The Punishment of a Vixen

by Barbara Cartland

  Tyrone Strome entered the Saloon intent on getting back to his desk. He had just settled himself and was turning over the papers he had been working on when the door opened and Nevada came in.

  She was wearing the same white gown she had worn earlier in the day, but there was a glint in her eyes that had not been there before and he had a feeling she was up to some mischief.

  “What is it?” he asked coldly. “I am in fact rather busy.” “I think you have time to listen to me,” Nevada replied. He had made no effort to rise at her appearance and now he said impatiently,

  “As it happens, Nevada, I have a lot of work to do and I really must excuse myself from further arguments. You had better be sporting enough to make the best of a bad job.”

  “I am sporting enough to be quite a good shot!” Nevada answered.

  As she spoke, she drew from behind the full skirts of her gown a revolver and pointed it at Tyrone Strome.

  He did not start, he merely looked at her as if he waited for an explanation.

  “You will send for the Captain,” Nevada said, “and tell him to turn the yacht back and take me to the nearest port.” “And if I refuse?”

  “Then you will find yourself in considerable pain.”

  There was a note of triumph in her voice as she went on,

  “I shall not kill you, as I have no wish to be tried for murder. Also, as you well know, I cannot give orders to your crew. But I will shoot you in the arm, which you will find very painful and, if you still don’t obey me, I shall shoot you in the leg.”

  “You have thought it out very carefully,” Tyrone Strome remarked.

  “As you see, I am capable of looking after myself and to make sure that I could do so in any situation like this I have practiced shooting on my father’s ranch in Colorado.”

  Tyrone Strome did not reply and she added,

  “Come on now – you are defeated and you know it! Send for the Captain or I promise you my threat will become reality.”

  “As I do not wish him to leave the bridge,” Tyrone Strome replied, “I will write him a note.”

  He pulled a piece of paper towards him with his left hand and picked up his pen to dip it into the large, square-based inkpot that stood on the desk.

  Nevada watched him with a smile on her lips.

  Suddenly, as his hand holding the pen moved, Tyrone Strome struck the inkpot violently so that it shot off the desk and straight towards her.

  Instinctively, as any woman would have done, she stepped back to prevent the ink from spoiling her gown and as she did so Tyrone Strome, with the incredible swiftness of a trained athlete, sprang over the desk and seized her arm to fling it upwards.

  She gave a cry of sheer fury. But almost before it had left her lips, before even she could pull the trigger of the revolver, he had taken it from her and had put the weapon in his pocket.

  She stood staring at him furiously, a pool of ink between them on the floor.

  Then, as if his action snapped the last vestige of her self-control, she rushed at him, her fingers pointed, clawing at his face.

  He held her away from him with one hand and slapped her hard against the cheek with the other.

  This sound was like a pistol shot and it not only checked Nevada’s assault but swept away her fury, so that she stood staring at him in astonishment, her fingers going up to her cheek.

  “You hit me!”

  Her voice was not angry, but merely surprised.

  “Yes, I hit you,” Tyrone Strome answered, “and I shall hit you again if you behave like a fishwife. In a physical battle, Nevada, you must be intelligent enough to know that you have no chance of winning.”

  She stood looking at him, her hand still on her burning cheek. Then, with a sound that was curiously like a sob, she turned and ran from the Saloon.

  *

  For what was left of the day Nevada lay on her bunk planning how she could get even with Tyrone Strome.

  She had been so confident when she remembered the revolver in her trunk that she would be able to force him into taking her to the nearest port.

  She had plenty of money besides jewellery that was worth a small fortune and she was quite certain that wherever she was put ashore she could find her way back to Europe and eventually to America.

  But Tyrone Strome had defeated her.

  While she hated him for doing so, she could not help feeling that there were few men who had his strength and agility.

  “I loathe him!” she cried aloud, “He shall not treat me like this! I will kill him rather than let him win!”

  It was easy to say, but impossible to do without a weapon.

  The small revolver with which she always travelled and which had given her a sense of security was now in Tyrone Strome’s possession and she had nothing else she could threaten him with.

  She thought of throwing herself overboard merely to annoy him. Then she had the uncomfortable feeling that perhaps he would consider it a good way to be rid of her and make little attempt to go to her rescue.

  She could not really believe that he would let her drown. At the same time she had begun to realise that there was a ruthlessness about him she had never encountered before.

  ‘I have to defeat him – I have to!’ she told herself all through the night.

  But, when the morning came, it was impossible to stay in her cabin and starve.

  She went to the galley eventually, only to find that apparently everyone else had breakfasted and the chef had gone.

  There were some eggs and rashers of bacon lying on the table and with the greatest difficulty Nevada managed to cook them.

  Her only experience of cooking had been at the barbecues she had sometimes attended in the country, when her friends had thought it amusing to cook steaks and sausages on an open charcoal fire and she had allowed the better-looking male guests to wait on her.

