Jennifer Wilde

by Marietta Love Me

  "It'll be easy enough for you to slip out once Red Nick's left the bedroom, but Tremayne sleeps beside me all night long. I suppose I could try to get him drunk, he does love his rum."

  "If that doesn't work, crack a bottle over his head."

  "I may have to."

  "One-thirty, Em."

  "I'll be there," she promised.

  She went on into the cottage, and I crossed the courtyard and moved up the wide front steps. Burke was standing in the foyer, tall and thin and sinister in his old black suit. He was obviously lurking about to see when I came back, and his black-brown eyes stared at me with suspicion as I entered. I was acutely aware of my stained dress and tumbled hair, and I had the uncanny feeling that he knew exactly what Em and I had been doing. There was a hollow sensation in the pit of my stomach as I looked at that thin, pockmarked face, but I managed to speak in a voice that would have suited the most imperious duchess.

  "I assume you're aware The Sea Lyon will be docking soon," I said. "Tell Cook I want him to prepare his finest meal and serve the very best wine. We'll dine at eight."

  "Guess you won't be traipsing off for hours every day now," he said in his raspy voice,

  "That's no concern of yours. Burke."

  "You and that other wench—you get mighty sweaty and soiled, just strolling in the woods. What causes you to work up such a sweat, I ask myself. What causes you to get your skirt all streaked with dirt? I've been thinking about that a lot."

  "You have your orders, Burke! See that they're carried out."

  I moved past him with superb hauteur, and it was only after I reached the upstairs sitting room that I allowed myself to react to his words. Had Burke been standing in the foyer last night? Had he seen me slip out of the house? Had he followed Em and me this afternoon, staying out of sight and watching us as we hauled the beef and guns and ammunition down to the boat? I had several moments of terrible panic, and then I steeled myself and firmly banished it. I couldn't permit myself to panic or to entertain disturbing thoughts. It was going to take all the strength I had to get through this evening without giving myself away, and I didn't intend to let Burke unnerve me.

  I summoned two of the surly young footmen and had them bring water for the ornate brass and porcelain tub in the spacious, sun-filled dressing room adjoining the bedroom. I took a long bath, using the exquisite French soap that felt like satin and made a creamy, luxurious lather. I washed my hair thoroughly and rinsed it with a special rinse Corrie made with lemon juice and vinegar. When I finally got out of the tub, dried off, and toweled my hair dry, it gleamed like burnished copper with rich golden-red highlights. Slipping on a thin white silk robe festooned with rows of lacy ruffles, I tied the sash around my waist as Corrie came in to arrange my hair and help me dress.

  Her delicate features were drawn, the pale coffee-colored skin taut across her cheekbones. In her light blue cotton dress, she looked small and frail and helpless, soft black hair covering her head like a puffy cloud. I knew she was nervous and apprehensive, but she made a decided effort to conceal it, her luminous brown eyes full of determination as she gathered up brush and comb and put the curling irons on to heat.

  "Your hair's still kinda damp, Miz Marietta. You sit down there in front of the mirror and I'll just rub it a bit more with a fresh towel. I see you done used that rinse I made up for you. I can always tell. Your hair's like beautiful copper fire, and it has body, too. Fine to work with."

  Gently, skillfully, she rubbed my hair until it was completely dry, and then she began to brush it with brisk strokes until it fell about my shoulders in heavy, silken waves that gleamed even more richly. She began to gather up the waves and stack them on top of my head in smooth, glossy swirls, as intent as a master sculptor working with liquid copper, using thin, pale gold hairpins that, once in place, were completely invisible. Her hands were steady, her full pink mouth set in a firm line. Corrie wasn't going to panic either,

  "They'se—they are coming back tonight," she said. "I heard them footmen talking about it,"

  "That's right, Corrie."

  "Is—is—are we still going to sneak out?"

  "We're going to meet Em at the front entrance at one-thirty tonight. I expect you to be waiting for me in the foyer shortly after one."

  "I'll be there, Miz Marietta, quiet—quiet as a mouse."

  Her voice trembled, and she frowned, irritated at herself for betraying her apprehension. Fastening the last pin in place, she took up the hot curling irons and began to work with the full waves she had left hanging in back, shaping them into long, perfect ringlets.

