Draper hesitated, debating the wisdom of taking over the captain’s woman, clearly deciding it might be unwise, might lead to future resentment. He shook his head, scowling.
Lyon arched an eyebrow, surprised. “No?”
“These Spanish wenches, they ain’t my type.”
“Let me go!” Maria shrieked.
“I see,” Lyon replied.
“Whatja want me to do with her?”
“Take her over to the barracks,” the captain said. “She can keep the men amused until the next ship leaves for South America.”
“No! No! You can’t do this to Maria!”
“You have your orders,” Lyon said.
Draper dragged the screaming woman out of the room. Her cries echoed in the hall, ending abruptly. Apparently, he had clamped a hand over her mouth. There was the sound of a door opening, closing, then blessed silence. Red Nick poured more wine and sipped it slowly, completely unruffled. I was horrified, and it took superhuman effort to maintain my poise. The man was totally amoral, totally unfeeling, and I knew full well that the same thing could happen to me if I began to bore him.
“I’ll take that wine now,” I said.
He looked up, gazed at me for a moment with cool blue eyes, and then filled another glass. I moved across the room to take it from him.
“What will happen to her?” I asked.
“The men will enjoy her for a few days. One of the ships sails for South America next week to pick up provisions and make a few coastal raids. She’ll be sold to one of the houses.”
“You can do that to a woman who has lived with you?”
“Without a qualm,” he replied. “Don’t waste your pity on her, my dear. Maria was a greedy, grasping little whore. She reveled in her position, gave herself airs, treating everyone with disdain. I found it amusing for a while, and then it began to weary me.”
“You’d do the same thing to me,” I said.
“Undoubtedly—if you wearied me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do, my dear.”
He finished his wine and set the glass down on the cabinet, then took the glass from my hand and placed it beside the other. He rested his hands on my shoulders and looked down into my eyes. I gazed up at him, cool, composed, not the least bit intimidated. He smiled a wry smile, pleased with my composure, my icy reserve, determined to break it down with his sexual prowess. His lean, harshly attractive face tightened with desire, that familiar gleam shining in his eyes. As his fingers squeezed my bare shoulders, as he drew me toward him, I vowed that Nicholas Lyon was going to be sorry he ever met me. One day he would be sorry indeed, I vowed, but in the meantime he would be anything but bored.
Fourteen
The sand was gray and strewn with pebbles and tiny pink-orange shells and scraps of yellow-brown seaweed. The waves washed over it with a soft, slushing sound, leaving a residue of frothy white foam. The water was a light grayish-green and constantly moving, sloshing, sending the waves swooping over the sand. I walked slowly along the beach, relishing the solitude, thankful to be away from the oppressive confines of the great white stockade. It seemed incredible that we had been on the island over two months, kept in an elegant prison, Em and I serving our men, desperately trying to formulate some plan for escaping.
We were not allowed to go down to the town, which was just as well. Neither of us had any desire to mingle with the ruffians there. We had been kept inside the stockade, allowed to wander as we pleased within the walls, and it was only during the past week that we had been permitted to explore the beaches and woods. Red Nick, Draper, and Tremayne had taken The Sea Lyon to a rendezvous at sea, where booty from another ship would be transferred to The Sea Lyon, and Em had charmed the captain of the guards into allowing us to take short walks outside. It hadn’t been easy.
A blond giant with suspicious brown eyes, a crooked nose and wide pink mouth with lower lip thrust out belligerently, he had adamantly refused at first, telling her he was responsible for our safety during Red Nick’s absence. Em employed considerable persuasion one night in the shrubberies that grew in the garden behind Tremayne’s cottage, and the next day we were permitted to take a walk in the forest with an “escort” of two men, the blond giant, whose name was Cleeve, and a black-haired brute named Grimmet. They accompanied us the following day as well, bored with our questions about trees and flowers, longing to be back at the barracks to drink rum and gamble with their cronies.
