When Azzedine had gone, Isaac gave Vashon a look of disbelief. But Vashon didn't notice. He was staring at Aurora.
"You could have been killed," she said to him, her voice distraught. She'd never understand this man. At times he behaved as if a demon possessed him.
"So would you rather me be killed or be a killer?" he asked.
"Are those the only two choices? Is this life of yours so uncivilized that there is nothing in between?"
A bitter expression crossed his handsome features. "There is nothing in between, Aurora. And you remember that the next time I save your life."
"My God," she moaned, putting her head in her hands. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want to be a part of this. I beg of you, release Flossie and me at the next port!"
He walked up to her, put his hands on her arms, and shook her. When she looked up, he said, "You may not have asked for this, but you were destined to be here the day your father stole from Peterborough. So forget your prim and proper little past. It was all a lie anyway. Fate has dealt you these cards. You're in my hands now, and that's where you'll stay until I get the Star."
She let out a low sob. Almost unconsciously her gaze was drawn to his hands on her arms. The splatters of blood on his fingers had dried to a dark maroon, but some was still wet, leaving a smear on her gown. She tried to hide the revulsion that crossed her face, but he saw it. Before she could pull away from him, he nearly threw her to Isaac.
"Get her out of here!" he commanded, a slight break in his voice.
Sobbing, Aurora clutched at the captain's chest. Isaac steadied her and then gave Vashon a bewildered look. But before he could say a word, Vashon repeated his order. "Get her out of here!"
Obediently Isaac nodded and pulled her out the door.
Chapter Twelve
"What kind of man is he?" Aurora asked, wiping away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. She looked across the railing at the brilliant blue Atlantic, marred only by the disappearing silhouette of the Bleeding Heart. Next to her, as if unsure of how to comfort her, Isaac drummed his two remaining fingers on the polished railing. "What kind of man is he that he could kill so swiftly, then not even move to save his own life?" She brushed away another tear.
"Vashon has always been a bit of an enigma."
"Does he not value his life? That pirate Azzedine was ready to shoot him, and Vashon didn't even blink."
"He's seen a lot in his four and thirty years, Aurora. It's made him very hard. Sometimes I think it's true that he may not value his life overly much. There seems to be something missing in him, a belief in goodness, perhaps. I'm not sure what it is, but because he doesn't have it, he seems not to care whether he lives or dies. I've seen him take extraordinary risks. But those risks have paid off."
"But you've had to fight hard too or you wouldn't be a pirate like him. You're not so hardened."
Isaac laughed sheepishly. He wiped his balding head and seemed to be groping for the right words. "I'm not a pirate, Aurora. I know you must think me one, but in truth I'm just a ship's captain. That's the life I've led for the past forty years, ever since my wife Rachel was taken from me by the pox."
"I don't understand," she said. "How could Vashon persuade a good sea captain to come with him on such an ignoble venture?"
"I've been with him for almost ten years now." He laughed. "When he tells you he's in legitimate business, you must believe him. He has almost as many ships as the British East India Company. He's a very wealthy man."
"But he was and is still a pirate." Her eyes darkened. She gave Isaac an accusatory look. "And you, who call yourself an honest man, work for him."
"Well, yes, that's true. But Vashon does not pirate any longer—except for this one instance," he added hastily. "In fact, he's most happy just walking the beaches of Mirage and looking over the accounts of his London businesses."
"Then why isn't he doing that right now and forgetting this horrid search for the emerald?"
Isaac looked out to the cloudless horizon. "He hates Peterborough. He truly hates him. Nothing will stop him from getting that jewel."
Aurora grasped at a chance for escape. "But you and the crew, Isaac, surely you see the immorality of kidnapping two women simply for revenge. Act against him, Isaac," she urged, "and let Flossie and me go free."
"The crew and I stand with Vashon," he said simply. He studied his crippled hand.
