The Maiden's Voyage

London, England, 1870

CHAPTER ONE

"Could I be more miserable?" Miranda thought as she squirmed in the carriage seat. The July heat was oppressive in London and she felt suffocated by the odors of animal and man that the shimmering sunlight loosened from the cobblestones. She turned her head to look out the window so that her parents would not see her grimace from the discomfort caused by her corset and petticoats. Her breasts were inhumanely squeezed together and the layers of skirts caused the most annoying perspiration between her legs. How she longed to release herself from the bondage of women's fashion and let a delicious breeze cool every hidden part of her body!

She had hoped to free herself once she was on the ship that would take her to Ceylon where her fiancé, Sir Edward Thomas, awaited her on his tea plantation. But on further reflection, Miranda realized that even during the voyage, propriety must be maintained. She was a young lady of twenty-three, long a product of Miss Chatham's School for Girls. And, of course, the tea clipper which her future husband owned would be full of men, a captain and crew, everywhere, at all times. She would have to carry herself on board as she had always done in London society. And as she would in Ceylon as Mrs. Edward Thomas, a role that darkened her heart at the mere thought.

"Sit up straight, Mira!" Marion Reddington's voice cut through Miranda's sad reverie and misery of perspiration. The older woman reached out and tucked a wisp of her daughter's golden hair back into its chignon. "What will Sir Edward think of your looking so out of sorts? We're sending him a lady, not a street urchin!"

Without protest, Miranda straightened her shoulders, though inwardly, she seethed. 'You think I care about Sir Edward?' she wanted to snap. 'I'm only marrying him to help Father pay off his gambling debts!"

"Oh, let the girl be, Marion," said Jonathan Reddington. He was seated across from his wife and daughter, his face hidden behind a newspaper. "She's probably nervous, leaving England for the first time, going to live with savages."

Miranda sighed as the carriage entered the vicinity of the East India docks. 'I wonder who the savages really are,' she thought.

The carriage pulled to a stop in the middle of the crowded, dusty shipyard. The driver climbed down from his seat and helped Miranda and her mother to the ground before unloading Miranda's two trunks. Once on her feet, Miranda stared all about her. She'd never witnessed such a scene as this. Crates and barrels were piled everywhere, and men bustled about, hauling sacks and ropes and boxes to and from the ships crowded in at the enormous quays. The sky was a brilliant cloudless azure, darkened only by the forest of ships' masts. The air thronged with shouting voices, bleating goats and clucking chickens, as well as the mingling odors of exotic spices, farm animals and the sweating bodies of laborers and sailors stripped to the waist, their muscles gleaming with perspiration.

Miranda watched the half-naked men, affording herself much longer glances than a lady should, until she felt her mother take her arm. Together, they followed Mr. Reddington to the gangway of the tea clipper Gallant, which would take her to her new home.

By the opening to the gangway, Miranda stood with her mother while Mr. Reddington spoke to a crewman. She could not hear what they were saying, but presently, the man nodded and ran up the gangway, returning shortly with two more sailors who took her trunks and carried them onto the ship. Miranda watched them, both bronzed from the sun, their muscles flexing with the weight of the trunks. At the sight of them, her body, as of yet unexplored by any man, stirred within her skirts, bringing to her an odd comfort in the midst of her life's upheaval.

She barely noticed the heavyset man in suit and hat who came down the gangway and rushed over to them, assuming he was the captain come to greet them. She showed polite interest, though she longed to turn again and watch the men at work around her. The man introduced himself as Mr. Hobson, the first mate. So he wasn't the captain. Miranda listened with half an ear to the conversation between Mr. Hobson and her father. She barely heard something about Mrs. Someone-or-other fallen ill. Won't be on the voyage. So terribly sorry. Only when the clip of her mother's voice interrupted, was Miranda yanked from her erotic reverie.

"Jonathan, what does he mean there will be no chaperone?" she was saying. She sounded terribly like one of the chickens clucking in a nearby crate. "We've had this arranged for months! What will we do?"

Miranda's father sought to ease his wife's distress. "There was nothing we could do, my dear. Mrs. Jennings is deathly ill and the family will not make this voyage. Captain Harris will take good care of Miranda. I promise you!"