Seeing that our strolls were innocent and knowing full well there was no way we could get off the island, Cleeve had relaxed his vigilance and allowed us to go out without an escort the third day. Em continued to use her genial persuasion each night in the shrubberies—she didn’t dare allow him to enter the cottage for fear someone would see, meeting him well after midnight under the cover of darkness—and now we were permitted to come and go at will providing we avoided the town and returned in under two hours. Cleeve was taking a great risk, of course, but Red Nick hadn’t strictly forbidden us to go outside the walls, and I had assured Cleeve I would take full responsibility when the captain returned.
Even this limited freedom was welcome. It was good to be away from the large, elegant house with its spacious rooms and sumptuous furnishings, to be able to stroll without the sight of walls surrounding me. It was good to feel the sun on my cheeks and hear the sound of the waves and the crisp rattle of the palm fronds in the breeze. To my left, the beach merged into a gently sloping land that climbed to the bluff above where the gray stone fortifications stood, chipped and weathered by sun and sea wind. I could see a cannon pointing toward the mainland. The fortifications weren’t manned now, for there had been no trouble with the Indians in years.
Cannibals they might be, but they stayed on the mainland and never ventured to the island. Once, four years ago, they had foolishly launched an attack, hundreds of them swarming over the beaches. Their bows and arrows had proved almost useless against cannon and pistol and cutlass, and they had quickly retreated, leaving the beaches littered with dead and dying tribesmen. They had apparently learned their lesson, for there had been no more serious trouble. The pirates frequently went to the mainland on various missions, but always in force, always heavily armed, and although there had been skirmishes with the Indians, they had been minor.
I paused now, staring across at the mainland. Trees grew thickly beyond the beach, the space between them heavy with underbrush. It looked dark and forbidding, green and brown and black, shadowy thickets and leafy tunnels leading into the mysterious interior where savage Indians painted their bodies with black and white and smeared themselves with alligator grease to ward off mosquitoes and carried long bows six feet tall. It was hard to believe that beyond the coast there were verdant green hills and sweeping plains and villages where Spanish padres in long brown cossacks welcomed visitors into the dim coolness of great adobe missions. Red Nick had told me a great deal about New Spain, or Texas as the settlers called it.
I bent down to pick up one of the tiny seashells, a gorgeous, delicately wrought thing, a pale pinkish-orange as smooth as pearl, speckled with brown. The Indian women, I knew, made necklaces of these shells. I slipped it into the pocket of my yellow cotton dress to take back to Corrie. She was too frightened to join Em and I on our strolls, convinced she would be slaughtered the moment she stepped outside the stockade. Her lessons were coming along beautifully. She spoke now with barely a trace of her former accent and rarely made a grammatical error. She could already read a few words and could write her name with aplomb. The lessons were satisfying to both of us and helped to pass the time.
Would we ever escape? I felt a terrible frustration as I continued along the beach, passing under a cluster of palms, moving across a wide expanse littered with driftwood. The frustration had grown steadily over the weeks. Escape seemed impossible. Em and I had discussed every possibility. It might be possible for the two of us to swim across to the mainland, but then we would be at the mercy o
f the Indians who could very easily be watching me at this very minute. Em was much more optimistic than I. She constantly assured me we would find a way, and I tried to believe her.
Life was not hard for either of us. As Red Nick’s woman, I lived in luxury, surrounded by beautiful things, and he treated me with a strangely sarcastic gallantry, playing a subtle cat-and-mouse game all the while, toying with me, trying his best to break down the icy reserve I maintained except on those occasions when we were in bed together. Wooing me with gifts, convinced I was captivated by his sexual prowess, he patiently waited for the day when I would make the first overtures of passion. I remained a challenge to him, for Nicholas Lyon wasn’t content merely to have my body. He wanted me to become an abject, adoring slave, which, I knew, would cause him to despise me immediately. Although he didn’t realize it, I had the upper hand, and he was already in love with me.
Love? No, it wasn’t love. Nicholas Lyon was incapable of love, but he was enthralled, captivated himself, a captivation I did my best to maintain. I kept him off balance, playing a cat-and-mouse game myself, carefully, very carefully, denying him the emotional response he craved, responding in bed with a passionate fury that was magnificently gratifying to his ego. He left me alone most of the day, tending to his duties in town, holding conferences with his lieutenants, and planning new ventures. This left me time for lessons with Corrie and time to array myself in provocative splendor for his return each evening. I had an elaborate, breathtakingly lovely wardrobe and, already, a fabulous collection of jewelry. We dined off the finest plate, drank wine from exquisite crystal goblets, and the food was remarkable, would have satisfied the most demanding gourmet. No, life was not hard, but every minute of every hour I was aware of being a prisoner, no matter how grand the prison.
