“I don’t know what I would do, but I would not rape you. And I would not beg. Not ever!”

I released her throat, shaken by the anger I had felt. I don’t like to be out of control, and my show of force had nearly become real. I caught her arms and jerked her upright. I shifted my weight and, without rising, lifted her out at arm’s length and slammed her onto the other transom. Her eyes grew wide. I don’t look like I could do that.

“Raven, you had better get your story straight. You are sending too many messages, and none of them track. And don’t try to jerk me around. It won’t work.”

Her brows were drawn together. She looked angry, but I was learning that nothing is ever that simple with Raven. She met my gaze. Her face was flushed and her lip trembled. Her voice was flat and challenging as she said, “What kind of message am I sending now?”

I said the first thing that came into my mind. I said, “Lost and lonely.”

Raven choked. Tears welled in her eyes and traced the lines of her face. I had hit a little too close to home. I had reached past her defenses to the core of her anger and confusion. She bit her lip and controlled her voice. She could not control her tears. She pounded her knees with her fists, and muttered, “Bitch, bitch, bitch!” over and over.

Finally she stood up. We were close together in the confines of the Wahini’s cabin. Her waist was at the level of my face. She began to unbutton Will’s shirt. There was no showiness and no hesitation, just a simple twist of the fingers, one button after the other, until it fell open and she shrugged it off.

She was not wearing the string bikini, and she was magnificent.

Will’s jeans were bunched in folds around her waist and cinched in by his belt. She unbuckled it and the jeans slumped down until they caught on the flare of her hips. She reached forward and braced her hands on my shoulders. She was trembling and her voice was husky as she asked, “Is this message clear enough?”

I reached up to the silky skin under her arms and brought my rough hands down her sides. Like sandpaper on velvet. I could feel her take a deeper breath. I brought my hands past the narrowness of her waist and around the swelling of her hips, pushing the jeans ahead until they rounded the curve of her flank and fell away.

Magnificent!

She slipped her hands down the back of my collar as I leaned forward. Still gripping her hips in my hands, I kissed her gently, first just beneath the navel, then downward. I could hear hear moan above me. A long, long time down there, as she shivered to the touch of my tongue, then upward to take her breasts in my mouth while she fumbled with my clothing and took me in her small, strong hands. Then she was sprawled on her back across the transom, and I was plunging deep in, and for a while there was no doubt of what either of us wanted. more tomorrow

“You never made a pass at me.”

“You were scared to death.”

“At first, I was. I didn’t stay scared.”

“Raven, you were sending out “Back off!” signals every waking minute. What did you expect me to do? Paw you like a drunk in a bar? You were trapped. We both knew that if I were a different kind of man, you would be in real trouble. I had to keep my distance to let you feel safe.”

She was silent and thoughtful. The pressure was building inside me. And inside her. I could feel it in her shoulders where she leaned slightly against me.

I took her mug and mine and set them aside. Then I put my arm around her and she slipped up against me without hesitation, leaning her face against my chest. There was a rich, clean smell about her.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Today. It was cruel.”

“I don’t know about cruel, but it was damned confusing.”

She reached over and took my hand in both of hers. “Ian,” she said, “sometimes I’m a real bitch. I was mad at you for not making a move on me. Dumb; really dumb. I knew why you hadn’t, but I was still hurt. It shook my confidence and it made me mad. I just wanted to show you what you were missing.”

“I had that much figured out,” I said. My throat felt like broken glass.

“I wanted you to make a pass so I could turn you down. I was that mad at you.”

“I had that part figured out, too. You wanted me on a leash. I don’t break to the leash worth a damn, Raven.” I heard my voice growing hard. “I give. I take what is offered. I share. But I don’t beg. Ever.”

She just shook her head. I could feel the motion against my chest. She asked, “Are you turned on now?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

She traced a line up my jeans from knee to crotch, stopping just short of the target. Her fingernail was like an electric probe. The air was getting thick; I couldn’t get enough of it.

She rolled around to lie on her back with her head in my lap, looking up at me. Her eyes were hollow and unreadable. She said, “What if I turned you off now? What would you do?”

I laid one hand on her breast – then slid it up to close around her throat. Her eyes went wide.

“What would I do? I don’t know. Maybe pick you up and drop you back in the ocean. Maybe I would jump in myself, too. Maybe I would just back off and not say one more word to you, or look at you, or admit you exist, until we reached Europe. I don’t know. Do you want to chance it?”

Now there was real fear in her eyes.

“I don’t know what I would do. But I can tell you exactly what I would not do. I would not rape you. And I would not beg. Not ever!” more tomorrow

She said, “Sit,” and I sat.

She poured wine. At least she did not have to use jelly jars; Will had insisted that we have wine glasses aboard. She ladled up the mole for both of us and recovered a plate of biscuits from where she had been keeping them warm near the stove. She sat down opposite me and in my mind the sound of denim on the transom cushions was like the swish of silk. She had that kind of presence.

