Constance woke feeling sated in body and mind. This was a state that she welcomed, and she lingered long in the bed she'd made up on the floor in a corner of Jacqueline's cabin.
Warm tropical sun slanted through the portholes in dustmote-dancing beams, playing over the brass and the rich wood. She closed her eyes and dozed to the swaying of the ship. All was quiet. The sea was calm, the winds low, and the sailors no doubt recovering from their lengthy debauch of the day before.
She wondered how Lady Beatrice was greeting this morning. And Marie? Naughty little Marie had no doubt spent the night in some crewman's bed or another. Perhaps even that of Michel, the lucky wench. They both probably ached from their many and vigorous fuckings.
And what of Jean-Pierre? Constance suffered a queer pang, part guilt and part heat, as she remembered how she had taken the young man in his drunken sleep. The look in his eyes as he'd realized what was happening to him … the way Jacqueline had held him down and instructed – nay, ordered! – Constance to complete the act.
He had probably passed the night on his knees in penance, perhaps even scourging himself with a knotted cord to drive the sinfulness from his flesh. Such a shame. Such a waste.
Should she attempt to speak to him? He might turn from her, or strike her and vehemently denounce her as a harlot. To imagine that he might react as Walter had done was foolishness.
She rose from her blankets and stretched. Jacqueline was not in the cabin but she had left clothing laid out. Not that of the long-legged blond captain, that was readily evident. A low-cut frock, lacy pantaloons. Possibly from some captured ship or other lady who'd met the same fate as Beatrice.
With no one to tell her otherwise, she made use of Jacqueline's washbasin and brush. Clean, dressed, with her hair spilling in curls and waves over her shoulders, she was rejuvenated and ready for whatever the day might bring.
The plans I have for you …
Those had been Jacqueline's words. And she had referred to Constance as the object of her revenge. Constance had no idea what that might mean, but she was indeed most interested in something that Jacqueline had added. Something about Michel.
The cabin's door was not locked, to her surprise. She opened it and went out. The deck was littered with men. Some had simply fallen where they stood when exhaustion, or rum, overcame them. Most were by now moving sluggishly as the sun grew bright and strong. More than a few wore only shirts, affording Constance many a peek at a well-turned backside, or dangling cock and balls.
It was madness to be wandering about out here. The men might have used themselves up with fucking, dallying with Marie or taking their turns with Lady Beatrice, but they were young and hale, and would recover quickly.
"Good morning, Lady Constance," Michel Merlion said, approaching her with a carefree gait. His grin was blinding against the bronze of his face, and knowledgeable. His emerald gaze dropped to her bosom in blatant inspection, and the grin widened. "I hope you rested well?"
"Very well, thank you."
"And you got on well with Jean-Pierre?"
She could not help a blush. Jacqueline had told him all, she was sure of it. He knew what she'd done to his brother, and what her own brother had done to her. And the tightness of his breeches did nothing to conceal his opinion.
Others of the crew were on their feet, dressing and making ready for the morning meal. Michel took Constance's arm and escorted her to the galley. It was a far cry from Greta's neat kitchen, and the food was not at all to the standards that Lord Cuthburt and Captain Whittington demanded, but it was plentiful. She ate with good appetite, until Lady Beatrice put in an appearance.
The dark-haired woman was walking spraddle-legged and wincing with every step, as if her clothes chafed unbearably. Her face bore a few bruises, and more were to be seen on her wrists. Glaring red marks stippled her neck and the skin above her wrinkled gown, marks left by forceful suckling kisses. Her hair hung around her in hag's knots and her eyes were glassy, absent, detached.
Constance once again felt a stab of pity. Sisterhood, even. She had walked gingerly after Robert's punishing assault on her bottom, leaving it sore and welted. Beatrice did not look at all like one who'd enjoyed her repeated ravaging, and Constance was ashamed to have envied her.
No one abused Beatrice. For the most part, they ignored her. She accepted a cup of boiled pork broth and a chunk of hard bread, and retreated to a secluded spot of the deck. Marie, who
did
look like one who had enjoyed herself, and tremendously, kept an overly solicitous watch on her mistress.
The routine of the ship claimed the attention of the crew. As Lady Beatrice had only recently left home, the island where her family kept their mansion and plantations was nearby. Jacqueline had given the order to set a course for it, that they might have what ransom would be offered for a ruined daughter.
Of Jean-Pierre, there was no sign. Michel absented himself to take a tray of food to his younger brother, and returned laughing to himself.
"Is he well?" Constance dared to ask.
"He's prayed himself hoarse for God's forgiveness," Michel replied. "What ever did you do to him? He wept like a raped nun when I asked him how his first fuck had been."
"Oh, dear. I … I do not know what to say."
Michel tipped her chin up so that she had to look at him. "Are you blaming yourself? Tsk, tsk,
cherie
. You made a boy into a man last night. Such a wondrous transformation, better than any the alchemists of old could have wished for. Not lead into gold, but boy into man."
"He did not wish it."
"But he did. Some part of him – and I warrant you know which part I mean – did. Needed it, even. He should be thanking you, and asking for a second helping."
"Sir, please!"
"What a way to lose one's cherry," Michel chortled. "Mine was with a fine fat whore in a Port Royal brothel, paid for by my father. But to suddenly awake and find a lovely creature like you sliding up and down on my hitherto innocent cock? That would have been a delight!"
"We ought not speak of such things."
"When we could be doing them?" He seized her wrist and placed her palm on the hard bulge of his groin. She could feel him pulsing, stirring eagerly.
"Michel," Jacqueline said scoldingly. "What are you doing with our guest?"