  "We're going to make it, Corrie," I said quietly. "Everything's going to work out fine."

  "What about Red Nick? He—he'll come after us." '

  "He'll think we've gone over to the mainland. Em intends to ask Tremayne a lot of questions about the Indians tonight and make inquiries about the settlement the pirates sometimes visit. When he discovers we've gone, he'll immediately assume we've headed for the settlement, and he'll tell Red Nick."

  "Miz Em is mighty clever. We—we're really going to get away. I can feel it in my bones."

  "In a few weeks you'll be completely free, Corrie. You'll have money, too. I'm going to sell all my jewelry. You can come to England with me, if you like. You could open a shop there."

  "What kinda shop would I wanna open, Miz Marietta?"

  "I don't know. You're so marvelous with hair. There are hundreds of ladies in London who would pay dearly to have you arrange their hair. They'd also pay to buy your special rinse and that cream you made up to give extra texture to my hair. You could sell the cream and the rinse, and you could hire girls and train them to work with hair like you do."

  Corrie's lovely eyes widened. "A shop just for hair?" she said. "I never heard of such a shop, Miz Marietta."

  "Neither have I," I admitted, "but there's no reason why yours couldn't be the first. I think it's a marvelous idea."

  Corrie put the curling irons aside and toyed with the ringlets for a few moments, making sure they had the proper shape and bounce. Satisfied, she stepped back, admiring her handiwork. My hair had never looked more beautiful, a sumptuous crown of perfectly sculpted waves with several long ringlets dangling between my shoulder blades. Corrie was indeed an artist, and although I had come up with the idea for the shop on the spur of the moment, primarily to give her something else to think about and ease her apprehension, I was convinced she could make an enormous success of such a shop.

  "What gown are you going to wear tonight, Miz Marietta?"

  "The bronze satin, I think."

  "You mean the peacock gown, the one with all them colored ruffles showing through like peacock tails?"

  I nodded. It was the most spectacular gown in the wardrobe, and although Corrie had altered it to fit me perfectly, I had never worn it. She took it out of the wardrobe, along with the petticoat that went with it, carrying them into the bedroom and spreading them carefully over the bed while I opened the elaborate white leather makeup case and began to apply pale pink lip rouge. I rubbed the sides of my cheeks with a light gray-pink salve that, smoothed on properly, looked perfectly natural and emphasized my high cheekbones, and then I applied a pale mauve shadow to my lids. When I had finished, I gazed at myself in the mirror, cool and critical, looking for flaws.

  The face with its gleaming crown of copper-red waves was beautiful and composed, sapphire blue eyes calm and level, cheekbones high and aristocratic, pink mouth generously curved. It was the face of a worldly, sophisticated woman, determined and self-assured, but the woman within was anything but confident. She was a mass of trembling nerves, fighting desperately to hold herself together and draw from inner resources of strength that had been sadly depleted of late. I wondered if I would be able to go through with it. How much longer would I have to be strong and hard and resilient? I felt weary, so weary, and I knew that if it weren't for Em and Corrie I would already have given up.

  Not really, I told myself, l
eaving the dressing table and stepping into the bedroom. I was merely low, feeling the tension. I had been born a fighter, and I would go right on fighting. Not for me the life of ease and pampered luxury so many women knew. I had had to battle merely to survive, and by this time it was second nature to me. Removing the robe, I took the frail bronze gauze petticoat from Corrie and slipped it on. The bodice was almost non-existent, cut so low, the cloth so thin, and half-dozen gauzy bronze skirts spread out from the waist like gossamer, lifting and floating as I moved.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed to put on the elegant high-heeled slippers covered in bronze satin. They fit perfectly, as did the other shoes in the wardrobe, a fact I considered quite fortunate. Corrie helped me into the exquisite bronze satin gown, fastening the tiny, invisible hooks in back while I adjusted the narrow, off-the-shoulder sleeves and extremely low bodice which clung like a second skin. Corrie fastened the last hook and stepped back to help smooth down the skirt which spread out in scalloped panels that parted halfway down to reveal an underskirt made up of rows and rows of ruffles in green, blue, yellow gold and turquoise, the colors of a peacock's tail. The gown was a magnificent creation, designed, no doubt, for some Parisian courtesan.

