Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  Em straightened up and looked at me with eyes that were suddenly much older. Her features were taut, her mouth a tight line.

  “Are you all right, Em?” I asked.

  “I’m all right, luv. I’ll never be the same again, but—I’m all right. I thought I’d seen a lot of terrible things in my life, but I—I’ve never seen anything like this.”

  “Thank God Corrie was below.”

  “I wish I’d been,” Em said. “Oh, luv, I wish I’d been.”

  “We’d better go down now.”

  Em nodded, and we moved down the stairs and down the narrow hallway to the door of Tremayne’s room. I was still in a state of shock. There was something hard and tight inside me, a grim, terrible resolution that had evolved without my even being aware of it. I knew what I was going to do. I had to do it. There was no alternative. Em looked at me, calm now, composed, fierce determination in her eyes.

  “I wish I were on my way to Brazil,” I said.

  “No you don’t, luv.”

  “I can’t go through with this, Em. I just don’t care anymore.”

  “I feel the same way, Marietta, but we’ve got to be sensible.” Her voice was very firm. “We—we’re going to have to forget what happened today. We’re going to have to put it out of our minds and concentrate on surviving.”

  “I don’t care about surviving, not any longer.”

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, luv. They’re going to pay for what they did. I swear it. We’re going to get away from them somehow, but before we do, they’re going to pay. I don’t know just how we’ll go about it, but we’re going to make them pay.”

  Her voice seemed to come from a great distance. I hardly heard her words. She took hold of my hands and held them tightly.

  “We’ve got to be strong, Marietta.”

  “I’m tired of being strong,” I said in a flat voice.

  “You need a drink, luv. He has lots of fine brandy in that cabinet of his. Pour yourself a drink and you’ll feel better. We’ll be on the island in a day or two, and things will be easier.”

  She let go of my hands, her eyes full of concern. I nodded and left her at the door and went into the captain’s quarters. I moved as though in a daze, not really conscious of what I was doing. I went into his dressing room and examined the pistols on the wall and finally took one down. I opened a drawer of the small bureau beside the wardrobe and, moving aside the piles of silk scarves and fine handkerchiefs, took out the box of bullets I had discovered some time earlier. I loaded the pistol and put the box back, closed the bureau drawer and went into the study to wait for him. I sat down and held the pistol at my side. It was hidden by the folds of my sapphire skirt.

  I was perfectly calm, perfectly composed, and I felt no emotion whatsoever. I felt, instead, a curious detachment. I seemed to be entirely removed from the scene. I saw the woman with the copper-red hair who sat in a chair wearing a rich sapphire gown, a pistol at her side, and she had no connection with the woman who observed, removed, untouched, incapable of feeling. Time passed, perhaps half an hour, perhaps more, and when he finally opened the door and stepped into the room I was still in that strange, numb state which I vaguely realized was a state of complete shock.

  He closed the door and looked at me and realized at once that something was wrong. He paused, examining me with expressionless blue eyes, his face inscrutable. He had killed at least half a dozen men, and he was totally unscathed, might just have returned from a leisurely promenade around the deck. His thick copper hair was dry now, the point of that heavy, slanting wave resting half an inch above his right eyebrow.

  “You watched,” he said.

  “I watched.”

  “You should have come below.”

  “I should have, yes.”

  “Your voice sounds peculiar.”

  “Does it?”

  “I’m sorry you witnessed it, Marietta, but perhaps it’s just as well. You know now how we operate. Perhaps it will clear your mind of any foolish notions about the life you’re going to lead.”

  “I’m not going to lead any kind of life with you.”

  “No?”

  “I’m going to kill you,” I said.

  He showed not the least surprise or alarm when I raised the pistol. If anything, there was a hint of amusement in his eyes, and the faintest suggestion of a smile played on his lips.

  “It seems we’ve gone through this before,” he remarked.

  “The pistol is loaded,” I said.

  He elevated his eyebrow. The blue eyes were definitely amused.

