16

Chapter 15: Dark Waters - Rafael's Perspective

Normally, I last a lot longer. Her scent on my pillow is almost enough for me to go again, but she looks too peaceful to disturb.

Ana lays beside me, asleep. The corners of her mouth tilt into a smile. A shrew tucked into an angel's body. The shrew will reveal itself again the moment her mouth starts moving.

I brush a strand of hair from her cheek before shaking her gently. "Ana, it's time to get up."

Her eyes flutter open, two crystal blue spheres behind a thick curtain of eyelashes. An adorable yawn escapes her lips. She stretches languidly before recognizing her surroundings.

"Rafael - did we?"

"Did you come to your master's door, begging for his touch?" I slide my finger across her breastbone. "Yes, it seems you that did."

She shivers and pulls away from the warm bed, nervously scanning the room for something to cover her slender form. I sigh. The household is already aware of my dalliances. I dread the idea of matronly petticoats swallowing her lovely figure. What garment could compare to such natural assets?

Unfortunately, there are appearances to be maintained. It's bad enough that I allowed her to stay the night. Any further and Sebastián will be proven right.

"It seems that Alma brought you a new set of undergarments. I don't imagine the old ones will be of much use."

Reddish hue quickly paints her cheeks. She scrambles for the neatly folded stack on the ottoman, tossing the freshly pressed shift over her head and nearly toppling over in the process. She struggles to assemble her stays evenly. Yet, another reason I question her past life as a lady's maid. Watching any woman put on clothing is an unusual sight. My female companions are usually up before me, dressed and ready to serve, silver platter in hand. With Ana, I find myself holding her bodice tight while she fumbles with the laces.

"I should have never," she mumbles.

"Ah, but you did."

I lower my voice, "And we both know how much you enjoyed it." The hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

No response. Not even a glare.

Ana pins the rest of her gown in place, leaving the seams a little crooked. Torn threads pucker the sleeves, but her beauty effervesces through the simple attire. The girl is meant for finer things than hand-me-downs.

That will be rectified today.

I select a grey overcoat from the wardrobe for my own attire. I would be stymied if Ana had any understanding of the duties of a dresser, and I'd rather not be stabbed by clumsy fingers.

She lingers by the soiled sheets. "I did enjoy it," she says in a quiet voice, "but we can never do it again. You must promise me."

When I am silent, she merely straightens the pleats in her gown and strides out of the room.

Of course, some regret is to be expected. It is a momentous step she's taken toward entrusting herself to my care. By all evidence presented, she was quite virginal before I got my hands on her. I'd almost feel bad about deflowering her if I didn't plan on using her so thoroughly.

***

Señor Velasquez's shadow attempts to intersect my path to the dining room. I swiftly turn the other direction. Better to work on an empty stomach than an earful of depressing predictions and criticisms of my nightly activities. Last night was the best night of sleep I've had in years. So far, Ana seems to be much more of a good luck charm than a bad omen. Besides, I'll soon need her translation abilities.

Turning the corner to my study, I nearly step on Isabel's feet. She swats at my sleeve.

"Rafa, you can't scare me like that. I thought you were that miser, Velasquez. Must you truly keep him in your employ? The ladies find him unsettling."

I laugh. "And by ladies, you speak of yourself, I presume? Come now, it is the old man's job to lurk around. He knows more of the happenings of the estate than anyone else."

"I don't know about that."

She raises her eyebrows, "However, I do know that Ana slept in your bed last night."

"She did."

There's no point in denying it. If the estate didn't hear us last night, then they would have learned through the housemaid that dropped off Ana's new undergarments.

"Of her own free will?" she asks.

"Of course."

Out of respect for Ana's sense of propriety, I exclude the part where she came to my door practically begging to be used.

"Rafa, what are you doing? The poor girl doesn't know what she wants, and now you've eliminated any possibility of a stable life for her."

A stable life.

I picture Ana with some stuffy Frenchman in a cottage in the woods, chasing children around a fireplace, wringing out laundry while her husband sets traps for small game. The thought increasingly agitates me.

"Isa, can I do no right in your eyes? First, you criticize me for being too harsh with the girl. Now, you criticize me for being too kind. Reserve your judgment. Just tell me whether my shipment has arrived or not."