  "I never seen anything so lovely," Corrie said. "That bronze cloth shimmers, and when you move them—those ruffles underneath flutter just like peacock feathers."

  I smiled and moved over to the full-length mirror. The bodice and scalloped overskirt were cut in clean, simple lines, unadorned, the multicolored ruffles beneath the scallops providing a striking contrast, the colors all the more vivid against the bronze. Jeremy Bond would have approved of the gown, I thought, and I frowned, wondering why he came to mind, wishing I were able to forget those merry, mocking blue eyes and that wide grin that was so devilishly attractive. Why must they continue to haunt me? I recalled the conversation Em and I had had this afternoon. Why had it irritated me so? Had my voice and eyes indeed conveyed something when I had first told her about him?

  The clatter of musketry and sound of voices coming from the courtyard drove all thought of Jeremy Bond out of my mind. I glanced at the clock. It was seven thirty. Red Nick and his entourage had entered the stockade, and he would be coming inside soon.

  "I better get back downstairs," Corrie said. "I'll be waiting in the foyer for you tonight, Miz Marietta. I'll be standing in the darkness, still as can be."

  She hesitated a moment, standing across the room, and then she hurried over to me and flung her arms around me. I held her close, hugging her tightly, and for several moments we clung together, this frightened child and I, both longing to burst into tears. When I finally released her, she stepped back and looked up at me with moist, shining eyes and a brave smile that was utterly heartbreaking. She was so young, so lovely, totally dependent on me. I wasn't going to let her down. I brushed a tear from her cheek and returned her smile with one I hoped was reassuring.

  "You're going to have that shop, Corrie," I promised.

  "I believe you, Miz Marietta."

  "We've both got to be very brave this evening."

  "We will be," she replied. "I'm not going to be scared. I'm going to be just as brave as you and Miz Em is."

  She left the bedroom with a flutter of blue cotton skirts, and a few minutes later I heard the front door opening downstairs and footsteps in the foyer. I remembered the way Maria had flown down the stairs, calling his name and demanding to know what he'd brought her. I waited almost ten minutes before leaving the bedroom. I slowly descended the curving staircase, cool, regal, showing no emotion whatsoever. Nicholas Lyon was still in the foyer, talking with Burke. Both men looked up and, after a word from Lyon, Burke scowled and left, going down the side hall toward the servants' quarters.

  Red Nick stood in the foyer, tall and lean, watching me with those piercing blue eyes that seemed a darker blue, dark with male appreciation as he watched me moving on down the stairs. His high black books were polished to a high sheen, his dark maroon broadcloth breeches cut narrow, closely fitting. His maroon frock coat fit closely, too, emphasizing his broad shoulders and slender waist, the full skirt flaring slightly at the hips. A white lace jabot spilled from his throat, and lace spilled beneath the cuffs of the coat as well. He carried a broad maroon hat adorned with sweeping black plumes. His dark copper hair was burnished by the candlelight, a gleaming red-brown, the heavy wave slanting over his right eyebrow. The blue eyes glowed darkly, yes, but the lean, harshly handsome face was immobile, thin lips curling faintly at one corner.

  "Good evening," I said, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

  "Hardly an effusive greeting," he observed dryly.

  "You want dramatics?"

  "I'd like to see a gleam of pleasure—or even anticipation. I've been away two weeks."

  "Two weeks and three days," I corrected.

  "So you did miss me?"

  "Perhaps."

  "You're a deliriously infuriating creature, Marietta. I don't know whether to thrash you or take you in rny arms."

  "The choice is yours."

  The lips curled a bit more in the suggestion of a smile. The blue eyes were sardonic. He moved toward me, stopping a few feet away from where I stood, folding his arms across his chest. The lace at his wrists dripped down like delicate white foam.

  "Maybe I should thrash you," he remarked. "Maybe then you'd learn to appreciate your position."

  "As your prisoner?"

  "As my woman. You look quite spectacularly lovely. You've never worn that gown before. You put it on in honor of my return?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Infuriating," he said, placing his hat on a table.

  "You can always replace me."

  Nicholas Lyon shook his head slowly, his eyes holding mine. "I fear you're irreplaceable, my dear. You've bewitched me."