  She burnt her fingers and the food when she had cooked it was, she thought, almost inedible. But, because she was so hungry she ate it, although the main part of her breakfast consisted of bread and butter.

  There appeared to be no jam or honey and she wondered where they were kept, but as there was no one to ask she had to content herself with what she could find.

  When she went back to her cabin, it was exactly as she had left it. The bed was crumpled after she had slept in it, the clothes that she had discarded yesterday were still lying on the floor.

  She kicked her gown in exasperation, then, knowing it was one of her prettiest, she picked it up and hung it in the wardrobe.

  She looked at her large collection of trunks with dislike.

  How could she possibly cope with all this luggage by herself? And after she had unpacked the things she wanted to wear, how was she going to pack them again?

  She sat down on her bunk and tried to think what she could do and how she could persuade Tyrone Strome, if not by force then by other means, to stop this quite absurd punishment.

  That was what it was, Nevada knew, a punishment because he thought she had been unkind to his nephew, David.

  ‘I always knew men stuck together,’ she told herself, ‘but this is past all bearing.’

  She thought that she disliked not only Tyrone Strome but David and every other young man like him. In fact she hated all men and in the future she would take every possible opportunity to hurt them and make them suffer.

  But this did not help the position she was in at the moment. She was in Tyrone Strome’s power and could see no way out of it.

  Then, after thinking for a long time, she decided that she must use a different sort of tactic.

  Pulling her things out of one of the big trunks until she found a gown that she thought made her look wistful, she arranged her hair in a different style and went to the Saloon.

  As she expected, Tyrone Strome was at his desk.

  “Are you – very busy?” she asked in a soft hesitating voice. “If you are – I could come back later.”

  “What do you
want?” he asked uncompromisingly.

  “I, want – to talk to you.”

  “There is nothing to discuss.”

  “It would be very – kind and only fair if you would – listen to what I have to say.”

  With what she thought was an exasperated sigh, he pushed his papers aside and said,

  “Very well! If you are going to throw a bomb at me or if you have a javelin hidden in your petticoats, get it over. I am busy!”

  “It is – nothing like that.”

  Nevada walked to the desk and sat down on the edge of the chair facing him.

  Her eyes were very large and green, her red hair, which she had arranged so skilfully, framed her heart-shaped face like a halo.

  “What I want to say to you – Mr. Strome,” she said, “is simply that I am – sorry.”

  Tyrone Strome’s eyes were on her face as she continued,

  “I have been – thinking over what you said and I realise now that I was – wrong – completely and absolutely wrong to be so – unkind to David. I did not – think that he was – serious in threatening to take his life – in fact I can only tell you that I am very – ignorant about – men, having been an – only child.”

  Her eyes dropped and her lashes were very dark against her white skin as Nevada went on in a low voice,

  “I am sorry – really sorry that I should have been – so unkind.”

  She waited for Tyrone Strome’s reply, then he laughed.

  “An excellent theatrical performance, Nevada. It’s a pity you are so rich. You could have made your fortune on the stage!”

  “I am not – play-acting,” she protested, but despite herself, her voice rose a little.

  “All you need now is an appreciative audience,” he said. “I am quite certain if it had been a female one you would have had them in tears. As it is, I am afraid I am very sceptical of penitents who retract at the sight of the rack!”

  Nevada’s lips tightened for a moment.

  He was driving her very hard and it was difficult for her to keep her temper.

  “You must believe me – Mr. Strome,” she said. “I really am – sorry.”

  “Then I am delighted to hear, it, but that does not mean that I shall change my plans or alter my intentions of turning you into a woman. I hope you will enjoy your luncheon and now you must excuse me if I continue with my work.”

  Nevada rose to her feet.

  “Please don’t go on with this,” she pleaded and now she was not acting. “Take me back – I promise you that I will never communicate with David or your sister ever again – but I cannot stay here – like this.”

  “Why not?” Tyrone Strome asked.

  “Because I have never – lived like this before.”

  “Then you will doubtless find it an adventure, something which it might amuse you to relate to your friends when you return to New York.”

  “When may – I go home?”

  “When I consider you are ready to do so.”

  “Do be serious,” Nevada begged. “You have had your revenge. I am prepared to grovel and say that I am sorry, to apologise for everything, but I cannot stay here alone with you. If anyone should hear of it, they would be very shocked.”

  “No one will hear of it,” Tyrone Strome replied, “I have taken good care of that. David, Charles and everyone else with the exception of my sister believes you have returned to America. When Mrs. Langholme writes to ask if she may join you, my sister will deal with the situation. After all, there are a great number of people in the South of France and elsewhere who might wish you to be their guest.”

  Nevada drew in her breath. She felt as if he imprisoned her in a dungeon from which there was no escape.

  “As for scandal,” Tyrone Strome went on, “if you talk of what has occurred on this journey when you return to civilisation, that is entirely up to you.”

  “Do you suppose I would want to talk about it?” Nevada demanded angrily. “You are making a fool of me, as you well know. You are treating me as if I was a delinquent. That is certainly nothing to be proud of. Why go on with it? You have had your revenge. Is that not enough?”

