so perfect. The feel of her flesh against his was the most wondrous thing that might be imagined, until her lips fell upon his shoulder and his chest, and he could bear no more, lifting her up and carrying to their hostess’s bed, where he laid her tenderly down and loved her once again with his eyes.
“Come, come, Captain!” she taunted.
Enough. He loved her then with his kisses, his caress; he adored her from head to toe and back again, until she was crying out for him, and he rose above her at last, sinking slowly into her.
He was her first lover. He had expected as much. And he made love with all the aching tender care a man could summon, until her needs matched his, and they fulfilled the frantic need of their desire in a glorious rush of silver and gold—it seemed that the world turned colors for them, celebrating their sheer ecstasy of belonging, consummating all that had filled their dreams.
Nor was she then shy, decrying her moment of madness or asking if he loved her still. She was tender and thoughtful for long moments as they both learned to breathe again, and then she rolled to him and said, “My father has indeed threatened me. I loathe him! No, he is my father, and I love him, but I detest his snobbery! He has forgotten his own love, forgotten my dear mother. He has it in his head that I must marry a filthy rich banker named Townsend—or that lying little thief of a man, Eli Smith, who is a pirate in truth, but is such a suave and smooth liar that they believe he is merchant when the bastard is none. I know he has taken ships, I just know it. I’ve seen goods that such a man could not afford among his offerings, but he has thus far escaped the law. I swear that I will not have either man! He will have to understand that I love you.”
“He lost your mother,” Bartholomew reminded her. “He lost your mother, and he forgot about love and dreams. Maybe he had to bury them to salve his grief. I’m glad you do not hate him—a daughter should not hate her father.”
She looked at him in such a way that he felt he could melt like candle wax in her arms. She stroked his cheek. “I love you for all good reason!” she said.
“We will be together,” he assured her.
She nodded grimly. “Aye, we will be together. You mustn’t come around—give me time to talk to him. I will make him see life my way. Siobhan is my dearest friend, and her brothers are hardworking men, and her mother is a saint. They will keep our secret. Meet here, not tomorrow but Friday, say, and it will appear that I abide my father’s rule. If I cannot sway him to my way of thinking…”
“Then I have a fine ship, and we will sail away to another port,” he assured her.
“Aye. We will sail away to another port,” she agreed.
The hour was growing late, but they were new lovers so enamored of one another that they were careless of time.
They made love again.
Then he knew that she must get home, and he fumbled ridiculously trying to help her back into her corset and stays and all else, but she laughed and guided him and at last, she was dressed. He left first, going into the public house for a beer and a fish pie, and she emerged later, joining Siobhan in the tea room for sandwiches and tea.
He lived for Friday.
On his way back to his rooms, he ran into one of the men who had been seeking Victoria’s hand.
Eli Smith.
He greeted the man pleasantly enough; he did not know him well. He didn’t like Smith, though. There was something shifty about his eyes—something oily in his speech.
“So, you’re not at sea, Bartholomew Miller!” Smith boomed. “I thought you were seeking a life as a merchant?”
“Indeed. I’m heading out to sea soon.” Bartholomew said, trying to be pleasant.
Smith was pleasant enough in return. “Aye, I must take to the sea soon again myself. But first I must press my suit. I believe that Mr. Wyeth is entertaining my request for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The lady is not ready to wed, but I will lay roses at her feet and await her love!”
Bartholomew fought to keep his smile.
“Good luck to you, Mr. Smith,” he said, touched his