Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  It was dark, so very dark, layers of thick black darkness covering me, and I. was swimming through the blackness, swimming slowly, layers falling away. I was swimming, but I couldn’t move my arms, and that was strange indeed. Something was holding me back, something coarse and scratchy that bit tightly into my wrists and made swimming much more difficult, but I continued nevertheless, swimming upward, parting layers of blackness, and it tasted awful. It tasted like cotton, cotton crammed against the roof of my mouth and holding my tongue down. I tried to get rid of the awful cotton taste, but I couldn’t. I tried to move my arms in graceful strokes, but I couldn’t do that either, and if I didn’t surface soon I was going to drown.

  I swam frantically now, plunging upward, black layers parting rapidly, growing lighter, grayish black now, now dark gray, no longer black, now misty gray stained with gold, yellow-gold flickering, growing brighter, hurting my eyelids. I opened my eyes and saw the candle flame across the room. I blinked and tried to sit up and couldn’t. I was stretched out on a narrow bed. There was a gag in my mouth, and my wrists were tied to the bedposts. The room was small with a low, slanting roof, the tan walls stained with brownish circles caused by moisture. A hideous green carpet covered the floor, ragged with age, worn through in spots. Besides the bed, there was a crude wooden chair and a single table. The pewter candlestick stood on the table, a chipped porcelain chamber pot beside it.

  I struggled for only a moment, trying to pull my wrists free. The coarse hemp bit into my flesh, tightening savagely as I pulled. There was no hope of freeing myself, I realized that immediately. A wad of cotton cloth had been crammed into my mouth, a handkerchief tied tightly across my lips to hold it in place. The shock and numbness had worn off, but I didn’t panic. I knew what had happened. I could still feel the pain in my jaw. There was probably a bruise. Will Hart had knocked me out and brought me to this room and tied me securely, my left wrist bound to one bedpost, my right wrist to the other. He had gagged me so that I wouldn’t scream and bring inquisitive neighbors up here. This was obviously an attic room, small, sordid, smelling of mildew and sweat and dirt.

  I didn’t care what happened to me now. There was no reason to go on living. Hart would use me, and if he didn’t kill me I intended to kill myself at the first opportunity. I couldn’t go on living with this anguish inside of me, this terrible anguish that made every moment an unendurable agony. I wished fervently that they had killed me when they killed Derek. I fervently prayed that Hart would kill me when he returned, when he had finished using me to assuage his lust. I wondered where he was. I wondered how long I had been here. An hour? Two? Longer?

  It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. The candlelight flickered, burning low, washing the filthy walls with patterns of light and shadow. I could hear the wind blowing fiercely around the eaves, and from somewhere below came the sounds of raucous music, gruff, heavy voices, and shrill, feminine laughter, all muted, muffled, barely audible. Doors slammed, and there was a high-pitched yell and the sound of something breaking. I was in an attic room over one of the waterfront bars, or one of the brothels. It didn’t matter where I was. It didn’t matter at all.

  Time passed. Half an hour? An hour? Time had no meaning. The anguish was so intense that each moment seemed an eternity. The muted sounds continued, and the candle burned lower, guttering, the flame leaping in a frenzied dance, finally going out. I lay in darkness for a long time, bound, gagged, consumed with anguish that was constant torture. Eventually, I heard footsteps, two sets of footsteps moving up a flight of wooden stairs that seemed nearby. The sound grew louder, and then the door opened and a dim shaft of light spilled into the room. I saw two men enter.

  “’Old on a minute,” Hart said gruffly. “I’ll light another candle, ’ave some right ’ere in the table drawer.”

  I could hear him fumbling about noisily. He muttered a curse and struck a match, dropped it, cursed again and struck another, holding it to the wick of the candle he had jammed into the pewter candlestick. A circle of golden light began to spread in softly diffused rays. Hart shook the match out and dropped it on the floor, turning to the man who had come in with him.

  “Don’t mind ’er,” he said, nodding his head in my direction without looking at me. “Anything she ’ears she ain’t gonna ’ave a chance to repeat, least not to anyone ’o’d care.”