"But you call yourself a moral man! And surely you cannot speak for the crew! There must be one decent man on this ship willing to help us—and I swear I'll find him!"
"You won't find anyone on this ship willing to help you escape if it means relinquishing the quest for Peterborough. Believe me, Aurora, I speak for the crew. Some of these men have been with me for forty years."
"But not forty years on this ship. Not forty years with Vashon."
"No," he answered. "We served on another ship. She was a whaler named the Leviathan. And though there's barely a fifth of her crew still alive, they're all on the Seabravery now, and they all give their allegiance to Vashon."
"This can't be possible!" she gasped.
"It's possible," he affirmed. "Take it from an old Jew who doesn't lie."
Frustrated, Aurora once more looked out to sea. There seemed a million miles between her and freedom. The closer they got to Vashon's island, the smaller her chances were of escape. "Take me back to the cabin, Isaac," she said. "I must speak to Vashon."
Isaac nodded and presented her his arm. Trembling, she took it.
When she arrived back at the cabin, the pirate's body was gone and the blood had been thoroughly scrubbed away. Vashon was not there, but Aurora told Isaac to leave her. Vashon would return eventually, and she wanted to ready herself for the confrontation.
When the door closed behind Isaac, Aurora's face turned angry and determined. She settled in to wait, sure of the words she had to say to Vashon. No longer would she be timid and afraid in his presence. She had seen him do the-worst sort of deed, and now that she knew what he was truly capable of, it somehow freed her. She was finally ready to bargain with the Devil.
Benny soon brought her a meal, and this time she ate it. She bathed and changed her dress, burying the bloodied garment at the bottom of her willow hamper. All too soon she heard Vashon's voice in the passage, snapping something in French to a passing seaman.
When he entered the cabin, he didn't speak a word. He eyed her once, then took out his logbook and wrote at the tripod table. When the silence became thunderous, she finally spoke.
"The rhyme has another verse."
He looked up from his desk. "What did you say?" he asked, a wariness suddenly in his eyes.
"I said the rhyme has another verse."
Slowly he put down his pen. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because I want a guarantee that Flossie shall not be hurt."
He scowled. "You may not believe this, but I have never made it a practice to rape and torture old women."
"I'm not an old woman."
"I see that." His gaze skimmed her figure, then rested on her face. "Tell me the Verse."
She shook her head. "No, I'm not going to tell you."
"Do you tease me then? Have you a need for me to get it out of you?"
She looked at him. He was alluding to something filthy, she was sure. Ignoring the comment, she shook her head again. "No. You cannot get this out of me. I don't know where the Star is, but nonetheless, I hold the key to its acquisition. You shall have that key as soon as Flossie and I are set free."
"I shall have it now." He rose from his chair and towered over her. But this time she could not be intimidated. Her face was a mask of alabaster.
"You'll never get it from me, Vashon. Unless you release me first. And if I go to Mirage, I swear you shall never know it."
He frowned. A muscle hardened in his jaw, but then, the corner of his mouth lifted in a dark smile. "I see you've heeded my advice too well."
She looked at
him. "Yes. 'Forget your prim and proper little past,' I think you told me. Well, as of now I consider it forgotten. No longer am I a schoolmistress from an orphanage. From now on I'm the woman who holds the secret to all your wretched plans. And I'm the woman you must please." Unconsciously her hand rose to the emerald locket.
"And how shall I please you?" he taunted.
"To begin with, I demand my own cabin."
"I see."
She didn't pause. "At the next island, Flossie and I are to be released and compensated for this misery."
"How so?"
"You are to give Flossie enough money for passage back to St. George's, and you are to give me enough for passage back to London."
He looked as if he might laugh. "Is that all?" he asked with mock solemnness.
"Yes, that's all. For that I shall give you the second verse, and you can go after this wicked jewel on your own."
He put his hands behind his back and studied her. "But have you no sentiment, Aurora? After all, your father wanted you to have this jewel, or why else would he teach you that nursery rhyme?"
