Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
With pretty, courteous, dainty knacks we please the females well,
We know what longing women lacks, most surely we can tell.
— JOHN PLAYFORD, “THE JOVIAL MARRINER”
Sara made it through the first week surprisingly well.
During the day, there was so much work and so many quarrels among the women over who was to do what that she scarcely had time to breathe.
Water had to be hauled and the men fed. Grass had to be cut and dried for thatch, and mattresses had to be sewn from the canvas cloth the men had brought from Sao Nicolau.
Still, she saw Gideon often enough to remind her of their night together. He sought her out for her opinions on how the houses should be laid out. Whenever he needed something of the women, he came to her first, and they spent many hours debating the best way to allocate their meager resources.
She found excuses to seek him out as well.
Much as she chastised herself for it, she liked watching him work, his muscles glistening with sweat under the warm sun.
He took to eating his luncheon with her beneath the trees, offering her the bananas she’d come to like and hunks of pork freshly roasted on Silas’s makeshift spits.
Sometimes his fingers brushed hers accidentally when they were sharing the meal, but otherwise he kept his hands to himself.
That should have made things easier. It didn’t.
At night, she lay awake in her cabin, thinking about him in his huge bed across the saloon.
Sometimes she closed her eyes and imagined him running his fingers over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips.
Sometimes she furthered the fantasy by touching herself, and that was the worst of all .
. . to know he could make her behave so wickedly.
The second week was harder. By then, after much jostling and quarreling, everyone had fallen into a routine.
Each had taken the jobs that best suited them and were diligently working to put Atlantis back together.
That meant less time for discussing things with Gideon and fewer excuses for seeking him out.
What’s more, he sometimes didn’t stop for lunch, although he ate with her when he did.
Yet she was aware of him no matter where she was, even when he was laying out buildings or supervising the cutting down of trees.
She found excuses to see him, then made excuses to herself for the flimsiness of her excuses.
She found herself touching him casually .
. . his arm or his shoulder or his elbow.
She didn’t mean to, of course. It just happened.
And whenever it did, he went very still, fixing her with a hungry gaze that always made her jerk her hand away.
He began bringing her gifts in the evening—a scented soap, some satin for a bonnet, a sculpted shard of bright orange coral that he’d found while he and the men were spearing fish.
He never once gave her anything she might think was stolen, and that warmed her, for he must have plenty of jewels he could offer.
Then he’d linger to walk the decks with her, speaking of his hopes for the island.
Despite her determination not to let his words affect her, they did.
How could she not be affected by his dreams for a society where men and women could work and live free of the cruelties of unfeeling governments?
Where punishments fit the crimes, and people like Ann weren’t deprived of what they needed most?
The worst part of the night came then—when he walked her to the door of her cabin.
She always half-hoped he would kiss her and was disappointed when he didn’t.
Once in bed, her imagination would take over where reality left off.
Long gone were her thoughts of his hands on her body.
Now she dreamed of feeling his mouth on her.
It would start with her reliving their kisses, but it always progressed to fantasies of his mouth kissing her breasts and belly and even her most private place.
It was dreadfully scandalous and made her so ashamed. Sometimes she even awakened to find herself touching her own body in wanton ways she’d never dreamed existed. She burned at night. She burned during the day. But Gideon, curse the man, seemed as determined not to touch her as ever.
By the end of the third week, however, that had changed.
Gideon began to touch her when she least expected it.
He would casually reach up to smooth back her hair from her eyes or take her arm to lead her down the gangplank in the morning.
When they ate together, which was now almost every meal, he seemed to delight in “accidentally” brushing her breasts as he leaned over to reach something or taking a seat so close beside her that their legs touched whenever they moved.
If she’d had any sense, she would have pointed out how he was cheating on his promise not to touch her. But she’d long ago lost all sense. She lived for those furtive touches. She took unreasonable pleasure in the gifts he brought her and the way he deferred to her judgment on certain matters.
