This Loving Torment

by Valerie Sherwood

He laughed. “Aye, we’d cross swords over it. Ah, the sweet touch of you, Charity. You’re a fire in my blood.” He bent to kiss her throat and began unbuttoning the top of her bodice.

  She slapped his hand away, and her eyes darkened as she turned to stare into his wicked green eyes which were very close, only an inch or two away—and smiling.

  “Court’s spending the evening out, didn’t you know? I saw him leave,” he said in a steely voice, and before she could draw away he clasped her to him with a light exultant laugh.

  “No! No, Leeds!” Heart pounding, she tore free of him. “I—I will find my own way from Tortuga,” she cried wildly. “I will not sell myself for it!”

  There was anger in his voice as he said, “Then you’ll not leave it soon,” and stalked from the house.

  Across the courtyard there was a sound and Charity saw a shadow move toward the downstairs gallery. Ravenal or cook? Suddenly frightened, she turned and fled upstairs to bed.

  The next morning her door was swung open and Court advanced upon her, unsmiling, his eyes very hard and steely. She paused in the act of combing her hair and drew back a step, lifting an arm as if to ward him off, for his whole manner was menacing. She would have said something about his spending the night out but his hand closed around her wrist in an iron grip and he dragged her, protesting, to a chair and flung her down in it.

  Glaring down into her frightened upturned face, he growled, “What’s this I hear about last night?”

  “I do not know what you mean,” she answered sullenly.

  “I understand that Kirby made love to you in the garden.”

  “Who would say such a thing?” she cried, real terror consuming her now.

  He smiled and it was not a nice smile. “You are a liar and a cheat,” he said softly.

  That stung her. “I have never cheated you!” she flashed indignantly. “I never gave you anything—you have only taken.”

  He gave her a sudden narrow look. “That is not what you told me.”

  She took a deep breath. “I lied,” she said flatly.

  For a moment his gaze was bitter. “It is true you are not here by your own will,” he murmured. He turned away from her and paced toward the window. “Apparently, women are to be the death of me,” he said morosely. “You and another.”

  “I am not to blame for her either!” shouted Charity. “Do you wonder that I find it tiresome to be held in the arms of a man who only uses me to dream he is holding another!”

  “That is not true!” He swung around and his gaze scorched her. “I never dreamed I was holding another. She is lost to me.”

  “Be damned to you both!” Charity leaped up out of her chair.

  Court did not try to stop her as she stormed down to the courtyard and paced about. Later she heard him go out, and she was asleep when he returned. He did not visit her room. Kirby came by the next afternoon and told her that he had made up with Court, but even so, he had never seen Court get that drunk before. Court had challenged half a dozen men while barely able to stand, and had had to be carried away by his friends, protesting all the while he’d slit their gullets for them. Court was sleeping it off, she presumed, and dined alone, going up early to bed.

  She awoke to Court’s arms closing about her in the moonlight. Before she could protest, his firm mouth came down over her own. His hands turned her flesh to ribbons of fire as he caressed the length of her, causing her to twist and turn in her effort to elude him. The blood pulsed and sang in her veins. Against her will, she felt her body yield, move softly, luxuriously against him. Her world swayed and tumbled at his touch. She could feel a kind of triumph in him, a masterful sense of possession as his long leg moved between her own, and with a sudden thrust he took her.

  Her breath drew in sharply and all her senses seemed to reel. All her defenses tumbled down and at this moment Marie’s letter was forgotten, Charles Towne seemed far away and unimportant. All that mattered was the lean dark buccaneer who held her in his arms, and she strained against him now, glorying in his body, becoming one with him as together their passion mounted and seemed to explode in a wild sweet frenzy.

  But when Charity woke to find him gone and saw the impress of his head on the pillow beside her, it all flooded back.

  Marie, he loved Marie!

  Charity sat up and beat the pillow in her rage. Damn Court! Damn him! She looked down at her own treacherous body and damned it too. She struck her thigh an angry blow, winced, and came to her senses.

