Wild, Wicked and Wanton: A Hot Historical Romance Bundle

by Natasha Blackthorne

  Then a second illumination came to her. Alex’s motives were political as well.

  Her gown seemed to have shrunk several sizes, tightening upon her ribs. She couldn’t breathe and her fingers began to tingle. She reached for her wineglass and lifted it with a shaking hand.

  And she didn’t need to look at him to know it was true.

  Fool.

  Stupid, naïve fool.

  She put the glass to her lips and took a deep drink, then almost choked on it, too angry with herself to swallow quickly. The wine eventually made it down and the burn centered her somewhat.

  Of course this was why a wealthy, powerful man would take an interest in her book. He wanted to use it for something other than her original intention.

  He wanted to prostitute her artistic vision and use it as a tool for political gain. Far, far, far worse than anything a real whore could do.

  But why hadn’t he been open about this from the start? She’d been right not to trust him. She set her glass down and stared at the rich red fluid, trying not to turn and glare accusingly at him. She’d never even considered that there could be a propaganda purpose for her book beyond raising public interest in ransoming the captive mariners. Her head swam with the new perspective. They were going to use her book to build support for a national navy.

  How should she feel about that?

  She didn’t know. It seemed that a national navy was important but only after the individuals held in Algeria were free. Individual human life mattered more than national causes. If they used her book in that way, it would distract attention from the cause of raising ransoms. Right? She wished desperately that the meal was over and she could be alone to sort out her thoughts.

  But she couldn’t. She was obligated to stay by the terms of their contract. To stay here among men who thought of life and death and freedom in very different terms than she did. Men who were willing to play with those mariners’ liberty and lives as if they were but pieces on a chessboard.

  Even more than ever, she understood her disadvantage due to her social class, her age and most of all her gender.

  She felt so out of her element.

  And betrayed.

  “What made you decide to apply your art to the Barbary cause?” Rachel’s question broke into Emily’s thoughts.

  Her mind already whirling with emotion, she answered emotionally, “My father was an able seaman on the Maria, bound for Cadiz, overpowered off Cape St Vincent by Barbary corsairs in eighty-five, and was taken into Algerian captivity. He died awaiting ransom by our government—a ransom that still hasn’t come for any of the other mariners.”

  Instant images came swirled in her mind. Her father spiriting her away behind Grandmother’s back, his eyes sparkling, to take her to the waterfront to watch the ships come in. Her father just returned from sea, giving her a sack of oranges and a pineapple. The headstone placed on his empty grave.

  “Our mariners put themselves out on the high seas to fight for the nation’s economic future against rivals who would like nothing better than to see us fail. Surely they are warriors, as much as the brave men who fought our war of independence, only in a different kind of war. I wanted to do something to show what their loss meant to their families and their communities. I wanted to wake people up.” Emily’s voice broke. “I couldn’t let my father’s death count for nothing.”

  Tears blurred her vision and she self-consciously wiped her eyes on the corner of her napkin. The table remained silent. Looking up, she met Alex’s eyes. They were filled with mirrored pain. His compassion was like a physical touch reaching across the table to comfort her. Did that understanding come from the death of his own father? It didn’t matter. The warmth of his understanding just confused her.

  He hadn’t been totally open with her. He wanted to use her art to further his own cause.

  A single person’s handclap broke the silence. Emily turned. Sawyer was clapping.

  “See what I mean? A powerfully evocative personality, coupled with a very talented artist’s eye. An effective tool for the Federalists. When can we expect to see your book in print, Miss Eliot?”

  His sarcastic tone burnt her ears and sharpened her inner turmoil. “I—I don’t rightly know when it shall be printed.”

  “So you’re living here in your benefactor’s house as his employee until then, eh?”

  “She’s here as a member of my household—I consider her as much a member of this household as my own dear cousin Nancy,” Alex replied firmly.

