Jennifer Wilde

by Marietta Love Me

  "I know."

  "There's no hope of one of the men takin' a fancy to her, takin' her back to the island. I brought the subject up with Michael, said that little Negro girl is extremely pretty, said I was surprised one of the men hadn't appropriated her. He said Red Nick has an aversion to Negroes, won't have 'em on the island."

  "I have a plan, Em. I think it may work. What you just told me isn't going to make it any easier."

  Em started to speak but cut herself short as we heard footsteps coming down the hall that led to the study door. Her face went white. Seizing her hand, I pulled her over behind the bed and shoved her down. She crawled nimbly under it as the study door opened and Michael Tremayne strolled across the room. He took two maps from the rack beside the globe, unrolled them, and began to examine them with close scrutiny. After a moment he rolled one back up, stuck it back in the rack, and left the room with the other map under his arm. He hadn't even glanced toward the bedroom.

  "It's all right now, Em," I said as he closed the door. "You can come on out."

  Em scrambled from under the bed and stood up, visibly shaken, chestnut locks falling to her shoulders in wild disarray. She brushed her skirts and straightened the low-cut bodice that barely contained her breasts. Moving over to the doorway, she peered into the study and breathed a sigh of relief.

  "It was Tremayne," I told her. "He came to fetch a map."

  "Hope he didn't peek into his room to see how I was doin'," she said. "I thought my heart was going to leap right out of me. I'd better skip on over to his room before someone else pops in on us."

  "Be careful, Em."

  "You, too, luv."

  She gave me a quick hug and then scurried across the plush gold carpet to the study door. Cocking her ear against it, she hesitated, listening a moment before easing it open and stepping into the hallway. I was shaken, too. Slipping over here as she had was a foolhardy thing to have done, a terrible risk, and I shuddered to think what would have happened had she been discovered. Em was a remarkably brave young woman, remarkably perceptive as well. Talking to her had strengthened my conviction that I was using the right approach with Red Nick.

  Moving over to the three chests, I opened the first one, lifting the heavy lid with considerable effort. It was filled with gorgeous Irish linen napkins and tablecloths, with sumptuous blue silk draperies, and with bolts of cloth of silver, of pink and soft beige velvet. The second chest contained a collection of Sevres china, dozens and dozens of pieces, each exquisitely patterned with royal blue and coral pink designs and lavishly adorned with gold. King Louis himself might have dined off such china, I thought, closing the lid.

  The third chest contained a small case covered with white leather worked with gold and, carefully wrapped in tissue, several gowns that had never been worn, I took them out one by one, marveling at their elaborate beauty, finally selecting a deep saffron yellow satin completely overlaid with golden lace. It had a petticoat of frail yellow tissue cloth with at least a dozen skirts in varying shades of yellow and gold. I set gown and petticoat aside, folded the others up and put them back into the chest, and then I opened the lovely white leather case.

  Springs within the case caused several blue velvet trays to lift up as I raised the lid. The bottom tray held six delicate crystal bottles with fancy stoppers, each bottle nestling in its own nitch and filled with perfume. The next tray held a silver comb, a brush with silver handle and silver back patterned with gold flowers and leaves. The other trays held tiny sable-tipped brushes, a white silk box filled with beauty patches, and an array of jars and pots made of fine white porcelain traced with gold. I had never seen such an elaborate makeup case, had never seen such a variety of eye shadow and rouge and powder and lip rouge. The case had been designed in France, I knew, and I suspected that it had been created for a queen.

  I took the case over to the dressing table without a moment's hesitation. Removing the brush and comb, I began to work on my hair, combing out the tangles, brushing and brushing until the rich, copper-red locks gleamed with red-gold highlights and fell in a lustrous cascade that framed my face with heavy, natural waves. I spent considerable time selecting the right shade of rouge, the right eye shadow, tinting my cheeks with a soft, pale pink, rubbing a suggestion of mauve-gray shadow over my lids. I selected a deeper pink lip rouge, using it sparingly, knowing that the secret of makeup was a subtle enhancement of natural coloring.

  I opened one of the bottles of perfume. The scent was tantalizing, elusive, vaguely suggesting a field of poppies under a hot summer sun. I dabbed it behind my earlobes, between my breasts, touching wrists and the curves of my elbows lightly with the stopper, using just enough to give a teasing hint of fragrance. Replacing the stopper, putting the bottle back in its blue velvet nest, I reflected that this was the first time I had deliberately prepared myself for a rape. I intended to be in full control during every moment, but Nicholas Lyon must never suspect that. I would allow him to conquer and crush, allow him the brutal domination his nature required, but I would be the victor.

  I replaced brush, comb, and pots, closing the makeup case and moving over to the bed. I untied the leaf brown sash and let the dressing robe fall to the floor in a shiny heap. I intended to leave it there. It would undoubtedly irritate him. I intended to irritate him. I intended to tease and taunt, working on him until he was seething with passionate fury, and then I intended to fight him with all my might, resorting to melodrama if need be. Nicholas Lyon was going to have a highly satisfying time. When it was over, when he had satiated the passionate fury I would arouse, he was not even going to consider sending me to Brazil, even though I might pretend to want him to do just that. I planned all this quite coldly, feeling not the slightest shame.

  There was no room for shame. Survival was everything now. I had wanted to die, would gladly have killed myself after Derek was murdered, but that was behind me now. Since that night, I had endured horror far worse than any before, worse than the sordid degradation I had suffered at the hands of the Bow Street runners, worse than the terrifying brutalities inflicted on me when Helmut Schnieder finally went mad, and I could endure anything now. If I had to plot and scheme and play the harlot in order to survive, I would do so willingly. I was going to save myself—I was going to save Corrie, too—and one day Roger Hawke would pay for what he had done.

  Completely naked, I slipped into the petticoat. The frail yellow tissue cloth was semi-transparent, the bodice extremely tight, extremely low, and the skirts lifted, floated, spreading out like fragile petals in glorious shades of yellow and gold. I put the gown on over it and stepped back over to the mirror, reaching around to fasten the tiny hooks in back. The rich yellow satin gleamed beneath the layer of glittering gold lace woven in elaborate floral patterns. The gown had been created for a smaller woman. It was much too tight at the waist and so low I hardly dared breathe. The narrow puffed sleeves fell completely off the shoulder, the thin petticoat straps beneath. The bodice was form-hugging, barely covering my nipples, and the full, full skirt swelled out over the underskirts like a great golden-yellow bell.

  I stood in front of the mirror, barefoot, examining myself with cool objectivity. Everything was perfect, the hair, the face, the spectacular, provocative gown. I wondered idly about the woman for whom it had been intended. The contents of the three chests were obviously booty Lyon was taking back to the island, the gowns and makeup case gifts for the woman named Maria whom Em had mentioned. Maria gave herself airs, Em had told me, and Red Nick was growing tired of her, looking for a replacement.

  Moving back into the study, I examined the parchment maps on the wall, gave the globe a twirl, restless now, nervous, too, although I tried to deny it. The chandelier over the dining table tinkled, barely audible, and I could feel the ship moving with a slight swaying motion that was hardly noticeable. I strolled back into the dressing room to examine the cutlasses and the collection of pistols. I took one of them down, testing its weight, checking it closely. Hanging
it back in place, I frowned and returned to the other room. An hour passed slowly, so slowly, and then another, and my nerves were stretched to the breaking point. It was only with the greatest effort that I managed to hold onto even a semblance of composure.

  It must have been at least another hour before the door opened and Lyon came in with Michael Tremayne, I was standing by one of the chairs, my hand resting on its back. Neither man paid the slightest attention to me. I might have been invisible. Tremayne unrolled a map and spread it out over the desk, pointing out an area with his forefinger. If his calculations were correct, he stated, the French vessel would be in those waters in three or four days, bound for Louisiana and carrying a very rich cargo. It wouldn't be out of their way to intercept it, he added, and although it would undoubtedly be heavily armed, they could take it easily enough.

  "The usual ruse," he said. "It still works dandy, fools 'em every time."

  "You're certain about your information?"

  Tremayne nodded. "Got it first hand. I was dressed like a toff, wearin' frock coat and cravat, mixin' among 'em with a cigar in my mouth and passin' as a businessman. No one questioned my right to be there. I kept my mouth shut, of course, didn't want my voice to give me away. I just strolled about, lookin' grave and listenin'."

