The Doldrums: the Sailor and the Virgin Ch. 01

He hoisted her to his shoulder, an arm about her hips, and climbed to the cockpit. A quick survey of the boat found all as he had left it. Given the compass heading, the time, and the tally of the harpoon log that he had checked before going below, he could divine their location upon the lake. No danger of running aground, and unless someone else had been as foolhardy as he, no danger of encountering another vessel. Liam sat behind the wheel, placing the lass crosswise upon his lap, and held her in his arms. Her head rested upon his shoulder, her breath soft upon his neck. He left the rope in place holding the wheel, and let himself relax back against the coaming.

As he buttoned the ulster on her, he took the opportunity to examine her more closely in the waning afternoon light. She was indeed striking with her dark hair—a deep lustrous chestnut color, nigh black, tumbling about her white face. Her brows were full and gently arched. Below them her lashes lay long and thick upon her cheeks—round cheeks set off by high cheekbones and succulent pink lips, ever so slightly parted. A rare beauty she was, he mused, again feeling a right fool for having been taken in by her rudimentary disguise.

He smoothed a curl back from her face, then set about trying to put her hair to rights—half up and half down as it was. His fingers moved through the thick locks, pulling out pins and awkwardly combing it free of the coat's collar. Unbound it fell to her waist, wavy and luxuriant. Upon the back of her head he found a lump—so that was what had happened—'twould seem she had fallen and struck her head. Unless, a dark thought came to him, she had been wounded prior to their meeting. His mind returned to the deepening mystery of this passenger.

Who was she and why was she fleeing Rochester? From her demeanor in harbor, he could surmise that the object of her fear was in that city. A jealous stepmother? A spurned suitor? A violent husband? Having seen her in her natural state, he guessed her to be eighteen or nineteen years old...old enough to be married. He pushed back the overhanging sleeve to find her left hand. No ring, and no mark to suggest there had been one—for what that was worth.

He held her hand wonderingly—how small and white it was in his large, sun-tanned, calloused paw. The skin of her palm was soft, the nails well-groomed. He pulled the sleeve of the nightgown down to cover her slender wrist, then fumbled with the tiny pearl button upon the cuff, eventually managing to fasten it. The fabric of the gown was a wonder in of itself; he rubbed it between his finger and thumb. Her chemise had been fashioned from a similar material. He hadn't known a fabric could be so delicately woven—he could almost see his fingers through it.

Small details of her undergarments, details that he had not dwelt upon when he had been more attentive to what their removal revealed, now came to him. He had encountered what he supposed was a fair share of female undergarments, but none had been of this ilk: all fine fabrics and elegant embellishments. The subtle sheen of her blue stockings (silk he supposed), the touch of embroidery upon her garters, the spotless whiteness of her corset, the demure lace upon her chemise — all bespoke wealth—that aspect of "Alexander Novikov" was no deception.

Absently he covered her hand with the coat sleeve again and set it back in her lap. His perusal now shifted to the ulster. Shrouded in the voluminous folds of heavy wool, she may as well have been a crate covered by a tarp, but his mind's eye supplied the images of her unclad charms, and he savored every so recently seen detail. Just about here would be her breasts. Her breasts! He had never before beheld a pair so exquisite...he tried to imagine how they would feel in his hands, extrapolating from the hint offered him when his palm had jostled one. Oh how delightfully they would fill his hands!

He shifted her upon his lap, adjusting her weight against his growing cockstand. The vision came to him of her curled up in the berth with her nightgown up. That pretty bottom currently was nestled upon his thighs...even now her cunny might be touching his cock, albeit separated by their garments. In his imagination he subtracted the ulster, her nightgown, and the thick cotton duck of his trousers, and saw his cock between her thighs, knocking against her cunny.

His arms tightened about her, his breath quickening. His eyes returned to her face—she was so close he need only tilt his head to kiss those parted lips; he had to fight the urge to do so. Perhaps like the Sleeping Beauty she would wake if he kissed her. He tried to recall her eyes awake; he had not paid them much notice as a lad. Was she innocent, he wondered, or had she been initiated into the rites of Venus? He imagined turning her upon his lap so that she sat astride him...pulling the ulster and nightgown out from under her...his swollen cock penetrating between those little pink lips...His heart was pounding, the pressure in his pelvis was intense. He felt he was in danger of no longer being able to consider himself an honorable man.

He raised his head and inhaled sharply of the cold air, chagrined. He would never take advantage of a lass so.

It had been a long time since he had bedded a woman—when had Helen departed for Colorado? He thought back. Aye, nigh a year ago, so it was. A year! Surely that would account for his precipitous beguilement by this lass's charms—he had only known her to be a lass for less than an hour! A year, he pondered. Not that he had been without opportunity. Although he lived aboard the boat, he was not deprived of the company of the fair sex; he regularly came across females in his daily life. He simply had not found one who had intrigued him enough to pursue an amorous affair. In the months after Helen left, his preoccupation with the Selkie had occupied the greater part of his time.

He looked back down at her ruefully. He had to keep his wits about him. Although this squall had passed, they were still out in the middle of the lake and night was approaching. To calm his mind, he went through the ritual of surveying the rigging, the waves, the compass, and finding all satisfactory, settled back. His brooding gaze remained upon the water, his thoughts occupied by the jib and the possible explanations for the halyard's failure.

*****

Liam's head jerked up, suddenly awake. 'Twas dark now, and beginning to rain. He did not know how much time had passed. The wind had ebbed considerably. The lass still lay with closed eyes against his shoulder. He shook her gently. "Miss..." he said. To his relief she made a sound of protest, although it was unintelligible and her eyes remained shut. He lifted her upon his shoulder as before, and carried her below to her cabin. In the dark he placed her upon the berth, then lit the oil lantern. He positioned her upon her side, with her head upon the pillow, made sure the ulster and gown were all the way down to her feet, and pulled the woolen blanket over her. He noticed some reassuring pink had come into her cheeks. He checked that she had plenty of water in the pitcher, gathered up the pile of her soiled garments, and blew out the light.

Before returning topsides, he donned his oilskins and sou'wester. He moved about the deck in the rain. He opened the aft cistern to collect rainwater. He lit the running lanterns forward, aft, port, and starboard—although he doubted any other vessels were about. He spread out her clothes, and with buckets of lake water and soap washed them. He checked the harpoon log. At length he returned to the cockpit and sat in the shelter of the companionway hatch, feeling the gentle motion of the boat and listening to the rain while he contemplated the day's singular turn of events.