how she could escape him, but nothing occurred to her that was in any way reasonable, and she turned her thoughts to other things, out of frustration. She thought about the earl and wondered if he were not very likely mad to have done what he did. She did not care about him or his motives, only that he had turned her life into a shambles. He had had the effrontery to tell her that he loved her, that he wished to wed her, and had then proceeded to force her. Although he had not overly hurt her, she felt humiliated that a man could do such a thing to her. She remembered him holding her down, caressing her body and thrusting himself into her. Her nausea returned, and she walked with slumped shoulders back to the window. This cannot be happening to me, she thought. Although she did not wish to, she thought of Edward and of their wedding. In her mind’s eye, she lovingly fingered the fine Brussels lace that layered the bodice of her wedding gown. She pictured his face, his brown eyes heavy with desire for her, and wondered what her wedding night would have been like with him. His eyes were not filled with desire now; they would be dimmed with grief. A lone tear squeezed from the corner of her eye, and, angrily, she dashed it away. She raised her fisted hand toward the quarterdeck.
“Damn you to hell!”
She drew up in her tracks, and turned a confused face toward the cabin door. Was that a chuckle she heard?
The door swung open, and she saw the earl’s laughing face. “My poor Cassandra, just tell me which of my belongings has so angered you and I shall stick my sword through it.”
“Then you may stick it through your black heart.”
He grinned at her and tossed her a bundle of clothing. “Here, my love, change into these and you can come up on deck with me. The breeches are a donation from the smallest of my men.”
She wanted to yell at him to take the clothes and himself to perdition, but she realized that she had to get out of this wretched cabin and settle her stomach. She thought of the salt spray on her face and the feel of the wind against her, and nodded. She bent down, picked up the breeches and the shirt, and held them against her chest.
“You will find boots in the armoire. I will come back for you in five minutes.”
When the earl returned, Cassie was seated on the settee tugging on her boots.
“May I assist you, Cassandra?”
She ignored him. When she rose, the soft leather riding boots hugging her calves, she saw that his eyes were sweeping over her.
“You cannot be so unfamiliar with men’s breeches,” she said, and walked toward the door, holding herself stiffly so that her hips would not sway.
“It is good of you to remind me,” he said.
Bundled in a large canvas cape, a woolen cap pulled over her head, Cassie walked onto the deck. The earl held her arm tightly, as if he thought her a child who would hurt herself if not kept on a short leash. She ignored him and raised her face to the spattering rain, closing her eyes for a moment as she drew a deep breath of fresh salt air.
She had hoped to make out land, but the yacht was shrouded by low billowing dark clouds that stretched impenetrably as far as she could see. The sails were tightly furled against the ripping cross-winds, and the huge masts, like winter-stripped trees, reached starkly upward. The Union Jack still fluttered at the jackstaff, and she wondered idly why the earl had not secured it. The yacht suddenly slammed at an odd angle through a deep trough of a wave, and she was thrown against the earl. He gripped her arm more tightly, and smiled.
“An awesome and beautiful sight, is it not? I have always fancied the notion of men daring to combat the power of the sea, with naught but their will and the strength of their arms. We have again won, for the winds have slackened. Perhaps we shall even see a glimmer of sunlight before nightfall.”
Cassie was not heeding him; her attention was upon the canvas-cloaked sailors, crouching forward into the force of the wind as they worked the rigging.
“We are sailing too high in the wind,” she said, steadying herself on the rigging.
The earl gazed down at her a moment, an arrested expression in his eyes. “I do believe you are right.”
There seemed to be pride as well as amusement in his voice, and Cassie looked away, wondering why she had even said anything.
“Would you care to take the helm, Cassandra?” he asked as they gained the quarterdeck.
“I?” She brushed the rain from her face and looked at him.
“Certainly.” He continued casually. “If you do not mind though, I do not think it wise to let my men know. They would be aghast if they found out an eighteen-year-old girl was holding their lives in her hands. Come, we shall relieve Angelo.”
He clasped her hand firmly in his and guided her carefully over the slippery deck down into the cockpit. He tapped the small, black-cloaked sailor on the shoulder and ordered him in flawless Italian to take himself below-deck. She saw Angelo’s dark gimlet eyes dart over her as he released the helm to the earl. With a salute to his sodden woolen cap, he turned and walked jauntily away on the lurching deck, as surefooted as if it were a drawing room floor.
“Come here, Cassandra.”
The earl pulled her in front of him before the wide, spike-handled wheel and raised his arms in a circle about her, his billowing cloak hiding her from view.
“The helm is yours.”