  It had become frighteningly clear to her that Jeremy Court might always have this power to bring her to heel, like a bitch in heat.

  Now she calmed herself and somberly considered her situation.

  She must find some other way to be rid of him.

  CHAPTER 42

  Deliberately now, Charity set about her plan. Dressed in her most alluring clothes, she strolled about the streets of the town with the impassive Ravenal beside her. When she saw a man who looked bold and dangerous, she smiled in his direction and turned archly away. More than once the giant Ravenal had his hand upon his sword hilt, and he gazed on her in wonder, amazed by her new behavior.

  Nor was it lost on Court.

  “You walk overmuch about the streets, Charity,” he observed dryly. “And wear rather less than is prudent. Ravenal is more than a match for most men, but if you inflame these buccaneers they might set upon him in a pack—and if he falls, the pack would be on you.”

  “And you would be my protector?”

  He nodded gravely.

  “I don’t want your protection!” she stormed. “I want to leave this place. You will not use me as your whore!”

  His eyes narrowed. “If you must disport yourself like one, then what follows is on your own head. Many would offer me a fair profit for you. Mend your ways, or I may be tempted to take it.”

  She sniffed.

  He smiled, and said, “I met a friend of mine upon the quay today. His ship had just anchored. He has been long at sea and will require the attentions of a woman. I think you would suit him admirably.”

  Goaded, she leaned forward. “I hope to find a man who will set upon you and kill you!” she cried between clenched teeth. “Kill you for keeping me here! For forcing yourself on me against my will!”

  Their eyes met fiercely, locked. She saw leaping devils in his, but she did not flinch.

  “Forcing myself on you against your will . . he said. “So you find my lovemaking distasteful, my body offensive? By heaven, you shall have others to compare me with!”

  As he strode toward her, she became aware of the handsomeness of that body she was rejecting. But she was more aware of the leaping evil in his eyes as he looked down at her. She did not flinch, but she backed away a little, conscious suddenly of the power in him.

  Suddenly he bent down and put his hands around her white throat. “I could break you so easily,” he said in a low deadly voice. “Do not tempt me too far.”

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide, her breath coming fast. Ail the hatred she felt for him was reflected in those wide, furious eyes, in the pent-up fury of the words that burst forth.

  “I would rather have these—these others!” she cried recklessly. Than a man who prefers someone else, was the rest of that remark, but she did not voice it.

  He let go of her as if he had been singed by fire.

  “You shall have them,” he said in a hoarse bitter voice. “Beginning tonight.”

  He went out, slamming the door, and she heard him bawl an order to Ravenal as he left the house.

  White-faced, still furious, she stared at the door he had slammed. He had sounded as if he meant it. Tonight—possibly in this very room—she would be taken like a whore by another man, this friend of his whom he had met on the quay.

  Then why had she fended off Kirby?

  Her soft lower lip caught between her clenched teeth and the leaping fury in her own eyes was a reflection of the fury she had seen in Court’s.

  God’s dea
th! She would not be so used! She threw a pillow at the wall and sat down trying to calm herself. Then slowly, very slowly, an angry smile hardened her lovely face.

  She would show him! She would woo Court’s friend as he had never been wooed before and she would turn him against Jeremy—she would plant seeds of poison and hate! She would turn them on each other, these men who dared to use her for their own passions. She would make them kill each other!

  The hours passed and, gradually, the rage died within her. It was all bluster, she told herself. Court would be back tonight, tumbling her about the bed as usual.

  She had just set her foot upon the top step, planning to go downstairs and see if the dinner being prepared was to her liking, when she heard the front door open.

  “It’s glad I am ye can sup with me,” she heard Court say. “And glad that ye can stay the night before ye sail. We’ll talk over old times.”

  Charity swayed in shock. Court had made good his promise—he had brought a man to her!

  The two men walked into the courtyard below, and Charity could see the man with Court was big and tawny-blond with a flowing mustache and—

  “Tom!” she cried in joy. “Tom Blade!”

  And ran the length of the stairs to fling herself into his arms.

