Brushing errant locks from my temple and rubbing my arm, I stepped into one of the adjoining rooms. It was much smaller, obviously his dressing room. His clothes hung in an enormous oak wardrobe, a collection of highly polished boots lined up neatly beneath. A pair of razor-sharp cutlasses hung crossed on the wall, the hilts silver and gold filigree, and there were pistols, too, at least seven of them arranged in an ornamental pattern. They were different shapes and sizes, all of them shining, all deadly.
I examined his clothes quite brazenly, the fine brocade frock coats, the heavy silk shirts, the narrow trousers. Nicholas Lyon lived well, and he had a taste for splendor. I ran my fingers over the smooth, leaf-brown satin dressing robe embroidered with darker brown fleurs-de-lis. The clothes told me quite a lot about him, as did the collection of weapons. Killing meant nothing to him, but cleanliness and fine things meant quite a lot. No wonder he wanted me to scrub myself thoroughly.
Behind a large Coromandel screen with coral, turquoise, and black patterns against a silver-gray background, I discovered a large porcelain tub filled with clean water that was still quite warm. Towels, soap, and sponges were piled on a table beside it. I took off my filthy clothes and slipped gratefully into the water, arching my back, sighing with pleasure as the water surrounded me, warm, soothing, wonderfully relaxing. The soap had an exotic, musky scent. I used a whole bar, scrubbing, rinsing, scrubbing again, reveling in the thick, foamy lather. I spent almost an hour in the tub, washing my hair three times, rinsing it, and when I stepped out I felt gloriously clean.
I dried myself with one of the large, soft towels, using another to rub my hair dry, and then I slipped into the leaf-brown dressing robe and walked into the third room, the gold carpet caressing my bare feet. The bedroom was larger than the dressing room, not nearly so large as the study, dominated by a huge mahogany fourposter with canopy and hanging of dark, embroidered gold brocade, the counterpane a deep, rich yellow satin. There was a dressing table with silver-backed brushes and combs, a hand mirror with silver frame. A full-length mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the sunlight that streamed in through the port holes.
Three large, ornately carved chests set against the wall, and I was just getting ready to examine their contents when the door leading into the study from the hallway opened. I turned, surprised to see Em tiptoeing across the room, eyes full of mischief.
“In here,” I said.
Em jumped, slapping a hand over her heart. “Lord, luv, you scared the wits out of me!”
“What are you doing here? If he finds you—”
“He’s not going to, luv. He and Michael are up on deck, doing whatever it is the captain and second-in-command do. I heard him bring you down here, and soon as I knew the coast was clear I popped over. My, these rooms are fancy, aren’t they? Michael’s room isn’t nearly so grand.”
“Did—did he beat you?”
“He gave me a spanking,” Em said, smiling impishly, “but it was quite enjoyable, a tantalizing prelude to what came after. That was even more enjoyable. He’s a brute, of course, a villain through and through, but I’ve had worse, luv, believe me. At least he’s young and fairly nice lookin’, strong as an ox, too, I might add.”
“He seems to be quite taken with you.”
“He is. Oh, he’d turn on me in a minute, break my jaw without giving it a second thought—these men are dangerous—but I can manage him. I’ve had a lot of experience. I see you’ve had a bath.”
“There’s a tub of water in the dressing room.”
“If I had time I’d nip in there and have a splash myself, but I dare not stay too long. Michael really would beat me if I got caught in here, and the captain would undoubtedly give me fifty lashes. Scary, isn’t he?”
“Very.”
“He makes my blood run cold, I don’t mind admittin’ it. Are you going to be able to handle him?”
“I think so. It’s not going to be easy.”
“I don’t envy you, luv. Tremayne’s a cuddly baby bear compared to Red Nick, and his men are a pack of puppies. That one, if he didn’t like the way you looked when you got out of bed in the morning, he’d run you through and step over your body on his way to breakfast.”
“You’re quite right.”
“Is he going to take you to the island?” she asked.
“He hasn’t made up his mind yet.”