She wanted to yell at him that she wanted nothing to do with either him or his miserable yacht, but the temptation to take the helm of such a magnificent vessel kept her quiet. Without looking at him again, she grasped the smooth wooden spikes of the wheel and felt the strength of the sea. She felt a surge of sheer joy sweep through her at the challenge she was facing. A towering wave slammed against the bow, and the yacht yawed, jerking the wheel to starboard. She felt sharp pain in her arms as she tried to pull the massive wheel back to port.
The earl knew he had placed her in unfair disadvantage, but fought the impulse to help her. He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders and felt her muscles tighten as she struggl
ed to control the wheel.
“I believe you said we were too high in the wind?” he said coolly, as the yacht glided smoothly, for the moment, in the trough of a wave.
“Aye,” she said. She clutched at the handles and threw her weight to port, pulling with all her strength. She overshot and knew an instant of panic as the yacht heeled sharply. Her feet slipped out from under her, but she did not release the wheel. She felt the earl’s hands about her waist, hauling her upright, but he made no move to pull her out of the way. With her arms stretched wide to encircle the wheel, she did not have the strength to steady it. She chewed furiously on her lower lip, smiled suddenly into the battering wind, and placed both hands on one side of the wheel. Slowly, panting with effort, she bent her knees to gain the needed leverage, and pulled upward. She gave a shout as the yacht righted.
“Bravo, Cassandra. An ingenious solution. With practice and of course my instruction, you’ll make a fine helmsman.”
“I have no need and no desire for any instruction from you, my lord.”
He merely smiled at her. “You think not, Cassandra? Well, we shall just have to see.”
Although she did not like his tone, she held her peace and concentrated her attention on the demands of the yacht. When he took the wheel from her after some fifteen minutes, she was not loath to give it up, for her arms were trembling with fatigue. The ease with which he brought the yacht to obey his slightest command did nothing to improve her temper.
“Look to starboard, Cassandra.”
Cassie followed the earl’s direction and saw a blurred rainbow across the horizon, illuminated like a brilliant stained window by a sliver of late afternoon sun that sliced through the dark clouds. She breathed in the beauty of it, but said nothing. There was nothing she would share with this man.
“Angelo is back to relieve us. You are soaked through, Cassandra. It’s time for a hot bath.”
She shook her head vigorously, wet strands of hair slapping her cheek. He released the wheel to Angelo and turned to her. His hands closed about her shoulders and she shivered, not from cold, but from the threat of him.
His voice grew hard. “Do not forget, Cassandra, that I am the captain. You will do as I tell you, just as everyone else does on this yacht.”
“And just what will you do if I do not obey your orders, captain? Toss me to the fishes? Keep me prisoner in that wretched cabin all of the time?”
The earl gazed down at her upturned face, flushed and rain-streaked, framed by the woolen cap pulled nearly to her eyebrows. He felt her fear of him and imagined that if he allowed it she would remain above deck until she collapsed from cold and fatigue.
A smile touched his lips. “I could beat you, I suppose. Your arms are likely so tired, though, that you would scarce give me a good fight. Do not make me carry you below-deck, Cassandra, in front of my men.”
Cassie eyed the small Angelo and hoped that he did not understand English. She felt humiliated and helpless, without choices.
The earl arched a black eyebrow at her and said to the helmsman, “The helm is yours, Angelo. The weather is clearing and your evening should not be too unpleasant.
“Come, Cassandra.”
The short command brooked no refusal. Cassie bit her lower lip and reluctantly placed her arm into his.
As they left the quarterdeck, she was thinking of Angelo and whether she would be able to enlist his support. It seemed unlikely. There was another man, though, the earl’s first mate. Perhaps he would not be so loyal to the earl as Angelo was likely to be. She asked casually, “Who is Mr. Donnetti, your first mate who is ill?”
If the earl wondered about her reasons for asking about his first mate, he gave no sign of it. “A man to whom I would entrust my life, and yours. He is of mixed parentage, as am I. His mother was French. Donnetti became a mercenary in the French army. When it was demanded of him to become a French spy in Genoa, he refused. It was my gain to save him from assassins. However, I was unable to save his wife or child.”
Cassie shivered. Violence in almost any form was alien to her. It was also borne forcibly upon her that Mr. Donnetti, if the earl’s story was true, was very unlikely to help her.
“He will be fit soon, Scargill tells me. Once we reach Genoa, and remove to my villa, he will be captain of The Cassandra in my stead.”
Cassie could not imagine being in Genoa, a place that was as foreign to her as faraway China. And one did not live in a villa; one lived in a manor or a hall, or perhaps an abbey. She felt tears sting her eyes, and she stumbled. The earl’s arms were about her in an instant, steadying her. She hated herself at that moment; it was her physical weakness that ensured his mastery over her. She pulled away from him and hurried down the companionway toward the cabin.
