by Thea Devine
"Bastard," she spat. "You son of a bitch... You put your mark on me. You gave me that gift."
"Women will believe anything," he said heartlessly. "It was all a lie. The ink will fade. The diamond is virtually worthless. All of it was a ploy to keep us both interested. I couldn't let things get boring, could I? You understand, there are only so many ways to fuck a woman's breasts."
She screamed—in the middle of the narrow street, she howled. And people turned around and looked, and one or two men actually started toward Charles, as if they would defend her, God help him. But of course they would— she was that kind of woman.
And then she got very quiet.
And Charles got very wary.
"I see," she said. "I begin to see clearly for the first time in weeks. I see that I was blinded by excess. I see that I should have kept my weapons, all of them, to myself. And I see that I am in fact the victim of my own need and my own greed. And for that, as usual, a woman must pay."
She went silent again. And even he knew she had very little choice. And that she was probably scared and leery of what would come next. And she wouldn't trust him worth a damn now.
Not that it mattered.
Didn't it?
He suddenly caught the glimmer of something silvery in the street reflecting the sun. He knew what it was instantly; he knew what it meant and he did not want to examine what he felt about it, but before he could make a move to pick it up, she ground it into the dirt with her heavy desert boot, and slanted a simmering look at him.
"Very well, cadi. It shall be as you say. But isn't it always? You will take me to England, to my father, and then your debt will be paid."
Chapter Fourteen
There was so much she didn't know, so much about men, so much about life outside the Valley. And life in England at this point was an utterly foreign concept, she thought, as she tossed and turned on the narrow cot in the inexpensive lodgings he'd found for the night. It was little more than a two-story mud-walled building with barely furnished rooms, and no amenities, that were to let for the night to itinerant travelers who were moving fast.
There was only one cot in their room, and a ledge on which he slept, wrapping himself in his robes and using his headdress rolled around his personal things, for a pillow.
So she couldn't root around for the gun, the knife, or the money he'd gotten for their desert gear. He'd probably kill her if she tried. And she'd probably kill him before the journey was over.
She was a fool. She knew better than to trust men, better than to take what a man said in the heat of passion with anything but a grain of salt.
She should have known from the way Charles Elliott resisted fucking her that she was nothing more than a diversion.
But he'd said that all along; this was the way of his father's people. Women had one use. She'd knowingly played on that and bartered the one thing she had for the price of an escort across the Kalahari and beyond.
Why was she so annoyed?
Because he had taken it a step further by painting her breasts? Because he seemed so enthralled by her?
Because she was so naive?
Oh, never again. She was a quick study, and if a man could use a woman that way, then certainly a woman could turn the tables. She'd threatened it often enough, perhaps it was time to grab the bull by its balls and see what happened.
Somewhere in this vast new world she'd journeyed to, there had to be a trustworthy man who would take her on and take her home.
Meantime, Charles Elliott would do. She still had the money she'd stolen from him. He still had a shred of honor, in that he'd brought her this far and he still meant to continue on the journey.
So presumably he wanted or needed to get to England, too. He would be useful, until she found a more interesting one with whom to replace him.
Yes, Charles Elliott was infinitely replaceable.
Thank the fates he hadn't fucked her. So much easier to remain removed from the situation without the messy emotions attendant to that.
She'd seen enough of it in the Valley. She'd had enough of it in the desert.
The thing now was to get to England, to get to Aling and her father, and to a new life that didn't involve men or expectations or sex.
This wasn't going to be easy, Charles thought. He hadn't slept the entire night, and he knew she hadn't either. He was just better at keeping his restiveness under control.
But his mind reeled like a ship on a storm-tossed sea. What the hell was he going to do with her now? He'd made a huge mistake, letting his fascination with her breasts get in the way of a hard-headed bargain.
Damn, he should have left her in Sefra or Akka. She could have gotten back to the Valley from Akka, and she'd be a damned sight happier there than she was going to be in her father's house.
He had a vision of her padding down a massive carpeted staircase in a huge formal country house and into a crush of party guests stark naked, with her petal-painted breast on display.
By all that was holy, surely she knew better than to do something like that.
He wouldn't have bet on it. But it wasn't his problem. No? Fine, he'd just keep her shrouded and subservient until they reached Greybourne.
Really?
Probably not.
But then, she was angry enough not to roil the waters right now. And she was smart enough to know that she was way out of her depth, that she knew virtually nothing about life outside the Valley, that things were very different in the real world.
And that, for the time being, she needed him.
And what do you need?
That's not a consideration. Getting her off my hands is. Finding that piece of shit Moreton and making him pay for my mother's death is.
Period.
Hell, you're not thinking about going back to the Valley?
He didn't know what he was thinking; he was in the twilight world of dozing before dawn, and all these thoughts were rushing over him like a waterfall.
