“I prefer death!”
“I seriously doubt that,” he replied.
The words seemed to catch in his throat. That harsh, metallic voice had a new, low pitch that was like a scratchy purr, strangely melodic and extremely sensuous. Hands resting on his thighs, dark maroon sleeves ballooning, the heavy silk bagging loosely where it was tucked into his waistband, he looked at me with heavy lids half-shrouding blue eyes that were filled now with anticipation. I could see the desire swelling between his legs, pressing against the snug black breeches. He moved slowly toward me. I stood my ground with chin held high, my shoulders trembling slightly for his benefit.
He wanted a victim. He wanted to break me, humiliate me, and it would be a mistake to make it too easy for him. I was cool, aloof, gazing at him with haughty blue eyes as he stopped in front of me, so close I could smell skin and sweat and silk.
“Afraid?” he inquired.
“I’m beyond fear. I don’t care what happens to me. You don’t seem to understand that. You can kill me. You can send me to Brazil. It doesn’t matter in the least.”
“No?”
“The—the man I loved was murdered before my eyes. I was raped repeatedly by one of the ‘agents’ who supplies your men with women—a man named Hart. I have no reason for living.”
“You’re going to live,” he promised. “You’re going to live in splendor.”
“Not with you.”
“You seem quite sure of that.”
“I’ll kill myself first.”
“You’re going to live with me. You’re going to be my woman. What’s more, you’re going to love it. I’m going to make you love it.”
I said nothing, but my eyes told him that would be impossible, that I found him thoroughly reprehensible and would prefer death to his embrace. It excited him. I could see the excitement in his eyes, carefully contained, held in check as he stood there with his hands on his thighs.
“You’re no stranger to men,” he said.
“I’ve known a number of men,” I replied.
“Intimately,” he added.
“That’s quite true, but I’ve always been extremely selective—when I had a choice.”
He smiled at that, a wry, sardonic smile that lifted those thin pink lips at one corner. His face was deeply tanned. His dark copper hair was thick and heavy, gleaming with red-brown highlights. His hands were tan, too. He placed them on my shoulders, and when I tried to pull away those strong, sinewy fingers dug into my flesh with bruising force. I winced. He pulled me to him and curled one arm around the back of my neck and lowered his head, lips parting as they neared my own. I beat against his chest with my fists. I kicked his shin with my bare foot. He kissed me savagely, relishing my struggles, crushing me to him with arms strong as steel. I threw my hands up and caught his hair and tried to pull his head back, and he kissed me with even more fury.
When he finally released me, I swung my hand back and slammed my palm across his face with all the strength I had. The slap made an explosion of sound, and my palm stung violently. Red Nick didn’t blink. Not a muscle in his face moved. I backed slowly away from him, edging toward the dressing-room door. He watched with wry detachment as I stepped into the room and returned a moment later with the pistol in my hand. I leveled it at him, my eyes hard even though my hand was shaking.
“If—if you take one step toward me, I’ll shoot.”
“Will you?”
“I mean what I say. I’ll put a bullet through your heart.”
“I think not,” he said.
He sauntered toward me. I pulled the trigger, tensing in anticipation of the blast. There was no blast, was, instead, the loud, metallic click I knew there would be, but my performance was superbly convincing nevertheless. I looked at the gun with puzzled, worried eyes, pulling the trigger again and again as he approached. I dropped the gun and shook my head, showing fear now for the first time.
He reached for me. I darted past him, rushing toward the door, and he lunged, catching me around the waist, whirling me around. I struggled with all my might, fighting viciously, sincerely, trying my best to hurt him. His mouth settled into a relentless line. His eyes were hard, dark with determination. He was fully aroused now, ready to plunder, the cat-and-mouse games over. I fought, and he fended off my blows with ease, catching my wrists as I tried to claw his face, shoving me back, back, finally shoving me against the wall and pinioning me to it with his body. I tried to kick. I tried to hit. He took my throat in one hand and squeezed steadily until I was weak and dizzy and unable to struggle more. Still holding me in that deadly grip, he reached down with his other hand and raised my skirts, lifting them up over my thighs, and then he undid his breeches.
