Page 13 of Go, Rogue

Of course the lass is going to make this as hard as possible. He wraps one big palm around the curve of her waist to hold her still. And then, with the other, he slightly shifts her body back and forth, looking for any ensnarement. Hoping to find one. Anything that isn’t the crinoline.

She shakes, trembling from his touch. As if he’s holding her for some other purpose entirely than the one at hand.

Get a hold of yourself, man.

All he has to do is unstick her, and then tuck her away somewhere aboard the ship, out of sight and out of mind.

He can ignore the ache beginning to grow in the pit of his belly. And the way his body feels like a live wire, unpredictable and dangerous. And the cockstand beginning to make itself known beneath his trousers. Of course he can.

He removes his hands from her and breathes in deeply.

Please, Elphame, he begs, don’t let it be the crinoline. Even though he knows damn well it’s the crinoline.

“Captain?” Catherine calls from above the decks as McGann jerks his hand away from her body. A chill seeps in where the warmth of him had just been.

She knows he’s stepped away from her. He had been standing on the rungs of the ladder just below her, his body nearly pressed up against her, his hands encasing her waist. And now he isn’t. He’s gone still, his movements as halted as one of the Roman marbles she’s seen at the London Museum.

Which is just as well, Catherine supposes. He’d never touch her on purpose, not like that. He made that point abundantly clear six months ago, and she has no right to expect him to change his mind now just because she forced herself into his company.

“Are you alright?” she asks.

“Fine,” he says, but she can hear the strain in his voice. He’s upset with her, and not without cause. She ripped his coat. And stole aboard his ship. And requisitioned his cabin.

“I’m sorry for this predicament,” she calls down to him. “And I do appreciate your help. Truly.”

“Hell’s teeth,” she hears him mutter in response, and then she feels the pressure of his hands again as he pulls at the fabric encasing her.

“Try to move,” he directs, but every movement seems to make her situation worse.

“Try again,” he orders, and she obeys, becoming only more snagged and more stuck.

Then, finally, he utters a terse “hold still.” She frowns, not that he can see her, but does as he’s asked her to.

“Menace,” he says after a long moment, his voice oddly flat. “I’m going to take off your skirts.”

“I beg your pardon? I’m certain I did not hear you correctly.”

“I said,” and here he makes an exasperated, strangled sort of sound, “I’ve to take off your underskirts. Not all of them. Just the big ones. Goddamned crinoline and petticoats and whatnot. Otherwise, I cannot get you out. And as much as it would please me to leave you here, I cannot do that either.”

“You certainly may not remove my underskirts, Mr. McGann.”

“If you’ve another idea, lass, I’m all ears.”

She purses her lips, thinking. He’s correct; she knows he is. They’ve been here for a quarter of an hour already, the sun doing heaven knows what to her complexion, not to mention the cold wind chapping her skin, and her bottom waving around in the air for any wandering sailor to see.

Oh, for heaven’s sake.

“Do it quickly.”

“Aye.”

And then his large fingers make their way under her skirts, searching for the ties to the crinoline. She holds her breath, her body humming at the light touch of his fingers against the length of her thigh. Her hip.

He hasn’t lifted her gown to better see his objective, which she supposes is the gentlemanly way to go about it. But it means that without sight to guide him, he has only touch. Touch that, after only a moment or two, has turned her into a quivering bowl of jelly.

His hands pat their way around her middle, searching for the ties. One large palm encircles the span of her waist, keeping her still, while the other strokes the curve of her side. Seeking. Exploring. She feels every brush of his fingertips and every caress of his palm. Every bit of pressure from every touch, and she’s not certain she can survive the tactile onslaught.

She squirms beneath his hands.