A little dizzy, she murmured, “Come along, chéri,” and took his hand—and part of his weight—said another silent prayer for help, annihilated the past and the future, abandoning herself to the present, she led him to the bunk—resolved to be all that he desired and expected. Ever since today’s sudden and unbelievable ceremony she had been planning for this moment, her role, sifting her own ideas and what Colette had whispered how some of the great ladies of the court conducted themselves on the first night: “It’s important, Angelique, to be the guide, to control the stallion as a good rider should, with strong hands and tight rein, with firmness but gentleness to remove the initial violence from even the most docile of husbands—to lessen the hurt. Be prepared …”
His impatience was vast, big hands wandering, lips stronger. “Let me help you,” she said huskily, also wanting to begin, and eased the coat off and then the shirt and flinched when she saw the extent of the scar at his waist.
“Mon Dieu, I’d forgotten how badly you’ve been hurt.”
His passion went. But not the thundering of his heart. Every instinct made him want to pull the shirt or sheet around him but he forced himself not to. The scar was a fact of his life. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, mon amour,” she said, her eyes spilling, and holding him close. “I’m sorry, so sorry for you and all that horror … so sorry.”
“Don’t, my darling. It’s joss. Soon it’ll only be a bad dream, all of it, for both of us, I promise.”
“Yes, my darling, so sorry, so silly of me,” she said, still holding on to him and, in a moment, when the anguish for him had lessened, angry at herself for her lapse, she brushed away her tears—and with them her momentary sadness—kissed him quickly, pretending it had never happened. “Sorry, my darling, how silly of me! Sit there for a moment.” He obeyed.
Watching him with veiled but shining eyes, she undid the silk belt and then the back buttons and let the gown fall as she had planned. Only a half-slip and pantaloons remained. He reached for her but she chuckled and slid away and went to the sea chest where her mirror and salves and perfumes were, and, taking her time, put perfume behind her ears and then on each breast, teasing and tantalizing.
But he did not mind, consumed with her, enchanted, for she had explained many times, in different words, “We French are different from you, my darling Malcolm, we are open about loving, modest but not modest, so opposite to the English. We believe loving should be like a marvelous meal, one to thrill the senses, all senses, and not the way our poor English sisters, and their brothers, are taught: that it should be done quickly, in the dark, believing somehow the act is squalid and bodies shameful. You’ll see, when we’re married …”
And now they were. She was his wife, she was coquettish for his delight and he was filled with joy and pulsating. Thank God for that, he thought, monumentally relieved—he had worried for weeks, reliving the Yoshiwara girl, when nothing had worked. “Angel,” he said throatily.
Shyly she stepped out of her pantaloons and slip and walked over to the gimballed lamp and turned the wick down, leaving just enough light, more strikingly lovely than he had imagined—the sight of her naked body was like a dream, and at the same time achingly, vividly real. Without hurry she climbed into the other side of the bunk and lay alongside him.
Whispering words of love, hands touching, exploring, his breathing heavy, moving closer, breath catching painfully when he moved, lips hot and kisses passionate. Her own hands tentative, carefully controlled, all her mind concentrated on the picture of happy, innocent first love that she wanted him to have of her—desperate to please but a little frightened.
“Oh Malcolm, oh Malcolm …” Murmuring and kissing him deeply, loving him—praying that what Babcott had said in answer to her questions was true: “Don’t worry, for a time he won’t be able to ride comfortably, or dance a polka brilliantly, but that doesn’t matter, he can drive a coach-and-four, captain a ship, run the Noble House, sire many children—and be the best husband ever …”
Her need for him was strong now. But she modulated it, checking her own desire, sticking to the plan, helping and guiding and then a sharp gasp, never wavering, now holding him tightly, reacting and reacting until so soon he cried out, her whole body rocked by the contortions of his release and cries that went on and on and then his helpless, panting, dead weight crushing her—but not crushing her.
How odd that I can bear his weight so easily, everything fitting together, she thought, her mouth whispering sweet and tender words, soothing his panting whimpers, content that their first joining had been accomplished so pleasingly.