  "You did well, Tremayne."

  "Figured I might as well make myself useful while I was waitin' for Quince and his men to round up the wenches. Are we going to take it?"

  "I see no reason why not," the captain replied. "It'll keep the men. from getting too restless before we get back to the island."

  They talked for a few minutes longer, and then Tremayne left. Nicholas Lyon rolled up the map and placed it in the rack. My nerves were screaming silently, and I was weak from hunger, yet somehow I was able to look at him with a cool, steady gaze when he finally decided to give me his attention. He studied me for a long time in silence, that heavy dark copper wave dipping down over his brow, his blue eyes gradually darkening. He must have been at least six-foot-three, I thought, and that excessively lean, hard frame made him seem taller still. His sharp, bony features and the upward slanting eyebrows brought to mind a sleek, diabolical fox.

  "The gown suits you," he said.

  "I assume it was stolen, along with the rest of the things."

  "You examined the chests? They were in the possession of a minor ambassador who, unhappily, chanced to be on a ship we took two weeks ago. I believe the chests were intended as gifts to a cousin of King Louis, a lady of renowned beauty."

  "What happened to the ambassador?"

  "He walked the plank, screaming every step of the way. Draper finally had to give him a prod. The men were quite amused."

  "And you?"

  "I find such things tiresome, believe a clean, quick kill much more efficient, but the men relish their fun. I feel compelled to oblige them."

  I looked at him with disgust and horror, deliberately allowing my composure to slip a little, and that pleased him. A faint smile flickered on his lips, and the blue eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement. He clearly intended to toy with me, savoring every moment, and I didn't intend to disappoint him. Visibly repressing a shudder, I regained my composure with what appeared to be great difficulty, drawing myself up and facing him with cool defiance.

  "You're utterly heartless," I said.

  "Quite true," he admitted.

  "You can kill me, too."

  "I could," he said, "quite easily. I could take that lovely throat in my hands and choke the life out of you in a matter of seconds, but I have different plans."

  "I prefer death!"

  "I seriously doubt that," he replied.

  The words seemed to catch in his throat. That harsh, metallic voice had a new, low pitch that was like a scratchy purr, strangely melodic and extremely sensuous. Hands resting on his thighs, dark maroon sleeves ballooning, the heavy silk bagging loosely where it was tucked into his waistband, he looked at me with heavy lids half-shrouding blue eyes that were filled now with anticipation. I could see the desire swelling between his legs, pressing against the snug black breeches. He moved slowly toward me. I stood my ground with chin held high, my shoulders trembling slightly for his benefit.

  He wanted a victim. He wanted to break me, humiliate me, and it would be a mistake to make it too easy for him. I was cool, aloof, gazing at him with haughty blue eyes as he stopped in front of me, so close I could smell skin and sweat and silk.

  "Afraid?" he inquired,

  "I'm beyond fear. I don't care what happens to me. You don't seem to understand that. You can kill me. You can send me to Brazil. It doesn't matter in the least."

  "No?"

  "The—the man I loved was murdered before my eyes. I was raped repeatedly by one of the 'agents' who supplies your men with women—a man named Hart, I have no reason for living."

  "You're going to live," he promised. "You're going to live in splendor.''

  "Not with you."

  "You seem quite sure of that."

  "I'll kill myself first."

  "You're going to live with me. You're going to be my woman. What's more, you're going to love it. I'm going to make you love it."

  I said nothing, but my eyes told him that would be impossible, that I found him thoroughly reprehensible and would prefer death to his embrace. It excited him. I could see the excitement in his eyes, carefully contained, held in check as he stood there with his hands on his thighs.

  "You're no stranger to men," he said.

  "I've known a number of men," I replied.

  "Intimately." he added.

  "That's quite true, but I've always been extremely selective—when I had a choice."