A slight frown appeared on her face. She had enormous sentiment for her father. He was the only member of her family she had ever known and every time she thought of him, a lonely ache blossomed in her chest. She wished fervently that he'd never left her, and as a child she had even nurtured the secret hope that one day he was going to appear on the Home's doorstep looking for her. But now, after all that had transpired the past few days, she wasn't sure if the sentiment she held in her heart was actually for her father or for the man she thought he'd been. All that was left was the image of the man she wanted him to be.
"If I have any sentiment at all," she answered, "it's the wish that I could prove my father was no thief. But since I can't do that, I certainly want nothing of the goods you claim he stole. All I want is for Flossie and me to be set free."
"And if I let you and the widow go, shall you not bring charges upon me for kidnapping and piracy, and see me twisted for it?"
"If Flossie so wishes it, she may. But I would very much like to forget this shadowy adventure and return to London in peace."
"And return to your dashing fiancé, John Philips, I suppose?"
"Phipps," she corrected.
"Ah, yes, of course. Phipps," he said with great emphasis. "I suppose you want to become Mrs. Phipps just as soon as you can."
She remained silent. She wouldn't marry John. If this trip had told her anything, it made most clear the fact that she was not suited for John Phipps.
"Whatever I do," she said briskly, "it's of no concern to you. What is your concern is the second verse to my father's rhyme. And you shall get that as soon as—"
"Yes, yes," he interposed, suddenly venting his annoyance. "But what you naively dismiss, baggage, is the fact that I won't know if this second verse of yours is truly the one your father gave you until I find the emerald with it."
"You have my word that I shall give you the truth."
He tipped his head back and laughed. She felt as if she had just told him some kind of bawdy joke.
"Whatever is so funny?" she asked, irritated.
"Your word," he mocked. "And don't you think I know that a prisoner is not above lying to get his desired freedom?"
"But I shall give you the truth and I can prove—" She almost bit off her tongue trying to stop her words. She had almost told him about the locket. Once he knew about that, she'd have no bargaining chip at all.
Suddenly his interest was piqued. He cupped her face in his hands and studied her. "How shall you prove it?" he asked.
"When the time comes I shall be able to. Just release Flossie and me at the next port and you shall have your verse."
"Is it written down somewhere, Aurora?" His gaze slid to her willow basket at the foot of his bed. He dropped his hands and walked to it.
"It's not in there," she told him, her voice rising in panic.
"But it is written down?"
She remained mute.
Suddenly his eyes lowered to her clothes. She lifted her hand protectively to her chest.
"Where is it, Aurorel Written on a tiny piece of paper, then sewn into the hem of your frock?"
"Of course not," she said, worry creeping into her eyes.
"Or is it tucked into the seam of your chemise? Surely it would be safe there, wouldn't it?" He began to stalk her.
"No, it isn't." She began backing away.
"Take off your dress, Aurora."
"I shall not!"
"Take it off or I'll take it off."
She stumbled over his mahogany armchair. He caught her just as she fell. His hand wrapped around her waist and it intimately wandered over her uncorseted torso.
He smiled and commented, "Ah, how I love a woman who needn't cinch up her waist." With that he dragged her to the bedstead, blithely ignoring her kicks and demands to be set free.
"It's not there!" she cried futilely when he threw her on the bed. She squirmed beneath him, but the moment she made some headway in escaping, she heard a knife rip through her dress. He stood over her as she lay panting on the mattress and he easily tore through her hem. It was the second time that day a knife had been taken to her, but right now Robert's knife almost seemed preferable to Vashon's.
"Where is it, wench?" he snarled after he'd pulled apart her gown's hem. When all she could do was shake her head, he went for the seams.
In seconds her drab linen gown was in shreds. Ignoring her violent protests, he rifled through the torn fabric, touching her in places she never dreamed she'd be touched. His knuckles grazed her thighs, her waist, her torso before he centered his attention—and his hands-on the seams just to the sides of her bust.