  “I’m a crack shot,” I told him.

  Nicholas Lyon shook his head and the smile played full on his lips and he took a step toward me. I stood up and leveled the pistol at him, surprised at its weight, the strain on my wrist. My hand shook slightly, and he took another step. I pulled the trigger and the explosion was deafening in the confines of the room. The force of the blast caused me to reel backward and drop the pistol. The smoke cleared, and Nicholas Lyon stood there idly examining the red stain on the side of his arm.

  “A crack shot, did you say?”

  I was too stunned to reply. He shook his head again and, confirming the fact that the bullet had merely grazed the side of his arm, looked at me with mocking disappointment. He was actually pleased by what I had done. In some perverse way it made him admire me all the more. He reached into the waistband of his breeches and pulled something out, something long and flexible and glittering with a thousand fires.

  “Melodramatics over? Yes? I picked up something for you, my dear, thought you might like it.”

  He tossed the strand of silvery-blue fire, and I caught it instinctively, not even thinking. The necklace was heavy, dozens of diamonds and flashing blue sapphires dripping between my fingers, alive with fire, dazzlingly alive, glittering with vibrant beauty. I knew that the necklace must have belonged to the woman in wine-colored velvet. I wanted to hurl it at him. I wanted to retrieve the pistol and shoot him through the heart, as I had intended, but I did neither. I examined the gems and then looked up at him with icy composure.

  “Still want to kill me?” he asked.

  “It can wait.”

  “You delight me, Marietta.”

  He stepped over to me, took the necklace, and moved behind me to place it around my neck. The jewels rested heavily against my collarbone, dripping down to the swell of my breasts. He rested his right hand on my shoulder and curled his right arm around my waist, drawing me back against him. I could smell blood and gunpowder and flesh.

  “Such spirit,” he said.

  He raised his hand and lifted the hair from my temple and lowered his head to kiss the side of my neck. He pulled me even closer, his arm curling tightly, squeezing the breath out of me.

  “You play such amusing games,” he murmured.

  “It wasn’t a game.”

  “I must remember to keep dangerous toys locked up. Next time you might miss. Instead of grazing my arm you might put a bullet through me.”

  He turned me around and looked into my eyes, his own gleaming darkly. He actually thought I had staged the scene for his amusement. I was amazed, and I felt a new sense of power. He opened his mouth and ran the tip of his tongue over his lower lip and then fastened his mouth hungrily over mine. I relaxed, pliant in his arms, yielding to his strength and hardness. He believed that he was in control, but he was quite mistaken. As his kiss grew more demanding, I thought about what Em had said. We were going to get away somehow, but before we did, they were going to pay.

  Nicholas Lyon was going to pay dearly.

  Thirteen

  The island was long and relatively narrow, separated from the mainland by perhaps a quarter of a mile. In the distance, it was brown and green and a light sandy yellow, the curving seaside harbor filled with ships. Above the waterfront, the land rose sharply, dotted with a ramshackle collection of huts and buildings. There were gray stone embattlements on the rim of the bluffs that rose abo
ve the beaches, and in the sparkling midmorning sunlight I could see the stout black noses of at least fifty cannon pointing out to sea.

  “That’s New Spain behind the island,” Em informed me. “Texas, actually, I think they call it, but Spanish territory, a vast wilderness with just a few villages and a couple of medium-sized towns and a lot of Spanish missions. It goes on forever, Michael told me, and it’s filled with savage Indians, dozens of tribes.”

  “That’s encouraging,” I said dryly.

  “You haven’t heard the worst part yet, luv. The other side of the island is fortified, too, because of the tribe along the coast. Cannibals,” she added.

  “Cannibals?”

  “That’s what Michael told me. They don’t just eat their victims, they eat them alive!”

