Commander Smith found his attention wandering from the nautical chart that Edward Lancaster had spread on the desk before him. One moment he would be studying the Bay of Fundy, and the next he would be distracted by the memory of a pair of bright, intelligent eyes whose color seemed as changeable as the sea.

Cynthia. What a perfect name for a girl whose face was as round as the moon and as soft and pink as a peach. And what a brave little thing she was--no more than an inch or two over five feet, but she had flown to her father's defense like an Amazon warrior. A pity she had only been a trifle off-balance; if she had actually fallen, he might have caught her and had the chance to hold that lovely ripe figure in his arms. With single women said to be scarce in the colonies, how was it that she did not yet have a home and family of her own? Did America make its young men stupid?

The cessation of Lancaster's speech brought Smith to the sudden realization that his voluptuous Amazon's father was frowning at him. "Surely you cannot expect ice so early in the season?"

Smith coughed. "No, I do not expect it, although it is possible to encounter icebergs. It would be certain if we were to sail much farther north. In the waters around Nova Scotia we should be safe enough. Have you been to the northern colonies yourself, sir?"

"Once only, this past summer, but my elder son was there this past year round. On land, of course, not at sea."

"I see. And your daughter?"

Lancaster gave him a puzzled look. "No, of course not--why should I drag her along on business? She stays here with my mother when I travel. My son Winston assures me the new house is snug and warm, with plenty of firewood at the ready. The ladies should be comfortable enough."

"I'm sure they will. As to our voyage--like any other, we can but keep our halyards coiled, our sails taut, and hope for fair winds."

"True enough. Would you care for a spot of brandy before dinner?"

"Yes, thank you." When the brandy was duly poured, Smith raised his glass. "As we say aboard ship, the ladies, God bless 'em!"

"Indeed!"

Smith wondered if his host would be as cordial if he realized that the Commander's salute was addressed not to some nameless ladies, but to Miss Cynthia Lancaster.

See Paris and Live

"Are you gentle with your women?"

Kit blinked at the pretty blonde who had appeared noiselessly at his elbow as he stood with a glass in hand, trying to blend into this noisy alien crowd. His third glass of wine--or was it the fourth? He felt a bit muzzy around the edges. "I beg your pardon?"

"Pardon, je parle tres mal," she said. "My name is Angelique, m'sieu. I--ask, are you kind to women?"

He caught himself just short of a laugh. "I try to be," he said, not certain where the conversation was leading. He added, "I speak a little French," in that language, hoping she would not reply too quickly. "Do you need my help?"

"Ah!" Her face lit up. "Not I, m'sieu. Do you see my friend, by the stair?"

Kit glanced in the direction she indicated, and for a moment he forgot to breathe. The young woman beside him was quite pretty in a candy-box sort of way--blond curls, blue eyes, artfully applied cosmetics--but there was something about her charm that made him think she must be one of the ladies of the stage here to celebrate their colleague's good fortune. But her friend by the stair ... that girl did not belong here.

She was tiny, scarcely over five feet tall, and she wore a simple pink gown trimmed with a few ribbons, another ribbon holding dark ringlets in place atop her head. She might have been mistaken for a child at first glance, but her figure was clearly that of a young woman. Her eyes met his, and held them, with an expression he found hard to describe. It was neither coquetry nor desire--more a sort of determination and possibly a touch of alarm. He felt drawn toward her. He had never seen this girl before, did not know who she might be, but it felt as though he had finally found someone he had been searching for.

"I see her," he said. "What--"

"She would like to speak to you, m'sieu, but she is ... shy? Is that the word? She is not often among us. Would you like to meet her?"

"Yes, very much." Oh, no, he protested inwardly. He knew what actresses did offstage. Granted they likely had to, to keep body and soul together, but this beautiful creature could not be one of the muslin company. She must not.

But Philip had said that most of the women at the party would be looking for a generous friend with whom to spend the night, and Phil had gone off with a vivacious brunette at least half an hour ago. Gentle with your women. Dear God. It wasn't even women, plural, his sole experience had been one highly educational night with an amiable widow about ten years his senior whom Phil had introduced him to on the eve of his 18th birthday. In loco paternis, Phil had said, because, after all, Kit would be expected to marry a young maiden lady and it was always helpful if someone knew what to do on the wedding night.

Kit fought down a sudden urge to giggle. That was what this felt like--a wedding night. Marching down an aisle of drunken Frenchmen to the woman of his dreams. It had to be the wine.

"Mademoiselle Zoe," Angelique said. She took the dark-haired girl's hand, placing it in Kit's, and he bent to place a formal kiss upon it. "And you, m'sieu?"

"Christopher St. John, at your service," he said releasing Mademoiselle Zoe's hand reluctantly. "Baron Guilford, if admitting to a title is not a breach of local etiquette."

Castaway

Marshall shifted drowsily, warm and comfortable but aware of a slight tugging, a faint bit of pressure. Just at the edge of sleep, he let his hand drift down to find his cock, nudging it forward just a bit as his fingers closed around the shaft. It felt good. But it also felt ... odd. Wrong. As though, somehow, his cock was slightly numb. He closed his fingers a little more firmly, to no effect.

And then his slowly wakening senses told him that was not his own member he was holding with such affection. And that the pressure along the length of his shaft came from its being tight against, and between, Davy's firmly rounded buttocks. Their was no space between their bodies; even his face was against the back of Davy's neck, just where it joined the shoulder.

Shock held him motionless. And in that split second of horrified, mortified awareness, he sensed that Davy was also holding very, very still. Not even breathing. Waiting.

I wonder if he'd believe I'm still asleep? But no, the frozen moment was becoming endless; he had lost the opportunity to feign a snore and roll away.

He drew in a breath, a few golden hairs tickling his nose. What to say? What could he say?

The obvious, of course. "Davy, I--"

He started to draw his hand away, and to his astonishment Davy caught it in both his own, holding it where it was.

"Don't stop!" he commanded in a strangled whisper. "For God's sake, Will, don't stop!" He thrust into Marshall's grasp, and with each movement ground his arse against Marshall's overstimulated organ.

Will's body needed no more encouragement, and any uncertainty about handling the unfamiliar equipment was overridden by Davy's wordless encouragement. He matched Davy's rhythm, his sweat and Davy's making it almost too smooth, too slippery--a moment's frustration when it seemed he could not get close enough--and he was drowning in a wave of pleasure that blotted out thought. He heard Davy cry out, shivering; the cock in his hand seemed to swell and throb, and then Davy relaxed against him, letting out a long, deep breath.

As the overwhelming physical reaction began to subside, he was left again his usual self-conscious self, wondering what on earth had possessed him. Davy's softening cock slipped from his grasp, but before he could draw his arm away, Davy pulled it close, holding Marshall's hand to his lips.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Marshall laughed, embarrassed. "For what?"

"'S' wonderful. Thank you." And he snuggled back, not letting go, and eventually began to snore.

Nonplussed, Marshall lay there, acutely uncomfortable. He tried tugging his hand loose but didn't want to wake his--dear God, friend, yes, but--what else, now? What more?

He had to get up and find somewhere else to sleep ... but where? His body was making it clear that he was already falling asleep--now was the time and here the place. He knew he wouldn't be out for long, though, and after all, Davy tended to sleep like the dead ... and it felt so good to hold him like this, his cheek resting on the side of Davy's head. Tomorrow, though--what would he do tomorrow?