Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  “I thought so myself,” he admitted. “I’m not particularly pleased. Loving you makes me vulnerable, renders me incapable of meting out the punishment you deserve. Had Maria done what you’ve done, I’d have put a bullet through her heart and taken great satisfaction in doing so.”

  He sauntered slowly across the room toward me. I felt a tightening inside my stomach, but I held my ground, refusing to show fear, refusing to show any emotion whatsoever. Nicholas paused in front of me and studied my face with a tight smile on his lips. He shook his head again, regretful.

  “I wish you hadn’t done it,” he said.

  “I’ll do it again, the next chance I get.”

  He slapped me across the face, so suddenly, so savagely that I almost fell down. He slapped me again, again, slamming his palm across my right cheek, my left, until both were burning with blistering pain. My head seemed to ring as blow followed blow, but I refused to cry out, even as he hit me yet again, so viciously that my legs crumpled and I fell to my knees. My cheeks seemed to be covered with liquid fire. Nicholas Lyon seized my hair and jerked my head back and slapped me once more, putting all his power behind it. I toppled backward, sprawling at his feet on the carpet.

  He stood over me with his hands resting on his thighs, his chest heaving as he breathed heavily, blue eyes hooded, peering down at me without expression. I seemed to be whirling in a void, cheeks aflame, black curtains drawing over my eyes. I gasped and closed my eyes, and some of the dizziness left. I struggled to keep from crying, determined not to give him that satisfaction. I shifted my position and caught hold of his calf in order to pull myself up. He turned and walked away, and with the support removed so abruptly I fell face down, barely able to break the fall with my palms.

  I reeled on the brink of unconsciousness again. The floor seemed to tilt and spin. After several moments I managed to crawl over and catch hold of the side of a chair and pulled myself up. I stood, clutching the chair for support, still not sure I wasn’t going to pass out. Nicholas was standing at one of the windows, peering out at the lawns.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. He didn’t turn around.

  “I—I’ll live,” I said.

  He continued to stare out at the lawns, his back rigid, pale creamy tan silk draped across his broad shoulders. A ray of sunlight streamed through the window, touching his hair, turning it into a dark, fiery copper. I held onto the chair, my cheeks turning numb now, the burning gradually abating. I adjusted the bodice of my gown, tugging at the sky-blue brocade, straightening it across my bosom.

  “I didn’t want to do that,” he said.

  I made no reply. Nicholas turned away from the window and moved over to the liquor cabinet without looking at me. He poured himself a brandy, expressionless. He drank it slowly, staring straight ahead without seeing. My head was clear now. I let go of the chair and brushed my skirt and then rubbed my fingertips lightly over my right cheek, wincing as I did so.

  “You got off lightly, Marietta. I should have beaten you until you passed out.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I happen to love you,” he said coldly.

  “You have a—a curious way of showing it.”

  Nicholas set his glass down and looked at me for the first time with eyes a dangerous, chilling blue. I could sense the violence and hostility bristling just beneath the surface, ready to flare up again at the least provocation. I brushed hair from my cheek and, somehow or other, managed to summon a vestige of dignity, returning his glare with poise. He frowned, a deep furrow digging into the flesh above the bridge of his nose. I felt something wet and salty on my lashes and was amazed to discover tears streaming down my cheeks, and I let them flow, not bothering to brush them away, crying silently, unable to help it. His frown deepened.

  “I don’t suppose you regret it,” he remarked.

  “Not—not at all,” I replied.

  “The men will expect some kind of retribution—in public, in the square down in town. If I had any sense, I’d have you strung up and lashed in front of the whole island.”

  I reached up to brush away the tears, but I couldn’t stop the stream. I didn’t want to cry. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. Those chilling blue eyes examined me closely, without emotion. His thin lips were pressed into a tight line.

  “I don’t imagine Tremayne will want his little whore’s back torn to shreds either. He’ll administer his own punishment in private. It looks as though the little nigger will have to stand in for you both.”

  An icy knife seemed to pierce my heart. “What—what do you mean?”

  “She’ll be taken down to the square this afternoon. She’ll be tied to the whipping post with her arms over her head. Her dress will be ripped away from her back, and my man will administer fifty lashes.”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “It will probably kill her,” he observed. “That should satisfy the men.”

