Captive Innocence

by Fern Michaels

  Suddenly, he shifted, throwing her backwards, coming on top of her, looming over her. For a thousand times, it seemed, his lips and hands traveled her body, starting at the pulse point near her throat and seeming to end at her toes. He found certain places that pleased him, hunted for those places that pleased her.

  He whispered Spanish love words, praising her beauty, celebrating her sensuality. Her body seemed to have a life of its own and she succumbed to it, turning, opening, like the petals of a flower. His searching fingers adored her, his hungry mouth worshipped her. Lower and lower his kisses trailed, covering the tautness of her belly and slipping down to the softness between her thighs.

  She felt him move upon her, demanding her response, tantalizing her with his mouth, bringing her ever closer to that which had always eluded her and kept itself nameless from her. Her body flamed beneath his kiss, offering itself to him, arching and writhing, reveling in that sensation that was within her grasp, reveling in her own femininity.

  She felt as though she were separated from herself, that the world was comprised only of her aching need and his lips. Exotically sweet, thunderously compelling, her need urged him on, the same need that lifted her upwards, upwards, soaring and victorious, defeating her barriers, conquering her reserves, bringing her beyond the threshhold of a delicious rapture that she had never dreamed or suspected even in her fantasies.

  And when his mouth closed over hers once again, he tasted of herself. He had proved her a woman and had not cursed her for it. He had allowed her to rise victorious in her passions, leaving her breathless and with the knowledge that there was more, much more. She was satisfied, yet discontent; fed and yet famished. She wanted to share the ecstasy he had given her, participate in that sharing, and only with him.

  Grasping her hips, he lifted her as though she were weightless. He brought her parted thighs around him, and when he drove downward, she felt as if she were being consumed by a totally different fire. A fire that burned cooler, leaving sensibilities intact. Yet, there was that same driving need deep within her, deeper and more elusive than she had experienced the first time. She struggled to bring herself closer, needing to be a part of him this time, needing him to be a part of herself. These fires burned deeper, brighter, fed by the fuel of his need for her, of his hunger to be satisfied.

  A single, golden tear glistened on her cheek. She was triumphant, powerful, a woman. In this man’s arms she knew she had been born for this moment, that all her life had been leading up to what she was experiencing with this magnificent stranger. He had taken her out of herself, revealed a world of wonder to her, where arms and lips and bodies were meant for the loving. He had shown her the secrets of the universe and she had learned them, proudly, head high. He had taught her that she was a woman and exalted with her, carrying her with him to the heights beyond the stars.

  Afterwards, they slept in each other’s arms, and even in sleep their lips sought and their hands soothed. Twice again, before the light of day, he took her, each time finding a new and exciting variation to their lovemaking.

  Royall was sated, filled with the wonder of her new-found sensuality. Her body ached in places she had never known she possessed, and with that ache came a joy. She had found herself, felt she at last knew herself, and all the dark secrets were banished, exiled by the hands and lips and body of a mysterious buccaneer.

  Shortly before dawn he nuzzled her neck, holding her close. “I don’t want to leave you, mi poca leona.” These last words he whispered softly, calling her his little lioness. “I must leave Rio on the outgoing tide and still have affairs that must be attended to.”

  She could sense that he didn’t want to leave her, and it made her feel closer to him. But he said he must, and she felt it would be irrelevant to tell him that her own ship sailed very shortly. For a moment she held him close, knowing she would never find another man like him in her lifetime. But last night had been made for memories, and she would cherish every one.

  Chapter Three

  Everywhere she looked the bright Brazilian sun illuminated the pageant of humanity on the rough-hewn wharf in the seaport city of Belém.

  Hawkers were everywhere, crying their goods at full voice. Sailors mulled about from one stall to another, quarreling about the prices and paying them all the same.

  Beggar children followed the sailors, pulling on their sleeves or tugging at their trouser legs, begging for a sweet or imploring the men, through gestures, to visit and buy something at their families’ stands.