She sighs, "Yes, brother. I had them place it in your study. If you insist on dragging Ana along with you, I'm glad she'll at least have some proper clothes. Please try to keep them off the floor."

"I make no promises. Send Ana down to my study if she comes your way."

With a wave, I quarantine myself behind the mahogany doors. The study is my quiet place. The only place I manage to get anything done, and coincidentally, the only place dependably free from the influence of meddling women.

Usually, the place is immaculate. Every book in its place, not a trace of dust on the windowsills. However, order is currently displaced by a large trunk that sits in the middle of my rug. The dockhands took care not to let it get waterlogged, but the exterior has taken quite a beating. Splinters will need to be plucked from the carpet's soft fibers.

I try to avoid the distraction and settle into the accounting. Such a task would generally fall to my steward, but I insist on taking a more active role in the proceedings. I cannot allow things to fall apart as my father did. It is a heavy task, tracking the yields and sale quantities and the like. It seems that every time I sit down, a paper of great importance is missing or a sum that I require is lost in the enormous stack of receipts. At least, I can trust that Sebastián has done all the arithmetic correctly before any of the papers have even reached my desk.

***

I am headfirst into an endless pile of ledgers when a quiet knock rattles the door.

"Come in."

Ana moves the doors aside, delightfully timid. This is the first time I've summoned her to my study, and I am starting to wonder if it should have happened sooner. Our interactions have never previously required her involvement in my business. The soaring banisters and shelves of books confer a great weight upon this room. Any layperson who fails to grasp our significance from a survey of the grounds would surely see reason after a tour of our private collection. The history of our family, inscribed in a gold-bound tome, sits in a case near the window.

"Isabel said you wanted to see me... master."

"Yes, Ana. Please open the trunk."

She is careful to distance herself from the morning's interactions, her formal renunciation of my grace and charm. She is even using my preferred form of address.

The latch is opened, and a thick bundle of handcrafted textiles emerges. I remain in my chair, carefully following her shifting expression. Out comes the first gown, a lilac robe à la française, and two taffeta petticoats. Next, she pulls out a jade green beaded gown and then a pale pink one. Both were custom-made in Paris and should match her complexion nicely. Of course, Isabel insisted on dragging me into the process. Before this excruciating exercise, I could scarcely identify a pannier. Luckily, she and Alma took care of the details and measurements.

Ana clutches the gowns to her bosom, "These are for me?"

I clear my throat, "Yes, you'll need something suitable to wear when you accompany me on my business trip."

"Business trip?" she says, her voice now coated in suspicion. Does she think I mean to rent her out at harbor? Not a single soul on this estate grants me the benefit of the doubt.

"I'll be meeting with a potential trading partner on a French isle. I think it best that I had a translator."

She mutters to herself, "Je pense que vous parlez français comme une vache espagnole."

Ouch. That I understood.

Even if my French was indeed better than a Spanish cow, an obscured hand bodes well for negotiation. Regardless, I shall enjoy her as my companion.

"Do you wish to join me or not?"

Without releasing the fabric, she touches a hand to her heart.

"As if I had a choice? Come now, you wouldn't be able to get anyone else on this island with a half-decent grasp of the language to even stand in the same room as you."

On any other day, I would have to discipline her for her brashness. Instead, I simply enjoy this fortuitous occasion, watching her pert behind swirl between the shelves. She is beguiling in her joy. Our four-day journey will allow for copious bedroom activity without the input of my sister or señor Velazquez. Sailing the watery expanse, she will be mine and mine alone.

"Isabel will help you gather anything you will need aboard. You are dismissed."

She takes one last longing look at the bookshelves and exits.

Any woman would appreciate such a generous gift. I never knew that she was literary. I suspect that this is hardly the end of my Ana-related discoveries. There is much more to that girl than meets the eye. Someday soon, I shall coax it from her sweet lips.

Chapter 16: Captain's Quarters - Catherine's Perspective

He fastens the locket around my neck. The silver gleams against my flesh. A locked metal clasp joins the ends.

I run my finger across the inscription. Property of the Navarro estate.

The necklace is much more comfortable than a pair of shackles, but both bear the same message. A slave can hardly be taken out on the high seas without proper precautions. At the end of the day, that's all I am.

