A Certain Latitude by Janet Mullany Page B

box that might contain jewelry, a hairbrush and toothbrush, a pair of half-boots, a straw bonnet. That was all; no letters or papers, nothing that hinted of family or friends.
    He handed the pins to her and left the cabin, bracing himself in the narrow space at the bottom of the stairs.
    Poor girl. Far from home, stuck with a boor of a fellow whom she’d let get under her skirts and would far sooner ignore, and now having to deal with female matters with no privacy at all.
    Wait, he chided himself, this was not some pathetic waif of a woman. This was Clarissa Onslowe, the woman who had used him and would almost certainly sell herself to the highest bidder.
    He tapped on the Blights’ door, and asked cheerily about their health.
    He was answered by heartfelt groans.
    A spray of cold water and light from above, accompanied by the scent of bacon, revealed Peter coming down the stairs, agile as a monkey, a large bundle tucked under one arm. “Bacon and cheese, sir, and bread, and a cask of cider and a flask of his lordship’s wine.”
    Allen thanked him and tapped on the cabin door. Clarissa was sitting sewing, head bent.
    “Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been very kind.”
    “It’s a damnable situation,” he said. “As you said, we must make the best of it.” He paused, while concentrating very hard on opening the cask of cider with the minimum of spillage, and pouring some into the two cups Lardy Jack had provided. It was remarkable how difficult everything was when liquids wanted to move in unexpected ways and you didn’t seem to have enough hands—something he’d discovered earlier aiming, with only a fair amount of success, into the chamber-pot.
    He handed a cup to her. She drank but refused food.
    He was worried, now. She was getting seasick, he was sure of it. She didn’t look well, pale and with dark shadows under her eyes.
    “Would you like to lie down?” He asked her. “If you’re getting sick, it might help.”
    She shook her head. “As I told you before, I’m not seasick.”
    “Good. I put a guinea on you in the stakes with the crew.”
    “You—” to his relief she laughed. “I am flung about in all directions when I lie down. I have barely slept and my back hurts.”
    Of course. She was so slender, whereas he filled his shelf—he really couldn’t dignify it by calling it a bed—and could wedge himself in.
    He stood and grabbed her quilt, folding it. “Lie down, Miss Onslowe. I’ll put this beside you to keep you in place.”
    “But you’ll be cold…” Despite her words she lay down with a sigh.
    “Don’t worry about me. I’ll use my cloak when it’s dried out.” He knelt by her. “Turn over. I’ll rub your back.”
    She made a sound as though about to protest, but shifted, and let him put his thumbs on her lower back, where he kneaded and rubbed. A former mistress, who suffered greatly at such times, had shown him what to do.
    She was lithe and taut beneath his hands, at first resisting—he could feel how she tensed, mistrusting—but then relaxed, her breathing deep and slow, as she fell into sleep.
    He covered her up, tucking the covers around her, and knelt watching her sleep, her hair spilling over the pillow. Her lips were slightly parted as though awaiting a lover’s kiss.

 
     
     

CHAPTER 5
     
     
    Three days of rough weather followed—not rough enough for the hatches to be battened down, trapping them below, a possibility Clarissa dreaded—but bad enough for them to want to stay dry and relatively warm in the cabin. It was as though her courses dictated the weather, and she understood why sailors traditionally were wary of women aboard ships. Occasionally, she or Allen ventured onto the deck, to return shivering and drenched, or visited the unhappy Blights. Finally, in desperation, she dosed them with brandy and laudanum from Mrs. Blight’s medicine box and hoped she did not kill them.
    She found, after the initial embarrassments of sharing such a small