Em lived in great comfort, too, though considerably less splendor. Tremayne pampered her outrageously, spoiled her deplorably, lavishing her with gifts. Her gowns were not as elaborate as those I wore, her jewelry not as fine, but she was wildly elated each time he presented her with a bauble and showed her appreciation with such zest that he strove to give her even more. He was madly infatuated with her, so much so that it frequently worked against her. Insanely jealous, he flew into a rage at the least provocation and had beaten her brutally several times. Em said she didn’t mind the beatings, claiming she had suffered far worse in days gone by and adding that a diamond and ruby bracelet was considerable compensation for a sore backside. I shuddered to think what would happen if Tremayne found out about her midnight trysts with Cleeve.
The waves rocked, grayish-green, sparkling with sunlight, swooshing over the sand. I moved slowly along the beach, the breeze lifting my yellow skirt and causing the petticoats beneath to flutter. Three months ago, I had been living with the man I loved, anticipating marriage and looking forward to the future, convinced I could make it bright with happiness, and now I was on an island off the coast of a wild and savage wilderness, living with a man who personified evil. Derek … Derek.… No, I mustn’t think of him now. I mustn’t allow myself the pain and anguish that would possess me, overwhelm me completely. I couldn’t be weak. I couldn’t give in to those tremulous emotions that were locked away inside along with the tears.
I must be hard, strong, cold. I must be shrewd and crafty and cling to that steely core of resolution. I didn’t want to. I wanted to let down my defenses, give in to emotion and weep. I wanted to be feminine and frail and lean on someone stronger, but there was no one, no one but myself, and I had rarely had the opportunity to draw strength from others. During the past years I had had to rely on my wits, my stamina, using my beauty and sexual allure as weapons in a war I hadn’t waged, a war I was fighting still. I wanted to give up, to give in, to surrender and forget about self-preservation.
I couldn’t do that. I had promised myself that Derek’s death would be revenged, and it was a promise I meant to keep. There were others involved now, Em and Corrie, both of them depending on me in their different ways. I took a deep breath and banished the weakness. I was strong, and I could be cold and crafty, whether I wanted to be or not. I wasn’t going to give in. I was going to go right on fighting that war, faced now with my most formidable opponent, and, furthermore, I was going to win. The steely determination returned.
Turning my back to the water, I crossed the sand and started up the slope that was only partially covered with grass, sand and dark black earth visible between the heavy green strands that reached down from the bluff like elongated fingers. The sun was very warm, a pale yellow ball in a sky the color of polished steel, gray-white, glaring. When I reached the top, I could see the grassy knoll and, beyond, the forest, not nearly as dense as that on the mainland, treetops tall, spreading, a patchwork of green in varying shades. To my right there was another gray stone fortification, half-covered with a curious climbing plant with dark, tiny leaves and pale purple and white flowers that hung down like delicate pendants. Although the stone was crumbly and covered with a fine gray dust, the cannon gleamed in the sunlight, clean and free of rust, the pyramid of balls beside it like huge shiny black marbles. Red Nick insisted that all the cannon be kept in prime condition.
I glanced toward the stockade, the topmost walls just barely visible beyond the trees, at least three quarters of a mile away. It wouldn’t be visible at all were it not situated on the highest point of the island. Surrounded by forest to the east, west, and north, the town sloping down to the harbor on the south side, it dominated the island, a huge white fortress with gardens and trees and houses and barracks within walls that were two feet thick. Once, during a hurricane three years ago, the entire population of the island had taken refuge in the stockade. Much of the town had been destroyed, shacks and lean-tos blown away, and several ships had been damaged, but those enormous walls had withstood the savage gales and torrential rains. Red Nick had known exactly what he was doing when he had it built.
