“And what?” I asked, thoroughly intrigued.
“And kiss the insides of your thighs, where the skin’s so soft. The beard might help there, aye?” He stroked his jaw, considering.
“It might,” I said, a little faintly. “What am I supposed to be doing while you do this?”
“Well, ye might moan a bit, if ye like, to encourage me, but otherwise, ye just lie still.”
He didn’t sound as though he needed any encouragement whatever. One of his hands was resting on my thigh as he used the other to swab his chest with the damp towel. As he finished, the hand slid behind me, and squeezed.
“My beloved’s arm is under me,” I quoted. “And his hand behind my head. Comfort me with apples, and stay me with flagons, For I am sick of love.”
There was a flash of white teeth in his beard.
“More like grapefruit,” he said, one hand cupping my behind. “Or possibly gourds. Grapefruit are too small.”
“Gourds?” I said indignantly.
“Well, wild gourds get that big sometimes,” he said. “But aye, that’s next.” He squeezed once more, then removed the hand in order to wash the armpit on that side. “I lie upon my back and have ye stretched at length upon me, so that I can get hold of your buttocks and fondle them properly.” He stopped washing to give me a quick example of what he thought proper, and I let out an involuntary gasp.
“Now,” he went on, resuming his ablutions, “should ye wish to kick your legs a bit, or make lewd motions wi’ your hips and pant in my ear at that point in the proceedings, I should have no great objection.”
“I do not pant!”
“Aye, ye do. Now, about your breasts—”
“Oh, I thought you’d forgotten those.”
“Never in life,” he assured me. “No,” he went blithely on, “that’s when I take off your gown, leaving ye in naught but your shift.”
“I’m not wearing a shift.”
“Oh? Well, no matter,” he said, dismissing this. “I meant to suckle ye through the thin cotton, ’til your nipples stood up hard in my mouth, and then take it off, but it’s no great concern; I’ll manage without. So, allowing for the absence of your shift, I shall attend to your breasts until ye make that wee bleating noise—”
“I don’t—”
“And then,” he said, interrupting, “since ye will, according to the plan, be naked, and—provided I’ve done it right so far—possibly willing as well—”
“Oh, just possibly,” I said. My lips were still tingling from step one.
“—then I shall spread open your thighs, take down my breeks, and—” He paused, waiting.
“And?” I said, obligingly.
The grin widened substantially.
“And we’ll see what sort of noise it is ye don’t make then, Sassenach.”
There was a slight cough in the doorway behind me.
“Oh, your pardon, Mr. Willoughby,” Jamie said apologetically. “I wasna expecting ye so soon. Perhaps ye’d care to go and have a bit of supper? And if ye would, take those things along and ask Murphy will he burn them in the galley fire.” He tossed the remains of his uniform to Mr. Willoughby, and bent to rummage in a sealocker for fresh clothing.
“I never thought to meet Lawrence Stern again,” he remarked, burrowing through the tangled linen. “How does he come to be here?”
“Oh, he is the Jewish natural philosopher you told me about?”
“He is. Though I shouldna think there are so many Jewish philosophers about as to cause great confusion.”
I explained how I had come to meet Stern in the mangroves. “…and then he brought me up to the priest’s house,” I said, and stopped, suddenly reminded. “Oh, I almost forgot! You owe the priest two pounds sterling, on account of Arabella.”
“I do?” Jamie glanced at me, startled, a shirt in his hand.
“You do. Maybe you’d best ask Lawrence if he’ll act as ambassador; the priest seems to get on with him.”
“All right. What’s happened to this Arabella, though? Has one of the crew debauched her?”
“I suppose you might say that.” I drew breath to explain further, but before I could speak, another knock sounded on the door.
“Can a man not dress in peace?” Jamie demanded irritably. “Come, then!”
The door swung open, revealing Marsali, who blinked at the sight of her nude stepfather. Jamie hastily swathed his midsection in the shirt he was holding, and nodded to her, sangfroid only slightly impaired.
“Marsali, lass. I’m glad to see ye unhurt. Did ye require something?”
The girl edged into the room, taking up a position between the table and a sea chest.
“Aye, I do,” she said. She was sunburned, and her nose was peeling, but I thought she seemed pale nonetheless. Her fists were clenched at her sides, and her chin lifted as for battle.
“I require ye to keep your promise,” she said.
“Aye?” Jamie looked wary.
“Your promise to let me and Fergus be married, so soon as we came to the Indies.” A small wrinkle appeared between her fair eyebrows. “Hispaniola is in the Indies, no? The Jew said so.”
Jamie scratched at his beard, looking reluctant.
“It is,” he said. “And aye, I suppose if I…well, aye. I did promise. But—you’re still sure of yourselves, the two of ye?” She lifted her chin higher, jaw set firmly.
“We are.”
Jamie lifted one eyebrow.
“Where’s Fergus?”
“Helping stow the cargo. I kent we’d be under way soon, so I thought I’d best come and ask now.”
“Aye. Well.” Jamie frowned, then sighed with resignation. “Aye, I said. But I did say as ye must be blessed by a priest, did I no? There’s no priest closer than Bayamo, and that’s three days’ ride. But perhaps in Jamaica…”
“Nay, you’re forgetting!” Marsali said triumphantly. “We’ve a priest right here. Father Fogden can marry us.”
I felt my jaw drop, and hastily closed it. Jamie was scowling at her.
“We sail first thing in the morning!”
“It won’t take long,” she said. “It’s only a few words, after all. We’re already married, by law; it’s only to be blessed by the Church, aye?” Her hand flattened on her abdomen where her marriage contract presumably resided beneath her stays.
“But your mother…” Jamie glanced helplessly at me for reinforcement. I shrugged, equally helpless. The task of trying either to explain Father Fogden to Jamie or to dissuade Marsali was well beyond me.
“He likely won’t do it, though.” Jamie came up with this objection with a palpable air of relief. “The crew have been trifling with one of his parishioners named Arabella. He willna want anything to do wi’ us, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, he will! He’ll do it for me—he likes me!” Marsali was almost dancing on her toes with eagerness.
Jamie looked at her for a long moment, eyes fixed on hers, reading her face. She was very young.
“You’re sure, then, lassie?” he said at last, very gently. “Ye want this?”