“But you’re going to make it up for him?”
I nodded. “I told him I preferred to go on to Brazil with the other women. He had to bring me down here by force.”
“Clever,” Em said, “very clever. A man like that, anything he can take without a fight he doesn’t consider worth taking. He’s going to have to rape you, and you’re going to resist like mad.”
“The first time.”
“You’re going to do just fine, luv. I knew you would. You want to be very careful, though.”
“I intend to be.”
Em adjusted one of the sleeves of her tattered pink dress, and the bright, perky quality vanished. Her eyes, usually so merry, were serious now and full of genuine concern. She might prattle and prance like a frivolous sprite, but Em was blessed with a strong native intelligence. Tough, shrewd, one of life’s survivors, she faced me now with her hands on her hips, her frown making a tiny furrow on the bridge of her nose.
“We’re in a very tricky spot, luv. It’s going to take all the strength, all the courage we’ve got to pull through it. I keep thinking of that idiot Nadine, a victim of her own stupidity.”
“That was a very brave thing you did, Em, rushing to her defense the way you did.”
“I don’t know what came over me, luv. I must have been out of my mind. That addle-pated little ninny deserved what she got, but all the same—” Em shook her head. “There’s nothing we can do to help her now, just as there was nothing we could do to help Bessie. That—that sight is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.”
“It’s going to haunt me, too.”
“We’ve got to put it out of our minds. We’ve got to concentrate on savin’ our own skins—and Corrie’s. We don’t have much time. Michael told me the other women are going to be put on another ship in a couple of days. We have to work something out before then.”
“I know.”
“There’s no hope of one of the men takin’ a fancy to her, takin’ her back to the island. I brought the subject up with Michael, said that little Negro girl is extremely pretty, said I was surprised one of the men hadn’t appropriated her. He said Red Nick has an aversion to Negroes, won’t have ’em on the island.”
“I have a plan, Em. I think it may work. What you just told me isn’t going to make it any easier.”
Em started to speak but cut herself short as we heard footsteps coming down the hall that led to the study door. Her face went white. Seizing her hand, I pulled her over behind the bed and shoved her down. She crawled nimbly under it as the study door opened and Michael Tremayne strolled across the room. He took two maps from the rack beside the globe, unrolled them, and began to examine them with close scrutiny. After a moment he rolled one back up, stuck it back in the rack, and left the room with the other map under his arm. He hadn’t even glanced toward the bedroom.
“It’s all right now, Em,” I said as he closed the door. “You can come on out.”
Em scrambled from under the bed and stood up, visibly shaken, chestnut locks falling to her shoulders in wild disarray. She brushed her skirts and straightened the low-cut bodice that barely contained her breasts. Moving over to the doorway, she peered into the study and breathed a sigh of relief.
“It was Tremayne,” I told her. “He came to fetch a map.”
“Hope he didn’t peek into his room to see how I was doin’,” she said. “I thought my heart was going to leap right out of me. I’d better skip on over to his room before someone else pops in on us.”
“Be careful, Em.”
“You, too, luv.”
She gave me a quick hug and then sc
urried across the plush gold carpet to the study door. Cocking her ear against it, she hesitated, listening a moment before easing it open and stepping into the hallway. I was shaken; too. Slipping over here as she had was a foolhardy thing to have done, a terrible risk, and I shuddered to think what would have happened had she been discovered. Em was a remarkably brave young woman, remarkably perceptive as well. Talking to her had strengthened my conviction that I was using the right approach with Red Nick.
Moving over to the three chests, I opened the first one, lifting the heavy lid with considerable effort. It was filled with gorgeous Irish linen napkins and tablecloths, with sumptuous blue silk draperies, and with bolts of cloth of silver, of pink and soft beige velvet. The second chest contained a collection of Sevres china, dozens and dozens of pieces, each exquisitely patterned with royal blue and coral pink designs and lavishly adorned with gold. King Louis himself might have dined off such china, I thought, closing the lid.
