Nadine made a face and continued to fuss with her hair. The shore seemed very far away, our campsite barely visible across the water. Quince and his men had already started back through the swamps. The men on The Sea Lyon were just as fierce and sullen-looking as the others had been, but they seemed much cleaner, their clothes less ragged and soiled. Draper marched over to us and stood with hands on hips, the sleeves of his green shirt whipping in the wind.
“What’s wrong with the nigger?” he snapped.
“She’s all right,” Em said. “She’s just upset.”
“Red Nick don’t like snivelin’. He don’t like lip, either. Any of you sluts open your mouths when he’s inspectin’ you, he’s likely to knock you down. Keep that in mind!”
“Hush up, luv,” Em told Corrie. “Lord, I’ve never seen such tears. Here, wipe them away. That’s better. Marietta and I are going to take care of you, luv, but you’ve gotta hold up your end.”
“I—I’se just so scared. I won’t cry no more, Miz Em. I promise.”
“Line up, sluts!” Draper ordered. “Here comes the captain!”
Tremayne came up the stairs from the officers’ quarters, young, muscular, looking terribly stern now. He was followed by a very tall, very lean man who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. Nicholas Lyon wore a pair of black leather knee boots polished to a high sheen, the heels clicking as he moved across the deck. His black breeches were snug, hugging his calves and thighs, while his maroon shirt fit loosely, bagging slightly over the waistband. It was made of pure silk, heavy and shiny, open at the throat, the full bell sleeves gathered at the wrists. The maroon was a rich, dark shade, the color of wine. He wore no cutlass, carried neither knife nor pistol, and his face was expressionless, yet he nevertheless seemed far more formidable than any of his men. He exuded an aura of savage ruthlessness that made my blood run cold.
“Here they are,” Tremayne said. “Seventeen of ’em.”
A tiny frown of displeasure creased Red Nick’s brow. He hadn’t bothered to look at us yet.
“So few?” he inquired.
“Quince and his boys aren’t findin’ it as easy as it used to be, and their agents aren’t supplyin’ as many wenches as they used to. These ain’t too bad, and there’s one in particular, a redhead—”
“I’ll make my own judgment, Tremayne.”
His voice was perfectly level, but it had a harsh, metallic quality that reminded one of steel. He sauntered over to inspect us, maroon silk fluttering at waistband and wrists. He moved with the assurance and lazy grace of a panther, lithe and arrogant, and one sensed a tightly coiled strength in that lean body. As he moved slowly down the line, examining each of us without the slightest sign of interest, I studied his face. It was not handsome, no, much too lean and taut for that, but there was something undeniably fascinating about those sharp, cruel features.
His lips were thin, his nose a trifle long, flaring at the nostrils, and the skin was stretched tightly across his broad, sharp cheekbones. His eyes were light blue, piercing eyes, eyes that knew no mercy, his heavy lids half-shrouding them. Dark, copper-brown brows arched sharply above, satanic brows that flared at the corners. His skin was deeply tanned, making his thin lips seem a paler pink, and his hair was a dark reddish-brown, the color of tarnished copper. A heavy V-shaped wave slanted across his forehead, the point an inch or so above his right eyebrow.
He paused briefly in front of each of us, those piercing eyes moving up and down, taking in everything, betraying nothing. His thin lips lifted at one corner in a faint curl of disapproval as he examined Bessie, and then he continued his inspection, examining Corrie, examining Em, finally pausing in front of me. I stood perfectly still, gazing straight ahead with a composure I was far from feeling. My heart was pounding. I knew instinctively that it would be a grave error to try and stir his interest in any of the usual ways. Nicholas Lyon was not the kind of man who would respond to an inviting smile or melting looks.
I was filthy, my hair in tangled disarray, my face probably streaked with dirt. My gown was soiled and torn. Could he see beyond the dirt, the dishevelment? Perhaps he would find me too regal and aloof. He might prefer a different type altogether. Was it my imagination, or did he hesitate just a moment before moving on down the line? Did those eyes linger a few seconds as he examined my face, my body? Was there a slight flicker of interest in their icy blue depths? I couldn’t be certain. I didn’t dare hope. He moved on and finished his inspection with Nadine, who stood at the end of the line, and as he turned she reached out to pluck his arm.