  While merchants haggled over the prices, Indian women, long skirts wrapped about their slim bodies, vied for the best of the merchandise. All about was color and teeming life. It was the most exciting sight Royall had seen since Mardi Gras in Rio, and a far cry from her native New England.

  She took particular notice of the Indian women. They were lovely to her eyes—smooth, dark skin, not black like the Negro, but a nut brown, great dark eyes, and straight black hair tied at the back. They wore bright colors and patterns that enhanced their complexions, and Royall felt pale beside them.

  She noticed a few of the women appraising her, and she felt herself blush under their impertinent stares. A few of them spoke to one another, nodding in her direction.

  Mrs. Quince, noting her embarrassment, translated their light, musical language for her. “They say you’re beautiful; they call you the golden girl. These Indians are always impressed with fair skin and light hair. They envy you.”

  “And I was just thinking how lovely they are. They make me feel pale in comparison.”

  “Well, dear, you know the saying, ‘the grass is always greener.’ Come, we must inquire about our accomodations on the paddlewheeler. One mustn’t trust to reservations. Drat this outlandish chair,” the woman complained testily. “If these wheels get caught between the cobblestones, poor Alonzo will be without a wife. A wheelchair, they call this contraption,” she continued to mutter as Royall pushed her from behind. “I call it a curse! Push, Royall! And keep a firm grip. The Lord protect us, I won’t feel safe until we set foot in Manaus!”

  At the name of the exotic city, Royall felt a tingle and a quickening of her senses. “Manaus,” her geography text had read, “a treasure trove of wealth and culture, glistening beneath the Brazilian sun. Erected on the banks of the Amazon on the wealth from the rubber boom, deep in the mysterious jungles of Brazil.”

  Settling her bandbox on Mrs. Quince’s lap, Royall squared her shoulders and started to push the rattan wheelchair in the direction of the low-slung buildings at the wharf’s edge.

  A small boy dashed past her. As she swung sideways to avoid colliding with him, she noticed a tall, dark, hatless man staring at her. The boldness of his gaze was disturbing, and she rushed forward to escape his rudeness.

  “... You’ll be delighted with the paddle boat. It’s just what a young girl needs. Gaiety and music. Our paddle boats here on the Amazon rival those on your Mississippi for luxury and food and entertainment. This will be a chance to wear your loveliest gowns.”

  Royall smiled as she watched Mrs. Quince’s pale, slate-colored eyes light with anticipation.

  After booking passage on the Brazilia d’Oro, Royall guided Mrs. Quince toward the wharf. “We can have our trunks transferred to the Brazilia when we board.”

  The gangplank stretched ahead of them, waiting for the purser to validate their boarding passes. Rosalie Quince was engaged in a lively conversation with the agent when, for a second time, Royall became aware of eyes staring at her. Boldly, she looked around. Her heavily lashed, gold-flecked eyes lifted to the promenade deck. Staring down at her with a cool, mocking gaze was the buccaneer from the Mardi Gras.

  God in heaven, what was he doing here on board their ship? He couldn’t be sailing with them. He just couldn’t. Memories of Mardi Gras flooded through her as she struggled to gain control of her composure. This couldn’t be happening to her. She raised her eyes slightly. He was leaning nonchalantly against the rail, never takin
g his gaze from her. Royall’s back stiffened. She stared back, her eyes bold and just as mocking. A pity, she thought, that the sun was so blinding that it was making her squint. Or was it the starkness of his white tropical suit? She found herself craning for a better look and was immediately annoyed with herself. What did he think? As if she cared what the arrogant bastard thought. How dare he look at her that way? Make her feel conspicuous and embarrassed. A small, sick curl of heat wormed in her stomach. This couldn’t be happening! The buccaneer was supposed to be aboard a ship in Rio, sailing out of her life forever. If she had ever suspected that their paths would cross again, she would never have allowed herself to be compromised this way. Impertinently, refusing to allow him to get the better of her, she tilted her chin upwards, continuing her bold stare. A tumble of dark hair, ruffled by the soft wind, grazed his brow. He brushed it aside impatiently, never taking his eyes from her.