And crowns to krans, Olivia would turn up in England. She wouldn't like the idea of Georgiana returning to Aling on her own, would she? Or the possibility she might reveal all the secrets of the Valley?
Moreton surely wouldn't.
It was conceivable that Moreton could well be by Olivia's side. Those two were unholy as hell.
God, he was going off cocked and stuffed here. The heat was making him delusional. Moreton Estabrook was not that Machiavellian—
And they were probably just as happy to get rid of Georgiana. She could do them no harm in England. And-she'd done irreparable enough damage to him.
It was time to move, to start the day. They had perhaps two hours before they had to board their ship. They could bathe, have some breakfast, buy some food for the boat trip. All things he knew to do that Georgiana did not. How would she ever have made such a journey without him?
She wouldn't have, he thought suddenly. She'd still be in the Valley if he hadn't been bent on avenging his family's deaths. She'd be waking up naked in some horny man's bed this morning after a thorough Valley fucking the previous night. And she'd probably be ready and willing this morning to have him pole her again ...
Nothing to stop him either, this phantom lover ...
He vaulted upright abruptly.
Goddamn her... Not this bloody early in the morning...
He reached for the little stone pitcher of water they had been given, poured some into his palm, and slapped it on his face.
Warm, brackish, just enough to get a man's mind off of things pouring into and filling up a woman's body ...
He reached up and shook her and she came awake immediately.
"What? Is it time to go?"
It's time to cum .,. Shit. Everything about her reeks of sex. And I'm too susceptible ..,
"It's time," he said brusquely. "We need to go in search of a bath, coffee, and some food."
"I'm ready." She stood up, adjusted her abeya, and pulled up her veil. The very pi
cture of modesty, containment, obedience.
.. . and a wanton . .. And that anomaly was ever the downfall of man ...
And thinking about the water sluicing off her naked body, off her naked petal-painted nipple in the public baths of the hammam.
This was the first stop, before breakfast even. He needed to wash the desert off his body, the scent of her off his body, the imprint of her nipples off his body, the thought of her breasts out of his mind.
And she would be scrubbing away at the henna paint, at every trace of the essence of him... every drop would swirl around the stone floor of the baths and mix with water, diluted, impotent, gone forever—that was what he wanted, a clean fresh start to this part of the journey.
Wasn't it?
And then there was the ship—a creaky, barely seaworthy steamer that provided passenger service twice a week up the coast to Sierra Leone.
It scared Georgiana to death.
For one thing, it was crowded, and for another, animals traveled as well as families, and merchants and traders with boxes and cases of their various wares. Sleeping quarters were little more than benches belowdecks, and there wasn't much more room above.
And the boat pitched alarmingly as it took on its biweekly load. Charles didn't give her much time to think or protest. "There is no choice, khanum. This is the most efficient way to get us where we need to go."
"Or kill us in the process," she retorted, as he once again took her arm and marched her up the gangplank.
They were underway within the hour, Georgiana huddled on a bench up against the cabin wall. This was worse than anything she could have imagined. She was going to die, absolutely; this rattlebones of a contraption couldn't possibly navigate and still stay afloat.
And yet it did, rolling in water that was green as a serpent and that frothed and boiled against the shore. Slowly, painstakingly, under an ocean blue sky that merged eerily with the far horizon, the ship plied its way up the green-fringed coastline that was broken now and again in the distance by purple-hazed mountains and the odd old stone fort standing like a sentinel deep in the forest.
They could just see everything, and almost everyone hung over the railing to catch glimpses of fishing villages and natives as the steamer chugged by.
Georgiana was hard put to comprehend the charm of it. She was miserable, faintly nauseated, scared, and a dozen other things she couldn't put a name to.
There were too many people. And braying animals. And braying men, for that matter, not one of whom looked even remotely approachable.
As if a woman dressed as she was would ever do such a thing. She felt as if she were in prison and only Charles Elliott had the key.
She had to stop this. She couldn't let herself be daunted by every new experience on this journey. And besides, what could scare her now, coming from the Valley? A stranger was a stranger anywhere in the world. She had given over the most intimate part of herself to men she knew nothing about for the sole purpose of their pleasure, and she had done it willingly, and for years.
If she could do that, she could take on anything.
It was a matter of perspective. And not letting Charles Elliott get to her. He was still her best chance of getting to England right now.
It was just — the queasy feeling in her stomach. And the late afternoon cup of tea did nothing to quell it. And the slipping and sliding of the ship's hull in water. And the confinement of the abeya, close and hot against her naked body.
And smug Charles Elliott, leaning over the railing, enjoying every minute, every sight.
A week of this?
Dear God . . .
A week . . .
Sierra Leone was civilization, all wooded hills, and a low peninsula forming three bays with inviting beaches surrounded by cottonwood and palms, and a waterfront built for business with wharves and warehouses situated hard by the harbor adjacent to the town.