He was half conscious, lost in some strange plateau, weightless, empty, feeling nothing yet sated with love for this incredible creature who, nude, was all that he imagined and more. The smell and taste and being of her. Every part of him satisfied. Everything worthwhile. In euphoria. Now she’s mine and I was manly and she was womanly and, oh Christ, I hope I didn’t hurt her.
“Are you all right, Angel?” he asked huskily, his heart slowing but still hardly able to talk. “I didn’t hurt you?”
“Oh, no, my darling … I love you so much.”
“So, so do I, Angel, I can’t tell you enough.” He kissed her and began to lift his weight on to his elbows.
“No, don’t move, not yet, please, I like you like th—What is it, my darling?” she said nervously, her arms tightening.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” he muttered, dealing with the sudden pain from his loins that stabbed into the base of his skull as he had moved. Cautiously, he tried again; better this time. And he stopped the groan this time.
“Don’t move, Malcolm,” she said tenderly. “Stay still, rest, mon amour, I like you like this, please … please.”
Gratefully he obeyed, starting to murmur how much he loved her, so comfortable, so possessed, so peaceful, so utterly satisfied, to drift into sleep, to sleep deeply. The ship’s bell sounded one bell: half-past midnight but he did not stir, and she lay there, calmed and soothed and gratified, her future launched, enjoying the quiet of the cabin, timbers creaking sometimes, waves lapping the hull, savoring the sensation of fulfillment too.
Without waking him, she slid from under him and went to the bathroom and cleansed herself. She sighed and begged forgiveness. A nick with the small knife. André had said, “It’s difficult, almost impossible for a man to tell if the girl’s a virgin or not on their wedding night if he has no reason to suspect. A little fear, a gasp at the right time, a little telltale blood the clincher, and in the morning all will be serene and as it should be.”
What an awful cynic André is, she thought. God protect me from him and forgive me my sins—I’m glad I’m married, and soon off to Hong Kong so I won’t need to think about him ever again, just my Malcolm …
She almost danced over to the bunk. Softly into bed to hold his hand and close her eyes, seeing glorious mind pictures of their future. I do love him so.
Suddenly she was awake, thinking she had felt another earthquake. The cabin was dark, just the barest flame of the gimballed lamp, swaying slightly. Then she remembered dimming it before she slept, realizing the sound that had awakened her was the ship’s bell and not the pealing of the cathedral during the earthquake of her dreams, the earthquake only the ship’s movement, none of the dream bad. Then, seeing him there beside her, she experienced a loving glow, unlike anything before, knowing they were married and that not a dream either.
Four bells? 2:00 A.M. Or 6:00 A.M.? No, silly, it can’t be, or there would be light outside the portholes and Malcolm said he had to go ashore before we slip anchor for civilization to beard the Dragon in her lair—no, to greet a mother-in-law I will charm and beguile who will quickly love me and be the perfect adoring grandmother.
She watched him in the half-light. He was sleeping on his side, his head cradled in his right arm, his sleeping face without care lines, breathing soft, his body warm with his good, clean manly smell. This is my husband and I love h
im and am only his and the other never happened. How lucky I am!
Her hand began to touch him. He stirred. His hand reached for her too. Not quite awake he said, “Hello, Angel.”
“Je t’aime.”
“Je t’aime aussi.”
His hand sought her. She responded. Caught unawares he flinched and turned to her, held his breath as a pain leapt to the back of his eyes, and then, as it passed, exhaled.
“Je t’aime, chéri,” she said, and leaned down to kiss him, and between kisses whispered, “No, don’t move, stay there, stay still,” and added with a little laugh, her voice husky with need, “Lie still, mon amour.”
In moments passion swamped him. Aroused and throbbing, everything forgotten, now sensuality shared and now moving slowly and slowly and then quicker and slow again and deeper, her voice throaty, urging him, him reacting, on and on, stronger and stronger, all his glands and muscles and yearning centering, centering until she was near and very near, and going and near again, holding her, helping her, thrusting until she sensed her body vanish, her weight vanish, everything vanish and she collapsed on him, her spasms and cries pulling him further into her, his muscles stretched to the limit by his final thrust. Then and then and then he too cried out and was weightless, his body grinding of its own accord, pumping of its own accord, until the last, frenzied, so welcome spasm passed and all movement ceased.