  He smiled at that, a wry, sardonic smile that lifted those thin pink lips at one corner. His face was deeply tanned. His dark copper hair was thick and heavy, gleaming with red-brown highlights. His hands were tan, too. He placed them on my shoulders, and when I tried to pull away those strong, sinewy fingers dug into my flesh with bruising force. I winced. He pulled me to him and curled one arm around the back of my neck and lowered his head, lips parting as they neared my own. I beat against his chest with my fists. I kicked his shin with my bare foot. He kissed me savagely, relishing my struggles, crushing me to him with arms strong as steel. I threw my hands up and caught his hair and tried to pull his head back, and he kissed me with even more fury.

  When he finally released me, I swung my hand back and slammed my palm across his face with all the strength I had. The slap made an explosion of sound, and my palm stung violently. Red Nick didn't blink. Not a muscle in his face moved. I backed slowly away from him, edging toward the dressing-room door. He watched with wry detachment as I stepped into the room and returned a moment later with the pistol in my hand. I leveled it at him, my eyes hard even though my hand was shaking.

  "If—if you take one step toward me, I'll shoot."

  "Will you?"

  "I mean what I say. I'll put a bullet through your heart."

  "I think not," he said.

  He sauntered toward me. I pulled the trigger, tensing in anticipation of the blast. There was no blast, was, instead, the loud, metallic click I knew there would be, but my performance was superbly convincing nevertheless. I looked at the gun with puzzled, worried eyes, pulling the trigger again and again as he approached. I dropped the gun and shook my head, showing fear now for the first time.

  He reached for me. I darted past him, rushing toward the door, and he lunged, catching me around the waist, whirling me around. I struggled with all my might, fighting viciously, sincerely, trying my best to hurt him. His mouth settled into a relentless line. His eyes were hard, dark with determination. He was fully aroused now, ready to plunder, the cat-and-mouse games over. I fought, and he fended off my blows with ease, catching my wrists as I tried to claw his face, shoving me back, back, finally shoving me against the wall and pinioning me to it with his body. I tried to kick. I tried to hit. He took my throat in one hand and squeezed steadily until I
was weak and dizzy and unable to struggle more. Still holding me in that deadly grip, he reached down with his other hand and raised my skirts, lifting them up over my thighs, and then he undid his breeches.

  He released my throat and took hold of my wrists and spread my arms wide, plunging into me with one savage thrust that caused me to gasp. I continued to struggle as he pumped vigorously, his chest and shoulders pressing against me, his hands pinning my wrists against the wall. I squirmed, my face half-buried in the curve of his shoulder, my mouth open and pressed against the heavy maroon silk. His hands tightened on my wrists, pulling my arms wider. His body tensed, crushing me against the wall as that final thrust brought the shuddering release he craved. He gave a pained, grunting noise that was half-growl, half-moan, his body still tense, and then, after a moment, he sighed and withdrew, letting go of my wrists. His knees wobbled slightly as he stepped back and pulled up his breeches, tucking his shirt back in.

  He stepped to the door and barked an order. I leaned against the wall a few moments and then stood up, brushing my skirts and adjusting my bodice. I caught hold of the back of a chair, steadying myself for a few more moments before going into the dressing room to wash. When I returned, a clean-cheeked youth in stocking cap and jersey was placing food on the table which had been set for two. Nicholas Lyon was leaning against the desk, arms folded across his chest, chin lowered, the heavy copper wave dipping over his brow. He ignored me as I passed into the bedroom to brush my hair and repair my makeup. I heard the youth leave a few minutes later. Red Nick stepped to the bedroom door, and I lifted my eyes to observe him in the mirror.

  "You're quite cool," he remarked.

  "Would you prefer tears and anguished cries?" I asked. "I've been raped before, and I find hysterics a waste of time and energy."

  "Cool as can be," he said. "I admire that."

  "You're much stronger than I, Captain Lyon. You can overpower me, and you can break me physically, but you can't break my spirit."

  "I've no desire to," he replied.

  I stood up, paying no attention to him now, smoothing an eyebrow and adding a final touch of lip rouge. When I turned around, he was still lounging in the doorway, watching me closely through narrowed eyes, a wry curl on his thin pink lips. I moved toward the doorway, and he stepped aside to let me pass, extremely intrigued by my proud, glacial manner. Had I been abject, submissive, humiliated, he would have been bored, and I had no intention of boring him. Seating myself at the table, I waited coolly for him to join me.