Across Captive Seas

by Michele du Barry

  The dress was thin silk, shimmering like mother-of-pearl with narrow gold ribbon-belts crisscrossing around her slim waist. It was plain, only the hemline embroidered in delicate scallops, white on white. Angela did as she was instructed clasping the diamonds the Prince of Wales had given her around her wrist. Percy’s pendant dangled against the hollow of her breasts and her wedding ring sparkled like fire on her hand.

  It was warm out but she was freezing, shaking so that it took twice as long to do her hair. “Stop it,” she told her reflection in the mirror, “you must be calm!” But the huge tragic eyes staring back at her were accusing. “I have to. There’s no choice, none at all!”

  ‘‘Where are you going?” asked Ezra taking in her festive appearance as she emerged from the bedroom.

  “I—I am having dinner with Laporte,” she stammered under his scrutiny.

  “Why?”

  “I have to talk with him, find out when we can leave and if the ransom has been paid.”

  “Not looking like that!” Ezra bellowed. “Go and get changed into something more—”

  “No, Ezra!” Angela stated bluntly. “This is none of your business.” Then very softly, “Remember your promise.”

  Angela raced away from the startled giant, upset at the way she had treated him. But what could she have said? That she was going to make a bargain with the devil and become Laporte’s mistress in exchange for a promise? She was going to give herself to the man responsible for countless deaths including those of Molly, Angus, and Captain Darnell; a man viler even than Thurston Vaughn?

  Laporte stood up and made a smart bow, his cold green eyes revealing a flicker of triumph. The table was set for two, gleaming with gold plate and cut crystal against an old ivory lace tablecloth. Crimson roses released their elusive fragrance from the center of the table and candles set in heavy silver candelabra cast swaying points of light in the dark courtyard.

  “I knew you would come,” said Laporte seating Angela. Her face was closed, as white as her dress.

  “I had no choice.” Laporte was dressed in scarlet and she thought how fitting for one that had spilled so much blood.

  He poured champagne into their glasses and raised his with a grimacing smile. “To our—bargain and our new relationship.”

  “We have made no bargain yet,” Angela asserted, “and we have no relationship other than jailor and prisoner!”

  “But we will,” he assured her, his eyes devouring the swell of her breasts. “You can be certain of that!” Laporte made no more attempt at conversation as dinner was served silently by the flawlessly dressed slaves. Angela looked down at her plate, not eating just taking an occasional sip of wine. She could feel his eyes on her, but she forced herself to make no reaction.

  Oh, yes, she had been quite right about his intentions. Laporte would stoop to any depth to make her his. He was the scum of the earth but Angela had learned never to underestimate him. Right now he was reveling in his accomplishment, dragging out every glorious minute.

  Dinner was over and the slaves left them alone with fruit, cheese, and sherry. Angela looked up at Laporte across the expanse of antique lace destined no doubt for a wealthy table. Her aquamarine eyes glinted hard and uncompromising.

  “Shall we strike our bargain now?” Angela asked calmly.

  Laporte’s diabolical smirk gave him the guise of a fiend. “Why not? You are eager, chérie.”

  “You begin. Tell me what you want and what I will get in exchange.”

  “Ah, very businesslike. Will you make me sign a contract?” She ignored the question and he sipped his sherry, then began peeling an orange. “You know what I want already, Angela—you.”

  Her eyes never left his face and she nodded. “You told me that weeks ago, Laporte, and then shortly thereafter proved to what lengths you would go to acquire me as your property.”

  “Not property, chérie—since we are being so straightforward—I want you to be my mistress. But you must perform all the duties associated with that position—de bonne grâce. . . ”

  “Never willingly! Only under threat, fear of what you may do next. You have had Molly killed to prove a point to me and I am not stupid! So what is it now? What will you do if I don’t give in to your demands?

  “You love your children very much, do you not, chérie?”