“Just a minute, Captain,” she said, “there’s something you need to know. There’s been a mistake, you see. I’m not like these others. I—my name is Nadine Dujardin. My father is Raoul Dujardin, I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s a very important man, very wealthy, too, and he’ll pay an enormous reward for my safe return. I’m sure your men didn’t mean to make such an error, and I know Daddy’ll understand—he won’t make any trouble. You can just put me ashore with one of the men and he can take me back to New Orleans and Daddy’ll give him the money.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Em whispered.
Nicholas Lyon stood very still, his eyes moving down to rest on the hand that restrained him. Nadine smiled and batted her lashes, playing the coquette now, all playful and flirtatious.
“You’re obviously an intelligent man,” she continued, “obviously a gentleman, too, not like the rest of this riffraff. I know you’ll be reasonable about this. Just pick out a man and send me back and all will be forgiven, I promise.”
He raised his eyes to look at her face a moment, taking in the simpering smile, the playful eyes, and then he pulled his arm free and stepped back. Nadine continued to smile, even as he curled his fist and drew it back. He hit her across the jaw with a shattering impact that sent her flying backward at least ten feet before she fell crashing to the deck, totally unconscious even before her head banged on the hard wood. Several of the women screamed, and Em went rushing over to fall to her knees and gather the girl in her arms.
“Goddamn you!” she yelled. “She’s a bloody fool, sure, but you didn’t have to kill her! She’s not breathing! Yes, she is—just barely! Nadine, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes? She’s out cold, and I think you’ve broken her bloody jaw!”
It was an act of incredible courage. Em detested Nadine and everything she stood for, but her natural compassion was far stronger than any personal dislike. She had flown to the girl’s side without even thinking of her own welfare, and she glared at the pirate now with eyes literally afire with anger. A sudden hush fell over the ship. Red Nick’s men were stunned by Em’s foolhardy action, even more stunned by her words. Tremayne had turned quite pale. He stared at her with his mouth wide open in amazement. Nadine stirred in Em’s arms and began to moan. Em held her close, stroking her hair.
“You’ll be all right,” she said. “Can you move your jaw? Thank God. I thought it was broken. You poor little fool!”
She helped the girl to her feet and led her slowly back over to the group of women. Nadine was crying silently, tears streaming down her cheeks in wet, sparkling rivulets. Red Nick hadn’t moved. His expression hadn’t altered. I could feel the tension crackling in the air. Draper was the first to respond. He charged over and seized Em roughly by the arm.
“Ten lashes?” he inquired. “Twenty?”
“Twenty should do,” Red Nick said dryly. “Tie her to the mast. Perhaps the others will profit by watching her punishment.”
“Hold on a minute,” Tremayne protested. “Captain, look, the women—uh—they’ve been under considerable strain. This one—” He pushed Draper, away and took hold of Em himself, “I have an interest in her. I don’t want her cut up. I’ll punish her myself.”
Red Nick elevated one satanic brow, surprised by his second-in-command’s intervention. Michael Tremayne ran his tongue over his lower lip, working up more courage.
“I’ll take her down to my cabin, keep her t
here. I’ll give her a beating she won’t soon forget.” He seized Em’s hair and jerked her head back, looking into her eyes with a fierce, menacing expression. “I’ll see she learns to behave herself.”
“She needs a lashin’!” Draper growled.
“You shut up, Draper!”
Red Nick hesitated a moment, calmly observing the two men who were clearly on the verge of physical combat. Draper was scowling, gray eyes glittering with hostility. Tremayne had hooked his left arm around Em’s neck, holding her protectively. His right hand rested on the hilt of his knife, and his expression left no doubt that he was ready to use it if Draper persisted. The rest of the men waited eagerly, hoping to witness a good rousing fight before they resumed their duties.
“You want this woman, Tremayne?” Red Nick asked.