A slave.

We approach the gangplank, the ship towering above us. Rafael's hand remains firmly situated at my back.

"You will go nowhere without my permission. These men are wild dogs, and many of them would like nothing more than to have you over a tavern stool."

"Which is completely different from what you wish to do to me." I tug on the silver chain. A yellow warbler flies overhead.

"I am serious. Even a conversation can quickly become dangerous."

"Rafael, I can handle myself. You're the one that doesn't speak the language."

He grimaces, "An unfortunate detail. Need I remind you that all of these ports have ironclad runaway laws?"

His lips brush against my ear, "Not to mention what I would do to you."

I shiver.

He seems satisfied.

Of course, the idea has crossed my mind. It's an impossibility. An attempt to secure safe passage home could land me in an even more treacherous situation. In many ways, it will be easier to escape on Saint-Michel, a task which, despite the viscount's roguish appeal, I have not forgotten.

For now, I will consider the trip an adventure. It shall be my first time leaving the island, and I am finally attired appropriately. If not for this unsubtle chain, I would feel much like myself. I tuck a few loose strands of hair behind my ear and board la Joaquina.

The ship, a small, swift vessel, is called after the viscount's deceased mother. According to Isabel, Joaquina was a wonderful, gentle woman who had died when Rafael was little. With an unsteady rotation of women intended to fill the hole in his father's heart, Alma and Isabel did most of the raising. The lack of a steady maternal figure may explain the viscount's rougher tendencies however, it does not excuse them.

***

After securing my trunk in the lower cabin, I consider myself free to roam the ship.

Above deck, thick winds scramble across the wooden boards. The ship's banister steadies my motion. Between the armory and the scullery, I can't remember the last time I was permitted in the open air. Beyond our vessel is untarnished blue as far as the eye can see. I shuffle closer to the edge. Though we are still docked, the pulse of the ocean beneath my feet overwhelms me.

The call to raise anchor pushes me back to the ship's center. I clamor for the nearest unoccupied pole. Crewmen bow their heads as pass by. With these flowing skirts, I suppose that I pass for Rafael's courtesan. Not long ago, I would have been insulted. For now, I am content to be without the disdain offered to penal slaves. My sole objective is to keep my lovely train from being soiled by the brine.

A hand slips across my waist. "Now that we know the vessel's seaworthy, I think it's time to test out your sea legs. Meet me in the captain's quarters without arousing the men."

Rafael's billowing white shirt skims over the bulge in his pants. His double entendre is evident. He's just as bad as the gaping deckhands. If not for the finely tailored waistcoat and its gold buttons, one could almost mistake him for a member of the crew.

I shove his hand away. "I hardly wish to disrespect the captain so early in the voyage."

If he will not respect my vow of restraint, perhaps he can be persuaded to respect another male authority. An image of the cabin door flying open while my skirts are hiked up to my chin comes to mind. It is not a suggestive conversation that I fear. How safe would I be traversing the deck after the men had seen me without undergarments? It's better not take one's chances on a crowded, swaying ship full of rogues.

"I assure you the captain would be delighted by your presence."

His jaw plays into a shrewd smile.

"You are the captain of the Joaquina?"

"Officially, yes. I've instructed my men to manage the ship's operations, lest I be involved with other business. Your schedule should line up perfectly."

I should have known. Most captains are too superstitious to take a woman out on the open seas. Between terrorizing his subjects and harassing his female staff, the viscount learned to sail a 60-foot vessel. Yet another advantage of being a male heir.

There's no reason for me to further bow to his whims. I plant myself firmly on the ground. "Rafael, it simply isn't decent."

I resent how his name has become so easy on my tongue. It isn't as if I didn't enjoy certain aspects of our earlier encounter, but I promised myself, never again.

Servants talk, and the master's "favorites" rarely last more than a few weeks. If the viscount loses interest in me, I shall be doomed. I can neither cook nor scrub, and if put back in the fields, I would faint on the spot. Despite this burgeoning flame, I have ten more years on my sentence, unless I should manage to escape before then. For now, this tension between us is a critical, bargaining tool and quite possibly, my saving grace. I must think with my head and ignore the throbbing desires under my skirts.

"Come," he says.

I avert my gaze and instead, fiddle with the stomacher.

He grumbles, "I did not buy you those dresses to shield yourself from me."

With a familiar brusqueness, he tosses me over his shoulder and carries me all the way to the captain's quarters in the rear of the ship. The ocean rolls beneath us.

The words won't come out. No one motions to assist me. The crew knows their captain's reputation well enough to stay out of his way. I'm not likely the first one he's brought abroad. How many others have been defiled on his mother's namesake?

By the time he puts me down, I've gathered my thoughts.

"Are you mad? What happened to only if I should give my consent?" I cross my arms, "Captain, I believe your word still applies at sea."

He smiles. I can tell that he's pleased by this new form of address. I certainly prefer it to "master," and flattery carries weight in his domain.

Still, the door closes behind us.

"Alright, then. Tell me that you don't want it." He approaches me slowly, a panther stalking in the wild bush of Africa.

I could say no.

Surely, he will keep asking, but for all his presumption and arrogance, I believe that in the end, he would respect my wishes. If not for my sake, then for Isabel's. And yet, there's the heat of his breath on my neck, those hands with their unyielding force around my waist and between my legs.

"I- I-" the words stick on my tongue.

"Exactly as I thought."

In one fell swoop, his hands dive into my hair and pull me into a long, passionate kiss. Pins clink on the floor as my neatly coiffed traveling hairstyle is unraveled.

Once more, his tongue presses against mine, claiming ownership of every corner. The smell of burnt cinnamon engulfs us.

I lean against the wall as fury rains down the side of my neck. These are sharp kisses, the nature of which I have been warned. Kisses like these promote a dalliance that one wears on their neck for days after. He pulls me in deeper. My tender skin is set aflame as if he were trying to suck the stubbornness out of me. It won't work.

"Rafael," I manage, "you're going to leave marks."

He pulls away from his canvas for only a moment.

"Excellent," he says.

Quickly, the kisses turned to bites. The soft pulses of pain awaken something inside me. Such maddening sensations require an outlet. I scramble for the nearest solid mounting upon which to cling. In my desperation, I drive my nails into his shoulders. It is a grave mistake.

Before I can parse what I've done, he pins my hands above my head, continuing his work ten-fold. His grip is unyielding. All this biting and brushing grows my desire to tear the fabric from my overheating limbs, but now I am at his mercy to finish the task. He attempts to release my laces with his teeth. They remain tied in a last defense. Instead, he settles on a more rudimentary solution.

We shift our weight to the cotton mattress. My skirts pool atop the modest linen bedspread. He undoes his breeches, then quickly mounts me, his flag standing ready at my opening. It has been raised to full mast.

I brace for impact, but the pain isn't nearly as bad this time. My body reluctantly yields to the intrusion.

The strokes are hot and heavy, soon reaching places I didn't even know had sensation. The second time around lends a different air, I suppose. I bite down on his shoulder, trying to match the marks he's given me. At least in the bedroom, every infuriating thing he's done can be laid bare and wrestled between our two bodies. I scratch and scrape at the soaked flesh under his shirt.

It is no deterrent to him. His pace, if anything, has been encouraged. My mewling attacks bounce off his tense posture, far from interrupting his momentum. Finally, breath leaves my throat.

"Unngh." A wretched sound slips out.

"Mmph."

More pins slid out of my hair with each thrust. Rafael starts laughing.

"What is it?"

"It's nothing," he says. "You're so proper, but in bed, you sound no different than a woman of the street."

With my best aim, I reach up and slap my palm across his face. He comes to an unpleasant halt.

"Oh, naughty, naughty girl."

His eyes conceal a dark grin. He removes himself from me and flips me onto my stomach. The outer layer of taffeta grazes my ear.

"I think you're going to like this," he whispers.

Blows begin raining down on my backside.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

It crackles like fire.

Smack.

The pain is greater when he strikes the same spot twice.

Smack. Smack.

The strokes are not unlike that which he previously punished me in the armory. And yet, it's different somehow. Like the bites, his strikes jolt me into a haze where propriety and family allegiance do not exist. The briny scent of seawater ingrained in the pillows rams my nasal passage. The ship toils underneath us. His palm lingers only a moment on my rear. When given so cavalierly, the very indecency of physical punishment is a novelty in itself.