A flock of sea gulls flew screeching over the tops of the palm trees below, winging over the water like scraps of gray-white paper in the breeze and making a terrible racket before they disappeared. I leaned against the fortification, gazing at the knoll without really seeing it. The delicate purple and white flowers smelled sweet, their fragrance mingling with the smells of damp earth and old stone and salt. The sunlight warmed my cheeks and stroked my bare arms. The breeze toyed with my hair, blowing fine copperred skeins over my eyes. I lifted a hand to brush them away, still fighting a desire to think of Derek, forcing the thought of him out of my mind.
Suddenly, for no apparent reason, I saw a pair of merry, mocking eyes as blue as indigo, a slightly crooked nose, a full pink mouth curling audaciously in a grin that was strangely endearing. Jeremy Bond strode in my memory with a bouncy, jaunty stride, a rich brown wave flopping over his brow, outlandishly dapper in his elegant attire. I remembered that overwhelming charm and that carefree, ruthless air. He had come into my life so quickly and with such remarkable vitality. Although I had seen him only three times, during a span of no more than twelve hours, the memory of him was as vivid as it would have been had I known him for years.
Disturbed over my relationship with Derek, foolishly insecure because he hadn’t yet married me, I had reacted to Jeremy Bond with a confusing array of emotions. I had seen him immediately for the rogue he was, irresponsible and irreverent, a jaunty scoundrel who lived with verve and abandon, thumbing his nose at convention, breaking laws and breaking hearts with equal aplomb, yet I had sensed strength and compassion, and a deep understanding as well. He seemed to have looked directly into my heart, sensing my insecurity, sensing my need, knowing me as no man had. I had been infuriated by him, and I had been intrigued, too. I couldn’t deny that.
I recalled that evening in the courtyard with moonlight washing over the tiles and the fountain making soft, splattering music as shadows spread. He said that he loved me. He begged me to love him. I could hear that low, melodious voice beseeching me, and I could feel the touch of his hands and th
e strength in those fingers that gently caressed my shoulders and throat. When his lips brushed mine sweet sensations had blossomed inside of me. Emotionally vulnerable because of what I took to be Derek’s rejection, disturbed and bewildered, I had responded in spite of myself with a tormenting ache that, even in memory, was shattering to my senses.
I had wanted to sleep with him. I admitted that now. I had wanted him as desperately as he wanted me, and that desire had seemed a treacherous disloyalty at the time. I loved. Derek, yet there in the moonlit courtyard I had longed to give myself to Jeremy Bond. He was a skillful seducer, wooing with silken charm, playing on my weakness, speaking words of love he must have spoken dozens of times to dozens of women. He had vowed he would return and take me away from Derek. Even after I had summoned all my strength and rejected his pleas, he had stared at me with a grim, serious face, assuring me that he had been speaking the truth, that he loved me and meant to have me.
Now, as I leaned back against the gray stone fortification and toyed with one of the pale purple blossoms, I wondered what had happened when he returned to New Orleans. I wondered if he had made an effort to see me again. Had he gone to the apartment? Had he tried to locate me? Had he discovered that Derek had booked passage on The Blue Elephant and assumed we had sailed? Had he felt disappointment, regret, loss? I doubted it. I doubted if he had given me another thought after I refused to give in to his wooing and sent him away. He probably didn’t even remember my name, yet after three months I remembered him vividly and remembered feeling intensely, marvelously alive each moment he was beside me.
Jeremy Bond had been the first person to mention Red Nick’s name to me. I remembered his telling me about Red Nick as we were strolling through the market, just before he thrust the wad of money into the hands of the sad-eyed Negro woman who had been looking for edible scraps among the rubbish around the stalls. Bond had shown considerable knowledge about Nicholas Lyon, for he had once led a campaign against the pirates, Red Nick’s men, who preyed on the smugglers in the swamps. And now I was on the island Bond had first told me about, a captive of the man he had found so very interesting. Fate played some cruel tricks, I thought, remembering that conversation as we had walked through the market, Bond in dark formal attire and billowing cloak, I in the rustling crimson gown Derek had found so objectionable.
Love Me, Marietta Page 22