"This is Liberty Town," Charles told her, as they watched the ship drop anchor. "It has been called the Liverpool of West Africa."
"It looks like everything is made of stone."
Stone hard . . . "No. Wood. You'll see as we get into town. ^There are not only houses, but a variety of shops and a church, all along one main avenue, not unlike ..." The Valley, he'd been about to say, and caught himsejf. "Anyway, we can buy anything we need here. This is the jumping-off point for the next part of the journey. If we're lucky, within the next couple of days, the Malabar will put in to shore, and we'll be on our way to Greybourne."
"How long on board the Malabar?"
He squinted at the sun. "Two weeks, maybe."
They had no gear to speak of. They trekked into the flower-scented air on shore, down the long main street, around sheep and goats, and hawkers touting their wares, and the international babble of visitors on their way in, on their way out. There were men at prayers, and men squatting around a square, playing warry, and soldiers and villagers on parade. There were jackdaws everywhere, and the incessant heat and no relief anywhere but farther inland toward the mountains.
This was a place where no questions were asked. You showed your money and every consideration was given you. In this way, they found similar accommodations to those in Cameroon—a bare mud-walled room with two cots and a washstand—at a guest house for itinerant travelers.
They spent any number of hours in the open-front shops, the only respite from the heat, where they found everything for sale from china to leather goods, and nothing they could really use.
One or two days here, if they were lucky.
She could buy some bolts of cloth and make herself a dress, she thought. Just to get out of the heavy abeya. Just to feel like a woman again; Charles was treating her like a piece of furniture. One he had decorated to suit him, and then decided didn't fit his taste.
Ah, blast him. Yet there wasn't anyone more likely among travelers with whom she might strike a bargain. And Charles seemed to be watching her all the time, as if that were exactly what he thought she might do.
Well, she had to be prepared, didn't she? Who knew what Charles might take it into his head to do? No honor among thieves. Especially when they had no more use for each other.
Once they boarded ship, just two weeks until they would reach Greybourne, wherever that was . . .
Dear God, all the things she did not know . . .
How dependent she must be on him . . .
But maybe, by the time they got to Greybourne, things would change. Maybe she would have the luxury of being able to abandon him.
Charles could almost see the wheels spinning in Geor-giana's mind. She was too restless, too calm; a quiet fury simmered just below the surface. This trip for her was too stringent, compounded of her rebellion against her needing him and her fear and anger about all she did not know, and about what was to come.
How could he even let her out of his sight for one minute?
How could he keep watching her without wanting her?
This was insane. He had given in to every base impulse and he was paying for it now. And there were still many weeks yet until they reached England. He wasn't sure he would be able to stand it: either his screaming penis or watching her trolling for someone to seduce to take his place.
By the heavens, that wouldn't happen. He'd fuck her first. He might fuck her anyway just to keep her in line. Obviously it was the thing to do, and so who had he punished all through their desert trek by not doing it?
She was still playing his submissive companion, and hating every minute of it. But Liberty Town was not a place she could disrobe and display herself and invite bids from all comers.
No. She might do that on board the Malabar. She might do that when they arrived in Greybourne. He could see it in her eyes; one penis was as good as any other. And what did it matter who kept the bargain to take her to England?
Damn it all to hell.
She knew nothing about life outside the Valley, nothing about the ugly nature of men.
Not true. You showed her quite convincingly ...
And he'd done it to himself, creating such an erotic vision of her breast that his penis was in constant turmoil and he was endlessly aroused by just the thought of it. And then he'd just pushed it away.
A man would do anything to get what he wanted.
So what would a woman do, especially a woman like Georgiana?
Even now, beneath the confining robes of the abeya, there was something about the way she moved that made men look at her—and wonder. It was part of her allure; it was her feminine secret. Every man she passed would have paid a king's fortune to have her reveal everything beneath those robes, and would have died happy in the process.
Or was he just deluding himself?
Or regretting his foolish move of marking her body for himself?
All of that and more, he thought. And if they were going to be together in close quarters for the next two weeks, by damn, he would get his hands on her naked body again.
And maybe that was all the reason there needed to be.
There was only one way to get a man to do what you wanted him to do, and Georgiana was not averse to resorting to it.
There was no help for it. She had to ensure she got to England. The more she thought about it, the more scared she became that, in the ensuing day or two until the Malabar arrived, Charles Elliott would find no good reason to continue on the journey with her.
And there was no one else who would do. It wasn't that she hadn't looked. No. It was just that no man seemed even remotely likely or to her taste.
And perhaps that was the real problem, that in spite of the fact she was experienced at this, she did not want to hand herself over to some stranger.
Better the devil she knew ... And Charles Elliott was a devil, but at least, somewhere in his black heart, he had some scruples.