"But Jonathan, a young lady unaccompanied on a ship full of men! What will Sir Edward think?"

"Captain Harris has been in Sir Edward's employ for six years, since the inception of the Ceylon Tea Company, Madam," piped in Mr. Hobson. "He has the utmost respect for and confidence in him, I can assure you. He would not take any such chance if he did not."

Mrs. Reddington looked to her husband. "Jonathan, are you certain of this?"

Jonathan Reddington put a hand on his wife's arm. "Do you think I would let our daughter onto this ship if her respectability were at risk?"

Miranda's mother relented, for she, too, was anxious for her daughter to make this voyage. If it were postponed, Sir Edward might change his mind and look elsewhere for a wife, leaving the Reddingtons in financial hardship. And what if Miranda were not able to secure another marriage as advantageous as this one? Her beauty would not last forever, and as it was, she was already a bit old for a bride. "Very well," she said. "But I should like to meet this Captain Harris before we leave Miranda in his care. I want to see for myself that he's a respectable sort."

"Certainly, Madam," Mr. Hobson said. "He wishes you to join him for tea in his study before setting sail. If you will follow me, I will show Miss Reddington her cabin beforehand." He turned and began to walk toward the gangway of the Gallant.

Miranda glanced into the shipyard, overcome with a sudden impulse to flee. This would be her last chance. She could easily disappear among all these piles of crates. But with the tightness of her dress and in this heat, she knew she would not get far before someone caught her. She sighed as she realized the situation was hopeless. Obediently she turned and followed her mother and father up the gangway, behind Mr. Hobson's stout figure, to meet her captain.

CHAPTER TWO

The captain was not in his study when Mr. Hobson showed Miranda and her parents in. But he ushered them to a comfortable sitting area of plush velvet settee and chairs, and a low table covered with silver tea service. "The captain will be with you presently," he explained, his voice apologetic that their host was not there. "Please make yourselves comfortable." He bowed politely to their thanks and left, closing the door behind him.

Miranda settled onto the cushions of the settee next to her mother and looked around her at the captain's study, a cozy compartment of dark wood, large transom windows across the stern through which she could catch glimpses of other ships and blue sky. The captain's desk was large and littered with charts that concealed its surface. Behind his chair were bookcases built into the wall. She tried to make out the titles from where she sat, but could not see them. Silently, Miranda made a decision to ask him for a look as soon as she could.

Within moments, Miranda heard bootsteps in the companionway outside the door, which then swung opened. She turned and caught her breath, unprepared as she had been for the man who entered. "Captain William Harris at your service," he said in a Scottish accent, bowing deeply.

Miranda tried hard not to stare at her host, who was, quite unexpectedly, unlike any of the men she'd been exposed to in her life. This man was no London fop or dandy who'd never done an honest day's work. He emanated strength. His black captain's coat covered broad shoulders as his breeches, like a second skin, covered muscular thighs. His face, bronzed from the sun, was also strong, with intelligent, dark eyes. His hair, dark and satiny, was a touch longer than the fashion and showed a hint of sensual unruliness about his cheeks and jaw where his large sideburns, threaded with white, lent him an air of distinction. Again, Miranda felt that delicious, forbidden stirring within her and forced herself not to stare.

The captain approached them, his hand outstretched. It was large and strong, Miranda noticed, swallowing that of her father when he clasped it in greeting. He released Jonathan Reddington's hand and gently clasped her mother's, then, in turn, hers. At his warm touch, Miranda became immediately dizzy, her stomach erupting into flutters. She had experienced nervousness in the presence of male suitors and other young men of her experience, but never so quickly and so furiously as this! She glanced at her parents' faces as Captain Harris released her and seated himself on a cushiony, upholstered chair in the little sitting area, leaning forward to the table and serving the tea. Certainly her mother, at least, with her busybody way of making everything her business would have observed her reaction to this strikingly handsome man. But she needn't have worried about either of her parent's noticing her condition. They were too busy quizzing the captain on his life and career. Graciously, he answered their questions, and within moments, the Reddingtons knew their host as intimately as any of his friends might. Miranda now knew this handsome ship's master was the son of a well-known shipbuilder in Edinburgh, Scotland, and had gone to sea by the age of fourteen. He had spent the early part of his sailing career as a Nabob with the East India Company. When it would have been time to retire to England with the wealth he had garnered, Sir Edward had handpicked him for the Gallant, quite an impressive post for a man of thirty-six.