  Sawyer smirked. “Of course—and rightly so. She’s quite a remarkable young lady who has fallen into tragic circumstances. How lucky she is to have found such a sympathetic protector.”

  Something in Sawyer’s tone and demeanor made Emily feel positively unclean.

  “Yes—she’s a very lucky girl and we, too, are fortunate to have her,” Rachel said with a beautiful smile. And so persuasively that Emily almost believed her. “I think the time has come for us ladies to retire—what do you say, Miss Eliot?”

  Emily could have collapsed with relief. Her whole world had turned into a confusing nightmare. She would have demanded to be driven home, if only she had one to go to.

  * * * *

  “We should simply ransom those men and be done with it. We cannot afford a national navy at this juncture,” a Democratic-Republican congressman said.

  “Paying tribute and ransom only makes Barbary more greedy and puts more American mariners into jeopardy.” Alex had lost track of how many times he’d repeated this. Talk grew more circular as the evening wore on. They didn’t want to understand.

  “Why not simply pay the Portuguese to protect us now?” another congressman asked.

  “Our nation a mere tributary of the Portuguese? Untenable, gentlemen,” Benjamin Goodhue replied firmly. “We must stand on our own, else never be respected.”

  “It’s all well and good to say a small number of ships shall be needed, but I simply can’t see it,” another Democratic-Republican congressman said.

  “The Algerians are truly weak, it will not take a large force to deter them,” Alex said. “The Portuguese kept them at bay with three ships.”

  “If they are so weak, how then do they gain the upper hand with our sea captains?”

  Now he’s just being obstinate, playing obtuse.

  “They pose as British privateers, because those damned English harpies are allowed to stop and search our ships for French goods. Then the Algerians show their true colors.”

  “Heaven help those taken—I hear the men are stripped of their clothes, crawling with vermin and starving upon arrival in Algiers,” remarked Ned Drake, a local politician.

  Oh, now they’ll come alive and pay attention. Everyone adores the more unsavory details.

  Alex took a deep swallow of wine to fortify himself as the man carried on, describing a multitude of degradations and tortures inflicted upon captives.

  “The bastinado is the worst.” Ned’s face flushed as he reached this ultimate horror. “They lay a man face down, tie his hands behind him and draw his feet up, then beat his soles with a thin pole. Not fatal but the pain is so exquisite, they say, that one wishes for death.”

  “Chained to weights all day and night is another punishment,” another added.

  “Why do they allow it? Why don’t they fight? I wouldn’t just give in.” The young man’s voice sounded scornful. “I’d fight! I’d rather die than allow such abuses of my person.”

  Uncomfortable silence ensued. The fire popped loudly in the hearth. Alex’s craw felt dry, but that was to be expected with the fire built up so damned high tonight. Indeed, several others cleared their throats.

  “What those men suffer is truly unspeakable. How shameful that, when we sit here so comfortable at our dinner parties and midnight suppers, those mariners remain captive,” Congressman Abraham Baldwin finally said, shaking his head. “Shameful.”

  Alex ignored the steady tightening in his throat. He couldn’t allow
his voice to fail now. The time had come to press home the facts of the matter. “A navy would only cost four hundred thousand dollars at the outset and only one hundred twenty-five thousand a year to sustain, but the results would be priceless.”

  “Those were Mr. Jefferson’s figures, three years ago—that bill died in committee,” another said. “It’s the British—they instigate the Indians to rise against us in the west and inflame the Barbary corsairs against us on the high seas.”

  “If the British are enemy enough to actually set the Barbary nations against us, then we’d better have a navy to protect ourselves,” Alex said.

  “Well, I am surprised to hear a Federalist like you speak so strongly against the British, Dalton,” Muhlenberg said, regarding Alex thoughtfully.

  “We cannot allow ourselves to be divided by the twin seductions of France and Britain. I am American first and foremost.” The glare of so many candles hurt his eyes.

  It’s dinner, not a ball—why waste so damned many candles?

  He closed his eyes briefly, swallowing convulsively.