  “Charity!” cried Tom, swinging her around. “What are you doing here?”

  Charity hesitated only a moment. “I’m Jeremy’s houseguest,” she said, and cast a challenging look at Court. “But not for long. I’ll soon be going back to Charles Towne!”

  “It’s a rare sight you are, Charity,” Tom cried, and she saw that he was looking very fit. His walk was jaunty and his tawny hair swung to the shoulders of a sky-blue velvet coat. He was sporting gray silk knee breeches and gray silk stockings and red-heeled shoes.

  “It’s a French fop you’ve become, Tom,” she teased, “In these clothes.”

  “For your sake,” he said wickedly, “I’d shed them all.”

  She looked again at Court, who was watching them silently. She could not fathom the expression on his saturnine face.

  All through dinner she endeavored to charm Tom, bending toward him so that her breasts showed to fine advantage in her low-cut emerald gown. All through dinner she watched Court from the corner of her eye, enjoying his discomfiture. They sat long after dinner drinking wine while Tom and Court reminisced about life in Devon.

  Talking about Devon irritated Charity. It was as if Marie’s beautiful seductive shadow had drifted into the room. Recklessly Charity matched drinks with the two men, and as the wine warmed her, she grew even more reckless.

  When finally the last glass had been drained and they rose to say their good nights, she leaned forward, touching Tom’s arm lightly. “Wilt stop by my room before you go to bed, Tom? I’ve need of your advice tonight. . .

  His eyes kindled. “Faith, I’d go with you now, love, but—” he turned and looked questioningly at Court.

  She had never seen Court look so fierce. “Charity is her own mistress,” he said shortly. “It seems she fancies you, Tom.”

  “But you—”

  “Never mind, about me. I’ve a wench in town waiting.”

  Airily Charity took Tom’s arm and led him up the stairs. From the top she looked back at Court, who had paused, and was watching them.

  He had hell in his eyes.

  Then he whirled and in two strides was gone from her sight. She heard the heavy front door slam, and laughed softly to herself. She knew that he had not intended this, had never intended it. Nor had she when she was baiting him downstairs. But now the vision of Marie rose up before her. To Court it’s a marriage, Kirby had said. And had Court not admitted he kept her here because she might unmask Marie’s relationship with him, destroying her reputation? Well, tonight he would be repaid!

  Seductively, Charity smiled into Tom’s devil-may-care face and swung wide her bedroom door.

  CHAPTER 43

  Charity told herself fiercely that she was glad, glad to be back in Tom’s arms again. He was again the light-hearted lover, laughing and merry, tickling her, causing her spirits to rise even as her passion mounted. She told herself she was getting back at Court, making him suffer.

  “Your mind’s elsewhere,” chided Tom, biting her ear. “You’ll be telling me I’ve lost my touch!”

  “No,” she said, feeling her body tingle in response to his caressing hands. “You haven’t lost your touch, Tom. Never that.”

  “I’ve missed you, Charity,” he said. “After I’d mended, I met some fellows of like mind and we stole a small ship. We used it to take the one I’m now captain of. And I thought of you often, Charity, wondering if you’d forgotten me, if maybe you’d come to prefer Bart.”

  Bart. . . Bart who’d tried to sell her to the trappers, whom Ben had shot and she’d buried in a makeshift grave. . . . Dark thoughts coursed suddenly through her mind and cooled her ardor.

  “You talk too much, Tom,” she said, and wound her arms about him and waited, lips parted, for his kiss. She heard his low laugh and found forgetfulness for a while in his arms.

  They were wakened by a banshee wail from the street.

  Charity sat bolt upright and, beside her, Tom lurched awake. He jumped up and ran to the window, peered out through the casements into the bright sunlight burning down like a torch over Tortuga.

  Curious, Charity followed him.

  “Now how did she find me?” he muttered.

  Below them in the street stood the woman making all the noise. She was attended by two huge black islanders clad only in baggy knee breeches, red sashes, and rakish, hats, and armed with heavy machetes used for cutting cane.