  Again, Royall was struck by his handsomeness, his masculinity. And if appearances were not deceiving, he was still very interested in her. More for deviltry than for any other reason, she lowered her left eyelid in a seductive wink, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. He straightened and nodded his head imperceptibly, acknowledging her small flirtation.

  Rosalie Quince turned to face Royall. “Did you ever see a more beautiful thing in your life?”

  Mistaking Mrs. Quince’s words, Royall laughed. “No, Mrs. Quince, I can truthfully say I have never seen anything quite so ... so ... dashing.”

  Rosalie Quince grimaced. “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of a ship called dashing before. Whatever, it’s of no mind. I do so love these paddle-wheelers.”

  Royall’s eyes were following the tall man on the promenade deck. “I’ve only seen pictures of them,” she replied distractedly.

  “Is anything wrong, Royall?”

  “Wrong? Of course not, Mrs. Quince.” She couldn’t allow the garrulous Mrs. Quince to suspect that there was a man aboard the paddlewheeler arousing her interest. Worse yet, what if he approached them and revealed his acquaintance with her? No, she assured herself uncertainly; surely he would not be that much of a boor. Or would he?

  Royall watched the people boarding the steamboat. Her eyes took in the bright white vessel with its red and gold painted rails. The smokestacks were painted a bright orange, and the gangplank itself was a bright green. Anywhere else these colors would have been overstated, but on the graceful paddlewheeler they were exactly right.

  A steward came and relieved Royall of her bandbox, and she followed him as he expertly guided Mrs. Quince’s chair up the bright green gangplank to the promenade deck of the Brazilia. Royall held tightly to the hemp rope handrail as she ascended the slanting plank. She was still not sure of her “land legs,” and she felt she would be more secure on board ship on her “sea legs,” which she had learned to command over the several weeks’ journey from New England to Brazil. She wondered vaguely if it were possible to become “land sick.” She had certainly felt queer since her return to solid ground. Or was it the buccaneer’s influence on her? She said as much to Mrs. Quince.

  “Oh, lord a mercy, yes, child. I, too, am feeling the effect of our long sea voyage. The layover here in port hasn’t really helped. We’ll be much more comfortable aboard the Brazilia. Truthfully, I can hardly wait to arrive at my plantation where I can be at my leisure and take life slow.”

  Royall found it hard to believe Mrs. Quince ever took life at a leisurely pace.

  They followed the steward to their respective cabins. The small, dark man opened the doors and led them into a cool, dim stateroom, furnished in quiet elegance. The theme of the room was that of a casual summerhouse, all cool greens and pale petal pinks. A deep rose carpet accentuated the light color of the draperies. Hanging from the low ceiling was a glittering crystal chandelier properly scaled to the diminutive proportions of the cabin.

  Mrs. Quince’s stateroom was similarly furnished, except that the carpet was a deep crimson.

  “They will do nicely, won’t they? Royall, do you hear me?”

  Royall wasn’t listening to Mrs. Quince. Instead, her attention was directed toward the open doorway where she had glimpsed a tall figure dressed in a white suit. It had moved from the doorway just as she lifted her eyes.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Quince, did you say something?”

  “I was just saying these staterooms will do nicely, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, very nicely indeed.”

  “Child, you seem tired. Perhaps you should lie down and rest. You’ll feel more like yourself and you’ll be able to enjoy the evening’s festivities.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I do feel a little tired.”

  “I thought so. Why don’t you go into your room and rest. I’ll make certain our luggage is brought aboard.”

  Royall sank down on her bed. Her innards were churning ominously, making her feel decidedly green at the gills. It was impossible! Impossible! He couldn’t be here, aboard this ship, traveling with them, his obvious destination Manaus. It was close, too close for comfort.

  Her thoughts raced, discarding one possibility after another. What would he do? What would he say? Was he a gentleman or not? Would he dare to refer to their meeting in Rio de Janeiro? Would he flaunt their intimacy?

  Questions boiled in her brain, and no solutions made themselves clear. At last, she decided there was only one possible course of action. Royall threw herself back against the pillows. There was only one choice. If he should dare to approach her, she would ignore him. Pretend that he was mistaken about knowing her. It would take daring and the skill of an accomplished liar, but her reputation was at stake.

