Till Dawn Tames the Night

by Meagan Mckinney

  His gaze slid to her bosom, then rose to her face. "Well, since you've more than proven to me that you've no need for bust improvers, I suppose it's time to prove it to the world. Be ready at eight. If you're not dressed by the time I come for you, not only will I not consider your departure on the Resolute, but I'll dress you myself with my own two hands. An endeavor, I assure you, I look forward to with the utmost relish."

  He smirked and glanced once more at her heaving bo­som. After he left, she picked up the closest thing next to her bed, a costly French opaline table bell, and threw it at the closed door.

  Chapter Twenty

  The good people of Hamilton stared in trepidation at the ship the Merry Magdalene when it docked in the Bermu­das. The pirate Fontien was well known to the traders, for many of them had lost precious cargo when he "de­tained" their vessels in the middle of the Atlantic. Stand­ing on the ship's prow, Peterborough was pleased by the nervous expressions of the stevedores as they covertly watched the ship at the dockhouse. He wanted people afraid. That had always been the best way to conduct business.

  "How do you like these Bermudas?" Asher asked, join­ing him at the prow. "Personally, I like them," he added conversationally. "I think I'd like to find a nice beach somewhere and lie there so long my bones turn to dust. Some place quiet, mind you. Some place that doesn't rock one way just when you're about to move the other."

  Peterborough wearily closed his eyes. "If we get the Star, you can settle here. How long before Mirage?"

  "The captain says another few weeks. What, are we already growing tired of this madcap chase?"

  "When we encounter Vashon, I hope you're still able to produce that biting wit."

  Asher turned away, perturbed but growing used to the viscount's verbal jabs. He stared at the busy docks, but the viscount seemed to hold an unresistable attraction, and his gaze soon turned back to Peterborough.

  Peterborough looked tired. His eyes weren't as bril­liant, and there was a day's growth of beard on his jaw as if he'd been too preoccupied to shave. But there was still that edge of obsession that permeated his character and made him so frightening. Looking at him now, with his hair blowing wildly and his face tense with anger, Asher wondered if he'd ever seen it so strong.

  The viscount turned his head and caught him staring. Asher quickly averted his eyes.

  "I'd ask what you want, Asher, but it's all too clearly written on your face."

  Asher grew flustered. "I came to tell you that Az­zedine sent this along before we sailed. I forgot to give it to you." He nervously pulled out his purse and reached deep inside. He took out a locket of dark red-gilt hair. "Do you think it's hers?" he asked as he handed it to Peterborough.

  The viscount touched it as if it were spun gold. "Mi­chael Dayne had this unusual shade of hair," he whis­pered. "By God, Vashon does have her. I swear if we make it to Mirage, he'll not see her again."

  Asher stared at him. Then shrugged as if humoring a madman.

  At five minutes before eight o'clock a knock sounded at the door. Aurora opened it expecting it to be Vashon, but Tsingtsin stood there, a series of leather boxes in his hand.

  "Missa, Vashon say give ru this." He handed her the boxes. With a polite bow, he left, but not before locking the doors securely behind him.

  Resigned that there was to be no end to the irritations this evening, she tumbled the boxes onto her bed and made the final adjustments to her attire.

  She wore the aqua-and-gold gown. Not that she hadn't thought long and hard about not wearing it. On the con­trary, she'd spent all afternoon pacing the cool bricked floor of her apartment considering that very thing. But in the end, she decided not to test him tonight. There was always the slim chance he might let her leave with Flossie on the Resolute, and, too, she believed him all too well when he said he'd come dress her personally. She was not about to give him the pleasure.

  She looked into the cheval mirror and tried again to pull up the low square neckline. Never in her life had she thought to go out in public dressed as she was now. The gown was perfect in length, but most definitely—and, she suspected, intentionally—lacking material in the corsage. She nearly spilled out the front.

  Biting her lower lip, she studied her reflection. The aqua gown was a masterpiece. From the gold brocaded acanthus leaves on the hemline to the coral-colored satin lining of the train, she had never seen a gown as magnifi­cent as this one. Vashon's ridiculous story that it had been made for the Princess of Wales was absurd, and yet the gown was truly worthy of royalty.

  She went to the recamier and slipped on a pair of white satin straights. Finishing the attire with petal-soft kid gloves that reached to her elbows, she almost forgot about the black leather boxes until she spied them lying on the bed like ink spots on the muslin coverlet.

  She walked to her bed and opened them. They held a treasure chest of jewels. In box after box were gold dia­dems, ruby tiaras, and long sautoir chains that held tiny gold perfume flasks. In dismay, she opened custom-made cases of jewels made en suite, some in diamonds, some in emeralds, some in pearls. There were elaborate parures in the Grecian taste, the Egyptian taste and the Etruscan taste, and even a ferroniere, a large pearl pendant meant to be suspended over the forehead from gold chains that encircled the top of the head.

  If she could escape Mirage with one tenth of the jewels on her coverlet, she'd be rich beyond her wildest dreams.

  Her musings abruptly ceased with the commanding knock on her door. She heard the key in the lock, and then Vashon stood in her doorway. There was no other way to describe him but stunningly handsome. As al­ways, his dress was restrained. He wore black pantaloons, immaculately polished Hessian boots, a white marcella waistcoat, and a neckcloth, fashionably high, tied in an austere India knot. With his black hair tamed in a queue, she would never have guessed him to be a pirate, except for the telltale silver hoop in his left ear.

  It was obvious he was pleased to see her in the aqua gown. But she'd expected him to look rather smug and triumphant, as if he'd won another battle, so she was not prepared to see the utterly dazzled glint in his eye as he stared at her. His gaze couldn't seem to follow her closely enough as she walked toward him, away from the jewel-laden bed.

  "You certainly do the gown justice, love," he said in a low voice.

  It was the first time she blushed without his having insulted her. His casual endearment was hard for her to accept too. The word "love" sounded so seductive when it came from his lips. It left her with a feeling that was strange—and not entirely unpleasant.

  "Shall we go? I'd hoped after dinner you might allow me a visit with Flossie," she said.

  "Already anxious to be gone from my company?"

  She answered him with one rapier-sharp glance. He burst out laughing.

  "All right, I'll take you to Flossie. After dinner. But where are your jewels, princess? Didn't you like any that I sent you?"

  He led her by the hand to the bed. Perusing the booty, he picked up several heavy pieces and thrust them into her hands.

  "No, really, Vashon, I can't wear these . . ." she be­gan helplessly. He dressed her with a gold arm cuff inlaid with shell pink cameos.

  "How about these?" He held up two diamond ear pen­dants of prodigious length.

  "No, no. I can't wear those."

  He looked down at her virgin ear lobes and tossed the earrings to the bed.

  "Vashon, really, I don't want to wear these jewels."

  "I didn't murder anyone for them, if that's what's on your mind," he said rather defensively.

  "I'll believe that you didn't," she answered. "Nonethe­less, these things aren't for me. I'll wear my father's locket, but I'd appear foolish wearing these jewels. Even more foolish than I appear in this dress." She was embar­rassed having to look at him after that pitiful confession, but it was true. She was no Princess of Wales, she was a girl. who had grown up a pauper in an orphanage, and she was uncomfortable thinking of herself adorned with heavy, priceless
jewels.

  He studied her with that piercing emerald gaze. Then his eyes turned to the bed. He dropped the handful of jewels. "These trinkets must seem very vulgar to you."

  He didn't let her answer. She thought he was angry, but then he did the strangest thing. He caressed her cheek and slowly released the pins from her hair. She was too shocked to even attempt to stop him and soon her tresses cascaded down her back like a shiny gold-red wa­terfall.

  "They suddenly seem very vulgar to me," he whis­pered before laying a soft kiss upon her lips. His expres­sion changed. His gaze dipped to her gown and he smiled a slow, wry grin. "But say you'll wear the gowns, Aurora. Ah, but you do look fetching. . . ."

  She thought he might kiss her again, but he surprised her once more. He abruptly stepped aside and allowed her to pass. In amazement she turned to stare at him, but he only bowed, motioning her to exit her luxurious jail.

  They dined on the marble terrace overlooking Dragonard's glorious black beach. The sun sank slowly behind the mists of Mount Soufriere, gilding Nevis in the foreground. Encircling them were two magnificent flam­boyant trees, their scarlet blossoms as vivid as a flame. As they ate, the Caribbean sank into a deep turquoise twi­light while a sensuous, caressing wind hinted of the scent of oranges.

  The breeze touched Aurora's hair and swept it entic­ingly off her brow. She watched Vashon from across the table. The meal, of course, was extraordinary: salads made with breadfruit and papaw, guinea fowl from the market in Basseterre, and lastly another carved pineap­ple, a delicacy of which Aurora could never get enough.

  Vashon speared a piece with his fork. Perversely, she watched as he brought it to his mouth, then ripped it cleanly away with his teeth. For some reason, she found the whole display oddly titillating, and she watched him again, this time closely—noting how his strong jaw moved as he chewed, studying the way his lips clamped the fork, thinking about the taste of the pineapple as it squirted into his mouth.

  "Enjoying yourself?"

  Her gaze shot to the rest of his face. He was smiling as if he had been reading her mind.

  Disturbed, she jerked her attention back to her meal, but her thoughts weren't easily diverted. Unbidden, the picture of him eating that piece of pineapple came back to her again with acute detail. She closed her eyes as if that would erase the image, but still she could see him, his tongue meeting it, his teeth crushing it.

  She mentally shook herself. What kind of depravity possessed her? What was wrong with her that she couldn't rid herself of this strange fascination? Anxiously she took a bite of her own pineapple. She chewed it ab­sently until she chanced to look at him and found that he had stopped eating, and was now staring at her with equal intensity.

  She swallowed and nearly choked. Her stomach felt as though it had dropped two feet.

  "What on earth are you looking at?" she gasped.

  He put his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his fist. He wasn't smiling, but from the glitter of his eyes, he should have been. "I was looking at the same thing you were."

  "I was not looking at you in that manner!" She tried to dismiss him, but nonetheless the glint in his eye was mak­ing her supremely uncomfortable.

  "No, I assure you, you were staring at me just this way."

  "I—I really don't know what you're talking about," she said, growing flustered.

  "Ah, I see. Well, let me make myself plain." He lifted his fork to her, a chunk of dripping pineapple on its tip. In a rather obscene manner, he pulled it off with his tongue and sucked it into his mouth. "Is that what you were watching with such rapture?"

  Even though she was blushing, she did her best to look indignant. "Ridiculous! Where is the rapture in watching another person eat fruit?"

  He smiled. And what a wicked smile it was. "Believe me, I could find all kinds of rapture." He removed a piece of fruit from the fruit bowl and laid it before her like a dueling pistol. "Why don't we start with you eating this banana?"

  "I haven't the vaguest idea what you're talking about." "All the more delightful."

  She gave him several distrustful glances, as if he'd sud­denly gone out of his mind. She didn't understand what he was implying and it bothered her.

  He smiled and took another piece of pineapple into his mouth. When he caught her eyeing him, he wiggled his tongue at her.

  Disgusted with his prurient behavior, she steeled her­self and went back to her dinner. He wasn't making any sense, and she wasn't going to stoop to try and under­stand him. The best thing she could do was to ignore him.

  But that wasn't easy. Especially when his eyes seemed to linger on her every motion, from raising the fork to her mouth to her very last swallow. This went on for hours, it seemed, until she couldn't take it anymore. Abruptly she dropped her fork on her plate and stood.

  "Flossie must be wondering where I am by now. I must go," she announced.

  "Flossie doesn't know you're coming. Sit down." His gaze commanded her back to her chair. Slowly she com­plied.

  "You haven't finished." He looked at her half-filled plate.

  She pushed it away. "I most certainly have."

  "All right. Sit there and watch, then." He continued eating, all the while appearing as if he was immensely enjoying himself, quite at her expense.

  She refused to give him any further satisfaction. Ignor­ing him, she turned her attention to the sea that now encircled them like a dark blue band.