When they were satisfied as to the captain's respectability, Mr. Reddington spent the rest of the tea prattling on about his own acquaintance with Sir Edward, who would, as his son-in-law, sign on as a client of his solicitation firm, Reddington, Blythe and Cobb. Miranda stared down at her hands. What else could she do? She could not fill in the missing parts of her father's story, such as how Sir Edward had agreed to service her father's gambling debts in exchange for his daughter's hand. She sat quietly, sipping her tea while her father's droning voice filled the captain's study. Furtively, she stole another glance at Captain Harris, only to have her gaze captured and held by his. His dark eyes were looking on her with sympathy.

The unexpected kindness in his expression was a stark contrast to her parents' cruelty, and Miranda almost burst into tears. It was so painful that a stranger felt more sympathy for her than her own parents. Fearing that she would break down and cause a scene, Miranda looked away, but not before she allowed the captain a fleeting smile of gratitude.

When Miranda thought she couldn't stand another moment of her father's twaddle, Captain Harris then stood, explaining apologetically that the time had come to set sail. Miranda and her parents embraced each other for the last time in a long time, and Mrs. Reddington, much to Miranda's surprise, began to cry into her daughter's hair. Miranda felt a moment's pang for her mother, the way she did when she was a little girl. 'Perhaps my mother has a heart beating somewhere in the bodice of her dress,' Miranda thought, sad that once she released her, that precious moment would die.

When they had finished their good-byes, Mr. Hobson escorted Mr. and Mrs. Reddington off the ship, and then re-embarked to oversee the hauling up of the gangway.

Miranda stood on deck at the railing, waving to her parents. Behind her, the deck of the clipper ship was as busy as the shipyard had been as crewmen hauled and trimmed the sails, and turned the capstan which lifted the huge anchor. Cries of "Anchors aweigh!" and other shouted orders filled the air, and soon, the Gallant moved away from the quay and began its course down the Thames. Miranda continued to wave as London receded into the distance.

When the world she had known had disappeared from view, Miranda found that she was exhausted and desired only to escape to the solitude of her little cabin, the one place where she could release her body from the suffocation of corset and petticoats. She retraced the path Mr. Hobson had taken from the captain's study to the deck and found the lantern-lit companionway in which her cabin was located, only a few feet away from the captain's quarters. Once inside the little room, she bolted the door and leaned against it, closing her eyes and letting out a deep sigh. "God help me," she whispered into the little room.

The cabin itself was just large enough to accommodate one person. In the dusky light she could make out a small bunk neatly made up, a chest of drawers with dressing mirror, and her trunks, which had been placed in the corner between the wall and bunk. The air smelled like a pile of damp rags that had never been set out to dry and had become moldy. The room was a far cry from her own room in her parents' Berkeley Square home in London.

For a moment, Miranda wished terribly that she had tried to flee when she had the chance, but the ship was well underway and any opportunity for escape had long since passed. And anyway, where would she have gone? Back to the stodgy society she despised? Back to the parents who had decided her fate in a study behind a wall of cigar and pipe smoke? They would most certainly disown her if she refused to marry Sir Edward, and even if they did manage to forgive her, they would lose everything to their debtors. They would be homeless, without employment or social standing. And she would be responsible.

No. She was in prison either way, in London or in Ceylon. It didn't matter that she had servants and dresses and parties. A gilded cage was still a cage. The most freedom she had was to remove her corset and petticoats in the privacy of this little cabin. And remove them she did, reveling in the tingling of her skin as the air touched it and filled her ribcage.

Miranda let her traveling dress, jacket and corset fall to a heap on the floor as the blood now coursed through her body more freely, awakening it again as it had begun to awaken down on the dock when she had first seen the bare-chested sailors, their muscles gleaming in the summer sun. She lay down on her bunk, finding that she wasn't so tired now that she had been freed from her constrictive clothing, down in the dark coolness of her cabin. Her thoughts went once again to the handsome captain whose dark eyes had held her gaze captive. In one sweet, illicit moment, he had seen her unhappiness, and he had conveyed to her a sympathy that made her feel slightly less alone. She sensed that his heart was as strong as his body. She recalled vividly the muscular thighs, buttocks, and the hint of the bulge in the front of his breeches. Momentarily, she let herself forget that she was on a ship belonging to her future husband and that the man she thought of now was forbidden to her and always would be. Inside she was free. Sir Edward might own her body, but he would never own her mind and heart. There, she could be with whomever she wished and love whomever her heart loved. This inner freedom caused her thoughts to roam all over the captain's being until the throbbing between her legs made her ache for release.

