Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “So,” Dominic said suddenly, straightening up from the chart table. “You have decided to take up piracy, I understand.” His tone was blandly conversational as he walked over to the desk and sat down behind it, surveying her with mild curiosity. Genevieve was not deceived, however, and maintained a prudent silence. Dominic linked his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. The sun fingered the rich carpet and the deep patina of the wood. The ordinary sounds of shipboard life filtered under the door, through the open window, but they seemed to have no relevance in this locked circle of menace that contained only the two of them.

  “There seems one major snag to this plan of yours,” Dominic continued in the same bland, conversational accents. “La Danseuse carries no dead weight.” He smiled politely, and Genevieve felt the hairs on the nape of her neck lift. She had imagined this scene many times, had expected to be a little scared, defensive, placatory, but she had never imagined the scene where there seemed to be nothing for her to say, nothing for her to do except stand like a rabbit facing the fox, waiting for the horror that she knew was waiting in the wings until Dominic, the orchestrator, chose to usher it on stage.

  “So, what can you do to pull your weight?” he inquired, with that same polite smile. “You appear to find the duties of a cabin boy a little hazardous and not entirely to your liking.” The fly-away eyebrows lifted. “And I really cannot be interrupted every few minutes because you need rescuing. No, obviously you are not cut out for that role.” The turquoise gaze became pensive. “Can you perhaps cook?”

  Genevieve shook her head and said stiffly, “I have never tried.”

  “No, of course you have not,” he concurred equably. “Those lily white, Creole hands would not have been expected—”

  “They have been scrubbing decks for the last three days,” Genevieve interrupted, unable to bear the cool contempt in his voice and eyes. “If you wish me to cook, I will learn.”

  Dominic shook his head. “I hardly think it would be fair to subject the crew to the experiments of a tyro, just to give you something to do.” He glanced around the orderly, sparkling cabin. “I suppose you could keep my possessions in order. Do you sew?”

  Genevieve, feeling like a worm on the end of a hook, shook her head in wordless denial.

  “No, I suppose you do not,” he said. “Such gentle arts would have passed you by. Anyway …” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Silas would certainly object to being usurped, and he has looked after me so well, for so long, that I am sure I could not become accustomed to a change—particularly one for the worse.”

  Genevieve thought longingly of the deep-blue sea outside, of the carefree dolphins, and the wheeling, shrieking sea birds diving amongst the spars. She prayed for the metamorphosis that would take her out of this cabin, away from the gem-hard disdain of the privateer, from the knowledge that he was only playing with her; that these apparently sincere questions were part of a devilish game as yet to be revealed. She thought of how it would feel to be out of this cloddish, unskilled, useless body, able to fly and leap freely among the elements where his power to hurt could not touch her.

  “Of course, there is one thing that we both know you can do rather well,” mused Dominic, closing his eyes with a sigh of apparent relaxation as he rocked back in his chair. “One comfort that you can provide that tends to be lacking on board a ship of war.”

  Genevieve felt sick, as the horror began to take shape and substance. A clock ticked, loud as the bells of St. Louis in the menacing quiet.

  “I assume you would be willing to offer that comfort to those in need?” he said gently. “You would be kept very busy, and would most certainly earn your keep, so you would know that you had discharged your obligations.” A kindly smile accompanied this last, and she fought for the words that would not take shape in the turmoil of fury and despair rending her.

  With all the leisurely, purposeful menace of a leopard closing on his disabled prey, Dominic rose from behind the desk and came round to her. A hand plucked the knitted cap from her head. His eyebrows almost disappeared into his scalp. “Dear me,” he murmured. “Cropping your crowning glory, my dear Genevieve, has not added to your charms in the least.” His nose twitched. “Neither does the reek of unwashed humanity and clothes stiff with dirt. You are probably crawling with vermin.” To her eternal shame, his fingers moved with practiced skill through the dirt-darkened thatch of ash-blond hair, examining her scalp. “Surprisingly, you are not lousy,” he said, brushing his hands together with a grimace of distaste. “But you will scrub yourself from head to toe with lye. I am not prepared to risk contagion for as long as I decide to keep your services to myself.”