  Why? Why, when for once in her life she had followed her own instincts, her own desires, should fate decree she would be haunted by her impetuosity? Fool! Fool! she cursed herself, beating her fists against the coverlet. Why couldn’t I have listened to Mrs. Quince, stayed aboard the clipper ship, and drowned myself in lemonade?

  Royall squeezed her eyes shut and turned over on her side. He was brash, insolent, a rogue without conscience! She should have known he was no gentleman—staring at her that way, smiling at her! A gentleman never reminded a lady of her indiscretions. His eyes had seemed to devour her, and in public no less! Shame filled her, bringing heat to her cheeks. But then her traitorous memory reminded her of the way his dark gaze had covered her the night of Mardi Gras. The way his hands had touched her, pleasuring her, bringing her beyond the threshhold of desires and passions that she had only dreamed of but had had no experience with. His lips had burned her skin, scorching a trail from her breasts to navel and ... beyond. Tender lips, demanding lips, glowing dark eyes, gentle exploring fingers ... Stop it! Stop it! her mind screamed, even while her body betrayed her, needing, wanting to feel those lips, know those hands again. And somehow knowing she would.

  Her agitated thoughts demanded action. Jumping up from the bed, she prowled the room like a caged lioness. Mrs. Quince was right; sleep, she needed sleep. With shaking fingers, she unpinned the scandalously tiny hat that matched her gold and navy pinstripe dress from atop her shining, golden head. Next came the dress, the shoes and petticoats. Stripped down to pantaloons and chemise, she closed the louvers on the tiny draped portholes, darkening the room and muting the bright colors. It seemed that since arriving in Brazil she had been assaulted by color, all colors, intoxicating in their intensity. The colors of the Mardi Gras ... no, she would not think of that now. If possible, she would. never think of it again. Pulling the last of the pins from her hair, allowing it to tumble down to her waist, she flung herself on the bed, determinedly closing her eyes, banishing all thought, seeking sleep.

  After awakening from her brief nap, Royall felt refreshed and found herself excitedly anticipating the coming evening aboard the river steamer. From all indications it would indeed be exciting. Already she could hear strains of music from the distant orchestra, the tune reminiscent of Mardi Gras.

  Quickly, she made her
ablutions and sat before the kidney-shaped, organdy-skirted dressing table to arrange her hair. Beneath the bevy of hairpins, ribbons, and dusting powder, she spied her silver-backed hairbrush.

  Lovingly, she picked it up and held it to her cheek. Somehow, it brought her father closer to her. It had been his last gift to her before he died. She once again felt the deep, aching gap in her life, a loss more devastating than even losing MacDavis. Perhaps after a time it would narrow, its sharp edges becoming less jagged and easier to bear. She studied the back of the brush. It was heavily engraved. Her slim, oval finger traced the words “Reino Brazilia,” the name of the rubber plantation to which she was traveling. It was from this same plantation that her father had come by his wealth. Now it was to be her new home.

  Twin lines formed between her finely arched brows, and for an instant she felt as if she were moving through time. Her thoughts slid backward, placing her once again on the clipper ship that had brought her to this exotic land.

  The wind had been blowing gently, rustling the sheaf of papers she had carried with her to the mid-deck. Settled in her chair, she attempted to make some sense of her father’s portfolio. It had all been carefully explained to her by the family lawyers, but she had been so filled with grief that their words were only a jumble, and the papers she had signed had passed beneath her pen in a blur.

  It was there on the mid-deck that she had come across a ledger that her father had used for his personal journal. Leafing through the pages, she found the ledger opened to the last few entries: those written just before Richard Harding’s death.

  Melancholia brought stinging tears to her eyes, and she fought them back in an effort to read the neat, small script. Something caught her eye, some oddly worded phrase that she couldn’t comprehend. She then turned back to the preceding pages and scanned the lines. Nothing really, some mention of dates and appointments, a few others about a purchase of French wines for the cellars. Here: