When the explosion came, shattering the air, it took a moment for me to realize what had happened, that a pistol had gone off. Far worse, the shot had gone astray, a few feet above me, into the cabin wall opposite. No one heard my scream, or cared. I strained to raise my head again, as the empty pistol was knocked from a hand, hurtling across the room. Then with a heaving sound, they broke apart and one hit the wall, Baptiste, I thought. My eye quickly turned to the man opposite, but not quickly enough. He'd produced something shiny, as if by magic, and hurled it across the cabin with effortless skill and all the speed of the pistol ball. I heard the sound of it, as it buried itself into the other man's chest.
It was the captain, I realized, who'd been victorious, as the other sank to the floor. Without pause he pulled his own pistol from his belt, moving to stand over the other man with it, obviously prepared to lower it to his forehead and fire. But as he stared down, then reached out a hand to touch him, he realized it wasn't necessary.
The Turk behind me had never moved. I dropped my head, my neck aching from the struggle to see. I heard him cross the cabin, and the sickening sound of him yanking the weapon from Baptiste's chest. He held up the bloodied knife toward me, obviously for the other man's benefit. It was the strangest blade I'd ever seen, with a slim handle and deep impressions cut into it, making it look almost like some letter from Hebrew or Greek. Staring above me at him, as if in warning, the captain offered an evil smile.
"Pinga. Best throwing knife in the world." With a layer of meaning beneath, he added, "Your people are very clever, Rashid."
With no word, he tucked his pistol back into his breeches, then reached down with a vicious tug to rip a piece of the dead man's shirt, using it to wipe off the strange blade, before he put it back in his vest. Then he calmly stepped to my washbasin in the corner, pouring what little was left from the pitcher, splashing his face with the water. He dried it with my small towel, and spoke softly into the air before him.
"You chose well, Rashid. You will have his share as well as your own. Now, get him out of here, and throw him to the fish. They're waiting for their supper."
I heard the snap of my towel as he tossed it aside. Finally the man behind me moved, as if he'd found his feet at last, and I heard the grisly sound of the body being dragged from my cabin. The captain shut the door behind him, and drew the bolt.
Then, with the ease of the drawing room, he picked up my cup from the floor, finding the bottle and pouring the last of the contents into it, swearing softly over their greed. He downed it in a single swallow, noiselessly setting the cup aside before he approached me.
Chapter Seven
I'm not certain why I tried, why the desperate words slipped from me. Unlike the others, he seemed, from the way he spoke, to be a man who'd had some education, who perhaps had once had a place in the world. Gambling on this, I suppose I thought I might touch some remnant of honor in him.
"I thank you, for saving me. Now, please untie me, Captain." There was no reply, and I could hear the quiver in my own voice when I added, "For the mercy of God, let me up!"
He stood near my waist, staring down. Something intense flared in the green eyes, and passed too quickly to read.
"The log says that you were bound for a convent school. But you are not in a convent now. There is no God here, and if you ask mercy, it must be of me."
Chilled by the words, I kicked again, angrily. He placed one hand on my leg, palm down, and there seemed more power in the gesture than in the brute force of the man who had gripped both legs as he tore at my skirts.
I went still, warily, and he lifted his hand, brushing his fingers over my hair, then my cheek.
"Baptiste was a useless bastard. But I must admit, I'm in no hurry to undo the one thing he's done well. You look lovely, just as you are." The raspy voice dropped even lower. "It's been a long time, since I've been to France. It's rare in the desert, to see a woman so fair. So fair, and so soft, with golden hair. An angel."
I should have felt some lessening of the blank terror that was blocking all rational thought, since there was only one man to try to escape. But it was this man, with his feral eyes. A man who could kill with such ease, who could jest as the body was dragged from the room, then turn without pause from bloodlust to another sort, his eyes just the same, burning with the same light. He was not a man to be moved by any plea for pity, though he made a pretense of it, as his hand still toyed with my hair.
"Your uncle is safe. I'm afraid half the mates are dead. But I ordered the rest put in a boat. They have a compass. They're only five leagues from shore here, and they're seamen. None will die. One does not kill before the eyes of an angel. Which is why I am sorry you had to see Baptiste die. I tried to be reasonable, but he defied me. This I will not tolerate. So you see, if you do as you are told, you have nothing to fear."
This I greatly doubted, though I had no power to do anything about it in any case. What will I possessed had been compromised. I had calmed but little with the absence of the others, only enough to realize that my words were a bit slurred, my thinking not quite clear. The tafia he'd forced me to drink had left an addled numbness in its wake, just as he'd intended.
The green eyes moved over me, followed by his hand. He was pressing his palm over my body, up my legs to my hips, over my breasts. It reminded me, with humiliation, of the way my father pressed his hand to the neck and long legs of a horse he wanted to purchase, smoothing with heavy pressure over the shoulders and flanks, as if looking for any knot or broken bone in what appeared on the surface to be without flaw.
Eyes flashing, he traveled down again, to the tangle of my skirts. When I felt his hand slide up my leg, pushing them even higher, I kicked out, one of my slippers flying. I wouldn't have been surprised by a blow, but instead he leaned down, sliding the blade from his boot. It wasn't a seaman's dirk, but a French hunting knife, elaborately designed with a guard on the tang shaped like a dragon, a trench down the center. For the blood. The polished silver flashed in the light from the single window, and I took in the engraving along it in a glance; met en piece le mort fait trembler le vivant. I knew what the ancient motto meant. "Send my enemies to the house of the dead, make the living tremble." The old French knights would have been proud. He had accomplished both with remarkable dispatch.
The trembling, at least, he must have seen, for his voice grew soothing, as well as provocative.
"Don't be afraid. You belong to me now, and nothing that belongs to me is ever damaged. But you will learn not to fight me, my sweet. A pointless waste of effort."
As if to prove it, that undressing me was too much bother, he began to simply cut my gown away, gutting upwards as he would have a fish, until I was naked of all but my corset and stockings, the rest in shreds under me. Panting, struggling not to, I didn't move, fearful of being sliced open in the same fashion, no matter his words.
I could feel the heat of shame all over my skin that must have been splotching it with red. He stared down, seeming fascinated by my stays. It was a delicate French corset that didn't reach my waist, my breasts cradled in the two half-moon cups. He studied it, brushing his free hand over the brocade, and then turned the knife in his hand. With a grin, he began at the lowest tie, catching it with the edge of the blade, easily slicing through the velvet tie in one swift stroke. It was worse, in a way, than what the other two had done, for he seemed to be relishing it, drawing out the moment as long as possible. I shut my eyes when I felt the cold blade slide upward over my skin, then the next quick, violent flick of the sharp edge. There were only five, and when he reached the top, he paused even longer before he cut it, and the bustier came apart. He used the flat of the knife to flick aside the left and then the right, and I felt the air shriveling my flesh. To my infinite relief, he then slipped the blade back down his boot.
"Breathe, my sweet. Breathe."
I didn't realize I was holding my breath, and I loosed the air with a little sob, while he smiled again, watching my breas
ts ripple with the heaving gasp.
He reached down with a calloused hand, carefully kneading one of them, exploring every inch of it.
"Lovely. Incredibly lovely. Not like the teats on a cow. I despise that. The shape is perfect. But large, for one so young."
Then he lowered his head and took one into his mouth, sucking on it, tugging and rolling it between his teeth. Instinctively I pulled at the bonds on my wrists, my elbow slamming the side of his head, and he reached out, holding it away, as he moved to the other breast and began dining on it. I felt his free hand roam down, exploring my legs, over my hips, then to my thighs that were now gripped tight together. He flirted with the white ribbons holding my stockings on above my knees, seeming in no hurry to have them off, as fascinated as he'd been by my corset.
He raised his head, speaking in a low voice, his words jolting me.
"Spread your legs apart."
Wordlessly I shook my head, and he only smiled.
"Do as I say. Open your legs. I won't hurt you."
I was still shaking my head. He stood straight, and the look on his face sent a tremor through me, the movement of denial seeming more a shiver. He stepped to the foot of the table, gripped me by the ankles and yanked them wide, with stunning force in his arms. Then he stared at me a moment before he spoke, his voice as level as before.
"When I tell you to do something, you will do it."
I had never before been exposed in such a way. The tears began to slip down my temples into my tangled hair, and I knew that in another moment he would undo the ragged pantaloons and produce the object of my ravishment.
But instead he'd gone still, reaching out one hand to slide it up the inside of my thigh. The journey seemed to take forever, and when he was finished with one leg, he went to the other, even caressing my stockings. He moved so slowly I wondered if he thought to lull me or to enjoy himself. His fingers crept up, agonizingly patient, and I let out a little wail when he reached the tight curls, brushing over the lips he'd spread so wide.
"C'est belle, la petite cun," he said, and though I'd never heard the word, I knew full well what he meant.
He studied me, intensely, and his being so tall, my head and legs flat on the table like a patient in a surgery about to endure vivisection, I had only to open my eyes to see the spellbound expression on his face.
He'd spoken in a tone of wonder, his hands still exploring as he moved around to the side of the table near my hips for a closer view, and of a sudden I realized at least one source of his fascination. It wasn't my skin or hair, but my reddened clit, so openly exposed to his eyes and touch. I remembered then, what my uncle said, that most of the decent women of Barbary had had these parts removed. I realized from his face that it was a rare sight for him, another Frenchwoman, a decent woman whose private parts had not been butchered by the primitive ignorance of the Maghreb.
He murmured, "Like a ruby. No wonder they call it a jewel." He paused for some little time. "I want to see you take your pleasure."
The improbable words reached out to me, breaking through the wall of shock, and the thought of any pleasure at his hand tempted me to laugh, if only to insult him, a temptation I resisted for fear of retribution.
He stroked me with his hand, only once, making me twitch, and he smiled, murmuring again, something I couldn't hear. Despite my complete helplessness, my inability to concede or deny, there was about him an air of seduction that was deeply unsettling, a power to beguile in his voice and manner. Though it had been but briefly, I had been in the brutish hands of his two men, suffering blind terror. But something inside warned me that I was now in even more danger than I'd been before.
My breath hitched up, my heartbeat as well, and angrily I was beginning to wish he would do it and be done with it, then kill me and put an end to it. For some reason, I thought fleetingly of that day on the sand with Eugène, who'd had no interest whatsoever in what was between my own legs, or in anything but his rutting, and so that much more had I assumed the same treatment at his hands. But the captain had no intention of making it so easy. I felt his thick, calloused fingers begin to explore, fettered by the fact that I was as dry as the desert sand on the lee shore. Undaunted, he continued, separating his fingers to brush over the mound of hair and then downward, while I gasped and flinched each time he touched that core of sensation, making him smile again.
Without pause, he leaned his shaggy head over me and licked it with his tongue in one long stroke. The shock of it, a thing I never even knew any man would do, caused my hips to buck. When he tried to drive one of his fingers inside me, I cried out.
"Une vierge?" I heard him say, astonished, wondering if I were virgin. I refused him an answer, and so, unfortunately, he determined to find out for himself. He dragged the calloused fingertips up again, over my bijou, my jewel, bringing a hell worse than the one I'd imagined, the humiliation of helpless acquiescence. He stroked gently but in an even rhythm, without stopping, waiting for what he was certain would arrive. I'd never known what it would feel like to have that delicate bud kneaded and caressed with my legs spread so far apart, with the eager face watching, his breath rising with excitement, and the sensitive nerves could not be shut off by mere will.
I'd had no intention of offering it, but I could feel the familiar surge of slick heat, and heard a soft laugh over his success, as he slipped one finger easily inside me, making me squirm. He tried to push in a second one, and the passage fought to keep him out. He fought back, going deeper, swirling and stroking in a tight circle.
"You're not virgin. I knew that, when I saw your face. There is too much passion in it. But you must have fucked a little boy."
He knew too much. He would leave me nothing, no place to hide, stripping me of my life as he had my clothes. His words made me flush, and his shocking awareness, as if he'd seen what I'd done, made me feel just as vulnerable as my position. Far worse, I had the intuitive feeling that had I been a virgin, I might have found the mercy I'd pleaded for, perhaps the tiniest drop of it. But now, in my single foolish misstep, I'd made of myself food for the gods.
He carried the slick essence higher, and the rough fingers were like a thousand tiny, delicious spikes, exciting me helplessly. I could feel myself throbbing in reply, as he circled again and again, making a low sound in the back of his throat that, to my shame, matched the one rising from my own.
Before I could try to close my legs against him, he slid his hands under my thighs, his fingers buried in the flesh on the inner side, and dropped his head between my legs once more. My hips vaulted upwards to escape him, making it easier for him. He gathered up my backside, raising me to his lips like meat from the plate. It was a terrifying, incredible sensation, as he fell to the task with relish, licking and exploring, probing with the tip of his tongue.
His hands were so large he was able to cradle my cheeks in his palms, while the long fingers reached from beneath, spreading the lips even farther apart. Then he ravaged me with his tongue, harder, plunging it inside me as if to drink of me. I felt his hair drag along the inside of my legs as he ran his mouth over the whole of me, drawing those lips between his own. He tasted and probed the heated cleft, always rising again, back to the aching clit, making me gasp. In reply, he twirled the tip of his tongue against it, then wrapped his lips around it and gently suckled, as he had my breasts. It was almost like pain, a pain that was foreign, with fever at its heart. I was being devoured.
I seemed to fall over the edge, and the incoherent surrender was torn from my throat. My pride was broken when I realized his mouth wasn't the only source of the flood between my legs. I was giving up even more of myself, the thick deluge pouring out of me as waves of delirium shuddered through my body, making my hips writhe in his hands. I was too much an innocent then to understand just how much it excited me, to be gripped, struggling, while he forced my own need to offer up to him what he had determined to have.
But he understood. He knew what I was already. Primitive, murdero
us, utterly without scruple, somehow he'd seen what I was, before I could see myself. From between my legs he said something, the words wet and muffled against my saturated lips. Voule le tu, ma petite, he murmured, and with an indrawn breath and a ragged sob, I heard what he'd said. You want it. I turned my head aside, my eyes closing tight. My breath was quickening, and I couldn't face the reason I'd stopped pulling my hips from him, and was instead pushing them up to his face, as his tongue jabbed and swirled, timed to my wordless pleas.
Gripped by fever, I loosed a piercing cry, my spine arching. The light was exploding around me, the moans erupting from me helplessly, as I still fought so desperately not to feel. It only made him rougher, mauling the quivering flesh, until the final spasms of shattering release overwhelmed me in a wave of pleasure I'd never felt before, a pleasure I could never have conceived.
I felt as if I'd gone far from him, so far. As awareness returned I kept my eyes closed, unwilling to see the victory on his face. He kissed me once, as if it were my mouth, then smoothed his soaked lips over the inside of my thighs, making me shudder.
"To lock you in a convent. A sin worse than any I have committed."
I felt his hands slide from beneath me, then he strode to the berth. I heard the sound of his sword belt dropped to the floor. In a haze I sensed him return, felt his grip on my legs, and felt it tighten as he yanked me down the table to him, my arms straightening their full length, my legs dangling over the edge. Between the shreds of my gown I felt the rough wood clawing at my cheeks, singeing my skin like a brazier. He drove himself inside me, fighting his way in, and I shot back to awareness, crying out at the unexpected pain. He must have been twice the pathetic size of Eugène. He grabbed my hips, lifting me off the table as he rammed harder, until he was all the way inside. I was filled, up to my belly, so filled it choked my cries until they broke apart. Then he paused, lowering his head to press his lips to each one of my knees, before he rocked his hips again.
Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1) Page 6