  The tall, thin, coldly handsome man in the powdered white peruke turned to glance at me for perhaps half a second, his icy gray eyes betraying not the least sign of interest. He wore black pumps with low heels and silver buckles, white silk stockings molding his calves. His knee breeches and full-skirted frock coat were of pale blue satin, the coat elaborately embroidered with black and silver flowers. Lace spilled from his wrists, spilled from his throat in a frilly cascade. The soft white hair made his features seem even harsher. They were familiar features, all too familiar, but much harder than his cousin’s had been.

  So Roger Hawke hadn’t gone to Paris after all. He had come to New Orleans to make sure the deed was done properly. He sniffed disdainfully, lifting a lace handkerchief to his nostrils.

  “Hurry it up, man,” he said sharply. “It’s bad enough I had to meet you here at this ungodly hour. I don’t want to expire from the stench.”

  “I ’ave the ring right ’ere. ’Ere it is.”

  Hawke took the ring, examined it without expression, and then dropped it into his pocket.

  “You’re certain he’s dead?”

  “’E’s dead, all right. Feedin’ th’ fish this very minute.”

  “Where’s the man I hired to kill him?”

  “Bert? ’E—uh—’e ’ad a bit of trouble, couldn’t make it. ’E told me to collect for ’im.”

  “I see,” Hawke replied.

  He took out a roll of bills and calmly began to count them. The candlelight washed those cold, steely, handsome features, polishing the hard cheekbones, sketching shadows beneath them.

  “What are you going to do with the woman?” he inquired.

  “I ’ave plans for ’er.”

  “Kill her,” Hawke said. “Kill her now.”

  His voice was totally devoid of emotion. He might have been telling Hart to step on a bug or swat a gnat. After that first, brief glance, he hadn’t looked at me again. I might have been part of the furniture. He handed the money to Hart and lifted the lace handkerchief to his nostrils again, crinkling his nostrils.

  “Do it now, man,” Hawke ordered. “I don’t like loose ends.”

  “Ain’t gonna be no loose ends. She ain’t gonna talk, I told ya. Soon as I finish pleasurin’ her, I aim to turn a profit. Red Nick’ll pay good money for ’er. ’E buys wenches, ships ’em to foreign parts to work on their backs in fancy ’ore ’ouses.”

  Roger Hawke was clearly displeased. His gray eyes were the color of steel and just as hard. His mouth was a thin, tight line. Hart scowled, stubbornly maintaining his position. Brutal, vicious, powerfully built, he looked like a puppy compared to Hawke. I had the feeling the taller man could have snapped him in two without so much as creasing his elegant frock coat. They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Hawke grimaced.

  “Very well,” he said dryly.

  “Red Nick’s men are in th’ city right now, collectin’ wenches. They’ll be takin’ ’em through the swamps less ’n a week from now, takin’ ’em to a pickup point. A month from now she’ll be in a ’ouse in Caracas. Ain’t no one there gonna be interested in anything but ’er tail.”

  “If anything happens, Hart, if she gets away—”

  “She ain’t gettin’ away. She’s stayin’ right ’ere in this room ’til Red Nick’s men are ready to ’ead for th’ swamps.”

  “If there are any slip-ups, you can expect several inches of steel through your gullet.”

  “’Ey, are you threatenin’ me?”

  “Not at all,” Hawke replied. “I’m stating fact.”

  His voice was dry, his face devoid of any kind of expression. Hart t
urned slightly pale. Roger Hawke lifted the lace to his nostrils one more time, the scent of perfume wafting across the room, and then he nodded curtly and left the room, his gorgeous frock coat rustling crisply. Hart stood with his hands curled into tight fists, his cheeks still pale as he listened to the footsteps descending the stairs. He scowled again as the sound faded away and crammed the money into his pocket, turning to look at me for the first time since he had entered the room. He forgot about Roger Hawke then. I could see him forgetting. He had only one thing on his mind now. He licked his lower lip, his brown eyes turning even darker as they filled with brutal desire.

