“Darius took his belt to Bridie for not giving him his due last night,” Leila said. “Let this be a lesson to you, girl, if you don’t want a sore bum like hers. Do whatever your man asks of you.” She stabbed her finger into the girl’s chest. “A man must have his due. The urge brings out the beast in them if they aren’t relieved. When Darius comes to you do not refuse him.” She leaned in closer until their faces almost touched. “What happens in the clan stays within the clan. We do not tolerate interference from outsiders. Remember, gypsy women have magical powers, and I will place a curse on you if your ever break the code of silence.” She twirled one of her large gold earrings, watching with satisfaction as the girl’s eyes widened in terror. “A pestilence will come upon you. Your teeth will rot out of your head, your hair will fall out then you will die a slow, painful death.”
* * *
Who am I? Where did I come from? How can I get away from these evil people? She held her head in her hands and tried to remember, all to no avail. Was someone out searching for her even now? Was she alone in the world with no one to care whether she lived or died? Pain knifed into her skull, excruciating in its severity; it dulled her thinking processes, made coherent thought impossible, but this torture was nothing compared to what that vicious beast Darius had in store for her. I have to get away from this depravity. I would rather die than submit to him. If only my head wouldn’t ache so much I could think of a plan. She closed her eyes to block out the searing pain. It didn’t work, the cruel little demons inside her head kept pounding away at her skull. For the present all she could do was bide her time, regain some strength over the next couple of days then wait for a chance to escape from this purgatory.
* * *
She has been here six days Leila thought and the girl’s memory still had not returned. She rarely spoke or left Darius’ wagon. Once the axil on the lead wagon was repaired, they would move away from this place. Darius vented his rage on Bridie at the hold-up. More red welts criss-crossed her backside and thighs from his belt. He blackened her eye last night with his fist when she complained about giving him his due because her bum hurt. Stupid creature.
Tonight he would take the girl for the first time. He had stalked her like a ravenous tiger as he waited for her courses to finish. She would open her legs and give him his due without complaint Leila had no doubts, because she had been training her in the art of submissiveness. This girl, even with no memory, was no simpleton. Her face had been on the receiving end of several backhanders from Darius every time he saw a look of defiance in her eyes. She had watched him take off his wide leather belt and wield it against Bridie’s rump, heard the cries of pain coming from the next caravan as Rufus chastised his wife.
When would young women learn to accept their destiny? Men were the master, women there to obey them without complaint. She had hammered this message into the girl over the last five days, and if she knew what was good for her she would remember it. Would forget all plans of escape too, because Darius would never let her go. Once he tired of her, he would sell her to one of the other men. Thinks I haven’t seen her searching for an escape route. Assessing her chances of making a run for it. Stupid girl.
* * *
Martin Mulvaney stirred himself from the kitchen fire. His head thumped from the numerous whiskies he had indulged in during a session of whoring at the Black Stallion bordello. He always paid women to relieve his sexual hunger. Easier and safer for everyone concerned.
He hated living in this house. I ought to burn it to the ground and rid myself of its terrible aura. The place was only forty years old, but years of neglect, and water damage because of faulty brickwork, made it look ancient. The wind shrieking and moaning outside, rekindled memories of Emily Parsons. What fate had befallen her? Taking another swig from the whisky bottle, he tried to blot out the guilt, which had tortured him for more than twenty years. I could have saved her but I didn’t.
He rubbed his hand across the stubble on his chin. The front door knocker slamming against the wooden door thudded into his fogged up brain. He would have ignored the noise, except the continual banging made his headache worse. How had he found his way home? If he did not stop this kind of debauchery, it would end up killing him. Good riddance many would say. “Stop that damn noise. I can’t come any faster.”
Wrenching the door open, he peered out into the blackness. Something made him glance down, and on the step lay a dark shape. The soft object moved when he prodded it with his foot, so he turned the lamp up to take a closer look. “Sonofabitch!”