After weeks of my own cooking, anything would have tasted good. But Raven’s mole would have tasted fine under any conditions. The biscuits were flaky and golden. I said, “Delicious,” and she said, “Thank you.” Other than that, there was little conversation for several minutes. After a day at the wheel, I ate more like a farmhand than the Count of Châteaubriand.

Our eyes met. She was wise and sad and merry all at once. I could not read her face, but I knew that I would be willing to study a long time to learn how to. I reached across the table and she took my hand. Just a brief grasp and release. A message of reconciliation.

She said, “You haven’t touched your wine.”

“I don’t drink.”

“But the wine . . .”

“Will’s. Not mine. If you look up forward among the crates and suitcases you will find two cases of wine and one of brandy. Will likes to travel prepared.”

“And you don’t drink. At all?”

“Only if I get trapped at a social function where refusing would be a problem. Otherwise, no.”

“You don’t mind . . .” She gestured toward her half empty glass.

“Of course not.” After a moment, I added, “My father was an alcoholic.”

“And that is why you hate it?”

“I don’t hate it. I love it. But I don’t want to end up where he is.”

“Oh.”

We ate in silence. Then I said, “I don’t tell everybody that.”

“No. I don’t suppose you would.”

“Thank you for the wonderful meal.”

“My pleasure, sir.” She managed to curtsey sitting down. Her smile was full of warmth and mischief.

She cleared the table. I released the catches and slipped it back under the transom cushion. She came back with two mugs of coffee and sat beside me.

“Ian,” she said, “you’re an odd one. I don’t quite know what to make of you.”

“I don’t mean to be mysterious.”

“When I was in the water . . .” She had a hard time saying that. The memory was still much with her. “When I was in the water, I managed to get out of my dress. When you found me I was naked, or so close that it doesn’t matter.”

The warmth of her sitting beside me, coupled with her words, were bringing my body alive in ways that would be painful if this conversation stopped short of climax. I said, “Yes.”

“You never made a pass at me.”

“You were unconscious.”

“Don’t joke. I mean later.”

“You were scared to death of me.”

“At first, I was. I didn’t stay scared.” more tomorrow

I hadn’t been fair and I hadn’t been entirely honest. As the hours passed and my anger cooled, I was able to admit that to myself. There was more to the story than I had said. I wanted her so badly that it made me weak in the knees. Her smile captivated me. I loved the sound of her voice, accent and all. Visions of the movements of her body were with me all the time and memories of how she had looked, naked and vulnerable when I first found her, tortured me. It was not schoolboy, romantic love and it was not just raw lust – but it was more lust than romance. I could not analyze and categorize my feelings, but they had me by the throat.

Maybe her “striptease” had really been a compliment, a way of saying that she felt safe with me. Or maybe she was just giving me a show for the fun of exhibiting her remarkable body.

Or maybe she had just wanted a sun tan.

Eventually, evening came. The winds were weak and fitful, but I followed my normal routine, furled the damaged mainsail, set full jib and mizzen and lashed the wheel. There was barely enough wind to keep steerageway and Wahini searched the horizon with her bowsprit as she wallowed from wave to wave. I went below.

When I pushed the hatch back, the smell of biscuits hit me in the face and my stomach did a happy handstand.

Traitor, don’t you know we’re mad at her?

Stomach replies, Eat first, fight later.

I slid the hatch closed, shutting out the night, the cold, and the darkness. Within the cabin, the oil lights cast their gentle golden glow against the varnished bulkheads. Wahini was a boat of the old style. She had no radar, no loran, and no electricity. But she had class.

I had built the cabin furnishings myself. I had put aside any clear planks that came through when we were finishing the hull and let them dry naturally in a shed near the building site. When it came time to do the interior, I spent three months crawling around inside Wahini with handsaw, jackplane and tape measure. It was like putting together a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle.

By the time I started the Wahini’s interior, the dream of sailing around the world had become almost an obsession. I was not just building a boat; I was building a home. Wahini’s interior was my masterpiece. I would never again have the time, the materials, the right project, and the sheer love that it takes to reach that level of excellence.

It had had everything. Except a beautiful woman.

Raven had put her hair up. I liked it long and flowing around her shoulders. Now I found that I also liked it up, revealing the slender column of her neck. With her warm coloring, heavy black hair, and slightly arched nose, she looked like a painting of Nefertiti. She was stirring something on the stove that didn’t smell like anything I had put aboard.

I gestured toward the stove and said, “May I?” 

“Sure.”

I took the spoon, stirred, looked, smelled, and tasted. My eyes recognized canned stew; I had packed six cases aboard. My nose and mouth said, “No way.” Raven had been into Will’s spices and had transformed it completely. I knew that she had turned it into a sort of mole, but that was as far as my culinary imagination could take me.

Raven had found the table top that was tucked under the cushions of one of the transoms and had deciphered the locking system that allowed it to hang from one of the lockers. It was set for two. She had found the drawer of emergency candles and had set one in an empty ketchup bottle. The cabin was rich varnished wood, the candle was ’60’s chic, the dishes were cheap plastic, and Raven wore a wardrobe by Salvation Army. Somehow, she made it work. more tomorrow

She was lying face downward on the deck, with her bra strap untied and loose beside her.