He released my throat and took hold of my wrists and spread my arms wide, plunging into me with one savage thrust that caused me to gasp. I continued to struggle as he pumped vigorously, his chest and shoulders pressing against me, his hands pinning my wrists against the wall. I squirmed, my face half-buried in the curve of his shoulder, my mouth open and pressed against the heavy maroon silk. His hands tightened on my wrists, pulling my arms wider. His body tensed, crushing me against the wall as that final thrust brought the shuddering release he craved. He gave a pained, grunting noise that was half-growl, half-moan, his body still tense, and then, after a moment, he sighed and withdrew, letting go of my wrists. His knees wobbled slightly as he stepped back and pulled up his breeches, tucking his shirt back in.
He stepped to the door and barked an order. I leaned against the wall a few moments and then stood up, brushing my skirts and adjusting my bodice. I caught hold of the back of a chair, steadying myself for a few more moments before going into the dressing room to wash. When I returned, a clean-cheeked youth in stocking cap and jersey was placing food on the table which had been set for two. Nicholas Lyon was leaning against the desk, arms folded across his chest, chin lowered, the heavy copper wave dipping over his brow. He ignored me as I passed into the bedroom to brush my hair and repair my makeup. I heard the youth leave a few minutes later. Red Nick stepped to the bedroom door, and I lifted my eyes to observe him in the mirror.
“You’re quite cool,” he remarked.
“Would you prefer tears and anguished cries?” I asked. “I’ve been raped before, and I find hysterics a waste of time and energy.”
“Cool as can be,” he said. “I admire that.”
“You’re much stronger than I, Captain Lyon. You can overpower me, and you can break me physically, but you can’t break my spirit.”
“I’ve no desire to,” he replied.
I stood up, paying no attention to him now, smoothing an eyebrow and adding a final touch of lip rouge. When I turned around, he was still lounging in the doorway, watching me closely through narrowed eyes, a wry curl on his thin pink lips. I moved toward the doorway, and he stepped aside to let me pass, extremely intrigued by my proud, glacial manner. Had I been abject, submissive, humiliated, he would have been bored, and I had no intention of boring him. Seating myself at the table, I waited coolly for him to join me.
“You could have spared yourself that unpleasantness,” he said, taking his seat.
“Indeed?”
“You could have made it easy on yourself.”
“No doubt I could have.”
He poured wine into a silver goblet. There was a roasted chicken, a slab of beef, bread, cheese, a bowl of fruit. He ate with relish, taking an occasional sip of wine, tearing the chicken apart with ease. I ate nothing whatsoever. Even though I longed to tear into the food with a relish equal to his, I felt it would be unseemly under the circumstances. I sat there with chin held high, perfectly poised. Lyon pushed his plate aside and poured more wine into his goblet.
“Not hungry?” he inquired.
“I’ve no desire to eat at your table.”
“Or sleep in my bed, it seems.”
I gazed at him with level blue eyes, not deigning to answer. The pirate smiled to himself, a wry, sarcastic
smile that curled lightly on his lips. He took a swallow of wine and set the goblet down.
“I suppose you still prefer to go to Brazil with the others,” he said.
“I don’t imagine my preference matters to you in the least.”
“Not in the least,” he told me. “You’re a very lucky young woman. I’ve decided to take you back to the island with me. You’re going to be my woman. It’s an honor you’ll soon come to appreciate.”
“I doubt that.”
He cut off a hunk of cheese and ate it, studying me with idle speculation in those piercing blue eyes. He seemed to be asking himself what it would take to vanquish my aloof composure. He had taken my body, had plundered violently, but there had been no real challenge involved. It had been merely a matter of superior strength. The true challenge faced him now, and it was one he was determined to master. He finished the cheese and ate a piece of fruit, his eyes never straying.
“You’ll live like a queen,” he said.
“Do you really think that matters to me?”
