What had happened? Where was she?
For a moment she thought that she must be dreaming and then she turned round to see the great pile of her luggage very solid and real against the fitted furniture of the cabin.
There was a dressing table with a number of drawers, a wardrobe and other drawers on one wall of the cabin, cunningly designed so that the top of them constituted a table.
The bunk on which she had been lying was larger than was usual, but it did not compare with the bed she had occupied in the liner in which she had crossed the Atlantic.
Everything was plain and workmanlike and she remembered now that the Saloon had been the same.
The engines appeared to be throbbing under her feet and the noise of them seemed to ask the same question over and over again.
“Why? Why? Why?”
Why had Tyrone Strome drugged her and where was he taking her?
She knew that she must find the answer, because the question was not being asked by the engines but by her brain.
She walked to the door of the cabin expecting to find it locked.
She turned the handle and it opened. Then, when she would have stepped out into the passage, she hesitated.
As she had moved across the cabin, she had a quick sight of her reflection in the mirror and now she went back to look at herself again.
When she did so, she saw that her gown was creased and her hair untidy.
Perhaps she had been restless while unconscious.
She was also aware that she felt hot and frowsty and wondered how long she had lain in a drugged sleep.
Of one thing she was very aware and that was that she was thirsty.
She looked round and saw there was another door to the cabin and opening it she found it led into a small bathroom.
This, she knew, was a luxury that was unusual aboard a private yacht. Usually one private bathroom was attached to the Master suite, but the guests had to make do with a communal one.
In the bathroom there were two taps on the basin, one labelled ‘salt’, the other ‘drinking water’. Finding a glass, Nevada filled it and drank thirstily.
It took away the dryness in her mouth and now she saw that there was a ‘tub’, as the Americans called it, in which she was certain she would have to wash in seawater, but there was also a shower.
She looked at it for a moment, then making up her mind, she went into the cabin, locked the outer door and undressed. After she had showered her headache was much better. She pulled open one of her trunks at random and found a fresh gown well packed between layers of tissue paper.
This she knew was the work of the French maids. But who had conveyed her luggage to Cannes and what explanation had been given at the villa for her precipitate departure?
These were questions Nevada was determined to find out and, when finally she dressed and had tidied her hair, using the gold-backed brushes which were fitted into her crocodile dressing case, her reflection looked back at her from the mirror and there was the light of battle in her green eyes.
Nevertheless, as she unlocked the door of her cabin and went in search of Tyrone Strome she was, although she would never have admitted it, a little nervous.
It was hard to understand why he had behaved as he had, but Nevada was determined he would have to give her a very plausible explanation combined with an apology.
She went along the passageway to the Saloon.
She half-expected that Tyrone Strome would be on deck, but he was in the Saloon seated at a flat-topped desk and he was writing.
He looked up as she entered, but there was no surprise on his face, only an expression of gravity that she had not seen before.
She advanced towards him and, although she knew that she was looking attractive, there was not that glint of the admiration in his eyes that she expected from any man.
“So you are awake!”
“Yes, I am awake,” Nevada replied, “and I wish to know why I am here and why you drugged me.”
“It saved a lot of argument,” he answered quietly.
“About what?”
“You might not have wished to leave Cannes as I intended that you should.”
“Where are you taking me? This is a most extraordinary way to behave!”
“Extraordinary situations demand extraordinary actions,” Tyrone Strome answered.
They were both standing, but now the ship gave a lurch and Nevada sat down rapidly in a high-backed chair beside the desk.
She was, Tyrone Strome knew, keeping a tight control on herself, but he was aware of the anger in her eyes.
“I think, Mr. Strome,” she said coldly, “you had better tell me what you think you are doing before I order you to turn your yacht round and take me back to Cannes.”
Tyrone Strome seated himself behind his desk leaning back in an armchair very much at his ease.
“I am taking you to Africa!” he said. “I think it could prove to be an essential part of your education.”
“To – Africa?” Nevada exclaimed in astonishment.
She somehow vaguely imagined that they were crossing the Mediterranean perhaps to Malta or the Balearic Islands.
“This is ridiculous!” she cried crossly. “You know as well as I do that you cannot take me away without explaining why I am leaving your sister who I am staying with.”
“If you will allow me to be frank,” Tyrone Strome answered, “my sister was exceedingly glad to get rid of you.”
“You mean Lady Merrill – connived at this – this kidnapping?”
“If you like to put it that way – yes.”
“I have never heard anything so disgraceful in my whole life! As she had been a friend of my mother’s, I thought I could trust her to treat me decently. I cannot imagine what my father will say when he hears of your behaviour!”
“He is unlikely to hear anything for a month or two,” Tyrone Strome replied, “and, as to my sister’s involvement, you should realise by this time that just as a tigress will fight for her cubs so any mother will fight for her son.”
“So your concern for David is at the bottom of all this nonsense!”