  “I told you that we all have ambitions of some sort or another,” Tyrone Strome answered, “and mine at the moment is to turn a very unpleasant young specimen of humanity into something different. I may fail. It may prove impossible, but at least I shall have tried.”

  “I am not unpleasant,” Nevada stormed, “nor am I bad and evil as you are trying to make out. I have been thoughtless, I am prepared to admit that my head has been turned by so much admiration, but otherwise I am just an ordinary girl with feelings like everyone else.”

  “On the contrary, I should say that you are very extraordinary,” Tyrone said. “For instance you have told me that you dislike the thought of love.”

  “That certainly is true.” “What other woman with your assets could have no softness, no sympathy or compassion for the men who fall in love with her?” Tyrone asked. “And who would not wish to love and be loved, as men and women have done since the beginning of time?”

  His voice seemed to ring out round the Saloon.

  “Can I help the way I am?” Nevada snapped.

  “That is what I am going to find out. It may take quite a long time, but the sooner you get used to the idea, the better!”

  Nevada stamped her foot.

  “I hate you! I hate and loathe you! If I get a chance to kill you, I will do so. If I had had any sense, I would have shot you before you took my revolver away from me.”

  “What a pity you did not think of that sooner,” he replied mockingly.

  Nevada’s hands were clenched and he knew that she was longing to fly at him again and scratch his face as she had tried to do before.

  Then, as if she remembered how he had slapped her, she turned and rushed out of the Saloon, once again slamming the door behind her –

  Tyrone Strome laughed and picked up his papers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Swaying on top of a camel, Nevada thought it was rather like being on top of the waves.

  She could hardly imagine that what was happening to her was true and she was in fact travelling in a sort of sedan chair on a camel’s back. It was made of braided and coloured wicker and had a curtained awning above her head.

  She was aware that this litter was used only by the women of the highest Saharan society and that the others had to walk draped in blue veils or in Moslem fashion covered completely by a haik.

  She had learned the name of this tent-like white garment from the books she read before she left the yacht.

  But they had not prepared her for her sensational departure from it when it seemed to her that she lost her own identity and became a chattel of Tyrone Strome.

  As the yacht had moved along the coast of Morocco, she had lowered her pride sufficiently to ask him if she could have some books to read.

  She had grown very bored with either sulking in her cabin, which seemed to grow smaller and more uncomfortable with every trunk she opened, or else walking alone on deck ignored by both her host and the members of his crew.

  The only break in the monotony of the days was when she had to cook herself something to eat.

  It was almost an agony to see the succulent and delicious dishes that were prepared for Tyrone Strome and then to be left with pieces of raw meat, chicken or fish which she must prepare for herself.

  “I loathe cooking!” Nevada said over and over again.

  Nevertheless she watched the Chinese chef at work and, after a little while, she found that the food she cooked was not quite as unpalatable as it had been at first.

  The humiliation of having to go to the galley for anything she ate hurt her pride as, she told herself, did everything else aboard The Moulay.

  Then that morning when, after breakfast, she was standing in the sunshine on deck looking at the coastline, to her surprise Tyrone Strome had joined her.

  He stood at the railing also looking
towards the shore and, although she told herself she would not speak first, something about him seemed to force her into asking,

  “Where are we?”

  “The last place we passed,” he replied, “was Agadir. That, of course, is where the High Atlas mountains meet the sea.”

  Nevada was not going to admit it, but she had in fact been tremendously impressed by the great dry and brown elephantine peaks towering above the turbulent blue of the Atlantic.

  There had been gigantic spray-lashed cliffs alternating with verdant valleys, which were planted, she thought, with banana trees and maize.

  Then there had been a half-moon bay lined with peach-coloured sand, behind which there were the flat-topped roofs of a town she had thought was Agadir.

  It nestled in a green valley surrounded by trees and she thought how beautiful it was and she wished she could talk to someone about it.

  But she had no intention of breaking her almost total silence where Tyrone Strome was concerned.

  She hated him even more ferociously than she had done during the first days of the voyage.

  In fact the only time her thoughts veered from loathing the man who was punishing her was when she lost herself in the books he had lent her.

  There were quite a number of bookcases, which she had not noticed previously in the Saloon and nearly all the books she had found were about Africa and in particular Morocco.

  The majority were written in French and she was thankful that her education, on which her father had expended a small fortune, enabled her to read that language with ease.

  At first she had thought there was nothing in the bookcase to interest her, but, after she had begun to read a little about the history of Morocco, she wanted to know more.

  She discovered that even the warfare between the different tribes was fascinating and, because she was a quick reader, she found herself changing her books not once but several times a day.

  Because she wished to avoid Tyrone Strome, she usually went to the Saloon when she knew he was either on the bridge or exercising himself on deck.

  He not only walked an enormous amount, but he also, she found, did gymnastic exercises which would account for his athletic agility.