  “You can’t—you can’t do it, Nicholas. You can’t.”

  “You’ll watch, of course. So will Tremayne’s woman.”

  “Nicholas—”

  “After that, I imagine you’ll think twice before attempting anything like this again.”

  “Please,” I begged. “Nicholas—please don’t do it. She—she’s just a child. None—none of this was her fault. Please. Please don’t do it. I’ll do anything—anything you like. I’ll promise anything.”

  “I have no choice, Marietta.”

  His voice was as cold and emotionless as his eyes. I was completely encased in ice now, and my heart seemed to leap. I couldn’t let it happen. I couldn’t. I had to do something, anything, to prevent it. He stood with legs spread wide, arms folded across his chest, immobile, unfeeling, the deep furrow above the bridge of his nose.

  “You said you loved me,” I pleaded.

  “It has to be done.”

  “If—if you love me, you—you won’t do this. You’ll grant me this one thing. I’ll never try to escape again. I promise. I’ll be dutiful and submissive. I’ll devote myself to—pleasing you in every way I can.”

  He didn’t seem to hear. Not a facial muscle moved. I sobbed and turned away and started toward the door, filled with an anguish that was almost unendurable. He took several long strides and grabbed my wrist and jerked it brutally, whirling me around so that I was facing him again. He looked down into my eyes for a long time, irritated, indecisive, frowning fiercely.

  “Please,” I whispered.

  “I’m a goddamn fool,” he said harshly.

  “No. No. You—you have compassion.”

  “It’s not compassion, Marietta. It’s weakness. The worst kind of weakness.”

  “No.”

  He hesitated another moment and then let go of my wrist. He walked back over to the liquor cabinet to pour yet another brandy, and several moments went by. My heart seemed to be in my throat. The suspense was shattering. I didn’t think I could bear much more. He took another sip of brandy and looked at me with hooded eyes.

  “Very well, Marietta,” he said dryly. “I’ll let your little nigger go, but I intend to hold you to your word. If you break it, I’ll kill her myself. I swear it.”

  Relief swept over me, and I was suddenly so weary I could hardly stand. I moved over to him and took his left hand in both of mine.

  “You won’t be sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll keep my word.”

  Nicholas Lyon pulled his hand free, his thin lips spreading into a tight, disdainful line.

  “You’d better,” he told me.

  Eighteen

  Nicholas held my arm firmly as we moved past the outlying shacks and down the steeply inclining street toward the harbor. The sunset was bright with orange and gold and red, the sky ablaze with vividly colored streamers that began to fade and smear even as they appeared. Goats peered around corners at us with suspicious, belligerent faces, and chickens clacked, scurrying out of the way with much flapping of wings. I stumbled on the cobbles. His grip tightened,
warningly, it seemed. I detested the town, detested coming down here to the canteens. Of late, sensing this, he had insisted we come down several nights a week. He seemed to derive some perverse satisfaction from seeing me ill at ease.

  “Don’t walk so bloody fast!” Em snapped, walking ahead of us with Tremayne on one side, Draper on the other.

  “Shut up, wench!” Tremayne growled.

  He gave her a shove. Em tripped on the cobbles. Draper caught her arm, steadying her. She cast a mutinous glance at Tremayne but held her tongue. Her lot had not been an easy one since our escape attempt two months ago. Tremayne had administered a beating that had left her immobile for almost a week, and, ever since, had been surly and brutal, cuffing her at the least provocation, treating her like chattel. He had begun to drink heavily, too, rarely sober after the sun went down. Em endured all with a grim, stoical attitude. Draper-was beginning to seem more and more attractive to her.

  Deep violet shadows were beginning to shroud the town as we passed the storehouses. The banners had almost faded. The sky was taking on a somber purple hue. Far ahead, through the crooked line of buildings, I could see the ships, masts towering like a skeletal forest. Raucous music and coarse laughter filled the air as we neared the canteens. I tensed, bracing myself for the ordeal. Nicholas smiled a twisted smile, wry amusement in his eyes. He knew I hated the noise and the filth and the horrible smells, the drunkenness and brawling good humor. He liked to sit and watch my reactions, savoring my discomfort. I never protested, never complained.