“Exactly!” Tyrone Strome agreed. “My very grave concern for David.”
“And do you think he will let me disappear in this extraordinary manner without wondering what has happened to me?”
“David is at this moment also on his way to Africa, but your paths will not meet.”
“You forced him to go after he had promised to stay with me?”
“He was quite willing to do so after he had read your letter.”
“What letter?”
“The letter you wrote him – a very charming one telling him that, after he had left the villa to play tennis, you received an urgent message from your father asking you to return to America immediately.”
Nevada stared at Tyrone Strome wide-eyed.
“You went on to say,” he continued, “that, while you will always be grateful for his friendship, you have decided that your heart lies in the land where you were born, where you have always intended to live.”
He paused, his eyes on Nevada’s face, before he added,
“It was a kind letter, the sort that a young man would treasure and which would not leave him unhappy or distressed to the point where he might wish to take his life.”
“You wrote that and signed it with my name?”
Nevada seemed almost to spit the words.
“Your handwriting is quite easy to copy. There is nothing very difficult or indeed original about it.”
“So you commit forgery amongst other crimes!”
“An accomplishment I have found very useful at various times in my life.”
“How dare you behave in such a manner to me!”
“You made it impossible for me to do otherwise.”
“Do you really believe those ridiculous threats David made of taking his own life?”
“I not only believe them, I actually saved him just in time from putting them into e
xecution,” Tyrone Strome answered and his voice was hard.
“I don’t believe you. Men who threaten suicide are only play-acting.”
“Your experience of men is not as great as mine.”
This was irrefutably true and Nevada, her anger rising, thundered,
“It still does not excuse your behaviour in bringing me here, drugging me with your filthy coffee and writing letters in my name. I insist that you turn this yacht round and take me back to France.”
She saw the refusal in his face before he spoke and conceded,
“If you are too frightened for your precious nephew to take me back to Cannes, you can drop me at Marseilles. I have had enough of you and your family. I will go back to England.”
“That might be possible,” Tyrone Strome said, “Except for one thing.”
“What is that?”
“I have decided you need a lesson which will teach you not to hurt any other young men as you tried to hurt my nephew. David has escaped – others might not be so lucky.”
“You are ridiculous! Absurd! Men are perfectly capable of looking after themselves. If not, they should not call themselves men.”
“That is true where the ordinary woman is concerned. But you are not ordinary, Nevada. You are cruel, hard-hearted, and I am almost inclined to think – evil!”
Nevada jumped to her feet.
“How dare you say such things to me! You are insulting and your behaviour, as you well know, is criminal. You’ll go to prison, Mr. Strome, for behaving like this.”
“That, of course, is a risk I have fully calculated,” he answered, “but where at the moment can you find a policeman either French, English or American? I do not as a rule carry one as part of the crew.”
She stood looking at him. He knew that she was considering what her next move would be, but was finding it difficult to come to a decision.
After a moment she walked across the Saloon to stand at the porthole looking out to sea.
“Where are we? How long have I been unconscious?”
“We are at the moment twenty miles past Gibraltar,” Tyrone Strome replied, “and moving along the Atlantic coast of Morocco. You were unconscious for approximately forty-eight hours.”
“As long as that?”
“The drug I gave you is very effective. As you realise, it acts almost instantaneously.”
There was something in his calm quiet answers and the fact that Tyrone Strome’s voice was almost expressionless that was rather awe-inspiring.
Petulantly Nevada flung herself on the sofa.
“As I have had nothing to eat for forty-eight hours, I am naturally very hungry.”
“I can understand that, but I have something to explain to you.”
“What is that?”
“I brought you on this voyage not only to save my nephew and incidentally young Dundonald also, but to find out if it would be possible to turn a vixen into a woman.”
“I don’t – understand what you are trying to say to me.”
“I think you do. You have gone through life up until now, Nevada, giving orders to people who have had to obey you because you paid them. What I intend to find out is if you have anything to give a man or a woman except your money.”
Vaguely at the back of her mind Nevada felt she had heard these words before. Then she remembered what she had said to David in the garden on the night of Tyrone Strome’s arrival.
“You were listening!” she said accusingly. “I might have guessed what happened. You were listening in your room and David and I were below you in the garden.”
“Yes, I was listening,” Tyrone Strome admitted, “and I have never in my life heard a woman of any age so unpleasant, so unfeeling to a man whose only sin was that he was fool enough to love her.”
His voice was like a whiplash and Nevada stared at him incredulously.
“Now I understand why you are incensed with me,” she said, “but surely it is rather ridiculous? After all I did not ask David to fall in love with me or Charles for that matter.”
“You only made quite certain that they would and you were quite prepared, Nevada, to try your wiles on me.”
He laughed.
“Unfortunately, as far as I was concerned you were just not clever enough. In fact for a woman of even limited experience it was a lamentable performance.”