The third chest contained a small case covered with white leather worked with gold and, carefully wrapped in tissue, several gowns that had never been worn. I took them out one by one, marveling at their elaborate beauty, finally selecting a deep saffron yellow satin completely overlaid with golden lace. It had a petticoat of frail yellow tissue cloth with at least a dozen skirts in varying shades of yellow and gold. I set gown and petticoat aside, folded the others up and put them back into the chest, and then I opened the lovely white leather case.
Springs within the case caused several blue velvet trays to lift up as I raised the lid. The bottom tray held six delicate crystal bottles with fancy stoppers, each bottle nestling in its own nitch and filled with perfume. The next tray held a silver comb, a brush with silver handle and silver back patterned with gold flowers and leaves. The other trays held tiny sable-tipped brushes, a white silk box filled with beauty patches, and an array of jars and pots made of fine white porcelain traced with gold. I had never seen such an elaborate makeup case, had never seen such a variety of eye shadow and rouge and powder and lip rouge. The case had been designed in France, I knew, and I suspected that it had been created for a queen.
I took the case over to the dressing table without a moment’s hesitation. Removing the brush and comb, I began to work on my hair, combing out the tangles, brushing and brushing until the rich, copper-red locks gleamed with red-gold highlights and fell in a lustrous cascade that framed my face with heavy, natural waves. I spent considerable time selecting the right shade of rouge, the right eye shadow, tinting my cheeks with a soft, pale pink, rubbing a suggestion of mauve-gray shadow over my lids. I selected a deeper pink lip rouge, using it sparingly, knowing that the secret of makeup was a subtle enhancement of natural coloring.
I opened one of the bottles of perfume. The scent was tantalizing, elusive, vaguely suggesting a field of poppies under a hot summer sun. I dabbed it behind my earlobes, between my breasts, touching wrists and the curves of my elbows lightly with the stopper, using just enough to give a teasing hint of fragrance. Replacing the stopper, putting the bottle back in its blue velvet nest, I reflected that this was the first time I had deliberately prepared myself for a rape. I intended to be in full control during every moment, but Nicholas Lyon must never suspect that. I would allow him to conquer and crush, allow him the brutal domination his nature required, but I would be the victor.
I replaced brush, comb, and pots, closing the makeup case and moving over to the bed. I untied the leaf brown sash and let the dressing robe fall to the floor in a shiny heap. I intended to leave it there. It would undoubtedly irritate him. I intended to irritate him. I intended to tease and taunt, working on him until he was seething with passionate fury, and then I intended to fight him with all my might, resorting to melodrama if need be. Nicholas Lyon was going to have a highly satisfying time. When it was over, when he had satiated the passionate fury I would arouse, he was not even going to consider sending me to Brazil, even though I might pretend to want him to do just that. I planned all this quite coldly, feeling not the slightest shame.
There was no room for shame. Survival was everything now. I had wanted to die, would gladly have killed myself after Derek was murdered, but that was behind me now. Since that night, I had endured horror far worse than any before, worse than the sordid degradation I had suffered at the hands of the Bow Street runners, worse than the terrifying brutalities inflicted on me when Helmut Schnieder finally went mad, and I could endure anything now. If I had to plot and scheme and play the harlot in order to survive, I would do so willingly. I was going to save myself—I was going to save Corrie, too—and one day Roger Hawke would pay for what he had done.
Completely naked, I slipped into the petticoat. The frail yellow tissue cloth was semi-transparent, the bodice extremely tight, extremely low, and the skirts lifted, floated, spreading out like fragile petals in glorious shades of yellow and gold. I put the gown on over it and stepped back over to the mirror, reaching around to fasten the tiny hooks in back. The rich yellow satin gleamed beneath the layer of glittering gold lace woven in elaborate floral patterns. The gown had been created for a smaller woman. It was much too tight at the waist and so low I hardly dared breathe. The narrow puffed sleeves fell completely off the shoulder, the thin petticoat straps beneath. The bodice was form-hugging, barely covering my nipples, and the full, full skirt swelled out over the underskirts like a great golden-yellow bell.
