Till Dawn Tames the Night

by Meagan Mckinney

  Dragonard was huge, perched on a hill overlooking a glorious, glittering black sand beach. It was shaped in a cross with large hexagonal rooms at the four ends. Her apartment contained one of the hexagonal bedrooms, and one night, across the green velvet lawn, she saw that Vashon possessed the next one over.

  Her apartment, like the house, was beautiful. The fur­niture, from the high melon-shaped headboard of her four-poster bed to the stylish xxx recamier near the window, was hewn from dark Santo Domingan mahogany. The upholstery was sun-bleached linen, the bed-curtains a pristine undyed muslin. The only color was from the five windows that reached from the floor to the high ceiling, and though the louvers were always kept locked, she could see flame-colored hibiscus blooming just beyond the house, lush green banana trees swaying in the relent­less breeze, and always the sea that colored everything turquoise, even distant Nevis.

  But no prison, no matter how exquisite, is loved by its prisoner, and Aurora often paced the bricked floor, as impatient as Koonga with her captivity. This morning was like the others. Another breathtaking day outside and no way to escape and see it. Ever since Vashon took possession of her locket, he had placed her under tight restraint. She had ranted and raved to be set free, but he turned a deaf ear to her. Now that she'd lost, she couldn't understand why he wouldn't let her and Flossie go, but she suspected he was having difficulty deciphering the rhyme. She knew it by heart, but still it made no sense to her. Seeping into her more and more each day was the horrible dread that he was not going to set them free until the Star of Aran was right in his palm.

  Still not resigned to her fate, she tried desperately to think of an escape. But Mirage was little better than the Seabravery. St. Kitts and Nevis were not far off, but it would take a ship to get her there. Meanwhile Mirage was Vashon's kingdom. There were no houses on the is­land except his and those of his servants. There was no town, no one to appeal to for help. Just as on the Seabravery, all she could do, day after day, was wait.

  Koonga, now almost completely recovered, was getting into one bit of mischief after another in the apartment, and though Aurora felt obliged to contain her, she was grateful for at least that bit of entertainment. Presently the little monkey was atop her bed, fascinated by the spring of the linen canopy. Aurora was just pinning the frayed edges of her apron-front when a knock came at the door. She expected it to be her breakfast, but when ser­vant after servant entered, their arms full of gowns, she gasped. Even Koonga stopped bouncing.

  "What is this, Tsing?" she asked the elderly Chinese who ran Vashon's household. Tsingtsin bowed and ex­plained.

  "Missa, dless fo ru."

  "For me?" she exclaimed. "How is this possible?"

  "Vashon take fiom ship. Wrong ago."

  "So he stole these dresses?"

  Tsingtsin bowed. "Yes, missa."

  "Then I don't want them!"

  "Missa! Missa!" Tsingtsin went after her as she stomped to the window. "Ru need gown, missa!"

  "Tell him I don't want them!" she fumed. Koonga, sensing her mistress's sudden change in mood, began screaming and jumped on the canopy.

  "Missa—" Tsingtsin began, but she interrupted him.

  "I don't want his plunder. Take it back," she de­manded.

  "Prunda . . ." Tsingtsin repeated as if it were a new word to him.

  "Yes, plunder," she said. "And I want no part of it." She walked to another window, Tsingtsin still following.

  "But missa, Vashon not want ru go naked!"

  "I promise you, he does!"

  She shot him a scathing glance. Tsingtsin's eyes wid­ened, suddenly getting her meaning.

  "Is diremma!" he exclaimed.

  "Yes, that's right. Is big dilemma!" she repeated, star­ing off at Nevis, the horizon crisp in the morning air.

  "I talk to Vashon. He tell me what to do with gown."

  Aurora spun around. "Yes, but you tell him that I told him what he can do with his dresses!"

  "I tehr him ru tehr him . . . ?" Tsingtsin shook his head. "Yes, missa. I tehr him." He bowed, taking his army of servants with him and leaving the gowns.

  She didn't want to look at the gowns. For about an hour she was able to occupy herself with plaiting her hair. But when her toilet was completed and Koonga was fed the last banana in the fruit bowl, the day stretched before her like a great yawning void. In her mind the pile of dresses seemed to grow and grow until there was no avoiding them.

