Free Ravished by the Rake by Louise Allen Page A

dropped her heavy plait of hair down inside the
kurta,
used a coil of rope as a step and climbed on to the rail, her hands tight on the rigging, her eyes fixed on a point above her head and not on the sea. Her heart pounded and for a moment she thought her fear of the water would root her to the spot, but it was far enough below.
    No one had noticed her in the early light, they were too busy with their tasks and she had deliberately chosen garments dyed the soft green that, improbably, cow dung produced.
    She stepped on to the first horizontal rope in the rigging that tapered upward to the crow’s nest and grimaced at the tarry smell and the roughness under her hands and feet. But it felt secure and after a moment she began to climb, slowly and steadily, not looking down.
    It was harder than it had looked when the men had done it, but she had expected that. After several minutes she rested, hooking her arms through the ropes and letting her body relax into the rhythm of pitch and roll. Perhaps that was far enough for today; there was a burn in her muscles that warned her they were overstretched and when she risked a downwards glance the deck seemed a dizzying distance below.
    Yes, time to get down. As she hung there, deciding how much longer to rest, a figure came out on to thedeck. Even foreshortened she recognised Alistair in his shirtsleeves. He seemed to be holding a pole of some kind. He turned as though to climb the companionway to the almost deserted poop deck and as he did so he glanced up.
    Dita froze. Would he would recognise her?
    ‘Get down here this instant!’ He did not shout, but his voice carried clearly.
    Defiant, Dita shook her head and began to climb. She had rested; she could do it and she was not going to come down just because Alistair told her to. A rapid glance showed he was climbing after her and she kept going. But she was slow now, slower than he was, and he reached her as she neared the top where the rigging narrowed sharply.
    ‘Dita, don’t you dare try to get into the crow’s nest!’
    She glanced down to the wind-tousled black head on a level with her ankles, suddenly very glad he was there. ‘I have no intention of trying,’ she admitted. ‘I’ll just have a rest and then I’ll come down.’
    ‘You are tired?’ His face was tipped up to her now, and the world below him—one moment the sea, the next the hard and unforgiving white deck planks—twisted and turned in the most disconcerting manner.
    ‘Just a little.’
    ‘Hell. Keep still and hang on.’
    ‘I have no intention of doing anything else. Alistair! What on earth are you doing?’ He climbed up beside her and then swung over so his body bridged hers and his hands gripped the rope either side of her wrists.
    ‘Stopping you falling off. Your face has gone the nastyshade of green I remember from when you climbed the flagpole on the church tower.’
    ‘Oh.’ She certainly felt green now. ‘Alistair, you can’t do this, I’ll push you off.’
    ‘There’s hardly any bulk to you,’ he said. ‘Put one foot down. Good, now the other.’
    Awkwardly they began to descend. When the ship swung one way his body crushed hers into the rigging, even though she could feel him fighting to keep his weight off her. When it went the other way she knew his arms would be stretched by the extra extension her body created. She glanced over to his right hand and watched the way his knuckles whitened and the tendons stood out under the strain.
    His breath was hot on her neck, her cheek, her ear, and she could feel his heartbeat when his chest pressed into her back. And, as her mind cleared and she gained enough confidence to think of other things, she realised that he was also finding this proximity stimulating—with his groin crushed into her buttocks with every roll of the ship there was no disguising it.
    The realisation almost made her lose concentration for a moment. She was enjoying the feel of his body so close too, frustrating