She began to imagine that Captain Harris had come to her cabin to comfort her only to find her lying on her bunk, naked except for her white lacy chemise, her golden hair spread like a silken fan over her pillow. She saw the bulge in his breeches swell, and he unfastened them, releasing his sex from its cloth prison. He undressed and lay down beside her, in one swift motion, pulling Miranda's chemise up, over her head, revealing her sweet body of curves, porcelain skin, and pink-tipped breasts.

Miranda raised her chemise to her waist, pulling at the ribbons of her drawers to slide her hand under the gauzy linen, seeking the warm moist flesh within. With her fingers, she found the sweet spot between the soft folds of skin. As she rubbed and teased it, she imagined her fingertips were his, caressing her, sliding deep inside her, coaxing the wetness inside so he could ease his shaft into her. With her other hand she squeezed one of her nipples between her fingertips, picturing his mouth on it, suckling, teasing, gently biting it.

She moaned softly as her fantasy continued. Now the captain was kissing her deeply, dancing his warm tongue about her own, tasting every part of her mouth. His cock was pushing against hers so she spread her legs apart, encircling his hips, guiding him into her with her hand. She was so wet and swollen with desire that he slid in easily, burying his swollen hardness deeply within her. Miranda spread her legs as wide as she could as he ground against her, at the same time rubbing her sweet spot with his fingertips, causing her back to arch in her pleasure.

The sensations both physical and imaginary caused that delicious explosion that always followed such pleasure, only today, the climax felt more intense because the man in her mind's eye was of flesh and blood and not an imaginary character from one of the many bawdy novels she used to borrow in secret from her maid, Charlotte.

In the wake of her release, she felt a pang in her heart. She would not have known how to imagine such a fantasy as the one she'd just had if it hadn't been for Charlotte and those books. Charlotte was only two years older than she, and when Miranda was eighteen, she had gone to the servants' quarters of her parent's home for one reason or another, and had caught Charlotte reading one of those books. Charlotte's cheeks had flushed bright red and she'd fumbled to hide the book under her pillow.

"What are you reading, Charlotte?" Miranda asked.

"Nothing, Miss," replied the girl.

"It can't be nothing or you wouldn't have hidden it. Please show me."

Reluctantly, Charlotte slid the book out from under the pillow and handed it to her. Miranda took it and opened it, finding on those pages a whole new world that she couldn't have imagined existed. She sat on Charlotte's bed, absorbed in the explicit descriptions of the sexual act, a thing that her parents, along with the rest of well-bred society, pretended did not exist.

Miranda looked up at Charlotte. "Do you have others of these?" she asked.

With fear in her eyes, Charlotte nodded. "Please don't tell on me, Miss," she begged. "I promise I'll get rid of them."

But Miranda threw her a look. "You'll do no such thing," she said. Then, surprised at her own instinctive shrewdness, she said, "I won't tell if you share them with me. It will be our secret."

Charlotte's eyes widened. "Do you mean it, Miss?" she asked.

Miranda nodded, fully aware of the sexual wetness and throbbing between her legs that the lusty writing had induced. She also knew she would never have squealed on Charlotte, but was also afraid the girl might not have shared her books without such a bargain.

Miranda devoured the books, one after the other. They became a secret bond between her and Charlotte. And later, when there was genuine trust between them, Charlotte revealed to Miranda her own lustful romantic adventures she had on her days and nights off duty from the Reddington household. Miranda lived a free wild existence through Charlotte who even showed her how to unlock the pleasures of her own body. Late one night in Charlotte's room with the door locked, Charlotte lifted her shift and showed Miranda how to rub herself and how to gather the wetness from inside and spread it around, and even to rub the sticky fluid on her nipples to increase her pleasure.