  It was out in the open at last, and though she had been expecting it the reality of the spoken words shook Angela to the core. Her hand fastened around the crystal stem of the goblet until she thought it would snap and her eyes glowed catlike as the breeze extinguished half the candles. Smoke spiraled in thin streams into the starry sky, hazing the air between them.

  “What about Robert and Lorna?” she hissed touching the fruit knife beside her plate. Surely it wasn’t long enough to pierce his heart—if he had one.

  “They would be in danger if you refused me.”

  “You would kill two innocent children?” Angela’s voice rose and the sherry spilled, spreading across the lace. “Then what—throw me to your men? Because with my children gone what hold would you have over me then?”

  “An excellent point—one I thought of myself.” Laporte poured more wine into her goblet. “I had almost decided to have them tortured in front of you, but changed my mind. So. . .” One dark eyebrow lifted in anticipation, his cold voice drawing out the process infinitely. “Jules gave me the perfect plan. You see, besides being enamored of me, he also has a fondness for children and I had to admit it might be quite amusing to initiate them into—”

  Angela choked and rushed at Laporte, the knife clenched firmly in her hand. “You pervert!” she screamed as the blade sliced through his coat. But Laporte had been expecting something of this sort and threw himself backward so that they both went crashing to the ground.

  Twisting he grabbed her wrist slamming it repeatedly against the wooden leg of the overturned chair until she was sobbing and her fingers flew open. The knife clattered to the tiles and he kicked it away into a dark corner of the courtyard. Laporte stood up unharmed glancing down at the shaking blur of white silk at his feet.

  “Monster, monster—they are only children!”

  “And they have nothing to fear if their mother does as she’s told. I promise they won’t be harmed—everything will continue as before—if you become my whore!”

  What Laporte proposed to do if he didn’t get his way was worse than killing them. It would shatter their lives and affect her children for as long as they lived. The man was worse than a monster. There was no way out now.

  Struggling to her knees Angela turned a tearstreaked face up to the hated man. “I have no choice. I will do what you want.”

  She started to get up but Laporte’s hand clamped down on her shoulder digging in cruelly, bruising her flesh. “Now tell me,” he said in a strangely excited croak, “just what you want.”

  “I—I want to be your mistress!”

  “Beg me! Tell me what you will do to me!” His eyes glittered fanatically and his mouth was slack and wet.

  Jack’s words returned to haunt her: “Never on your knees. . . not for any man!”

  No, she whispered inwardly, feeling caught up once more in something worse than a nightmare. No dream could be as bad as the reality!

  “Please,” she cried, the faces of her children before her eyes, “I want to be your whore—make love to you. . .” A wave of nausea almost overcame her but she choked it back.

  Her words magically wiped the expression from his face and Laporte helped Angela to her feet, righting his chair. “Now we will have our toast,” he proclaimed.

  Angela sank into the chair and he handed her the sherry. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her but it didn’t happen.

  “The bargain is made!” He raised his glass. “To my new whore!” Triumphantly he tossed off the sherry and watched as she touched it to her lips.

  “And now,” whispered Angela, “I would like to proclaim a toast. To Gaston Laporte—may he have
all the luck that the Bratach Sith has brought me.”

  He frowned at the foreign words she uttered, unable to decide what they meant. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he refilled his glass and drank, wondering briefly why her smile was so genuinely pleased.

  But the night was far from over and it wiped the brief smile from her lips. He escorted her to his room, all the time cool and distant except for that one brief flash of emotion when she had attacked him.

  Laporte’s room was dark, decorated in silver and black absorbing even the candlelight like a deep cavern. Other than that first brief impression, Angela had no time for observing the rest of the room. Once the door was closed and locked the night crashed down on her like an avalanche sweeping her along inexorably.

  “Take your clothes off!” commanded Laporte sitting on a silver embroidered chair and with trembling fingers she obeyed.