A girl knelt on his doorstep. A damp curtain of silver blonde hair tumbled over her shoulders. Glancing up, he half expected to see a hole in the sky where this angel had fallen through. He could not believe what he was seeing. He must be drunker than he thought.
“Help me. Please. Have mercy.” Her desperate plea pierced the fog swirling around in his brain. When he lifted her up, she swayed and almost fell. Swinging her up into his arms, he kicked the door shut and strode back inside.
“Who are you?” He dumped her on a chair in the kitchen, grabbed the whisky bottle he had slugged out of minutes earlier and forced the liquid down her throat. She coughed and spluttered before turning her head away. “I’m Martin Mulvaney. Who are you?” he persisted, mesmerized by the bewilderment in her blue eyes.
“I…I don’t know.”
“What!”
“I…I can’t remember.”
He took a long slug out of the half empty whisky bottle.
Her rain-washed skin glistened like white marble, and a graze on her forehead, oozed blood. He lifted her chair up closer to the fire and watched her trembling hands reach out to the flames. Small and dainty, a little work roughened, but she wore no rings on her fingers.
“You’ll have to change out of those wet clothes.” He inwardly cursed the fact his housekeeper was away tending her sick sister. Of course, he had planned to spend most of his time at the Black Stallion. Pure chance found him home tonight.
Forced by the howling wind, rain lashed the windows drowning out the girl’s whimpers. He stepped over to the stove to lift the kettle off the hob.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.” He tried to sound kind as he sloshed boiling water into the teapot; it was not easy because he had shown no concern for a woman in years. He used them for sex, was never physically abusive and always paid them handsomely for their services. Not like his father who used to delight in punishing and humiliating women. He clamped down on the bitter memories and the fear dogging him for years that he would one day turn into a woman beater like his father.
“I could do with some myself. Might clear my head.”
He stared into the girl’s face as he handed her the tea. “Come on, drink this, it will help warm you up.” Her eyes seemed enormous and he could have drowned in their haunted, pain-filled depths.
Fear contorted her pretty face. “Who am I?” Frail and ethereal, like an angel in a religious picture, she looked the epitome of everything beautiful in a woman. Untouched, untainted, the perfect bride for a man who wanted marriage, which he didn’t. He tried travelling down that road once before and it had cost him dearly. As he made to move away, she grabbed his hand.
“Don’t leave me,” she whimpered, tightening her hold. “Don’t let them find me.”
He eased his fingers out of her grip. “I’ll get towels and blankets. You’ll catch a chill if you don’t change out of those wet clothes.”
What was he going to do with her? He had no use for a woman like her, although he had not sunk so low as to leave her to the hostile elements outside. He was not completely devoid of humanity, no matter what the sanctimonious Temperance Society women said of him.
On his return, she still sat trance-like, having not moved at all. He unlaced her shabby boots and removed them.
“You’ll have to take your clothes off and wrap yourself in this blanket, there’s no woman here to help you.” He pulled her to her feet and she swayed, dangerou
sly close to collapse. “Come on, get undressed.”
She made no move to do so, just stood rigid, clutching at his shirt with trembling fingers. Her pupils dilated, fear darkened her irises until they stood out starkly against the pale blue of her eyes. He brushed tendrils of damp hair away from her cheek and tucked them behind her ear. “You’re safe here. I won’t hurt you.”
Tugging her coat off, he flung the garment on a chair. His hope she might be dry underneath came to nothing - she was drenched to the skin. The number of women he had undressed over the years proved too numerous to count, so why baulk at the prospect now?
She shied away from him as he went to undo the buttons on her skirt. “It’s all right. You can trust me.” When the skirt slithered to the floor, he worked on the buttons of her blouse with the skilled confidence of a man who had performed this task many times before. She made no effort to help or hinder him, just stood stiff as a poker. The tears spilling out of her eyes ran in rivulets down her pale cheeks.