  Disgusted, she picked one up. Of course, it was exqui­site. Pirates didn't steal shiploads of drab linen gowns like the ones she wore at the Home. The gown was made of aqua silk brocaded with gold threads around the hem­line and sleeves. It looked like some sort of court gown, for it was faultlessly constructed with a small train and two gold tassels hanging at the short puffed sleeves.

  She walked to the cheval mirror—the one topped with the gold laurel wreath surrounding the distinct N, the one she strongly suspected had once belonged to the Empress Josephine—and put the gown to her shoulders.

  If the mirror didn't lie, the gown would look wonder­ful on her. The gold threads highlighted the apricot tint of her skin, and the aqua exactly matched her eyes.

  She held out the gown and looked at it longingly. She couldn't wear it. That was completely against everything she believed was right. But still she couldn't help running her hand over the luxurious fabric. She was wearing the nicest gown she had ever owned and it looked like a pau­per's rags compared to the beauty in her hands.

  But if she had nothing else, she had her principles. So she laid the gown on her bed and waited for Tsingtsin to come and take it away.

  "Vashon! Vashon!" From the kitchen buildings Tsing­tsin shouted to Vashon as he cantered into the stable yard and dismounted. The bay stallion he rode was shiny, not from sweat but from seawater, as Vashon always took his morning ride along the beaches.

  "Vashon!" Tsingtsin cried out again, this time running to the stables, his long graying braid streaming behind him. "Missa no rike gown! Missa no rike gown! Big diremma!"

  "She doesn't, does she?" he commented, handing the reins to a black stableboy.

  "She say me take back gown!"

  Vashon almost smiled.

  "Is big diremma! Me no take back gown without ru say so!"

  "I'll take care of this matter." Vashon took the linen towel handed to him by another servant. He wiped the sea spray from his face and chest.

  "Ru talk to missa?" Tsingtsin asked.

  "I'll talk to her," he answered.

  "She say one thing."

  "What is that?"

  Tsingtsin paused as if the message was complicated and he needed great care to get it right. "She say me say she say where ru can put gown." He smiled and bowed, pleased that he'd gotten it right.

  Vashon burst out laughing. He gazed at the end of the house where Aurora's apartments were. Through the slats he could see the silhouette of a girl in blue standing at the window, looking at him.

  "Ru want me take back gown now?"

  Vashon chuckled. "Thank you, Tsing, but I think I'll let her deliver her next message personally." He tossed the towel back to the servant and strode into the house.

  Aurora nearly jumped out of her skin when the door to her chamber burst open. Vashon stood on the threshold, half naked, his white trousers streaked with sand, his chest startlingly bronzed in contrast. Though she'd seen him through her windows carrying on his daily life, she'd not yet spoken to him since arriving at his house. The smile on his face nearly frightened her to death.

  "What do you want?" she said bravely.

  "Just a quick visit," he answered, his voice mocking. "Tsing tells me you don't like your dresses."

  "Who did you kill to get them, I wonder?" she said, knowing full well she was provoking him.

  "Nothing like that." He smiled a cheerless smile. "The ship was sailing from Italy. I took possession of those dresses on the direct orders of the Regent."

  "You did no such thing."

  He lifte
d one jet eyebrow. "Ah, but I did. The Regent thought Princess Caroline was on that ship and secretly ordered her sunk. I, of course, knew Caroline was still at the Villa d'Este. But being the man I am, I did as the Regent paid me to do. However, I did allow the crew to jump overboard, and you'll be pleased to know nary a drop of blood was shed."

  "I don't believe you for a minute." She laughed. "Your stories contradict each other. Does the Regent want you hanged or knighted? It sounds as if the prince slaps you with one hand and pays you with another. And who in the world would believe the Regent trying to kill the Princess of Wales!"

  He paused, putting a hand to his chest as if astonished that she questioned him. "Why, the Regent would, I gather. The next time I'm at Nero's Hotel playing a little faro or jeu d'enfer, I'll have him write me a note. I'm sure he'll do it if I tell him it's for you."

