The day was hot and calm, the sea like a mirror. Constance dozed on the narrow cot, her skin beaded with perspiration. A lethargy held sway on board the
Ricarda
. The crewmen were cross and out of sorts, uninterested in doing their work. The officers bickered among themselves. In the galley, Greta and Daisy were snapping irritably at one another as they went about preparing the evening meal.
Constance was dimly aware of this, hearing it without paying any of it much heed. She couldn't fully sleep for the discomfort of the heat, nor could she rouse herself to move. If there had been a breath of wind, she would have risked much to go above deck and feel its cooling kiss, but the sails hung slack in the motionless air.
Only with the coming of the evening did the temperature drop and a brisk breeze arise. It was like a revitalizing serum to the
Ricarda
. Constance left Daisy's tiny room in search of a washrag and clean water.
The other two women were setting the places on the long table. Constance could hear Daisy fretting.
"He's hardly been himself these past few days," she said. "The way he looks at me … do you think he knows about us?"
"I can't see how he would," Greta said.
"Well, he knows something, or suspects," Daisy said.
She was not wearing the necklace, which Constance had given to her two days before along with the made-up tale of how it had been anonymously put under the door one night. The look on her face had been one of immediate guilt, which Constance affected not to notice.
The burden of the secrets, though, was becoming too much to bear. Walter had not dared visit Constance again, and neither had Lord Cuthburt, but she knew that any night it might all be bound to change.
She pretended as if she had not been listening to Daisy and Greta, yawning like one freshly awakened. There was a barrel of fresh water in the corner with a dipper hung over its side. Constance dunked the dipper, used it to soak a cloth, and wiped her face. She wrung the cloth so that the water ran in a stream down her neck and into her bodice, and suddenly realized that Greta was watching her avidly. There was something in that calculatingly shrewd gaze that made her know what was about to happen even before Greta spoke.
"Daisy's been feeling very poorly," Greta said. "I hate to discommode you, my lady, but it might be better for her health if she had a bed to herself for a night or three. Mine has more than room enough if you're willing." Neither did Constance miss Daisy's look, which was at once relieved, sympathetic, and smugly satisfied. It was as if she could read the other girl's very thoughts. The notion of Constance waking to find Greta's hands all over her somehow appealed to Daisy.
Yet how could she refuse? One word from Greta would make everything known to Lord Cuthburt. She could not let him find out she was a stowaway, and she most certainly could not let him find out that she had been the one in Daisy's bed when he had come to her in the darkness and told her to call him Uncle.
"That would be fine," Constance said. "I am most grateful to you both for helping me, and maintaining my secrecy."
Would Greta dare to touch her? The cook's every remark and gesture toward Constance thus far had shown deference to her rank as a governor's daughter of good breeding. It might become a different matter when they were hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder in the same bed.
She should have been horrified at the thought but a definite curiosity nibbled at the corners of her mind. Greta was a good many years her senior, but her short figure was nonetheless trim. And having seen her with Daisy, Constance knew that Greta was quite adept at bringing even a reluctant woman's body to pleasure.
Surely not, though. Surely Greta would not attempt such a thing with Constance.
As the two of them left to serve the crew, Constance moved her bag of belongings into Greta's room. She eyed the bed. It was far wider than the cot she'd been sleeping on, with a better mattress and better blankets.
Constance ate a hurried dinner and peeked out at the lively conversation going on among the crew. She saw Walter, his auburn hair gleaming under the lantern light, and a sharp pang of envy went through her as she imagined him attempting to visit her, only to find Daisy back in her own bed.
He'd make love to Daisy, of course, for how else would he explain his presence there? It would be Daisy to feel his hardness thrusting into her cunny, Daisy to have his mouth on her breasts. While Constance might or might not be fending off the advances of Greta.
She did not know what she would do if Greta did try to caress her. As far as anyone else knew, with the exception of Walter – and Rob, Enrique, and poor Nana Eva – she was a sheltered virgin. Would that matter to Greta? Or would she seek to convince Constance that there was no harm in a bit of girlplay, so long as no cocks were involved?
A new thought struck her. If Greta did try, and Constance did allow it, could the cook tell by touch that Constance's maidenhead was gone?
The bell clanged for the changing of the watch. Full darkness had fallen. The majority of the crew sought their hammocks, or makeshift beds in enormous coils of rope. Lord Cuthburt, his face ruddy from wine, wished all a good rest and headed off for his cabin.
Daisy sent an appealing, inviting look Walter's way. She maneuvered to get close enough to him to whisper. Constance knew just what it must be. Again, she suffered that envious pang. Walter seemed thoughtful, and then he nodded.