Only panting breaths mixed, sweat mixed, hearts mixed.
In time he became conscious. Her sleeping weight on his chest was as nothing. He lay there in wonder, vibrantly aware, euphoric, one arm holding her safe, knowing she was comely as ever a wife could be. Her breath cooled his cheeks, long and slow and deep. His head was cleansed and future clear, without a shred of self-doubt. Utterly sure that he had been right to marry her, certain that now he could end the conflict with his mother and that together they would end the Brocks, as he would end Norbert, end opium sales and cannon sales, and persuade Jamie to stay, and he would rule Struan’s as it should be ruled—as the tai-pan would want it ruled. Until, with the fullness of time, he would have done his duty and made the Noble House first in Asia again, to pass it on to the next tai-pan, the firstborn son they would name Dirk, first of many sons and many daughters.
How long he lay there he did not know, supremely confident, joy-filled and in ecstasy, his arms around her, loving her, breathing her breath, more happy than he had ever been, could ever be, his lips telling her he loved her, his mind easing him into sleep in blissful warmth and away from the memory of that awesome, marvelous, agonizing, writhing, ultimate burst of immortality that had seemed to him to tear him apart.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
WEDNESDAY, 10TH DECEMBER:
In the grey dawn Jamie McFay hurried up from the Drunk Town jetty and turned the corner. Around it he saw Norbert and Gornt in No Man’s Land, waiting where they should be waiting, noticing without interest the small bag in Gornt’s hand that would contain the duelling pistols they had agreed on. Apart from the three of them—and acres of flies—the foul, weed-covered dump was desolate. He had passed no one except drunks huddled and snoring in the corners of shacks, sprawled on benches or in the dirt. He had not seen them.
“Sorry,” Jamie said, out of breath. Like them he wore a topcoat and hat against the morning air, heavy and damp. “Sorry I’m late, I ha—”
“Where’s the tai-pan of the Bloody House?” Norbert asked rudely, shoving his chin out. “Is he yellow or what?”
“Go fuck yourself,” Jamie snarled, his face as grey as the dirty sky. “Malcolm’s dead, the tai-pan’s dead.” He saw them gaping at him and he still could not believe it either. “I’ve just come back from the ship. Went to fetch him before dawn and … well, they … he’d spent the night aboard Prancing Cloud. He was …” Words failed him. His tears welled and again he relived the going there and seeing Strongbow at the gangway, pale and frightened, yelling out long before he had come alongside that young Malcolm was dead, that he’d sent their cutter for a doctor but, for Christ’s sake, he’s dead.
Then charging up the steps. Noticing Angelique huddled in the corner of the quarterdeck, wrapped in blankets, the First Mate nearby but rushing past them, praying it was not true but a nightmare, then going below.
The stateroom was bathed in light. Malcolm lay in the bunk on his back. Eyes closed, calm in death, no cares, sheets drawn up to his chin, it suddenly hitting Jamie that his friend was as he had never seen him, exquisitely at peace.
“It were … it were Chen,” Strongbow was saying in a flood, distraught, “his servant Chen, Jamie, he’d come to wake him ten, fifteen minutes ago, he’s the one that found him, Jamie, he found him—you can unbolt the door from the outside like most sea cabins—and he did and they were sleeping, he thought. She was but Malcolm weren’t and he shook him and saw and near died himself and ran out and fetched me and by that time, she was awake. She was awake and shrieking, poor thing, desperate, shrieking enough to put your teeth on edge so I took her out and told the First Mate to look after her and came back but there were no mistake, poor laddie, he’s just as you see him ’cepting I closed his eyes but look … look here …”
Trembling, Strongbow pulled the sheet away. Malcolm was naked. The lower part of his body rested in a pool of blood. The blood was dried and caked now, the mattress soaked. “He … he must have hemorrhaged, only God knows why but I suppose …”
“Christ Jesus,” Jamie had said, and lurched for a chair and cursed and cursed and cursed again, numb. Malcolm? “What the hell do I do now?” he asked himself helplessly.