  Everything was happening in slow motion: the whisper of silk as it slipped down her body and pooled like white foam around her feet on the carpet; the soft thud as her kid slippers joined it; the clink of gold and diamonds laid on a nearby table; the way Laporte’s breath caught in his throat when Angela stood naked and defenseless in the middle of the room lifting her arms to undo her hair and shake it like a dark concealing curtain about her body.

  She was exquisite, the statue of a goddess come to life and she was his to command. Laporte stood up and walked around her, brushing aside the tumble of midnight curls. She stood perfectly still except for tremors that quivered over her satin-smooth skin and when he cupped her left breast he felt the frightened pounding of her heart.

  “Ma foi!” he said hoarsely, feeling his need of her rise within him. “Undress me—now!”

  Angela wanted to refuse but she made herself touch him though she shrank from her task. There was more at stake here than just her feelings of revulsion and she tried to suppress everything beneath a calm surface.

  “Look at me,” he ordered when he was finally undressed and her wide eyes traveled down his wiry body, recoiling at the ugly scars. There were many old wounds but the newest and most vivid was the deeply puckered purple one that ran from upper thigh to ankle, twisting his leg slightly. It was a wonder he had recovered from it or could even walk again.

  “I wasn’t so hard on the eyes a few years ago,” Laporte explained, “but that was before a dog of an Englishman carved me up. Not very pretty now, am I?”

  Angela remained mute and closed her eyes against the sight of his rising passion. But then he was beside her kissing her face with that awful lopsided mouth that had recently kissed Jules. When his mouth found hers she gagged as he thrust his tongue between her teeth.

  “Not this time!” he warned. “You will not get sick! Now, behave like my mistress. Put your arms around me, touch me.” And she obeyed.

  At first he was gentle but when he lowered her onto the bed he turned into a madman biting and hurting, leaving ugly bruises all over her flinching body. Angela clamped her mouth shut so she wouldn’t scream and only small sounds came from the back of her throat.

  Then he fell on her violating her brutally, taking delight in her squirming body beneath him. And all Angela could think of was that she was betraying Scott, her marriage vows, everything she held sacred.

  When the sadistic attack was over, Laporte wrapped his arms tightly around her, not allowing her to escape from him. Angela’s mind was numb and her body throbbed protestingly as he squeezed her against him. She bit her lips so she wouldn’t cry and give him the satisfaction of humiliating her even more.

  “Did I hurt you, chérie?” he asked and then went on not bothering to wait for an answer. “Tant mieux! I want to hurt you the way I have been hurt, to dishonor you the way I was.”

  What was he talking about?

  He kept murmuring obscene French phrases in her ear, touching her curves lightly then punishingly. Rolling her over onto her stomach he pressed her down into the soft bed. Before she could even move Laporte took her again, but this time in his own debased, perverted way.

  Angela couldn’t suppress a cry at the abomination he was performing on her. No man had ever hurt her like this before. Would he never finish? Pain too intense to bear tore her apart.

  “Come, my little slut,” he whispered in her ear, “don’t you like the refinements of lovemaking? You are my mistress, my whore; whatever I want, you will do! I know you think you are a noble, self-sacrificing lady—doing it for your children.” Laporte laughed prolonging the act agonizingly. “Don’t fool yourself. You are no better than a prostitute selling herself on the street for food or money. They do it to survive; you’re doing it to protect your children!

  “Just think, if you hadn’t been so stubborn Molly would be alive today. You only gained time, but you ended up where I said you would—in my bed.”

  Angela buried her head in a pillow stifling a scream, trying not to hear what he was saying. But he was right. She had sold herself to him to buy her children’s safety.

  “Whore, whore!” He kept repeating the word over and over again. “Tell me what you are, chérie—tell me!”

  “I’m—your—whore,” she moaned as he redoubled his efforts to shame her. “A whore, whore, whore!”

  Laporte took her twice more that night and then dismissed her abruptly. “You can go now; I want to sleep.” He rolled over and as she dragged herself from his bed he began to snore.