  I found that hard to believe, but Em assured me it was true. The Sea Lyon glided smoothly toward the distant harbor, and the island loomed larger, color and detail sharpening. The deck was aswarm with activity, both Draper and Tremayne snapping orders. Red Nick sauntered up from below and came to join us on the poop deck. He was splendidly dressed in midnight-blue satin breeches and a matching frock coat lavishly embroidered in silver, lace cascading at his throat and wrists. His wide black hat slanted at a rakish angle, three long white and blue plumes curling down. His black boots shone with a high gloss. His finest sword hung at his side.

  “How do you like my stronghold?” he inquired.

  “It’s quite impressive,” I said.

  “Small but sturdy,” he observed. “When I left the Caribbean to stake out my own territory, free from competition, I found the island ideal. The fortifications were already here, a number of buildings as well. Another chap had decided to take over the Gulf Coast as his private domain. We had a nice set-to. He changed his mind—while feeding the sharks. Most of his men joined me, and those who didn’t joined their leader.”

  “You simply took over?”

  “I took over,” he said. “Imported builders and craftsmen to spruce up the town and build my house—you can’t see it from here, it’s above the town, beyond that line of trees.”

  “I suppose Maria is waiting for you,” I remarked.

  “I would imagine she is.”

  “She’s not going to be happy when you arrive with me in tow.”

  Lyon didn’t reply, but a wry smile twisted at one corner of his mouth. I could see that he was looking forward to the confrontation. Surprising his mistress with the arrival of her replacement would undoubtedly appeal to his perverse humor. Em and I exchanged glances, and then she tactfully withdrew to go below. Tremayne stopped her, spoke to her gruffly, and she nodded wearily, moving down the stairs. Nicholas Lyon watched the island as we drew nearer the harbor. A huge crowd had gathered below the town. They were cheering and waving their hats.

  “How many men do you have on the island?” I asked.

  “Three hundred and fifty men, seven ships. They’re all in harbor now, as you can see. I’ll be sending four of them out in a few days, each manned by a full crew with a trusted lieutenant in charge.”

  “You’re very well organized.”

  “That’s the reason for my success.”

  “You’ll hang one day,” I said.

  “You think so?”

  “It’s inevitable.”

  “Not necessarily,” he replied. “Perhaps I’ll ‘reform.’ Perhaps I’ll join the forces of law and order, like Henry Morgan. The British made an agreement with him, you know. They authorized him to go right on plundering, as long as he did it for them. He was knighted. They made him lieutenant governor of Jamaica as well.”

  “That was almost a hundred years ago.”

  “Ah, you know about Sir Henry?”

  “I’ve read about him in history books.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be in the history books, too. Sir Henry may have lived a hundred years ago, but man’s venality hasn’t changed an iota, my dear. As a matter of fact, I’ve already received an offer from the British myself. They wanted me to join forces with them to help subjugate the rebels.”

  “And you refused?”

  He nodded, the long plumes billowing. “I admire the rebels. I admire any man or any group who defies authority. Were I to take sides at all, I’d be on the side of the rebels, but I’m much too independent, and my work is much too profitable. I’ll wait a while before I become respectable. I have all the power now. The island is impregnable. I’m the terror of the gulf.”

  “And proud of it,” I said.

  “Naturally.”

  “You enjoy killing.”

  “On the contrary, I find it a bore—but necessary.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re an enigma to me, my dear. Sometimes I think you’re very satisfied with yourself and with your new position. Most women with your background would be. Sometimes I’m not so sure.”

  “No?”

  “I know you enjoy making love with me. You’re a marvelously passionate creature. Once I broke you down, you proved that—repeatedly.”

  “Against my will,” I said dryly.

  “You enjoy it, my dear.”

  “I’m human, and you’re unusually skillful.”

  He smiled, pleased. I looked at him coldly.

  “I state that as a fact, not as a compliment. I respond to the skill, not to the man. I happen to loathe you.”

  “I find that intriguing.”

  “I imagine you do.”

  “You’re a challenge, Marietta, a most interesting challenge. I never know what to expect. I broke down your reserve in bed, and I’m going to break down your mental reserve as well. I’m going to turn that loathing into love.”