“Don’t let them find me…” The next few words sounded jumbled, unintelligible. Her breath came out in harsh, labored pants and her breasts rose and fell. “I have to get out.”
“From where?”
“Th…the door. Escape from the bl… black stallion.”
The words punched the breath from his lungs, doused his sympathy in one foul swoop.
Black Stallion? She had run away from town, from the bordello owned by his friend Ollie. For the second time in his life, he had almost allowed himself to be duped by innocent eyes and creamy white skin. Disappointment surged through him because this girl was a whore.
She backed away when he went to pull down her drawers. “They have to come off, or you’ll catch a chill.” He ignored her frightened gasp as he rolled the garment down over her slim hips and shapely legs. Once she was naked, he gazed upon her smooth alabaster skin; her firm young breasts were mounds of creamy perfection. Clenching his teeth, he stopped himself from caressing the rose tipped buds with his tongue. Her flat stomach had the smoothness of silk, and a triangle of golden fluff crowned her womanhood.
She had not been at the Black Stallion on his last visit. He would have remembered such a beauty, would have tasted every inch of her. She must have run away, so why hadn’t Ollie mentioned it? Of course, if she had worked out of the public bar he might not have known. Who could have mistreated her? Ollie would have to be informed. If I find the culprit first, I’ll tear him apart with my bare hands.
He draped a blanket around her shoulders and she clutched the ends together. Bunching up the strands of gossamer fine hair, he dried them with a towel. When he dropped them, they tumbled over her shoulders, splaying out over her breasts. Her breath quickened, the trembling escalating as he patted her skin dry with the towel, touching the forbidden places with infinite care.
Desire raged through him. A long drinking session always heightened his sexual appetite. Why didn’t he place her on the table, spread her legs and plunge his throbbing manhood into her right here and now? No vestal virgin ever worked in the public bar at the Black Stallion.
Gritting his teeth to keep his rampaging desire under control, he led her to the chair. Such a fragile terrified little thing, he could not treat her like a common harlot even if she was one. “I’ll rustle up some food.” He handed over another cup of tea.
She gave no answer, merely clutched the blanket more tightly around her trembling body.
“Do you want a bath?”
“No.” The sound came out in a tremulous whisper.
He squatted down beside her and took her small cold hands between his own, giving them a gentle rub to bring back the warmth. “It would warm you up.”
Filling up a dish with hot water, he bathed the graze on the side of her head. Ignoring her protests, he fried eggs and bacon, and when she refused to eat, he fed her.
“I’ll have to think of a name for you. Ah.” He snapped his fingers. “Storm, because I found you in a storm.” He grinned at his ingenuity. Now the shock of finding her had worn off he might as well enjoy himself. He would not mind paying a premium price to gain access to her body. “You can be Martin Mulvaney’s woman for now.”
Lifting her into his arms, he picked up the lantern and strode upstairs. Shouldering the master bedroom door open, he crossed the room and stripped off the blanket. He laid her naked on the unmade bed, the sheets still rumpled from when he last slept on them.
She clutched at the bed sheet, pulling it up to her chin and lay there, stiff as a corpse. What was wrong with her? Probably a ploy to gain more sympathy from him. Money even. He did feel sorry for her. She had obviously gone through a bad time, not that he would let the conniving little minx know how she affected him. How much he craved to feast on her exquisite body. With the finesse of a youth having his first sexual encounter, he dragged his clothes off, dropped them on the floor and pulled the sheet away.
She rolled on to her stomach, her white bum cheeks quivering, her hair splaying out in all its silver glory across her shoulders. He climbed into the bed, turned her over and straddled her body, knees pressed against her hips. His erection speared into her belly when he bent to claim her lips. As a rule, he never kissed whores on the mouth, but this little storm girl - to save his life, he could not resist.
Her soft, tremulous lips tasted salty. With a guilty pang, he realized he had made her cry.