  When he finished, Tsing delivered him a brandy and her a cup of tea. She wondered when this interminable dinner was going to end, but just as she did so, he brought something out of the pocket of his waistcoat and tossed it to her.

  She looked down. Her locket glittered against the pris­tine white of the table linen. Slowly she picked it up.

  "Are you giving this back?" she asked.

  "I shouldn't. After all, it's rightfully mine."

  "Is that how you rationalize everything you steal?"

  He smiled and sipped his brandy. "You know, Aurora, I'd have never believed you could be so obstinate."

  "It's been all my pleasure, believe me."

  "But now I'm in a quandary. I need you to help me decipher this rhyme. So do I coax you with honey, or"— he studied the amber liquid in his tumbler—"do I crush you like a blossom beneath my boot?"

  She stared at him, her eyes darkening with worry.

  "Is big dilemma," he whispered to her, quoting Tsing­tsin.

  She tore her gaze away. Though the night was warm and she was in an abominably ornate gown for the cli­mate, she suddenly felt a chill. How could she be so com­fortable in this man's presence when he was such a black­guard? It would never cease to amaze her. Sometimes she almost forgot who he was and what he stood for. Then he would do something or say something that would remind her all too clearly of the terrible power within his grasp.

  "How do you think to crush me?" she asked.

  "I won't enjoy it," he stated and for once she believed him. But because he wouldn't enjoy it didn't mean he wouldn't do it.

  "If you think to repeat more nights like the one we had in Grand Talimen, then you're sadly mistaken," she whispered defiantly.

  He met her gaze. "If that night upset you, I could make it look like a stroll through Kensington Gardens."

  She utterly believed him. "You're threatening me with rape?"

  "I don't want to threaten you at all. I just want that emerald and the means to it. Unfortunately, you are the means."

  She was silent.

  He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his broad chest. "What are you thinking of, Aurora? Are you thinking of an agreement? Are you bargaining with me in that head of yours?"

  She shot him an angry glance. "Certainly not," she assured him haughtily. "Even a simpleton knows enough not to bargain with Old Nick."

  Her superior air made him laugh. "Yes, I can see you, our tight-laced Miss Dayne, making a pact with Satan." He took another sip of brandy and chuckled. His mood seemed to im
prove. "You know, I've never told you this, Aurora, but you remind me of someone. Someone I once held in very high regard."

  "And who was that?" she asked smartly. He couldn't be comparing her to Blackbeard and that was the only person she could think of whom he would hold in high regard.

  "Her name was Miss Prendergast. Old Prinny, we called her. She was my governess—a staunch disciplinar­ian for whom I caused much grief." He smiled with the remembrance. "But despite all the toads beneath her cov­erlet and all the spiders in her desk, she persisted to the very end trying to reform me. In truth, we were quite famous friends. I think she must have secretly craved the wildness in me, and, I suppose I craved her tolerance of me—for which she seemed to have an endless supply." A moment passed and his thoughts seemed very far away, as if he were recalling it all with vivid detail. But then his eyes came back to her and he said, "Yes, you definitely remind me of her, Aurora. She was quite the little tight-laced spinster too. Even my mother thought so. I can remember her once telling our cook that it would proba­bly take another Resurrection to get that sour look off Miss Prinny's face." He laughed.

  Aurora, on the other hand, was speechless. Of all the shocking things he had ever said to her, this was by far the most shocking. She was so completely taken aback, she didn't even think that he had just compared her to an elderly sour-faced spinster.

  A governess? This black-haired wild savage sitting be­fore her had once had a governess? She could hardly fathom it. "I really don't understand . . . how could you . . . possibly have had . . . ?"

  "Have had a life other than the one I lead now?" he finished for her.

  She nodded.

  His jaw hardened; his eyes turned cold. "Well, I did. I had a very civilized life once. Until I turned thirteen."

  "What happened then?" she whispered.

  A grim smile touched his lips. "Have you ever heard of the term 'white slavery'?"

  She was hardly able to utter the next logical question. "What does that have to do with you?"

  He pinned her with his gaze and looked reluctant to speak, as if what he had to say was too ugly to even put into words. "I, my love, was a highly sought-after com­modity."