  "How lovely," she commented sarcastically. "And I suppose next you're going to tell me these are the princess's gowns?"

  "Well, not quite. Apparently, after our dear Caroline's debauched appearance in Genoa, the prince ordered the gowns for her and had them sent to Lake Como. But the princess refused them. I'm sure you can see why."

  "No, I'm sorry. I cannot," she said, growing annoyed at his ridiculous story.

  "They're a little tasteful for her, don't you think? And, I might add, a shade too small."

  She stared at him. She'd heard that the princess was . . . stout. And that her taste inclined more to that of a circus performer than of a future queen. But his story-was ridiculous! Impossible! He was leading her on, and when she fell for it, he'd make her a laughingstock.

  "I will never believe you. I'm sorry." Nervously she watched him walk toward her.

  "What you're saying is that you'd rather believe I took those gowns from a burning ship." He sauntered right up to her. She backed away.

  "Took them off a ship I had plundered, after ravishing the fine lady who owned them and taking her as my cap­tive." He followed her, movement for movement. She went toward the escritoire; he went toward the escritoire. She backed to the bed; he pushed forward. She scrambled for the door. He caught her.

  He laughed. "You have it on your mind that I've stolen and killed to get everything I own." He dragged her to the bed. She fought him like a cat. "You think that's what I am, don't you?" He lifted her by the waist so she could look him dead in the eye. "You think I'm some kind of monster. A murdering, ravishing, thieving pirate, gorged with plunder and wading in blood."

  Still panting from her struggles, she met his eye. De­spite how she had promised to block it out of her mind, the memory of the night on Grand Talimen came back to her with painful clarity. Being so near to him, she re­membered again how she had held him, close, desper­ately close. And she remembered his touch, rough yet responsive to her every desire. When she recalled how badly she had wanted him, her anger exploded.

  "That's exactly what you are!" she cried.

  He abruptly threw her onto the pile of dresses on her bed. Drowning in the silks and satins, she soon surfaced, only to find his hands on her, holding her down again. Her gaze clashed with his, and a dark smile played on his lips.

  "Then let's play pirate, shall we?" he whispered.

  Her struggles began in earnest then, but his mouth suddenly lowered and he tried to kiss her.

  "You vowed never to touch me again," she said, her eyes glittering with anger.

  "But, love, let's learn our lessons, shall we? Pirates lie."

  She gasped. "You're just doing this to intimidate me!"

  "And it's working." He smiled and his onslaught be­gan anew. Her head turned from side to side to avoid his lips, and all the while he laughed like a madman above her. Furious, she lurched to one side and grabbed his wrist with her teeth.

  He snatched his hand back in pain and she found the opening she'd hoped for. She sat up and pushed him away, angered that he'd caused her to behave like such a savage.

  "You deserved that," she snapped.

  "Perhaps." He stood and reached out a hand to help her off the bed.

  She stared at it, unsure of whether to trust him. But the look in his eye assured her that he would play the gentleman.

  Taking it, she clambered down from the feather mat­tress. She stood and smoothed her rumpled skirt, making a nervous display of checking that her straight pins were still modestly intact. When she looked up, she was re­lieved to see him just watching her, his face serious and sober. It was clear he meant to keep his promise of leav­ing her alone and she was glad. She certainly didn't want any more tussles with him, she told herself. Yet she was surprised by the strange hollowness that filled her when she went to walk away from him.

  "Wait." He took her arm.

  She turned.

  "Your hair . . . it's . . . mussed." He reached out his hand and smoothed her tumbled hair off her face. His fingers lingered on a stray curl, and before she could stop herself, her hand went up and touched his.

  They stared at each other for a wretched amount of time, and she was held captive by the reluctance and yearning warring in his eyes. She knew he wanted to kiss her, and she knew he was fighting it as much as she was.

  She opened her mouth to speak, but before the words were out, his lips met with hers in a sultry, hot kiss.