  “I’ll never love you.”

  “You will, my dear,” he promised.

  I smiled to myself. Nicholas Lyon was utterly intrigued, just as I meant him to be. He had mastered my body, and now he wanted to master my emotions, too. He had conquered me, yes, but that conquest wasn’t yet total, and as long as I held back he was in my power, not I in his. His ego required slavish devotion and adoration, and he was determined to have it. I would never love Nicholas Lyon, but he was already beginning to fall in love with me. I sensed that, and it suited my purposes ideally.

  We were in the harbor now. I could hear the men on shore cheering. Nicholas Lyon lifted his hat and nodded to them, and they cheered all the louder. He was a king here, absolute monarch of the island, and he wielded his power mercilessly, I knew. No one dared defy or disobey him. The price was much too high. Public floggings and executions were common on the island, according to Em, and Red Nick’s men lived under a stringent set of rules. They could kill and rape and plunder at sea, but thievery on the island was punished by death. There were canteens on the island where they could drink and brawl to their hearts’ content, but serious fighting meant flogging, and fighting with weapons meant execution. Nicholas Lyon kept them under tight control, ruling his domain with an iron hand.

  Close up, the island was much larger than it had seemed from the distance. The harbor was almost directly in the center, with the streets and buildings rising above it. On either side of the town, if that it could be called, the land was uninhabited, lush tropical woods stretching out. The streets, I saw, were cobbled. There were huts and shacks leaning precariously against one another in a disorderly jumble, with a number of sturdier buildings of whitewashed stone, the roofs a dark red-orange tile. There were stores, a smithy, at least half a dozen rowdy canteens where rum and other liquors were provided for a price. I noticed a number of women in the crowd awaiting us, disheveled, slatternly creatures as bizarrely dressed as the men.

  “I’d better go below,” I said. “I told Corrie to meet me in your quarters when we landed.”

  “You’re fond of the little nigger, aren’t you?”

  “She’s a sweet child. I thank you for giving her to me.”

  “Just keep her out of my way,” he warned.

  Corrie was in the bedroom, carefully folding the gow
ns and placing them in a valise. She had skillfully altered each one of them, including the one I was wearing, a dark golden yellow taffeta striped with silver. She looked up as I entered, alarmed, alarm turning to relief when she saw me. Nicholas Lyon made no secret of his dislike for her, scowling whenever he saw her, and Corrie was terrified in his presence, eyes lowered, shoulders hunched forward as though expecting a lash across them at any moment. I smiled at her and helped her finish packing the gowns, placing the necklace and makeup kit on top.

  “Is we supposed to pack his things, too?” she asked.

  “One of his men will do that later, Corrie.”

  “I’se glad, Miz Marietta.”

  “I am glad,” I corrected.

  “That’s right,” she said. “I remember. I’se goin’—I am goin’ to learn to talk proper. All them lessons you done be givin’ me, I listened real good, and I ain’t goin’ to talk nigger talk no more. I forget sometimes is all.”

  “You’re doing beautifully, Corrie.”

  Shy, meek, docile, the girl not only had a sweet nature, she had a strong native intelligence as well and, until now, no opportunity to develop it. During the past few days I had been giving her lessons in grammar, correcting her speech, teaching her the alphabet. Corrie was a marvelous seamstress and could indeed perform miracles with brush and comb, but I intended to teach her to read and write and speak correctly, preparing her for that day when she would really be free. She looked up at me now with dark, lovely eyes, the soft black nimbus of hair framing her light brown, delicately featured face.

  “Is—are they goin’ to hurt us, Miz Marietta?”

  “Everything’s going to be all right, Corrie. The worst part is over now. We’ll be getting off the ship in a few minutes, and you’ll have a room in the big house and—no one will hurt you.”

  “I try not to be scared, but that Cook, he said I’d better watch my step. He said if I got uppity the captain would have my hide, said he’d turn me over to his men and they’d tear me apart.”