  As I watched him, a curious calm came over me. The anguish receded, and I shut it away, shut it deep inside me. There was no room for anguish now. Now there was room for nothing but strength. A few minutes ago there had been no reason to go on living. A few minutes ago I had wanted to die. I had a reason for living now, and I intended to survive. Someway, somehow, I was going to survive, and one day I was going to take my revenge on the man in the powdered wig and elegant French attire. As Will Hart began to unbuckle his belt, I made that vow. I was determined to keep it.

  BOOK TWO

  The Pirate

  Nine

  Most of the women were in a stupor as we trudged through the swamp, listless, dazed, a few of them sobbing, but the girl who tripped along beside me might have been on her way to a picnic. Petite, perky, she had long chestnut-brown hair and hazel eyes more green than brown. Her small pink mouth was undeniably saucy, and her cheekbones were dusted with a light, charming scattering of golden-tan freckles. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, I thought, but those greenish-brown eyes were filled with worldly wisdom far beyond her years.

  “It’s not the bloody pirates I’m afraid of,” she confided in a chatty voice. “It’s the alligators. These swamps are full of ’em. Snakes, too. I wish I hadn’t remembered the snakes!”

  She shivered quite dramatically, clutching her arms about her waist and peering around her with mock-nervous eyes. The minx was actually enjoying herself. I found that astounding under the circumstances. The pink cotton dress she wore might have been a party dress, torn and soiled though it was. It had puffed sleeves, an extremely low-cut bodice and a very snug waist, the swirling skirt fluttering up at the hem to reveal the ruffled white underskirts beneath.

  “My name’s Emmeline, luv,” she said, “Emmeline Jones, quite a combination, I admit. My mother was French, my father English. Emmeline’s much too prissy—that was my mother’s contribution. You can call me Em, luv, all my friends do, and I figure we might as well be friends.”

  “I’m Marietta Danver.”

  “I knew you’d have a name like that, knew it the minute I saw you. Those elegant, aristocratic features, and that dress! Turquoise and royal blue brocade, royal blue petticoats—it must have cost a bleedin’ fortune. I recognized the quality at once. Looks like something Lucille might of run up.”

  “You know Lucille?”

  “I know of her, luv. A lass like me wouldn’t have much occasion to go to a shop like hers, not unless she had a rich protector. I never had any protector, rich or poor. I’ve had to take what I could get ever since I was thirteen, and I was usually grateful for pennies.”

  “You’ve been on your own since you were thirteen?”

  Emmeline Jones nodded, her long chestnut curls bouncing. “My father died when I was twelve. My mother remarried. Her husband was forty-two years old and had a taste for tender young flesh. I was terribly tender, terribly young. He had two sons, one eighteen, one twenty-three. They liked young things, too. Don’t know how many times I was raped, luv. I figured if I was going to spread my legs three times a night I might as well get something out of it besides a collection of bruises. James, he was the eldest son, he liked to beat me up a bit afterwards, slap me around.”

  “How dreadful.”

  “My mother knew what was going on, of course. She didn’t care. She always hated me, I never knew why. Anyway, one night James half-killed me, and I took a butcher knife and stabbed him in the shoulder—didn’t kill him, wish I had—and while he was still bleedin’ like a stuck pig I grabbed a few clothes and ran off, headin’ straight for New Orleans. We were livin’ in Baton Rouge when I took off.”

  “It must have been terrible for you,” I said.

  “It wasn’t much fun, luv, I tell you for sure, but I did all right. I was independent, you see, never had a pimp, never worked in any of the houses. Me, I don’t like to answer to anyone. I figured Red Nick’s men would nab me one of these days. It was inevitable.”

  “You don’t seem too upset,” I observed.

  “I try to look at the bright side, luv. I figure it can’t be much worse than what I’ve been going through. New Orleans is a scary place for a lass on her own. There are too many elegant houses of joy, too many gorgeous Creoles workin’ out of plush apartments. A lass like me, with this turned-up nose and these bloody freckles, she has to take her chances on the waterfront, and that isn’t a picnic, I assure you.”