  "Indeed?"

  "All the time I was gone I kept thinking of you. That disturbs me. I don't like for any woman to have that kind of hold on me. No woman has—before. What shall I do about it?"

  "I've no idea."

  He stepped closer, unfolding his arms, resting his hands on my shoulders. I could smell the clean, pleasant musk of his body, the virile smell of flesh. His fingers squeezed my shoulders, his grip growing tighter as he pulled me to him and parted his lips, the tip of his tongue flicking out as he tilted his head and lowered his mouth over mine. I was rigid and unresponsive, making him work, stirring him to force the needed response from me. After a few moments I yielded, curling my arms around his back, rubbing my palms over the maroon broadcloth and feeling the muscles beneath. Satisfied, he released me, eyes sardonic again, blue and faintly mocking.

  "One day you'll respond quite eagerly, my dear."

  "Will I?"

  "One day you'll want me as much as I want you."

  "Perhaps," I said for a third time.

  Nicholas smiled a twisted smile and, taking my arm, led me into the spacious sitting room. He sat down in one of the chairs, spreading his long legs out, tilting his head down toward his chest and lifting his eyes to watch me as I went over to the liquor cabinet to pour him a brandy. He wanted me. He wanted me badly. I smiled at the knowledge. Despite his cool, mocking demeanor, he was filled with a sexual tension so intense it was almost tangible, crackling in the air. Other men would have ground their teeth, would have gripped the arms of the chair so tightly the fabric would tear, but Nicholas Lyon restrained himself, waiting, maintaining that icy detachment as the tension grew inside.

  I carried the brandy over to the chair and handed it to him, and as his fingers curled around the glass I reached down quite casually and brushed the heavy copper wave from his brow. It splayed back down as soon as I moved my hand. He caught hold of my wrist, looking up at me, sipping his brandy. When I attempted to pull free, he gave my wrist a savage tug, twisting it as he brought me down to my knees in front of him. He took another sip of brandy and ran his tongue over his lower lip, heavy lids half-shrouding eyes dark with desire.

&
nbsp; "Sit," he ordered.

  "If that's what you wish."

  He spread his knees apart, and I sat on the floor between them, resting my back against the chair, shoulders against his thighs. I folded my legs under me, my skirt spreading out, indeed resembling a fan of peacock feathers against the bronze. He lifted the dangling ringlets and curled the fingers of his left hand around the back of my neck, massaging it as he continued to drink his brandy. It was extremely erotic, and I felt my nipples hardening, straining against the restraint of gauze and satin. I arched my back as his fingers pressed the side of my neck, his thumb digging against the top of my spine.

  "I assume your mission was successful," I said.

  "Quite successful."

  "How many men did you kill?"

  "It wasn't necessary to kill anyone. We merely rendezvoused with another ship, The Green Parrot, and transferred their booty onto The Sea Lyon. It was a bloodless expedition."

  "For that you had to leave me for over two weeks?"

  "I learned a long time ago that, when it comes to booty, I need to supervise things personally. So you did miss me?"

  "Only at night," I said coolly.

  He finished his brandy and set the empty glass on the floor. He stood up and pulled me to my feet, holding me loosely against him, eyes gleaming, mouth twisting with a sardonic curl. He seemed to vibrate with animal sexuality, so strong it was like a separate force enveloping him, yet he held back, controlling it, storing it up so that release would be even more potent. I tilted my chin back, looking up at that lean, harsh face. I detested him and made no effort to conceal it, yet as I gazed into those half-shrouded eyes I felt a physical response quickening inside.

  "You're not interested in what I brought you?" he inquired.

  "Not particularly."

  "Maria would have begged and wheedled."

  "I'm not Maria."

  He took hold of my wrist and, reaching into the pocket of his frock coat, pulled out a heavy bracelet of square cut emeralds, each at least forty carats, burning with shimmering blue-green fires and completely surrounded by diamonds. He fastened the bracelet around my wrist and waited for some reaction. I gazed at it without feeling, and he grimaced and reached back into his pocket to pull out a matching necklace with even larger stones set in diamonds, emerald pendants dangling from the band of square cut emeralds. He turned me around roughly and fastened the necklace around my throat, drawing it tight.