Tremayne nodded, drawing Em closer. Red Nick frowned, plainly displeased but willing to reward his man for services rendered.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll postpone the lashing for the time being. I expect you to discipline her properly, Tremayne. I intend to hold you personally responsible for her conduct.”
It was at this point that I heard a low, crooning noise and turned to see Bessie shaking her head. She shook her head and crooned and then, abruptly, so abruptly that it took everyone by surprise, she went rushing toward the railing. A pirate leaped in front of her, trying to grab her. She shoved him aside with superhuman strength, knocking him off his feet. Men shouted, rushing toward her, but Bessie jumped up onto the railing before any of them could reach her. She stood poised there for a moment like a tightrope walker, plump and ungainly, dark hair flying, blue skirts whipping, and then she dove into the water.
Several of the women screamed. Men rushed to the railing. I started to rush over myself, but Tremayne relinquished his hold on Em and seized my arm, restraining me. He shook his head, his dark eyes telling me that there was no hope of saving her. Corrie began to sob. I watched in horror as Bessie came bobbing up to the surface, thrashing her arms furiously, trying to swim. Em seized my hand as Bessie went under again and the two sharks we had seen earlier glided slowly toward her, their long gray-white bodies clearly visible just beneath the sun-drenched surface. Bessie came up again, hair plastered across her face, skirts wet and tangled.
The sharks circled her leisurely, one of them gliding over to investigate, nudging her almost playfully, circling again as the other shark swirled over and casually bit off a leg. The water turned scarlet. Bessie’s scream was a shrill, earsplitting cry of anguish that ended in a horrible gurgling as she was pulled under. The sharks grew frenzied, feasting greedily, and the water churned furiously, bright, bright red. It was all over in a very few moments. The enormous creatures disappeared. The crimson stain spread and turned pink, fading, and then the water was blue again and sparkling with sunlight. Bessie might never have existed. Three of the women had fainted.
“Hoist the anchor, men,” Nicholas Lyon said dryly. “We’ve tarried too long as it is.”
The deck became a beehive of activity as the men hurried about their duties, pulling up the anchor, tightening ropes, climbing the rigging to adjust the sails. The sails flapped, catching the wind. The ship rocked, beginning to move. Red Nick strolled over to where we were standing. Draper and one of the other men were pulling the unconscious women to their feet, reviving them with sharp slaps. Tremayne, remembering his promise, grabbed Em’s hair again and made a fist, holding it in front of her face with a menacing gleam in his dark eyes that was extremely convincing.
“Think you can handle her, Tremayne?” the captain asked.
“I can handle her, all right. She’s gonna be black and blue before the day’s over.”
“Amuse yourself,” Red Nick said.
Tremayne released Em’s hair, seized her wrist, and dragged her toward the stairs leading down to the officers’ quarters. Em stumbled along beside him quite willingly, eagerly, in fact. The captain watched them for a moment and then turned to look at me. I didn’t lower my eyes. I met his stare calmly, neither defiant nor intimidated.
“Draper, get these women below,” Red Nick ordered, his eyes never leaving my own. “Not this one,” he added.
Draper barked orders and four men came to help him, herding the women together and shoving them roughly toward a dark, narrow opening at the other end of the ship. Corrie glanced back at me with despairing eyes as one of the men dragged her away. Nicholas Lyon and I stood facing each other as men rushed about, yelling to one another in coarse voices, as the great sails snapped in the wind and the ship moved over the waves with remarkable speed. I was perfectly immobile, much calmer than I had any right to be. He folded his arms across his chest, heavy maroon silk flowing, fluttering softly. His piercing blue eyes slowly undressed me and then dared me to betray some kind of reaction.
“In two days time, The Sea Lyon will rendezvous with another ship,” he informed me. “The women will be transferred to that ship and sent on to our agents in Brazil. The Sea Lyon will return to my island.”
I made no reply. I continued to meet his gaze with cool composure.
“Your little friend, the one Tremayne has taken a fancy to, will remain on board. She’s his property now. I gave her to him.”
“That was quite generous of you. I’m sure he appreciates it.”
“What do you call yourself?”