She heard him say easily behind her, “It is my experience that the day following a storm is glorious. If I am proven right, you will be able to see the coast of France.”
Her hand was on the doorknob when he said, “Please remove your cloak, Cassandra, I do not wish the carpet to become soaked.”
She shrugged out of the heavy canvas and pulled off the woolen cap. Her hair cascaded down her back in salty wet ringlets. His hand touched her arm, and she turned unwillingly to face him.
“Take off your wet clothes. I will be along presently after I order up hot water for our bath and our dinner.”
He opened the cabin door and gently pushed her inside. “Please do not shove the furniture against the door. It might put me out of temper.”
Cassie slammed the door closed on his smiling face. She stripped off her wet clothing as quickly as her cold fingers would allow. Fearful that he would return at any moment, she pulled on a dark blue velvet dressing gown from the armoire and sashed it tightly about her waist. She wrapped her hair in a thick towel and fastened it turban style about her head.
She walked to the center of the cabin and stood waiting. Someone had attended to the cabin. Scargill, most likely. The lamps were lit against the dim late afternoon light, the bed was neatly spread, its bright blue cover smoothed. Her tattered gown was gone. She glanced at the clock atop the earl’s desk and saw that it was nearly five o’clock. Without wishing to, she pictured the dining room at Hemphill Hall, festively decorated for the wedding dinner. There would be no garlands and white streamers; there would be only the black somberness of tragedy. Edward, I don’t know if I can bear it. And there would be much more to bear, she knew. She had no doubt that he would rape her again, and she sagged where she stood.
The cabin door opened, and the earl entered, followed by two hefty sailors, each carrying buckets of steaming water. Cassie moved away, watching silently as the copper tub was filled. She heard the earl order the sailors to bring more water and leave it outside the door. He turned his eyes upon her, studying her.
“Your bath awaits. Because I am a gentleman, I shall let you go first. There is lavender-scented soap for your hair, your favorite.”
It did not occur to her to question his knowledge of her soap, for she was frantically searching for a screen to keep her hidden from his view. Always, at home, Dolly had placed a screen in front of her tub.
“Come, Cassandra, before the water cools. Since I am to follow you, I have no wish for a cold bath.” He saw her strained embarrassment at the thought of stripping naked in front of him and cursed the violent storm that had taken him from her side early in the morning. She had had a day to steel herself against him.
“I would like a screen.”
“There is none,” he said crisply. “I shall keep my back to you.” At least for the moment, Cassandra, he amended silently to himself.
Cassie walked slowly to the tub and unwound the towel from her head. She made no move to pull off her dressing gown until he turned away and poured himself a glass of wine.
The earl heard the gentle splash of water and turned to see her, chin high in the water, her wet hair fanning about her like a golden cloud.
He downed the remainder of his wine,
stretched loudly, and stripped off his own damp clothing. She lowered her head as he strode, naked, to the armoire, and shrugged into his own black velvet dressing gown. The wine relaxed him, and he eased into the large leather chair at his desk. It had been a damnably long and fatiguing day, a wasted day. He watched her from beneath closed lids as she clumsily tried to lather her hair. It was likely, he thought, a smile upon his lips, that this was one task she rarely performed by herself. Likely too that her arms ached from her exertion at the helm. Perhaps tonight, he thought, he could make her respond to him. He felt his loins tighten, picturing her naked in his arms. He rose and walked to her.
“Since I have deprived you of your maid, the least I can do is offer my services.” He picked up a hank of wet hair.
She jerked away and winced, for he did not release her hair. She felt her body tense with fear. “Can you not even keep a simple promise, my lord? You did say you would keep your back turned.”
“For God’s sake, Cassandra, I merely wish to help you. You need not fear me, you know. I assure you that when I wish to make love with you, you will know it.”
“I do not wish your help and I am not afraid of you.”
He grinned down at her. “Such a liar you are, my dear. What a mane of hair—you’ve more than my stallion, Cicero.”
“I don’t give a damn about your wretched horse.”
“I don’t propose to argue with you further. Hush, and accept my help.”
She ground her teeth and bowed her head. As he vigorously lathered her hair, she dropped her hands and furtively covered her breasts.
“Would you like me to scrub the rest of you?”
“No. And you may remove yourself, my lord, so I can rinse my hair.”
He returned to his chair, sat down, and closed his eyes, allowing himself to be lulled by the gentle rocking of the yacht. When he opened them, she was sitting on the edge of the bed in her dressing gown, toweling her hair. He rose and stretched.