  “I still don’t see how you can be so cheerful.”

  “I have plans, luv. I’m not workin’ in any house in South America, I promise you. Red Nick keeps the best of the lot to serve his men on the island, two or three out of every batch rounded up, and I intend to be one of ’em. I intend to pick me out a high-rankin’ pirate, one of his aides, maybe, and I’m going to fascinate him. I’m going to be so sweet and cuddly he’ll cover me with jewels, and when I have enough jewels, I’m going to escape from the island and come back to the mainland a wealthy woman.”

  “You sound quite confident.”

  “A girl has to be confident nowadays, luv,” Em replied. “Oh, I could weep and moan and carry on like that stuck-up blonde, that Nadine up there, the tall, skinny one who keeps sobbin’ she’s from one of the best families, but what good would it do? I intend to make the best of things, luv.”

  “I admire your attitude.”

  “I just wish there weren’t so many alligators. See that log over there? It looks awfully suspicious to me. It might be a log, but then again it might be an alligator.”

  “It’s covered with bark,” I said. “There are twigs broken off.”

  “You never can tell, luv. They’re terribly sneaky.”

  I almost smiled. The girl was refreshingly cheerful, and there had been little cheer this past week. Hart had kept me in his room for five days before turning me over to the pirates, and we had been traveling for two days, leaving the city in five closed carriages, abandoning the carriages yesterday morning to begin our trek through the swamps. There were seventeen women in our group, only six men guarding us. They were a brutal-looking lot, heavily armed with knives and pistols and cutlasses, herding us along like cattle. The pirate who seemed to be in charge carried a long whip and used it mercilessly when one of the women stumbled or failed to keep up.

  “At least they don’t have us shackled,” Em remarked. “I guess they figure there’s no need for shackles. A girl’d be a fool to try and escape through this swamp with alligators and snakes underfoot, and any one of these ruffians would put a bullet through the heart of any girl who did try. Glad I’m walking beside you today, luv. They had me beside Nadine yesterday, and her weepin’ and whinin’ almost drove me out of my mind.”

  “You there!” one of the pirates yelled. “Keep your mouth shut!”

  “Go play with yourself!” she retorted.

  The pirate scowled menacingly, placing one hand on the butt of his gun. He was a tall, husky lout with shaggy black hair and fierce blue eyes, a scar down one side of his face. He wore high black boots with flaring tops and snug black breeches and a loose, full-sleeved purple shirt tucked carelessly into his waistband. A cutlass hung at his thigh. A knife was thrust into his belt alongside the pistol. Em stuck her tongue out at him. He glared a moment longer and then grinned lasciviously. She blew him a kiss.

  “Won’t have any trouble with that one,” she promise
d. “He likes me, took me last night. Took me three times, in fact. Wasn’t too bad if you don’t mind it rough and rugged. I kept him occupied, all right, got a few swallows of rum for thanks. Reckon he’ll want to saddle me again when we camp tonight.”

  Each of the pirates had selected a woman the night before, using her when it wasn’t his turn to stand guard. I had been fortunate. None of them had fancied me. The skinny blond named Nadine had shrieked in terror when one of the men had pulled her over to his blankets. She had fought viciously, shrieking all the while, and he had finally had to administer a savage beating and cram a gag in her mouth. The other pirates had laughed uproariously as their colleagues tamed the shrew.

  “Anyway,” Em continued, “I figured two heads are better than one, figured two of us might have a better chance of surviving if we became friends and stuck together. The minute I saw you with those marvelous high cheekbones and that gorgeous copper-red hair, I knew you weren’t going to South America either. I wouldn’t be surprised if Red Nick decided to keep you for himself.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance?” I asked.

  “I’d say it’s a certainty, luv. Me, I’m all right to look at. I’ve got nice eyes, nice hair, plenty of curves in the right places, and I’ve got spirit, too. The men like spirit. I’m better lookin’ than most of these dogs they rounded up, but you—” Em shook her head, chestnut curls bouncing. “You’re a bloody queen, luv. You’re so beautiful I should hate your guts.”