Greta returned with a sprightly step, humming to herself. "Well, now, we should to bed. I'll have to rise early, you know."
"Yes, of course," Constance said. She undressed down to her chemise, feeling Greta's eyes on her all the while.
"Such a beautiful girl," Greta commented. "If it's no imposition to say so."
"I hardly know about that," Constance said. "A quick wash here and there … I'm dying for a proper bath. My hair is filthy."
"Nonsense. It's lovely. But if you'd like, I have something that can fix it up right smart."
"You do? What is it?"
"A powder." She fetched a tin from her dressing table. "It sprinkles into the hair, soaks up the dirt and oil, and then brushes away to leave it shining and clean. I use it all the time on long voyages. See?"
Greta's hair was up in a braided bun. She undid it and fanned it out, letting it fall midway down her back. It was dark, salted with grey, but Constance could see that it was indeed far cleaner than her own.
"I do see," she said.
"I could brush it through your hair, if you'd like."
There was more lurking beneath that innocent-sounding offer, but at the moment Constance was so captivated by the prospect of having clean hair that she barely gave it a second thought. She nodded vigorously, and at Greta's direction, sat down in front of the dressing table and unpinned her hair.
"Tsk," Greta said. "I should have said something before. Just look at these glorious blond locks."
She shook powder from the tin. It sifted onto Constance's hair, dusting it white. Greta worked it in with her hands, massaging close to the scalp to get the powder entirely through the long golden strands. It felt good, and Constance allowed her eyes to slip half-shut. She did not object when Greta's hands moved down to rub her neck, and shoulders. "We'll let it soak in for a little while." The cook's voice had grown husky.
Constance opened one eye a fraction and through the fringe of her eyelashes, saw Greta's reflection in the polished disk of metal that served as a mirror. Greta's expression was one of ill-concealed arousal. Constance heard her breathing quicken. When Greta leaned forward to reach the brush from the dressing table, her small breasts pushed against Constance's back and she felt stiff little nipples through the layers of cloth that separated them.
"Do you have a particular young man you fancy?" Greta asked as she began to draw the brush through Constance's hair in long, smooth strokes.
Walter's visage flashed in her mind. "Back home? No, not as such."
"Why, that is a shame. I'd think they'd be swarming around you like honeybees to a flower. What about this fellow your brother wanted you to marry?"
Enrique. Constance shuddered. She had known him for as long as she could remember, but in recent years he'd begun to ogle her with a lust she now understood all too well.
If not for him, she might not even be in this predicament. It had been his insistence for a kiss that had led to Rob's pronouncement that her duty as hostess included seeing to the needs of their guests. He'd made her suck Enrique's cock then, and ensured her cooperation by licking her cunny, promising to stop when she'd successfully made Enrique spend. But then Rob, his own lust inflamed, proceeded to rub his naked cock against her until she was brought to a shameful climax, whereupon he decreed that she had made a harmless game into vile incest, and promptly commenced to fuck her.
Yes, if not for Enrique, none of this might have happened. She would have liked to think so, at any rate. But knowing her brother as she now did, she supposed it would have only been a matter of time until Rob found one way or another to get at her.
Greta was still brushing, waiting for an answer. Constance shook off those memories.
"I did not want to marry him," she said. "I did not love him."
"Love often has little to do with marriage among the upper class, so I'm told," Greta said philosophically. "Was he handsome?"
"Yes, I suppose he was."
"Did he court you?"
Constance suppressed a rueful laugh. Court her? He had kissed her bruisingly, stuck his cock in her mouth on more than one occasion, pleaded with her brother for access to her cunny, fingered her to climax under Rob's permissive eye, taken her nursemaid in front of her, and then finally become so desperately impassioned that he'd started a fire to distract the house while he surprised her in her room where he first tongued her, then fucked her. If that counted as courting …
"No," she said.
"Have you ever kissed a young man?"
She knew where this path would lead, could see it as plainly as if it had been written in letters of fire. Perhaps she would not have understood where Greta was leading a month ago, even a week, but the girl who'd waved farewell to her father's ship from the terrace might have been a Constance of some much earlier age.
And it would do no good to lie. Her rosy blush was already betraying her. Greta, seeing this, laughed.
"Well …" Constance said.
"Your secret's safe with me," Greta said. "There, now … how's that?"
The powder had worked wonders. Her hair was rich and full again, and she ran her hands through it reveling in the silken feel.
"Splendid," she said. "Thank you."
"My, but you're a pretty one. I shouldn't wonder that you'd been kissed before. Did you like it?"