The voice of God ricocheted around the cabin answering him: “You pack it in ice and send it home!”
Frightened, he leapt to his feet. Strongbow was staring at him perplexed and, all at once, Jamie realized it was the Captain who had answered him, unaware that he himself had spoken the question aloud. “Is that all you can bloody say, for Christ’s sake?” he shouted.
“Sorry, Jamie, didn’t mean … I didn’t mean to be …” Strongbow wiped his forehead. “What do you want me to do?”
After another age, ears still pounding, head scourged, he muttered, “I don’t know.”
“Normally we—we would bury him at sea, can’t keep … You could bury him ashore … What do you want me to do?”
Jamie’s mind seemed to be in slow motion. Then he noticed Ah Tok squatting near the bunk, tiny, now an old crone, rocking on her heels, mouth moving but no sound coming out. “Ah Tok, you go upside, nothing here, heya?”
She paid no heed. Just rocked back and forth, mouthing, and did not answer. He tried again but it was no use. To Strongbow he said, “You’d just better wait. You wait for Babcott or Hoag.”
Aloft again to kneel beside Angelique, in the still dark, not yet dawn. But she would not answer him, however tenderly he talked to her, saying how sorry he was, how very sorry, trying to succor her. Momentarily she looked up, without recognition, great blue eyes in the whiteness of her face, then huddled back in the blankets, staring sightlessly at the deck.
“I’m going ashore, Angelique, ashore. You understand? It’s … it’s best to tell Sir William, you understand?” He saw her nod dully and touched her as a father would. At the gangway he said to Strongbow, “Put the flag at half mast, all hands to stay aboard, your sailing orders are cancelled. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Best…best not to touch anything till Babcott or Hoag arrive.”
Going back to the shore he had been violently sick and now he saw Norbert and Gornt in front of him. Gornt was shocked, Norbert’s eyes glittered and, through his misery, he heard him say, “Malcolm’s dead? How dead, for Christ’s sake?”
“I don’t know,” he said, choked. “We—we—we’ve sent for Babcott but it looks like he hemorrhaged. I’ve got to tell Sir William.” He turned to leave but Norbert’s jeering laughter stopped him.
“You mean the young bugger died fucking? Died on the job? I come to kill the bugger but he’s done fucked his way through the Pearly Ga
tes? Old Man Brock will laugh fit to b—”
Blind with rage McFay lashed out, his right fist smashing into Norbert’s face, sending him reeling, and missed with a violent left uppercut, overbalanced, and fell to his knees. Norbert had twisted like a cat and leapt to his feet, bellowing with fury, face bloody, nose ugly, and kicked violently for Jamie’s head. The toe of his boot caught Jamie’s collar and that deflected and deadened the impact slightly or it would have broken his neck instead of sending him tumbling. Norbert wiped the blood off his face as he rushed forward and again kicked savagely. But this time Jamie was ready and he twisted aside before Norbert could reach him and scrambled to his feet, his fists bunched, his left arm momentarily useless.
For a second they squared off, pain obliterated by hatred, Gornt trying to stop them but at the same instant the two men charged, amok, brushing him aside like a leaf. Fists, feet, gouging, street fighting, knees into the groin, nails clawing, tearing cloth or hair anything to crush the other—the enmity of years exploding with surpassing ferocity. They were the same height but Jamie was thirty pounds lighter, Norbert tougher and more vicious. His knife appeared in his hand. Both Jamie and Gornt called out as he lunged, missed, recovered, slashed again and drew blood this time, Jamie awkward and losing and tortured by the damaged shoulder. With a victorious battle cry Norbert thrust forward, to maim but not to kill, but the same moment Jamie’s fist crashed into the bridge of his nose, smashing it this time, and Norbert went down whimpering and stayed down, on his hands and knees, sightless with pain, beaten.
Jamie stood over him panting, Gornt expecting him to finish the other man with a kick to the groin and another to the head, then perhaps to use the heel of his boot to mash his face forever. That’s what he would have done—not gentlemanly to pull a knife or jeer at the death of another man, even an enemy, he thought with satisfaction at McFay’s victory.
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