Waterfront: A romantic adventure on the seven seas (James Dunbar Series Book 1) by Richard Woodman

Author:Richard Woodman [Woodman, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lume Books
Published: 2018-08-01T23:00:00+00:00

Part Two

Mutiny

Chapter Seven – Sanctuary

Dunbar ran through the darkness in a furious oblivion, unaware of his surroundings. He recalled little of the direction he took, beyond a vague recollection of sheering off from a distant prospect of the Kohinoor’s deck lights. In the strenuous physical effort of flight, his mind blanked out all the images of the past hours, as though he sought temporary amnesia in a tremendous output of physical energy. This sustained his pounding legs and heaving lungs until at last, defeated by rising ground and exhaustion, he collapsed, winded, sobbing for breath and drenched in sweat, onto a tussock of dry, rustling grass that rose out of the night.

He drifted into complete unconsciousness, his entire being numbed and demanding the veil and benison of sleep. When some time later he awoke stiff and cold, he was quite unaware of where he was or how he had got there.

Shivering and aching, he raised himself, then clambered onto his feet, swaying as his head spun. A bitter, frosty chill filled the air and the sweat of his exertion had long ago dried upon him. He cast shakily about and thought he was dreaming, for what looked like a distant town, pinpricks of occasional light, lay below him, a dark smudge on a grey landscape lit by a moon which rose over the Sea of Cortez. He turned; above him reared a low cliff which formed the foot of a broken mesa. Slowly it dawned upon him that the bright spots which marked the sharp line dividing the land and the sea were the Kohinoor’s deck lights.

‘That’s the wharf,’ he murmured to himself in a kind of uncomprehending wonder, thinking he had been sleep-walking; then a spasm of shuddering shook him suddenly into full, shame-laden wakefulness.

He recalled everything, from the arrogant enjoyment of the paseo to the final moment of prickling disillusion as he had stood between the sinister black figure of the veiled lady and the profane and voluptuously erotic form of Señora Garcia.

A rising gorge compelled him to void himself in a convulsive eructation of horror and loathing. Paradoxically, despite the cold, he felt sweat break out on his clammy skin, before he fell to shivering again. He had never felt so unwell; he crouched in the lee of the grass tussock, knees drawn up, like a wounded animal quietly awaiting death.

He remained in this passive state for above an hour. At first his conscious mind shunned a further repetition of the disturbing images, but they sneaked back into his mind’s eyes like dirty gossip. He saw Conchita’s beautiful face, her lustrous eyes and the curl of her black hair against the curve of her neck; he saw the swell of her breasts and then above them the scorn on her face. He saw too her parted thighs, the naked belly of Captain Steele and the rigid cock that sprang from the tangle of hair in his groin.

He remembered, too, the softer flesh of Señora Garcia and the black, creaking, fusty stiffness of the old woman, felt his own stark lust, compressed between them.

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