“Don’t be afraid.” He moved away, drawing her into his arms. “I won’t let anyone harm you,” he crooned, holding her close. “You’ll be safe here with me.”
It nearly killed him, his groin ached with the intensity, yet he could not take advantage of her while she remained so distraught, even if she had lied to him. The tremors subsided as his body heat infused her with warmth.
Once she slept, he snuffed out the lamp and trailed his fingers up and down her spinal column, surprised he could feel something other than sheer craven lust for a beautiful girl. Storm was different. Instinct told him she possessed a special quality, so why would she be working in the public bar of the Black Stallion bordello?
Chapter Two
A feeble morning sun filtered through the window where Martin had forgotten to draw the curtains. He propped himself up on one elbow to gaze into the face of the girl beside him. Her long golden lashes rested on her pale cheeks. A purple bruise and several scratches flawed her silky skin.
In the light of day, she seemed even more fragile and exquisite than last night. Never had a whore looked so good. His movement must have disturbed her. Dazed from sleep, she stared at him with beautiful, haunted eyes then edged away, clutching the bed sheet tightly. It was a ploy, but he was quite prepared to play her game. The result would be the same -- hours of carnal pleasure.
Where am I? Panic overwhelmed her. Why am I here? This wasn’t a wagon. She had escaped the gypsies. Slipped away while Rufus and Darius fought each other, hiding until they drove off and the wagons disappeared over the horizon. Darius’ anger if he ever found her would be fearsome.
“Don’t let him find me.” A spasm shook her body. She clutched at the man’s arm. Martin she had to think of him as Martin, it would make her situation more bearable. He had not abused her. Had taken her into his home, yet she instinctively knew he was ruthless enough to cast her aside if she didn’t please him. He was a handsome man, well-spoken and clean, except for black stubble on his jaw. He had not only saved her from the elements, but a fate worse than death, violation by Darius. Strong and determined, obviously wealthy, Martin could protect her from the gypsies. If only he would let her stay until she remembered who she was and where she came from. There would be a price to pay for his aid. She did not doubt it for one moment.
He reached over and drew her close, wrapping his arms around her. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Alcohol and cigar smoke intermingling with his musky man scent was pleasant, and his warm breath fanned the loosened strands of her hair.
It would be useless pitting her puny strength against him
even if she wanted to. By the feel of his muscular arms, he could crush her like a bug.
“You’re quite safe. I found you collapsed on my doorstep last night. What do you remember?”
“Y…You’re Martin. I’m Storm.”
“You fell out of the sky and landed on my doorstep. Can you remember anything else?”
“No.” She didn’t want to remember the terrible happenings in the black stallion wagon, must relegate those memories to the back of her mind somehow. Concentrate on regaining her strength and her memory, then finding her way home.
“Forget what happened to you before. Nothing will hurt you while you’re under my roof.”
He slid out of bed and reached for his pants. His tanned shoulders were well muscled, his stomach flat. His manhood nestled in a wedge of tight black curls. Darius’ engorged rod always seemed to be in a state of arousal with moisture dripping off its tip. A tremor shuddered all the way through her when she remembered how close he had come to raping her. Bile pooled in her throat and she had to swallow down on its bitterness, so it would not pour out of her mouth and drench the silk sheets on Martin’s bed.
“I’ll go downstairs and put the kettle on before I bring up your clothes. They should be dry by now.”
Turning on his heel, he left the room. Down in the kitchen, he threw a couple of logs on the glowing embers and placed the kettle on the stove to boil. Half a loaf of stale bread was all he could find, enough for a couple of slices each.
He gathered up her shabby clothes. Why did Ollie employ a little farm girl at the Black Stallion, even if she did work in the public bar? He always went for older, more sophisticated women, and he never allowed anyone working on his premises to be mistreated. Storm had obviously suffered abuse, as her terror was tangible. The most logical explanation being something must have happened in Ollie’s absence.
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