“You will never control me, my lord,” she said in a voice of deadly calm. “And you are a fool if ever you begin to believe your own braying. I accepted my punishment from the captain of this ship. There is nothing that I will willingly accept from the man.”
“How well you have trimmed my sails, cara,” he said, his calm undisturbed. “Before you lash out at me again, I wish to rub more ointment into your back. And you needn’t argue with me, because if you do, it is likely that we will be through the straits and you will have missed your Pillars of Hercules.”
She gnawed her lower lip in uncertainty, but she knew him well enough by now to realize that he would have his way. “Very well,” she said, and turned her back to him.
The earl lifted her mane of hair, tousled from her night’s sleep, and looked at her back, still lightly crisscrossed with fading welts.
“Bend over a bit and keep your hair out of the way.”
His fingers made light circular movements over her skin, their motion gentle and caressing, turning her back white with the cream.
“Am I hurting you?”
Cassie jumped at his voice. “No. Please, my lord, just be done with it.” He finally dropped his hands, and she drew a thankful sigh, allowing herself to relax.
He silently handed her the muslin chemise. She did not turn to face him until she had laced the bodice together over her breasts. Her expression was one of dogged wariness, and he smiled.
“I will await you on deck.”
Ten minutes later, the earl turned to see her walking crisply toward him with the firm stride of someone well used to the gentle rolling of the deck. He smiled at her choice of gowns—a pale green muslin, chosen undoubtedly because it fastened in the front and not the back.
“That is Gibraltar?” There was wonder in her voice as she gazed to port at the huge outjutting rock, stark and awesomely harsh under the brilliant morning sun.
“Yes. Impressive, is it not? Look to starboard, Cassandra. That is Jebel Musa, in Morocco.” He enjoyed her excitement, and her naturalness. Her eyes readily followed his pointing finger.
Cassie shaded her eyes against a sun so bright that it bathed the land in shimmering shades of white. She looked again to port, and then to starboard. It was as if someone had carved the straits directly through a range of jagged hills.
“I had no idea that the straits were so narrow,” she said at last. “Why the Moslems are at our very door.”
“A mere nine miles at the narrowest point. As to the Moslems, they have throughout the ages many times crossed through our door and made themselves quite at home in our drawing room.”
Cassie nodded, scanning the Spanish coastline, and then again the rough-hewn African terrain. “I never believed that I would see any more of the world than England. This is very unlike England, you know.”
He smiled and pointed starboard. “On the point there, touching the Mediterranean, is the Spanish town of Ceuta; and there, northward, is the little hill town of San Roque. Unfortunately, it is too hazy for you to see Tangier. Look at the color of the water. It is difficult to describe, is it not? Like a sapphire, perhaps.”
She nodded enthusiastically, and the earl was both amused and pleased by her eagerness. The yacht sailed swiftly through the straits, the westerly wind holding the billowing sails taut overhead. He closed his eyes a moment, listening to the squawking of the sea birds, the sound of lines slapping against the wooden masts, and the voices of his men as they went about their morning work. He opened his eyes to see Cassandra gazing open-mouthed at the sheer-faced, awesome rock. “The name Gibraltar comes from Gebel Tarik, which means the rock of Tarik, or the hill of Tarik.”
Cassie turned to him, frowning. “But Gibraltar is such an English name. Surely you are mistaken.”
He shook his head. “Tarik was a Moslem who captured Gibraltar long ago, in the eighth century, I believe. He built a castle, which is still very much in use. The English are relative newcomers.”