I stood in front of the mirror, barefoot, examining myself with cool objectivity. Everything was perfect, the hair, the face, the spectacular, provocative gown. I wondered idly about the woman for whom it had been intended. The contents of the three chests were obviously booty Lyon was taking back to the island, the gowns and makeup case gifts for the woman named Maria whom Em had mentioned. Maria gave herself airs, Em had told me, and Red Nick was growing tired of her, looking for a replacement.
Moving back into the study, I examined the parchment maps on the wall, gave the globe a twirl, restless now, nervous, too, although I tried to deny it. The chandelier over the dining table tinkled, barely audible, and I could feel the ship moving with a slight swaying motion that was hardly noticeable. I strolled back into the dressing room to examine the cutlasses and the collection of pistols. I took one of them down, testing its weight, checking it closely. Hanging it back in place, I frowned and returned to the other room. An hour passed slowly, so slowly, and then another, and my nerves were stretched to the breaking point. It was only with the greatest effort that I managed to hold onto even a semblance of composure.
It must have been at least another hour before the door opened and Lyon came in with Michael Tremayne. I was standing by one of the chairs, my hand resting on its back. Neither man paid the slightest attention to me. I might have been invisible. Tremayne unrolled a map and spread it out over the desk, pointing out an area with his forefinger. If his calculations were correct, he stated, the French vessel would be in those waters in three or four days, bound for Louisiana and carrying a very rich cargo. It wouldn’t be out of their way to intercept it, he added, and although it would undoubtedly be heavily armed, they could take it easily enough.
“The usual ruse,” he said. “It still works dandy, fools ’em every time.”
“You’re certain about your information?”
Tremayne nodded. “Got it first hand. I was dressed like a toff, wearin’ frock coat and cravat, mixin’ among ’em with a cigar in my mouth and passin’ as a businessman. No one questioned my right to be there. I kept my mouth shut, of course, didn’t want my voice to give me away. I just strolled about, lookin’ grave and listenin’.”
“You did well, Tremayne.”
“Figured I might as well make myself useful while I was waitin’ for Quince and his men to round up the wenches. Are we going to take it?”
“I see no reason why not,” the captain replied. “It’ll keep the men from getting too restless before we get back to the island.”
They talked for a few minutes longer, and then Tre
mayne left. Nicholas Lyon rolled up the map and placed it in the rack. My nerves were screaming silently, and I was weak from hunger, yet somehow I was able to look at him with a cool, steady gaze when he finally decided to give me his attention. He studied me for a long time in silence, that heavy dark copper wave dipping down over his brow, his blue eyes gradually darkening. He must have been at least six-foot-three, I thought, and that excessively lean, hard frame made him seem taller still. His sharp, bony features and the upward slanting eyebrows brought to mind a sleek, diabolical fox.
“The gown suits you,” he said.
“I assume it was stolen, along with the rest of the things.”
“You examined the chests? They were in the possession of a minor ambassador who, unhappily, chanced to be on a ship we took two weeks ago. I believe the chests were intended as gifts to a cousin of King Louis, a lady of renowned beauty.”
“What happened to the ambassador?”
“He walked the plank, screaming every step of the way. Draper finally had to give him a prod. The men were quite amused.”
“And you?”
“I find such things tiresome, believe a clean, quick kill much more efficient, but the men relish their fun. I feel compelled to oblige them.”
I looked at him with disgust and horror, deliberately allowing my composure to slip a little, and that pleased him. A faint smile flickered on his lips, and the blue eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. He clearly intended to toy with me, savoring every moment, and I didn’t intend to disappoint him. Visibly repressing a shudder, I regained my composure with what appeared to be great difficulty, drawing myself up and facing him with cool defiance.
“You’re utterly heartless,” I said.
“Quite true,” he admitted.
“You can kill me, too.”
“I could,” he said, “quite easily. I could take that lovely throat in my hands and choke the life out of you in a matter of seconds, but I have different plans.”
Love Me, Marietta Page 17