“My name is Marietta Danver.”
“You speak in a refined voice. Are you an aristocrat?”
“I was educated as one. I was shipped to America as an indentured servant over five years ago.”
“What was your crime?”
“I was accused of stealing an emerald necklace.”
“From an aristocrat?”
“I was a governess in the London home of Lord Robert Mallory. When I refused to become his mistress, he placed his wife’s necklace in my valise, summoned the Bow Street runners, and claimed the jewels had been stolen.”
“You were innocent, of course.”
“Of course,” I said.
“You’re a very clever woman, I can sense that, and I’m glad to hear you’re a thief instead of a fine lady. I hate the aristocracy. I hate everything they represent. Were you a blue blood, I would send you along with the other women without a moment’s hesitation and without a single regret.”
“And as I’m not an aristocrat?”
“I might decide to take you on to the island.”
If he expected me to show relief, he was due a disappointment. I showed no emotion whatsoever, and that bothered him. His thin lips curled. His nostrils flared. I was taking a great risk, I knew, but I also knew that a grateful, submissive creature would have bored him, would have awakened his cruelest instincts. Nicholas Lyon had every intention of taking me down to his quarters and making love to me, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it, but if I played it just right, I could prevent him from sending me to South America with the other women. If I was to win, I had to arouse his interest as well as his lust, and instinct told me that a man like Lyon would find resistance and cool indifference far more intriguing than meek submission.
“I’d as soon go to Brazil with the others,” I said.
That genuinely surprised him. “You’d prefer a brothel to my bed?”
“I’d prefer a brothel,” I replied.
“You’re unusually bold, Miss Danver. Unusually brave as well. You saw what happened to the skinny blonde.”
“Do you think I’m afraid?” My voice was perfectly calm. “I’ve seen enough cruelty this past week to make me completely immune. Nothing you could do to me could possibly matter at this point.”
“No?”
“I’ll go with the others, Captain.”
I turned and started walking quite coolly toward the other end of the ship. Nicholas Lyon took three long strides, grabbed my wrist and gave it an excruciatingly painful twist. Seizing my elbow with his other hand, he thrust my arm up between my shoulder blades, twisting even more, applying so m
uch pressure I had to bite my lip to keep from screaming. Holding me in front of him, jerking my arm up another few inches, he forced me to walk toward the stairs, and when I struggled he gave my arm an upward yank that caused me to cry out in spite of myself. He forced me down the stairs and down a long narrow hallway with doors on either side, and I continued to struggle, knowing I must.
At the end of the hall an elegant mahogany door was slightly ajar. Nicholas Lyon kicked it all the way open and thrust me into a spacious, sumptuously appointed room. Letting go of my arm, he gave me a shove that sent me sprawling. I landed on my hands and knees on the plush gold carpet, hair falling in heavy waves across my cheeks. Sitting up on my knees, I brushed the hair back and turned to look at the man who stood in the doorway.
“In one of the adjoining rooms you’ll find soap and water,” he informed me. “Wash yourself. Scrub yourself thoroughly. In one of the chests you’ll find a selection of gowns. Put one on. I’ll be back after a while. I expect you to be waiting—and willing.”
“And if I’m not?”
“I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”
He turned and pulled the door shut behind him. I could hear his footsteps moving back down the hall. I stood up, rubbing my arm. It was so sore I could hardly move it, but the pain didn’t matter at all. What mattered was that I had won the first round, even though he didn’t realize it, and I was determined to win the second as well.
Eleven
Red Nick’s quarters were elegant indeed, the walls of this main room paneled in dark mahogany that gleamed with a rich patina, exquisitely colored parchment maps hanging in ornate gold frames. There was an enormous desk, a dining table, several chairs, those at the dining table with high, carved backs and seats upholstered in plush yellow brocade. A gorgeous brown and bronze globe with gold lettering stood in one corner in a mahogany stand, and more maps, neatly rolled, stood in a mahogany rack beside it. Crystal pendants dangled from ornate wall sconces, and a chandelier hung over the dining table, pendants tinkling softly as the ship moved.
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