  “Have you any idea how I have been living in the last three days?” Genevieve cried, this final outrage unblocking the damn. “In that filthy cabin with those filthy, lewd men, up to my knees in dirty water—”

  “You did not enjoy it, then?” he interrupted. “Surely you did not enter into this deceitful little trespass without realizing that there would be aspects you might not enjoy?” The turquoise eyes filmed with mockery. “Or did you not, as usual, give a thought to the consequences, Mademoiselle Genevieve?”

  There was no answer, she found; no answer to the cold scorn in the clipped tones, the knowing glint in his eyes; no answer at all to the absolute knowledge of her powerlessness to alter whatever course Dominic Delacroix had decided upon. And she had no one to blame but herself.

  “Take off your clothes.” The order shattered the dreadful expectant stillness.

  Genevieve swallowed. Her lips moved in a pathetic attempt to form the words of protest, or of question, at least. “Why?” she managed in a croaking whisper.

  “Because I tell you to,” said the privateer deliberately. “And if you know what is good for you, mademoiselle, while you are aboard my ship, you will learn to respond to my instructions with instant, unthinking obedience.”

  She shook her head involuntarily, the faint stirrings of a spirit that could not be completely squashed infusing her defiance of a statement that she could not accept.

  Dominic caught her chin, his fingers hurtful against her jawbone as he forced her face up to meet the unwavering hardness of his gaze. He spoke very softly and almost without expression. “Let me explain something to you. Silas is responsible for looking after those of my possessions that are necessary for my comfort. He keeps them in good order, clean, tidy and always available. And he will treat you in the same way, if I direct him to do so.”

  “I am not one of your possessions,” Genevieve declared. The voiced protest was quavery, but the tiger’s eyes, uninhibited by the palpable danger surrounding her, flashed the truth of her outrage.

  “You would prefer to be non-exclusive, then, in the granting of your favors?” inquired the privateer silkily. “I have no objections, but, since I do not share my possessions with my crew, you will understand if I choose not to avail myself of what you have to offer.”

  Genevieve began to shake, black dots dancing in the red mist before her eyes. She had no idea whether he would do the dreadful thing he was threatening, but that he could even think of such a thing was enough to bring the slimy tendrils of terror wreathing clammily around her, immobilizing her as if she were a fly in a spider’s web.

  “The choice is yours,” said the privateer. “Mine or the crew’s.” Still, she was incapable of speech, and he could feel, through his fingers on her jaw, the tremors racking her. But the cold depths of his anger could not yet be dented by her distress. He could think only of the holds of La Danseuse and of the other vessels in the fleet; holds loaded with weapons and gunpowder; of their destination—revolution-torn Honduras; of the incalculable dangers inherent in their mission. And this spoiled, willful, meddlesome girl, seeing, as usual, no reason why she should not gratify her wish, had jumped right into the middle of what promised to be the most hazardous voyage he had yet attempted.

  “Well?” he demanded, his fingers t
ightening on her jaw. “Which is it to be?”

  He was going to force her to say it. Genevieve thought of Trianon, of the dull, orderly routine of Victor Latour’s household, and for one moment of throbbing intensity, closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them, that was where she would be. But there was no reprieve. The azure gaze continued to glitter, utterly purposeful; the fingers on her chin bruised their determination that she capitulate, and finally she managed to mouth the necessary word.

  A curt nod indicated acceptance, and he released his hold on her chin. “Then, let us return to the point at which this discussion began. Take off your clothes. Or do you wish Silas to do it for you?”

  Defeated, Genevieve turned away and began to undo the buttons of her shirt. Dominic strode to the door, flung it wide and bellowed for Silas. The sailor appeared instantly. “Bring hot water and lye soap, immediately.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” Silas said, as stolidly imperturbable as always, in spite of the strangeness of the order and the extraordinary events of the afternoon about which he was now completely informed.

  Ignoring the figure fumbling with her clothes in the middle of the cabin, Dominic returned to his absorption at the chart table. When Silas banged at the door a very few minutes later, he bade him enter without raising his head. Genevieve looked around wildly, then jumped for the bed as the door opened. There was no time to seek concealment beneath the covers. All she could do was sit hunched over, her back to the room, a crimson wave of humiliation washing over her. “Take those clothes away. She won’t be needing them again,” Dominic ordered, his voice abstracted as if the matter were of only minor importance.

  “Yes, monsieur.” Silas made his customary response, bundled up the pathetic pile of clothing on the carpet and left the cabin.

  There was silence. Genevieve continued to sit huddled on the bed, unable to turn back to the room, to look at the author of her wretchedness, and quite unable to make any decision as to her next move. Fortunately, that was decided for her. “The water is there for you to use,” he said with heavy sarcasm. “And scrub every inch of yourself, including your hair, with the lye.”

  Slowly, she got off the bed. A wooden tub stood steaming in the corner of the cabin, well away from the carpet, a cake of harsh-smelling lye soap beside it. She had never used such a thing, although the smell was one that lingered over the slave quarters both on Royal Street and at Trianon.

  Dominic watched her sit gingerly in the water and pick up the soap with an involuntary grimace of distaste. “When you touch pitch, it tends to rub off,” he said with a mocking smile. “One lesson that maybe you will remember when next you think to mingle with the rougher elements of society.” Walking over to a cupboard set into the bulkhead, he turned the key in the lock and pocketed it, then went to the door.

  Genevieve summoned up the last shreds of courage and asked hesitantly, “What am I to wear when I have bathed?”

  Dominic turned, his hand on the door, and ran his eyes over her in a long, lazy sweep. “You will wear nothing,” he pronounced calmly. “Naked, even you are unlikely to attempt to leave this cabin—indeed, it seems the only certain means of restraint I have at my disposal.” He paused as she looked at him, dumbfounded. “It will also save time, will it not, when I find I have need of you?” Then he had left, harsh fragments of laughter hanging in the air.

  Alone, Genevieve gave way to the pent-up tears, her slight frame wrenched by great sobbing gasps as she scoured herself with the hateful lye. She had always known the danger inherent in crossing the privateer, but she had never conceived of the extent of his power to hurt, or of his willingness to use that power. He had behaved like a stranger, and yet he was not really a stranger even in the manifestation of cruelty. It was still the Dominic Delacroix that she knew, had always known, and it had been blind stupidity that had led her to conjure up the devil in the loving mentor.

  Cleansed, her skin reddened by the harsh soap, the smell of disinfectant trapped in her nostrils, she got out of the bath and dried herself. The towel Silas had provided was not big enough to knot around her as a makeshift dress, and examination of the cupboards set into the bulkhead offered nothing to assist her in her predicament. Only the one was locked, and she assumed that behind that door lay Dominic’s clothes. The bed linen was the only possibility, but in the end it seemed simpler just to crawl beneath the covers.

  The cabin was in darkness when the door opened without ceremony, and Silas entered with a tray piled high with covered dishes from whence emanated the most aromatic steam. These he set upon the table before lighting the oil lamp, filling the cabin with a warm yellow glow. Genevieve closed her eyes against the light and curled up more tightly, as if thus she might be invisible, although the sailor paid the mound in the bed no heed as he set two places at the table, the napery of pristine whiteness, the heavy silver cutlery gleaming in the lamplight, the crystal glasses winking as the intricate cuts caught the light. That task completed to his satisfaction, Silas picked up the tub of water where the soap floated, melting in a pool of scum on the surface, and left the cabin.

  Genevieve sat up. Her eyes burned from the storm of weeping that had only just expended itself, and her nose was so stuffed up that she could barely smell the food on the table. But she could not imagine eating. She seemed to have no appetite at all, though she had eaten nothing since early that morning. Meals on the lower deck tended to be substantial but unsubtle, and her delicate Creole palate had had some difficulty adjusting, although the adjustment process had been aided by the ravenous hunger that sea air and hard work produced. Now, however, although the food prepared for the ship’s master was clearly of a very different order, she could not contemplate taking even a mouthful. She lay down again, pulling the covers up to her nose.