She felt that his scorn was more insulting than if he had been angry.
“I want something to eat,” she said sullenly.
“Of course and there is plenty of food aboard the yacht,” Tyrone Strome replied. “But if you want to eat, then you must get it for yourself. You know where the galley is, I presume?”
She looked at him uncertainly.
“Why cannot a Steward – bring it to me?”
“Because I think it would be good for you to look after yourself – to find for the first time in your life that your money cannot buy you everything.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“You may think so, but I would point out to you that this is my yacht and I run it as I wish to do. If you are hungry, you get yourself something to eat or go without. Incidentally there will be no one to wait on you in your cabin.”
“How dare you treat me like this!”
“It is not very difficult,” Tyrone Strome retorted. “Perhaps it will teach you not to travel about the world another time without ensuring you are adequately protected. I dislike the idea of a woman thinking she does not need protection.”
“I certainly have no wish to be protected by you!” Nevada said rudely.
As she spoke, she realised her mistake, for the smile on Tyrone Strome’s face was merely that of a man coping with a fractious child or an obstreperous animal.
She rose to her feet.
“Where is this galley?” she demanded.
“Aft, as is usual,” he answered. “As it is nearly luncheon time, you will find the chef there. He is Chinese so you will not be able to communicate with him.”
Because she felt she would get no further by arguing, Nevada walked out of the Saloon and slammed the door behind her.
When without difficulty, she found the galley in the stern of the ship, she realised it was a very modern and up-to-date one, far better in fact than any galley she had seen before.
The Chinese chef assisted by a younger man, both in spotless white clothes, were preparing luncheon and the fragrance of the food made Nevada realise how very hungry she was.
Knowing she could not converse with the chef, she told him in sign language that she was hungry and he pointed to a stool on the other side of the narrow table at which he was working.
The stove was behind him and on it Nevada saw he was grilling a steak.
Because, although the sea was calm, it was easier to sit than stand she took the stool and sat watching the chef as he deftly prepared the garnish for the meal – small fresh mushrooms, aubergines and tiny spring peas.
On the side of the stove Nevada saw a dish of asparagus, which had been one of her favourite dishes at the villa, since it came fresh to the market every day from the fields behind Nice.
The steak was ready and the chef lifted it from the stove onto a dish. The garnishings were set around it and almost as if he had been called a Steward appeared also wearing a spotless white coat, although he sported gold buttons.
He carried a tray with a cloth on it neatly laid with shining silver.
As he set it down on the table, the assistant to the chef placed the dish of asparagus and an already mixed salad on it with two sauce boats, while the chef covered the steak with a silver cover and placed it on a hot plate on the tray.
Then to Nevada’s consternation the Steward turned and walked out of the galley.
It was only then that she realised the tray was intended for Tyrone Strome and had in fact been only laid for one. “What about me?” she cried to the chef, pointing to herself as she did so.
In answer he took another steak which was raw and uncooked
and set it down in front of her. He pushed what remained of the mushrooms, peas and aubergines also in their natural state towards her and he and his assistant left the galley.
For a moment Nevada could hardly realise what had happened. Then she knew they were obeying orders and, as Tyrone Strome had said, she had to look after herself.
For a moment she clenched her small hands in fury and wanted to throw the steak to the floor and stamp on it.
Then an aching void inside her told her that she was extremely, unashamedly hungry and anger would get her nowhere.
Tentatively she rose to her feet and, going round to the other side of the table, she picked up the steak gingerly with her thumb and forefinger and dropped it onto the grill.
*
Tyrone Strome came from the bridge where he had been discussing with the Captain the progress they had made during the day and entered the Saloon.
The yacht was certainly living up to her reputation as one of the fastest vessels of her kind afloat.
The reason he had built her to his own specifications was simply that there were times in his life when he wished to get away with all possible speed from a situation that had become too explosive to be healthy.
The Moulay had never failed in an emergency.
His crew had all been with him for a long time and he knew they would obey any order he gave them without question and with an implicit obedience that he found admirable.
He could not help wondering, as he walked along the deck towards the Saloon, how Nevada had enjoyed what he was sure was the first meal she had ever cooked for herself.
It had been reported to him exactly what had happened and he thought with a ruthless expression on his face that the easiest way to learn how to cook was to go hungry if one did not do so.
He was wondering too how Nevada without maids was managing in her cabin.
He was sure that, as a millionaires, she had never so much as picked up a piece of paper from the floor.
She was the type of parasite he most disliked.
Self-made millionaires at least had worked hard for their money, but their pampered, cosseted women who believed that money could buy everything in the wide world had always aroused his scorn.
He thought that Nevada would find life aboard The Moulay very different from that which she had enjoyed in her father’s house on Fifth Avenue and his great estates in other parts of America.
The Punishment of a Vixen Page 5