  I had promised to be dutiful and submissive, and I had kept my word. I had promised to devote myself to pleasing him, and I had done so, causing our relationship to take on a curiously perverse tone that, I knew, gave him a great deal of satisfaction. I was no longer cool and defiant. I no longer held back. I served his meals myself. I poured his brandy. I lighted his cigars, and, when he took me into his arms, I melted against him at once and parted my lips and let him use me as he wished. He had found it amusing at first, but gradually his amusement had turned to disdain. He took to taunting me in subtle ways. He goaded me. His love-making was frequently extremely brutal, as though he were trying to force me to break down and rebel. We were playing new games now, and Nicholas definitely had the whip hand, his threat concerning Corrie keeping me in line even when he pushed me the hardest.

  He claimed to love me. Perhaps he did, in his way, but his idea of love was strangely twisted, strongly allied with its reverse side. Love meant weakness to Nicholas Lyon. He hated this weakness in himself and, because I was the one who caused it, he felt compelled to make me suffer for it. He didn’t beat me as Tremayne beat Em. No, his way was much more wily. He subjected me to constant humiliation, my pride broken, he thought, my spirit thoroughly subjugated. When he didn’t ignore me completely, he scrutinized me carefully with that twisted smile curling on his lips, as a cat might scrutinize a mouse he contemplated pouncing upon. I played the new role to perfection, but I was beginning to feel the strain. He knew that. It pleased him. He was quite satisfied … and not yet bored.

  A shrill scream split the air as a hefty woman with tattered, greasy blonde hair came tearing out of one of the canteens, her violet skirts flying. Two pirates rushed out in hot pursuit. One of them made a flying leap, catching her legs with his arms and bringing her down with a mighty thud on the cobblestones. She screamed again, fighting vigorously as he climbed atop her, and then both of them began to laugh lustily. The other pirate stood by on wobbling knees, guzzling rum from a bottle as he watched the jolly copulation.

  “Charming,” Em snapped as we passed.

  “You think you’re better’n she is?” Tremayne growled.

  “A damn sight better!”

  “Yeah, you think you’re somethin’ special, don’t ja? Always givin’ yourself airs. You’re a whore, my whore, and don’t you forget it!”

  “Lay off, Tremayne,” Draper warned.

  “You keep your mouth shut, Draper! It ain’t none of your affair. I know you been pantin’ after her. Been pantin’ after her from the first, haven’t ya? You just find your own whore!”

  “It would seem the bloom has worn off the rose,” Nicholas observed dryly. “Tremayne’s besotted, practically useless to me these past two months. That’s what a woman can do to a man.”

  “Not to you, surely.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “I have far too much good sense. I’m disappointed in Tremayne. He was the paradigmatic pirate, ruthless, amoral, a physical brute who knew no fear. His infatuation for your little friend changed all that, turning him into a surly rum-pot.”

  Nicholas’ superior education frequently showed in his speech. He was a brilliant man, by far the most brilliant I had ever known. If all his drive and immense intellect had been channeled in another direction, he could have been a great statesman or anything he desired to be. Unfortunately, he had chosen to become a pirate, and he was the most feared, the most notorious pirate of the day.

  “Here we are!” Tremayne cried, shoving Em through the door of the largest canteen. Draper followed, and Nicholas Lyon took my hand and led me inside with exaggerated courtesy, his blue eyes full of mockery. The smells assaulted my nostrils immediately, sweat and ale and vomit and dirt blending horribly together with the odors of stale grease and red peppers. I tried not to wince, moving through the crowd with my chin held high.

  The tables were all full. Tremayne marched over to the largest table and, seizing a drunken pirate by the arm, jerked him out of his chair and shoved him to the floor. One of his mates leaped to his feet, ready to protest. Tremayne gave him a stunning blow across the jaw with his right fist, a blow so hard two of the man’s teeth went flying, blood spurting in crimson threads. The rest of the men at the table deserted immediately, almost knocking over their chairs in their haste to avoid similar treatment.