  It took an eternity to put her clothes back on and Angela only did up enough hooks to keep the dress on her. Every movement sent shocks of pain rippling through her. Gathering her jewelry in one hand she staggered back to her room leaning for support on the wall.

  Ezra stirred on his pallet outside the children’s door and his ears picked up at a sound. He sprang up, instantly alert, seeing a white apparition lurching toward the door.

  “My lady!”

  She was bent over, one hand on her abdomen, the other clenched against the wall. Her mouth was a red swollen wound in the stark white of her face and an ugly bruise showed on the swell of one breast disappearing from sight beneath her bodice. Ezra’s nostrils flared at the unmistakable scent.

  “You were with Laporte!” The statement was like an accusation and she couldn’t help a moan of despair and agony. “Did he rape you?”

  “Yes—no. Lord, Ezra, I can’t talk now!”

  “I’ll kill the swine! Pull him apart with my bare hands!”

  “No—no!” she protested putting a restraining hand on his arm. “Remember your promise. I did it of my own free will; I’m his mistress now.”

  “No!” He shrank from her touch.

  “Yes,” Angela said fumbling with the key. “I’m dirty. I’m his whore!” And she entered her room slamming the door in Ezra’s face.

  He stood in silent shock staring at the dark carved wood of the door just inches from his nose. Then he heard the sounds, sobs torn from her throat, but it sounded more like the cries of a dying animal.

  The trap Laporte had so carefully laid sprang shut behind Angela with no way out. She was his mistress now, a fact that he broadcast all over the island and took delight in telling the other captains that came to dine with him occasionally.

  In public he was as ever, distant and aloof but once the door of the black and silver torture chamber closed on them he was a different person. Her degradation was his pleasure and he dreamed up new, inventive ways to disgrace her. He controlled her like a master puppeteer by the mere mention of Lorna and Robert.

  All of the vitality was drained from Angela and she felt herself an empty shell devoid of any emotion except where the children were concerned. Her real self shrank and hid in a small corner of her being until she was a mere zombie commanded by the man that owned her.

  Her life had changed drastically in just the space of a few weeks. Ezra watched the slow destruction of the woman who had saved him twice, helpless to do anything about it. That damned promise kept him immobilized and he agonized over why this was happening. Angela refused
to speak with him about it, withdrawing and not talking to him for days after he broached the subject. So he learned to keep silent and watch but things went from bad to worse.

  Angela learned to divorce her mind from the things Laporte did to her body and she seemed to float above it all, looking down in disgust at the man and woman battling on the black velvet bed. But each time it was over and she dragged herself back to the haven of her room it became more difficult to become herself again. She moved in a haze and sometimes couldn’t remember days at a time, just vague shadowy recollections where the only solid things in her crumbling world were the children and Ezra.

  But showing attention to the children became difficult too. She didn’t want to kiss or touch them lest she contaminate their purity with the thing Laporte had turned her into. She was dirty, a slut, the whore of a pirate, a fact he never tired telling her of—until Angela too came to believe it.

  She sat in the courtyard with a blank look on her face and was so still that a bird glided down to pick up a few crumbs at her feet. A tropical breeze gently stirred tendrils of blue-black hair and the sun was warm on the green muslin dress.

  Jules uttered an exclamation of surprise and turned to leave but thought better of it. Angela looked like a vacant-eyed doll and he walked toward her inspecting this rival for Gaston’s affections. She didn’t move, was unaware of his presence and he felt an uplifting surge of joy. It wouldn’t be long before Gaston tired of the lifeless thing he had turned Angela into and then he, Jules, would be back in his former position.

  She was very slender and had hips almost like a young boy’s, only the curve of her breasts spoiled her lines. Jules’s thoughts turned introspective: he had never had a woman before, never wanted to until now. Gaston had told him some of the things he had done to her and suddenly he couldn’t keep himself from touching her.