“It will eventually come to matter a great deal. One soon grows accustomed to luxury, to fine clothes, to jewels.”
“I’ve no interest in such things.”
The wry smile flickered on his lips again. “You’re a woman. You’re interested.”
“Do you really want to have a woman who hates you with all her heart and soul, a woman who will gladly drive a knife through your ribs the first chance she gets?”
“You won’t feel that way for long.”
“I’ll never come to you willingly,” I said.
“You will,” he promised, “not only willingly but eagerly as well. Before this day’s over you’re going to be purring like a kitten.”
I looked at him with that same level gaze, toying with the empty silver goblet beside my plate. Red Nick smiled.
“Think not?” he inquired. “We’ll see.”
He stood up, a dark gleam in his eyes as he thought of pleasures to come. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I didn’t intend to fight him again. I didn’t intend to show any emotion whatsoever, at least not for a while. He had already proved his superior strength. Now he intended to prove his prowess. He led me into the bedroom and undressed me, and when I stood naked before him he examined me as he might examine a piece of sculpture he was thinking of buying. He circled me slowly, examining me from every angle, and then he placed his hands over my breasts, his palms rubbing my nipples, his fingers gently squeezing the soft mounds of flesh. I showed no reaction whatsoever as he continued to fondle and squeeze, as he lifted me up in his arms and lowered me onto the rich yellow satin counterpane. He took off his clothes and stood with his hands resting on his thighs, tall and lean and firmly muscled, smooth skin evenly tanned.
“The first time was for me,” he said. “This time will be for you, Marietta.”
He sat beside me, leaned over me, kissed my throat, my breasts, drawing me slowly into his arms. He kissed and caressed and stroked, summoning responses I refused to give. He lowered me, mounted me, made love to me slowly and with a taunting precision that stirred purely physical sensations inside me, sensations I found it difficult to conceal. Conceal them I did, forcing myself to remain rigid beneath him. He doubled his efforts, holding back, delaying his pleasure, striving mightily to stir me. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, he allowed release, trembled, fell limp on top of me.
He made love to me again later on, his blue eyes angry and determined, and again I managed to withhold any sign of response. The sunlight streaming through the portholes had turned from yellow to a dark, wavering orange when he made love to me the last time, when I finally moaned and stirred and clung to him and shuddered with pleasure and gave him the responses his ego demanded, my soft cries and passionate caresses assuring him he was a lover beyond compare. He had won, and he savored his triumph as I held him to me and ran my hands over his back and shoulders, rubbing the smooth skin, sighing, submissive at last. Neither of us spoke. There was no need for words. After a while he got up and slipped on the leaf brown dressing robe and gave me a triumphant look.
I stretched and gathered the sheets over my bosom and sat up, meeting his eyes with a new composure, conquered but no longer a victim, proud but no longer defiant, accepting his victory calmly and with a cool, worldly attitude that pleased him immensely. Nicholas Lyon didn’t want a slave. He wanted a sophisticated and intelligent mistress. He looked at me a moment longer, an arrogant, self-satisfied smile on his lips, and then he gathered up his boots and clothes and went into the dressing room. I saw him pass through the study a short while later, fully dressed, his hair damp, an even darker shade of copper because of the wetness.
He left, going back up on deck to attend to duties, and I returned to the dressing room and bathed thoroughly, scrubbing away the perspiration and smells of sex. I dried myself and perfumed my body again before sliding between the cool silken sheets. Waiting for him in the darkness, lulled by the slight swaying motion of the ship, I felt a sense of triumph that matched his own. He was thoroughly amoral, a dangerous animal who knew no mercy, who killed without the slightest qualm, but I had bested him at every turn. I had planned everything that happened and had been in complete control the whole time, even though he believed the whip hand was his.