  Em and I exchanged glances. Her cheeks were pale, but her hazel eyes were dangerously bright, glittering with anger. Her small pink mouth was pursed. I prayed she would be able to control herself. Tremayne had grown progressively worse, and I was afraid he might actually kill her if she crossed him. Chestnut waves piled on top of her head and spilling between her shoulder blades in a cascade of curls, diamonds and amethysts sparkling at her ears and around her throat, she wore a rich purple brocade gown. The low-cut bodice was embroidered with tiny silver flowers, and silver flowers were scattered over the full skirt. She took a seat and began to toy with the diamond and amethyst bracelet on her wrist.

  I sat down across from her, spreading out my bronze skirt, leaf-brown petticoats rustling beneath. Nicholas insisted we dress to the hilt for these occasions, knowing our finery would further irritate the sluttish women who consorted in the canteens. My copper-red waves were caught up with heavy strands of diamonds and pearls, and a pearl choker was around my throat, diamond pendants dangling from it in great, glittering drops. The jewels, the lavish gown made me feel even more ill at ease, which was exactly what Nicholas had intended. He took the chair next to mine and crossed long, muscular legs clad in skintight maroon satin, the matching maroon frock coat embroidered with black silk fleurs-de-lis. His black leather knee boots were polished to a high sheen, his tarnished copper hair gleaming with rich highlights, the heavy V-shaped wave slanting across his forehead.

  “Rum!” Tremayne shouted, pounding the table.

  “I’d like some whiskey,” Em said.

  “It’s pure rotgut,” Draper told her.

  “So much the better,” she replied. “The sooner I lose consciousness the better.”

  “You’ll have rum and like it!” Tremayne ordered.

  “My master speaks. Rum it is.”

  “Some white wine?” Nicholas inquired, addressing me.

  “I suppose.”

  “White wine,” he told the woman who slouched over to our table. “Bring the best. I mean the best. Rum, too, several bottles.”

  “And you might just wipe the glasses, luv,” Em added.

&nbs
p; “As soon as you wipe your ass,” the slut retorted.

  “Heaven,” Em said. “Oh, she’s heaven.”

  The woman scowled and slouched away, her filthy blue skirts swaying as she wagged her large buttocks. The noise blasted all around us, bottles breaking, gruff voices yelling, harsh laughter rumbling. The floor was slippery with spilled ale. The dirty white walls were blotched with yellow stains and draped with strands of onions and gourds and bright red-orange peppers. Candles smoked in the large, wheelshaped fixtures hanging from the beamed ceiling. The woman returned with wine, rum and a tray of bread, cheese and hard sausage. Em gave her a dazzling smile and extended a stiff middle finger.

  Nicholas examined the wine label carefully, nodded, and uncorked the bottle. He poured a few swallows into his glass and sipped it, his blue eyes full of concentration as he savored the taste. He nodded again. The woman frowned wearily and slapped the bottles of rum down in front of Tremayne. Nicholas poured wine into my glass, and I lifted it to my lips. The wine was cool and tangy, quite delicious. I drank the rest of it immediately. Smiling, he poured me another glassful.

  “It’s deceptively potent,” he advised me. “I wouldn’t drink too much of it, my dear. It goes straight to your head.”

  “Maybe I’d better try some,” Em remarked.

  “Shut up!” Tremayne bellowed.

  “He’s all charm tonight, I must say. Can’t help it, the luv. It comes naturally.”

  I drank the second glass of wine and poured a third. Nicholas was amused, blue eyes dancing, wry smile curling at the corners of his mouth. I hated him. How long was I going to be able to endure that mockery without striking back at him? Corrie. I must think of Corrie. He had meant his threat. He would kill her. He would enjoy doing it. The wine was supposed to go to my head, but it only made everything sharper, clearer, the noise louder, the smells more offensive, colors brighter.

  I looked at the man sitting beside me with cool appraisal. The face was indeed handsome, but harsh, so harsh. The nose was too long, the lips too thin, the skin stretched tightly across the sharp cheekbones. The hair was thick and rich, beautiful hair, so beautiful I wanted to touch it, and the piercing blue eyes would be beautiful, too, were they softened with compassion. A patina of cruelty overlaid every feature. If his childhood had not been warped, if bitterness had not etched those harsh lines, Nicholas Lyon would have been an incredibly attractive man.