She heard my footsteps and I saw her body tense up. It irritated me. If she didn’t want a response from me, why didn’t she keep her clothes on? It wasn’t one of those cases where the patrons of a redneck bar decide a short skirt is a license for rape. We were co-prisoners on this boat, and she knew the response her near nakedness would bring.

I sat down on the deckhouse and said, “Hi.” The side of my foot brushed her calf. She jerked it aside. It was a clear message, but there was also something contrived about it. As if she had stripped down just to give me that message. I said something short and crude, and went back to the wheel.

Ten minutes later, she went below again. She had managed to get into Will’s shirt without standing up.

Ten minutes after that, she came up with a mug of coffee which she gave me like a peace offering. I took a sip. She made good coffee. Then I said, “What the hell was that all about?”

She shook her head. “I’m don’t know, myself.” And I don’t think she did know.

“Do you know anything about Buddhism?”

“Huh?”

“Buddhists set great store by unspoken communication. There is a story about a master and his young pupil. The pupil had just had some great insight and he couldn’t wait to tell his master about it. When he finished, the master just shook his head and said, ‘That is very true. But how sad to say so.'”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that we had an unspoken agreement on how to act toward each other. I thought we were doing pretty well, too. Now we have to talk about it, and I find that unfortunate. It takes the naturalness out of our relationship.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Are you? I don’t think so. It’s clear to me that you aren’t satisfied with the way things are going, but you aren’t ready for the natural next step. So, let me lay it out for you. You are a beautiful woman; very sexy; very desirable. I am young, healthy, and horny. Does any of this confuse you?”

“No.” There was anger in her eyes, but I didn’t care.

“If I haven’t crawled all over you, it is because you have been sending me signals to keep my distance. Right?”

She glared.

“Right?”

She nodded.

“So what was that striptease all about? Do you have a rape wish? Or are you trying to prove to yourself that any man who can control his impulses is some kind of a wimp? Are you showing me how long my leash is? Whatever your reasons, I don’t like it!”

The sun poured down like honey, and I felt about as romantic as a sack of garbage. Raven face was congested with anger. She didn’t say anything, but with her glare, she didn’t need to. Suddenly, I was just plain tired of her. I said, “Go below. Get out of my sight.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m the voice of sweet reason,” I shouted. “Who do I sound like? I can’t leave the wheel, and if we look at each other one more minute we will be punching each other in the face. I can’t leave, so you have to. Just go!”

*****

I’m leaving in the bit about Buddhism, because I don’t plan to second guess myself here. However, in the likely event that Raven’s Run is published, I think I will drop it. It’s just too esoteric for the time and place it appears. more tomorrow

Chapter Seven

I was awake to possibilities, alert to nuance, and randy as hell; but Raven didn’t send up any smoke signals. It might easily be twenty days before we saw land. If I put any heavy moves on her, and she turned me down, we would both be looking forward to two-thirds of an absolutely miserable month together. So I went about my other business.

The main boom was beyond repair. I spent a day trying to convert the gaff to a boom and make the mainsail over into a reduced leg-o-mutton. I could have done it, but only by ruining the mainsail, and the emergency didn’t seem that great. I finally I gave up and hoisted the main as a boomless gaff sail. On a broad reach the Wahini was almost as good as ever, but off the wind she sailed like a turtle.

After that, things fell into a routine. I had to steer all through the daylight hours since the Wahini would no longer keep course with the wheel lashed. At night I could make her hold her course under jib and mizzen, but a heavy boat like Wahini doesn’t make much distance that way in less than a gale.

From six in the morning until eight at night I was chained to the wheel. Raven spent a lot of her time below, and a lot of time during good days up front straddling the bowsprit and watching the bow wave. It was the best spot on the boat for private contemplation. I used to spend a lot of time up there myself, back when Wahini would steer herself. Raven had a lot on her mind. We talked about her attack a dozen times, but we never came to any conclusions. Too little data. Raven had other things to think about as well. I didn’t know what – then – but I respected her privacy.

A week after the storm I found two wet rubber bands hanging from the rigging. Actually, it was the gag bikini. I had forgotten all about it until she decided to wash and dry it. Near noon, she came up with a bowl of canned stew and took the bikini back down with her. Fifteen minutes later she came up again in Will’s shirt with her long, bare legs sticking out, went forward and dropped the shirt. She had the bikini on, and it wasn’t much. She lay down on the forward deck in the sun.

It was a beautiful cloudless day with little wind. Once she was flat on the deck, I could not see her. But I could imagine, and I did. I stood it for about five minutes. Then I said, “Boat, I’ve been your slave long enough. You’re on you own for a while.” And lashed the wheel.

String bikinis were odd things. As a fad, they didn’t last long, and for good reason. Pure nakedness is much kinder to the female figure. If a woman were less than perfect, a string bikini showed nothing but her faults. If she were perfect, however, you could ignore it and concentrate on what was revealed. 

Raven was in the latter category. She was lying face downward on the deck, with her bra strap untied and loose beside her. more tomorrow