  “Hear, hear,” said Peter Van Moerdijk, coming to his feet. “Gentlemen, drink with me. To Americans—may we come together and find a way to rescue our brothers taken in captivity.”

  “To Americans!” The cry went around the room as every man raised his glass.

  The fire popped in Alex’s ears like a pistol’s fire, despite the din. He was overheated. The fires were simply built up too damned high. His aunt always kept the fires built up too high. And he’d tied his cravat too damned tight.

  It was all right. Perfectly safe. Sweat rolled down, pouring into his collarbone—just like the water dripping down blue and yellow tiles, musk-scented steam, the flies already buzzing in the heat at such an early hour. Choking, gagging, he forced a swallow of port, feeling it burn all the way down. It didn’t help.

  Push it down, be a man.

  “God! Alex!” Peter cried.

  Chapter Nine

  He turned to his cousin. Peter’s pale blue eyes were wide, shocked, transfixed on the table. Alex glanced down. On the table before him, bright red blood splashed down into a puddle of broken glass and wine on the polished mahogany—yet the sight seemed to bear no connection to anything real.

  Drip, drip, drip. A deafeningly loud echo. Water rolling down blue and yellow tiles, blending with the bath water and…and… Oh God, don’t look!

  Too late.

  The water was crimson…

  The hideous gurgling echoed off the tiles.

  No, no, no! Stop it. Call it back.

  But the water swirled and swirled and swirled, carrying life’s blood with it down the drain.

  Down, down, down.

  Eventually everyone got pulled down and carried out by the tides of life.

  Why fight it?

  A seductive light-headedness swept over him.

  “Here, take care.” Peter’s sharp voice cut into Alex’s waking nightmare.

  Something touched his hand. He glanced down. Peter had laid his napkin over it. There was a proper response here but he’d be damned if he could think of it. He saw and heard and felt, yet remained lost in a slippery place where time held no meaning. He stared dumbly at Peter.

  Peter wrapped the linen firmly about Alex’s dripping injury. The touch brought him back to the here and now. Seven silent, shocked faces were staring at his hand. With his uninjured hand, he clasped the napkin to his injured one, the snow white fabric quickly turning bright red.

  Contempt rose in him. No man who hadn’t experienced torture had the right to speak with any authority on the subject. They could never know. No one survived whole. Some gave in and died. Some continued on, broken and damaged.

  But no one came away from evil without being corrupted themselves.

  What could any of these men possibly know of the extremes of torture, exquisitely applied and designed to push a person to their ultimate limits? Or of watching another person driven to their own personal breaking point? He glanced around the table and didn’t see one face that bore the marks of such spiritual desolation. Instead, the eyes staring back at him were wide, as if he’d suddenly turned into a madman.

  Aware of the depth of his breaking down, the extent of his weakness in front of these gentlemen—peers of his father, no less—he forced a casual grin, engaging the social charm that had always got him by. “Damned cheap French glassware.”

  Every face instantly relaxed and chuckles ensued.

  “Trust you, Dalton, to blame the French for your own damned carelessness!”

  “And you Democratic-Republicans would model our government after them when they can’t even make a decent glass stem,” Alex rejoined. Renewed nausea rose in his gorge. “I’ll just go repair this.”

  Internally he shook and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t vomit all over the table.

  “Should we call for a physician?” Peter asked, his face cautious and concerned.

  Shaking his head, Alex laughed carelessly. “Good God, Peter, don’t be such a woman.”

  “But your hand—all that blood!” James said as he rose from his seat.

  Alex motioned with his good hand. “Seat yourself, James.” His grin felt frozen, painful. “Sorry about the excitement, gentlemen. Please continue. I’ll just be a moment.”

  He retreated to his study, then sagged against the shut door and closed his eyes, seeking the blankness of dark. Yet it did no good. There was no escape. Eyes as blue as the sky stared lifelessly back at him. He put his hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push the thoughts down, down, down, into that place where he kept them locked away.