  The woman had wild red hair, which tumbled in confusion as if strong winds had blown it, a sumptuous figure, tall and statuesque. She stood with her bare feet apart, her hands on her hips, and glared up at them. Her clothes were ripped to shreds and hung in ribbons about her, allowing bare skin and voluptuous curves to show through.

  “Oh, no,” Tom moaned. “She’s rent her clothes again!”

  Charity looked dismayed. “You . . . know her?”

  He nodded irritably. “Ah, the new clothes she’s cost me!” He turned with a sudden grin and said in a low intimate voice, “Of course hers have cost me but money—the new dress I got for you in the north near cost me my life!”

  Charity continued to look down upon the scene in the street below. She was not to be seduced this morning by blarney.

  “Tom!” came a ringing voice from below. “Get you down here this instant!”

  “Go back to the ship, Daisy, I’ll join ye later,” called Tom.

  “I’ll not go back! I’ll not! I’ll stay right here till you come down, Tom!” howled the tempestuous woman below, stamping her bare foot.

  “Get ye back!” roared Tom. “You—Eben and Ephraim—take her back. Now!”

  In silent obedience, the black islanders converged on the woman. Each grasped an arm and, swinging her feet off the ground, they conveyed her kicking and screaming down the street, their big knives flashing in the sun. Although a little crowd had gathered to stare at this strange spectacle, the heavy knives kept them at a distance. Charity had a feeling that Daisy frequently made her exit being carried from the scene like a spoiled child.

  “Does she do this often?” she asked in a thin voice.

  Tom shrugged. “Whenever she gets the notion I’ve a new wench. Tears her clothes to shreds, she does. Breaks anything that will break. All the plates in the cabin are bent from her hurling ’em against the walls.”

  “I’d forgotten how faithless you are,” murmured Charity, turning away with a frown. Last night she had told herself fiercely that she was happy to be back in Tom’s arms again. Now she remembered the hurt that had struck through her at the sight of Tom clad only in his shirt in the hay, his buttocks gleaming against the fairer skin of a servant girl’s hips. At the time, she had thought she would die of it.

  “Ah, now, Charity, that’s unfair!
” he cried, taking her by the shoulders. “I’m always faithful to you here,” he said, striking his chest in the area where she guessed his heart was supposed to be.

  “Faithful ... in your fashion,” she murmured, turning away.

  He came up behind her and reached around her and cupped her breasts in his hands, cradled them as he explored the back of her neck with his lips. “Tis the only fashion I possess,” he said.

  She turned and embraced him absently, but this morning there was something between them besides the tall shadow of Jeremy Court—there was also Daisy who “rent her clothes” when Tom left her for another. Poor Daisy, following him about. Perhaps for Daisy it had the force of a marriage. . . .

  Pensive, Charity dressed in a pretty yellow muslin dress and, picking up a delicate ivory fan, she hurried downstairs to join Tom for breakfast.

  Court came in as they were eating. He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn the night before and he looked as if he’d slept in them. His face was haggard but his eyes blazed as he saw them there.

  “A night well spent?” he asked.

  Charity stiffened.

  Tom’s grin was enough reply.

  “I’m speaking to you, Tom,” growled Court. “I’d appreciate a civil answer.”

  “A grand night,” said Tom, surprised. “Tis a delight to meet up with old friends.”

  “I like not your tone,” said Court silkily. “Nor your use of the word friend.”

  At Court’s tone, Tom came alert. “Sure now, ye’ve no cause—”

  “No cause?” Court’s voice was harsh. “Tell me ye did not take her! Tell me that!”

  In consternation, Tom leaned forward. “But, Jeremy, ye said—”

  “Said? Bother what I said! Did ye take her or not?”

  “I did, but when I looked at her, ye said—”

  With lightning swiftness, Court’s rapier snaked out. “By heaven ye’ll look at her no more! Defend yourself!”

  Unsheathing his sword in haste, knocking over his chair as he did so, Tom leaped up and eyed his opponent. “I knew her before,” he cried indignantly.