Even worse, her nighttime imaginings had progressed to unabashed memories of his making love to her. She no longer tried to suppress her fantasies, but gave free rein to them. And her hands—her treacherous, wicked hands—had become truly uncontrollable.
Unfortunately, they didn’t satisfy the clawing need growing in the pit of her belly, to have him kiss her and stroke her and yes, make love to her again.
It was those thoughts that engrossed her on the last morning of the third week. It was early, not even dawn yet, and she’d left everyone else sleeping on the ship. Needing a place to think, she wandered down the beach toward the stream.
A few rules had been established for the little colony, and one of them concerned bathing.
Since the water in the stream was too cold for bathing in the early morning, the women were allotted the early afternoon hours for bathing and the men the late afternoon hours after they’d finished their dirty work for the day.
The system had allowed the women the privacy they craved, especially those women who hadn’t yet decided on husbands.
So when Sara came upon the stream, she was surprised to find Gideon standing naked in the middle of it, bathing in the chilly water. Quickly, she ducked behind a tree to keep him from seeing her.
She couldn’t believe it. Did he come here every morning? And why, when the water was so much warmer later in the day?
She should leave him to bathe alone, she told herself sternly. But her erotic nighttime dreams were still too fresh. She couldn’t bear to leave just yet. With a furtive glance down to the beach to make sure no one had seen her, she peeked back around the tree at Gideon.
The stream was so shallow that the water came only to his knees.
He had his back to her as he scooped water up and sluiced it over his body.
He looked magnificent . . . his dark hair dripping down over his broad back etched with scars, firm buttocks that flexed with his every movement, and hairy legs slightly parted to help him keep his balance on the pebbly stream bed.
Heat spread up from her loins to her breasts to her face as she watched him. What would he do if she simply stepped out from behind the tree and into his arms? No, she couldn’t do that. She mustn’t.
Suddenly he turned around, though he didn’t see her. She quickly suppressed a gasp. Good heavens. He was fully aroused. He was mumbling something and scowling as he scrubbed his chest with a soapy rag.
Then, to her complete horror, he laid his hand on his member and began to stroke it. She told herself to leave, but her feet stayed rooted. She was utterly fascinated. So that was how he managed to keep himself aloof from her when she practically panted to have him in her bed.
But if that were the case, why was he scowling?
Why were his movements almost violent, as if he couldn’t stroke himself hard or fast enough?
Perhaps it was the same for him as it was for her.
Touching herself had been as futile as throwing water on those fiery huts had been. Not enough. Never enough.
Suddenly, he looked up and saw her. His eyes locked with hers, full of heat and need and hunger. For a moment, she stood there transfixed, her mouth open and her feet incapable of movement.
Then she panicked. With a cry of shame, she lifted her skirts and took off at a run, as hard and as far as her legs would carry her.
As she stumbled down the beach, she chastised herself furiously.
She should never have gone to the stream.
She should certainly never have watched him bathe or .
. . or touch himself. The minute she’d seen what he was doing, she should have sneaked away.
Now that he knew she’d been watching him, he was sure to guess her dreadful secret—that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.
With a choked cry she raced up the Satyr’s gangplank and past the drowsy, curious gazes of the pirates who slept on the deck. Glancing behind her, she half-feared she would see him following her. But thankfully, he was nowhere to be seen.
Nonetheless, it was only when she reached her cabin and latched the door closed, that she felt safe. And even then, it was several minutes before she could still her thundering heart and stop listening for the sound of his boots treading the planks outside her door.
The rest of the day, she avoided him. She couldn’t face him after what she’d witnessed.
It was unthinkable. She busied herself on the ship, helping the women drag the bedrolls up from the hold to the top deck for airing.
But she couldn’t stop her thoughts . . . and the erotic images that plagued her.
What was wrong with her? How was it that the man hardly ever touched her, yet she thought of him every waking moment? It wasn’t fair.