  He couldn’t. He watched, a helpless bystander to the past, taken back to when he’d been nineteen and trapped in a foreign world.

  He’d touched her shoulders.

  She was still warm.

  He’d shaken her.

  Damn you, damn you, damn you!

  Her mouth had fallen open. Her body had shifted. The tub had begun to drain. The loud gurgling echoed off the tiled walls. Her precious life’s blood—

  Why had she done it?

  Why?

  Why?!

  Catarina.

  He had failed her. He had taken too long to find a solution and she hadn’t been able to hold on.

  He had failed her.

  Sobs rose from the depths of him, so violently that he gagged on them.

  His stomach lurched, pulling him into the moment. The urge to expel the poison of the past was irresistible. He looked about his study, shaking outwardly now, so badly that he didn’t know if he could make it over to the wastebasket to vomit.

  “Alex?” Emily’s voice rang softly in his ears.

  Christ.

  She was the absolute last person he wanted to see right now.

  He’d rather die—he’d rather cast himself prematurely into hell than let her see him collapse.

  But showing his feelings would hurt her. She had worked so hard tonight. He knew she wasn’t comfortable around so many people, yet she’d performed perfectly, with exactly the right amount of feminine modesty and emotional warmth. He owed her every consideration.

  Be a man.

  He swallowed determinedly against his nausea.

  Be a man, if you can. For her.

  “Emily,” he replied, struggling to keep his voice even as he stripped off his coat—too quickly. The superfine cloth tore loudly in the process. Then he lay down upon the settee, hoping he could pass weakness off as indolence.

  “What happened to your hand?”

  His eyes popped open. How lovely she looked in that green velvet gown, with the firelight burnishing her hair to flaming claret and with her wide eyes and sweet concern etched on her face.

  Christ, that these memories could still surface and he had no defense against them. They could just come without warning and destroy him. Even after all this time. It was such intolerable weakness. He tried to smile but the effort proved futile. His face
felt frozen. “It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? You’re dripping blood all over.”

  He looked down at his waistcoat, pantaloons and the cream-and-celadon-striped divan. Bright scarlet blood was streaked and smeared everywhere.

  Damn it, what a thing for her to see—him falling apart.

  He tried to make light of it. “Christ, Aunt Rachel will have an apoplexy.”

  “But this is your study.”

  “One would think so. She seems to think this whole house is hers…” His voice weakened as a new wave of nausea arose. He laid his head back down.

  If he could only get a few moments alone, he could pull himself together.

  He concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply, resisting the urge to expel the contents of his guts. Past experience taught that this would pass with time.

  “Ice?” Her soft voice broke into his concentration.

  “Huh?”

  “Shall I bring some ice, wrapped in a cloth, to stop the bleeding?” Her tone was brisk and practical.

  “Yes, thank you,” he replied.

  Anything to get her out of here and gain a few moments alone.

  As the door clicked closed, he sank into the settee with relief.

  He laid on his divan, listening to the footfalls, his guts sick. He knew who was coming and why. Two men entered the chamber and grabbed him roughly. He was no match for their full-grown muscular strength and yet he still fought. With impersonal expressions on their faces, they quickly subdued him.

  Nicolo laughed as he stretched out on his own divan, relaxed and relieved. “It’s your turn tonight, Dalton. Take it with some dignity for once.”

  Nicolo never fought anymore.

  The rich, jewel-toned colors of the murals passing overhead made him dizzy. He knew where he was going—he was resigned to this part now. He lay passive on the litter, but with his hands tied, what else could he do?

  The sight of the brightly colored room woke him from his apathy. In those moments when they unlaced his hands and re-shackled them to the iron cuffs on the table, he fought them. He always fought them here.

  A deeply tanned face with a halo of pale gold hair floated above Alex. The ghostly gray eyes glowed with excitement and his white teeth showed in a strong, feral grin.