It must have been well after eleven when he returned. He lighted candles in the study and sat down at his desk. I could see him through the open door. He worked for some time, his eyes grim, a frown making a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose as he studied charts and made notations on a sheet of paper. After half an hour or so, he put away the charts and stood up and blew out the candles, striding into the bedroom. He undressed in the darkness and climbed into bed, pulling me to him roughly as though I were a pillow, not wanting to make love again just yet, wanting merely to savor his new possession. I sighed and placed my hand on the back of his neck, snuggling up against him as though not fully awake. Thin rays of moonlight wavered through the portholes, making pale silver patterns on the floor, intensifying the velvety black shadows that danced on the walls. Nicholas Lyon clutched me tightly and slept, never once suspecting that I had him exactly where I wanted him.
Twelve
The water was a deep indigo blue, faintly touched with purple on the horizon, the sky a pale pearl-gray lightly tinted with blue. Overhead the great sails swelled majestically, propelling us smoothly over the waves. Draper stood at the wheel, legs apart, hands steady as he steered, and Michael Tremayne moved about like an arrogant young bull, making an inspection and snapping terse orders. There was an air of expectation as the great cannons were cleaned and readied for firing, as the fierce, efficient crew moved briskly about their duties.
“They’re expecting the French ship,” Em told me. “If Michael’s calculations are correct, we should spot it sometime this afternoon. They plan to take it.”
“They’se goin’ to sink it?” Corrie asked.
Em nodded grimly. “It’s not going to be a pretty sight, luv.”
Corrie’s lovely dark eyes grew wide with apprehension, and her shoulders trembled just a little, but she didn’t sob. She made a visible effort to be brave. She stood beside me in the pale orange-tan cotton dress which she had washed and mended, frail, docile, still fearful that something would happen to her even though I had assured her that she was safe now, that the captain had agreed to let her stay with me and none of the men would hurt her. She had a dark, tiny room down near the galley where, by candlelight, she was altering the sumptuous gowns that had been intended for King Louis’ cousin. Corrie was a wonderfully skillful seamstress, and the one time I had let her do my hair she had performed miracles with brush and comb.
The Sea Lyon had made a rendezvous with the other ship yesterday afternoon, and the rest of the women were now on their way to Brazil. Poor Nadine had protested vehemently, sobbing and shrieking, but her fate was sealed. I tried not to think of that frightening scene, tried not to feel selfish relief th
at Corrie, Em, and I had been spared that particular fate. I knew full well that what lay in store for us might prove to be equally as bad, perhaps even worse. I squeezed Corrie’s hand and suggested she go down to her room and try to rest. The girl nodded meekly.
“There may be some trouble, Corrie. There may be an awful lot of noise. You stay in your room. Don’t be afraid.”
“I’ll try not to be, Miz Marietta.”
The girl crossed the deck and disappeared down one of the hatches. Em and I continued to stand on the poop deck, out of the way and completely ignored by the men. Em was wearing a gown Tremayne had found for her, a deep violet taffeta lavishly trimmed with black lace ruffles, and I was wearing sapphire-blue brocade. Em looked quite fetching as she twirled the black lace parasol Tremayne had given her.
“I love this gown,” she remarked. “I’d grown terribly weary of the pink, luv, and it was in shambles. Michael dug this out of a trunk—it fits nicely. He insisted I wear it, told me not to give him any lip when I said it was much too grand.”
“That’s strange,” I remarked. “Red Nick insisted I dress elaborately, too. Corrie washed and mended the gown I wore through the swamps, and I intended to wear it. He pulled this one out of the chest, ordered me to put it on.”
“Michael told me not to forget the parasol. He said the parasol was very important—and it wasn’t because he was worried about my complexion. They plan to use us in some way.”
“I have the same feeling.”
“I asked Michael about it. He scowled at me and told me to do what he said if I didn’t want a beatin’. He’s marvelous in bed, and he’s really quite taken with me, but he can be terribly surly and rough. He’s got a vicious temper. I have to mind myself around him and be careful not to rouse it.”
Em twirled her parasol and watched Tremayne stride about the deck in his high brown boots, snug brown breeches, and black and tan striped jersey. His sun-streaked brown hair framed his face in ragged locks, and the tight jersey emphasized his powerful build.
Love Me, Marietta Page 18