  Dominic came into the cabin, cast a cursory glance at the bed, and went over to the table. He poured wine into the two glasses and sat down, helping himself to the dish of spicy remoulade, breaking a hot roll. “Come and have your dinner,” he said. When there was no response from behind him, he repeated the instruction, but in a voice that brought Genevieve out of bed and to her feet almost without realizing it.

  “I am not hungry,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts as if she might, in some way, conceal her nakedness.

  “Sit down,” he said evenly, peeling a large Gulf shrimp and dipping it in the remoulade.

  Genevieve did so, but she did no more than that. He could not force her to eat, whatever else he could compel her to do. It seemed, however, that her presence at the table was sufficient. She sipped a little wine and found it comforting. Then she simply sat at the table opposite him until he had completed his meal and had lit a cigar. Taking that as a signal that dinner was now finished, Genevieve got up and went back to bed.

  “You are really going to have to improve your skill at entertaining,” Dominic observed, swiveling around in his chair to look at her. “I expect a little conversation at the table. Nothing too arduous, if your mental powers are not up to it, but a little small talk, at the very least.”

  “Go to hell!” Genevieve whispered under the covers. It was his natural habitat, anyway. She found to her amazement that her spirit seemed to be recovering from the crushing blows it had been dealt that afternoon. He would get nothing from her except what he compelled. And the pleasure in that would pall soon enough.

  Dominic smoked in silence for awhile, then he got up, tossed his cigar out of the porthole and came over to the bed. “Well, if you won’t entertain me with your dulcet tones, my dear, we shall have to see what else you can offer.” He pulled the cover off her. Instinctively, she curled tighter, like a hedgehog. Although her protective bristles were only in her head, Dominic could almost feel them.

  “Turn over,” he said quietly, and when she did not immediately comply, he took her by the shoulders and rolled her onto her back. Genevieve covered her eyes with the back of one arm, but, other than that, made no move to avoid his scrutiny; she simply l
ay as he had placed her. Dominic, in spite of the cold anger that enclosed him in a hard carapace, felt desire stir in his loins. Leaning over her, he touched one softly rounded breast, a feather-light stroke of his finger, moving to flick the rosy nipple, to bring it to life. A shudder ran through the slender body, and he removed his finger as if he had been burned. Her involuntary response had been a shudder of repulsion. Without a word, he replaced the covers and left the cabin.

  He spent that night on deck, and Genevieve eventually stopped wondering why he had not taken from her what he had so clearly stated that he would, and fell asleep, able, despite her wretchedness, to luxuriate in the almost forgotten comfort of a feather mattress and clean, fragrant linen.

  She woke when Silas entered the cabin bearing a jug of hot water. As before, he behaved as if the mound in the bed did not exist. He left and reappeared within minutes with a tray of coffee, hot milk, and beignets. He was placing these on the table when Dominic came in. “Good morning,” said the privateer to the cabin in general. Silas responded cheerfully, but no sound came from the bed. Dominic jerked his head toward the door and Silas nodded, leaving instantly.

  “Good morning, Genevieve,” Dominic addressed the mound. “Come and have your breakfast.”

  “I am not hungry,” she said clearly. It was as true this morning as it had been the previous evening.

  “Nevertheless, I wish you to sit at the table,” he said in level tones, mixing café au lait in the two shallow cups.

  In dull obedience, she got up and sat at the table. Dominic, instead of sitting opposite her, took his coffee over to the washstand where Silas had left the jug of water, shrugged out of his shirt and sharpened his razor on the leather strop hanging from the bulkhead. Genevieve took a few sips of coffee but ignored the beignets. Dominic finished shaving, washed vigorously, unlocked the cupboard and took out a clean shirt. When he turned back to the table, looking enviably fresh and tidy, his skin glowing after the night under the stars, he found Genevieve intently tracing with her little finger the path of a sunbeam on the table. She seemed to have withdrawn completely into herself. He reached a hand across the dishes and lifted her chin. The tawny eyes seemed sunken and lifeless, the usually mobile features expressionless. She made no attempt to evade his grasp, but just stared into the middle distance over his shoulder.