Chapter 16

Her first sober experience, as her black lashes fluttered open to the daylight, was that of her head being cleaved in two with some large blunt metal instrument; or so it felt. She was acutely of a stabbing pain over her right temple and she could fell a vein throbbing above it as blood pounded against her skull. She let out a pitiful moan as her eyes blinked against the glare of the sunlight, trying to dispel the little yellow orbs that appeared to be dancing, as if suspended from the ceiling above her.

It was as she brought her hand to her throbbing forehead that she became aware that she was lying on her back - on something soft. She struggled through waves of dizziness that brought sour-tasting bile up her throat, to sit upright. She coughed a couple of times to clear it and pushed her matted fringe from her eyes. She was on a bed; a rather dirty, moth eaten and sagging bed that had seen many better years, but nevertheless a bed. It was a strange sensation - waking up to anything other than the rhythmic tossing of the ship's hammock, that she had become so accustomed to.

It was then she noticed the prone figure lying, sprawled, beside her. The events of the previous night filtered back to her from the blurry, hung-over, recesses of her brain; the rapidly emptying glasses and tankards that obscured the tabletop from view swam in and out of her memory. She remembered Horatio taking the hand of a strange woman, a whore, and disappearing. And then Archie: his scent, his warmth, his lips…

In an instant it all flooded back to her, and she remembered where she was. She looked about her in pure, unadulterated horror. Hurriedly she looked down to check: she was fully clothed. She looked at her slumbering companion: so was he. She let out a shaky breath of relief. At least that held some guarantee as to their actions, or at least the lack of them and she could almost be completely sure that nothing happened beyond her memory.

Well thank the good Lord! What did happen was grave enough. She mentally berated herself to succumbing to the drink. The Father is certainly making me suffer for my sins. She groaned again as another flash of pain cut off her vision. She looked at Archie, lying so peacefully. How would she ever live down the embarrassment and ignominy of her actions. She had behaved no better than a common slut, offering herself in such a base manner - and drunk to boot. Lorna could not even contemplate looking him in the eye again. Her forthright nature couldn't stomach the idea of pretending it never happened: it would no better than shame-faced hypocrisy and she could not bear the thought of being so demeaned. She could bear to see herself lowered so: to a mumbled apology, to have him laugh at her. She could never bear to have him laugh at her - he of all men.

Or worse: what if he imagined it had meant something to her, that she had meant it and enjoyed it? What if he expected something of her? Best that he thought it meant nothing; that it had been drink induced and foolhardy. After all that was exactly what it was! She told herself firmly, angry at herself for feeling otherwise. The fact that it had felt so right to be in his arms, the way she had turned her face up to receive his kiss. It was no good - even she didn't believe it.

But at least one thing was not in dispute: she wished it had never happened. Her first kiss with a man 10 years her senior who thought of her still as a boy, drunk in some whorehouse? The product of nought more than alcohol induced lust? She was disgusted with herself, and the thought she still harboured in her breast that she had actually wanted it was even worse. She crossed herself against her sins.

The rhythmic heaving of his chest was becoming shallower even as she looked and his eyes were moving lazily beneath their lids. He coughed once or twice to dislodge the cloying feeling that alcohol left in its wake from his throat and opened his eyes. He smiled to find her looking at him, and mouthed a "good morning". She couldn't smile in return. Instead she felt colour rising in her face, all rational thought that told her to face him down, to say she had behaved disreputably and inappropriately, disappeared in the heat of her flush. She couldn't hide her true feelings, she had never been able to - that's what made her so tactless and querulous sometimes. She could not look him in the eyes and tell him she had not wanted it. Lorna found herself only able to hastily turn away and fling herself from the bed. Archie could only look on as the door slammed into its frame and booted footfalls could be heard fleeing down the rickety stairs.

Archie sat there for a few moments, unmoving and uncomprehending as he struggled to get his mind clear from the dizzying fog that seemed to have enveloped it. Things were moving to fast for his tired organs. First there had been light, but he was used to that - this was by no means the first time had drunken himself into inebriation and unconsciousness. But then instead of some purple-faced bar lady slapping him round, the first face he saw was Lorna. She had seemed to be so beautiful then with her fringe billowing out like some Botticelli Venus, her child-like lashes drifting down as she blinked and her lips slightly parted. He remembered the kiss: how innocent and tender it had been, then coming upstairs but falling into deep slumber before head having even greeted pillow. He remembered the happiness and contented feeling that had swum through him as he fell into night with her warmth and steady breathing by his side. His lips curved into a smile at the pleasant memory. His throat had felt too dry to speak so he mouthed his greeting. And she had disappeared. One moment there and seemingly surrounded by a halo of the dawn light and the next gone, running from the room.

As he sat there is mind slowly began to return to a semi-alert and comprehending state. It was then that the guilt assailed him. Why had she run away? Had she not been able to face him: had she not wanted what he had wanted? He had wanted to kiss her and hold her, to touch her and love her. He was in love with her and he knew it. Not even fully an adult, wrought with tempestuous tantrums, he loved her. And she had not recoiled, not protested, so he had kissed her.

He had forgotten that she was drunk. He had taken advantage of her! Oh God… He put his head in his hands. She would be disgusted with him now, how could he apologise for something like that. She was a Lady, he a rake, and he had breached her honour - and there was no going back. He just sat there with his hair and clothes rumpled from sleep, his eyes red as he pressed his face into his hands. He felt on the callused skin of his palm a tear leak out.