  She wanted to pull back. The only hold he had on her was with his lips, but suddenly, with just that simple touch, he possessed the power to drain the strength from her limbs and the will from her soul. Her heart pounded in her chest as he slowly lowered her back onto the bed. She moaned, hating him and wanting him in the same breath; he only deepened the kiss, announcing his tri­umph over her and his defeat over himself.

  She didn't know how to fight him. The fire in his kiss only made her succumb. Despising herself, she let her lips part and he gladly entered. His tongue rode like vel­vet against her teeth, and she tasted the salt on his lips from his morning swim. He groaned and she felt his hand ride up her torso, hungering for the weight of her breast. A voice inside her told her to escape and deny all that she was feeling, but another voice, a voice shockingly more forward, said something else altogether. With a slight sob, she waited for his touch, needing it yet fearing it, for it held a mighty power to hurt her. She stiffened with the battle being fought within her, and somehow this seemed to affect him. His head snapped up and he looked down at her as she lay in the swirling mountain of dresses. He closed his eyes for a moment as if he couldn't believe where he was, then abruptly got off her.

  She scrambled to a sitting position and watched as he took a moment to adjust the crotch of his trousers. When she realized why he needed to do this, she quickly looked away and felt the warmth of a blush stain her cheeks.

  "Don't ever do that again," she choked out, not daring to remove her gaze from the thick spiral post of the bed. "Not ever again, do you hear me?"

  He stiffly eased himself down on the recamier and let his legs splay out in front of him. "Don't flatter your­self."

  "I don't flatter myself!" She tore her gaze back to him, then glared when she saw his smile. "What do you want?" she snapped. "Why have you come here today? Not because of the dresses, I wager."

  He didn't answer.

  A smug expression appeared on her face. "You can't figure out the rhyme, can you?"

  "No."

  She took some satisfaction in his honesty. "And you want my help with it, don't you? You think I might be able to help you decipher it?"

  He refused to answer.

  She was delighted. "I want you to know that I vow to keep any and all information regarding the Star to my­self. However, if it makes you feel better, Vashon, I haven't figured out the rhyme yet either." She smirked. "But if I do, let me assure you, you will be the last to know."

  He smiled wryly. "Touché."

  Koonga suddenly popped her head over the canopy. Aurora looked up, and the little monkey jumped into her arms.

  "She's better, I see," he commented.

  "Yes. She just needed a
little mothering."

  "Well, perhaps you'd better tell me more about this foul rhyme or I'll keep you here so long that monkey'll be all you ever mother."

  She riveted her gaze to him. "That long?" She lifted one brow tauntingly.

  "A hundred years at least," he answered. "And what about Flossie?"

  "Flossie will be going home the end of this week. I've another ship at the docks here, the Resolute. She'll be sailing for St. George's as soon as she is fit."

  Aurora caught her lower lips with her teeth. Already her mind was whirling trying to devise a plan to board the Resolute as a stowaway. She had to escape or risk growing as mad as he was.

  "Thinking of going along, are we?" He eyed her lazily. "Well, to be sure, little wren, you will not be going. I still need you to tell me how to find the Star."

  "You should let me leave on the Resolute, Vashon. I'll never tell you anything now. And you've no way to force me. You've already done . . . your worst."

  He smiled. "There are other ways of doing that, some not nearly so gentle. Shall we test their effect on you?"

  She quickly looked away. His crudeness never failed to shock her.

  He exhaled a long, impatient sigh. "I can see you still plan on fighting me, and I'll give you this, Aurore, you fight well. But," he said emphatically, "I will not let you win. I will find this Star. And you will help me. So why not tell me as much as you know? If you do, I'll see you cozy in St. George's by wintertime."

  "I don't aid common, plundering pirates." She still didn't look at him.

  "Fine." He rose and walked to the door. Then, as if he'd forgotten something, he paused. "Just to warn you, I've decided to let you out for dinner this evening. I haven't decided on which method to use to get you talk­ing, so in the interim, we will dine and you will ease my ennui, so to speak. Wear . . ." He looked at the mound of dresses on her bed. "Wear that one," he said, pointing to the aqua-and-gold gown on top.

  "I won't," she snapped back, bristling at his tone. "All those gowns are cut indecently low. I won't wear them."