Outraged that he was using his search as an excuse to fondle her, she grew even more outraged when she felt herself responding. Groaning, she looked down and saw her nipples tighten and strain against the ripped linen of her bodice. When he saw it too, she wanted to slap the expression right off his face.
"I hate you," she swore to him under her breath.
"Yes, I know . . . I see how much you hate me. . . ." He began to smile.
"You play the fool if you think I'd ever desire an ignoble wretch like you," she spat.
His green eyes glittered with mirth. "Of course. You're right. Your fiance Phyfe is the only man you could desire. That's why you're running to the opposite ends of the earth to be away from him."
"Phipps," she hissed. "His name is Phipps."
"Thank you. Phipps," he answered.
"And see that you remember that name, too, for when John comes to rescue Flossie and me, no doubt he will bring the Royal Navy, and we'll all see you hang at Wapping!" It was a lie, but she hoped it struck a chord of fear in him anyway.
It didn't. He raised one infuriating black eyebrow and said, "My, my. Old Phelps can truly do all that?"
Her anger exploded. She lashed out to scratch his face, but he easily captured her. He straddled her on the bed and with arms much stronger than hers he forced her beneath him. She moaned in frustration and longed for her embroidery scissors. She surely had the bravado to use them now.
"Where is your proof, Aurora?" he said, an ultimatum.
"You won't find it in my clothes, so release me!" she nearly screamed.
"But I have to be sure." He looked down at her heaving chest and did a poor job of hiding his smile. "How will I know you're speaking the truth until I've searched you—thoroughly!"
Wriggling beneath him, she tried to make him stop, but it was no use. He pulled at her gown until her dress was reduced to mere tatters, then he thrust it to the floor and began to prey upon her again. Now clad in only her chemise and pantalets, she felt as if she might as well be naked, and she expected she soon would be when his knife tore at the delicate homemade French work of her undergarments.
But suddenly he ceased. Deep in thought, he fingered the pierced cotton at the neckline of her chemise, letting his palm
fill with the swell of flesh that peeked over it. She wasn't sure what he would do next, but when he put the knife down on the mattress and in its stead produced her embroidery scissors, she moaned in despair. It was an abomination that he was trying to strip her with the blade of a knife, but she'd never be able to endure his cutting away her remaining garments, inch by painful inch. Particularly when his palm felt so warm and so oddly right on her skin.
"Don't do this," she whispered, trying to pull away his hand.
"But this garment requires a finer touch." Pensively he stroked down the valley of her bosom with the sharp point of the scissors. He was so gentle she could barely feel them as they glided along her breastbone, but the cold metal and even colder gaze of the man above her sent an uncontrollable shiver down her spine.
"Please," she said, her breath coming in short little gasps, "I haven't many clothes—"
"And the ones you do have are wretched. Paupers dress finer than you, love."
"My garments may indeed be plain, but they're all I possess—"
"They're pitiful . . . yet I daresay the finest of gowns could hardly make you more beautiful than you are now."
Her eyes met his and she was shocked by his hungry stare. He had obviously had many women. And it was certainly no great surprise that a man like him would want to spend his pent-up shipboard lust on the only young woman available. But what did surprise her was the shadow of longing deep within his emerald eyes. Somehow she didn't believe he was looking at her as just another woman who could ease his physical needs, then fade into the corners of his memory. Instead she felt, if it was possible, that she somehow intrigued him; that he viewed her as something foreign, something elusive and rare with which he had had little experience. And because he had suddenly found himself so captivated, his desire to possess her became more ravenous with every passing second.
"No," she whispered just his scissors made the first tiny cut down the middle of her chemise. Her hand grabbed his wrist, but he calmly pulled her off.
He snipped again.
"This isn't right," she pleaded. She put her hands on his chest in supplication.
Till Dawn Tames the Night Page 15
