Justin swore beneath his breath when he recalled her saying she’d wanted him to be the first. At the time, he’d thought it was feminine pique speaking, an effort to wound him because of some unfathomable injustice on his part, but evidently she’d meant it. His mouth tightened grimly, and something suspiciously close to jealousy flared at the thought of her in another man’s arms. But what else was he to think? The pricey brothel was one of his brother’s favorite haunts in these waters. Bryce liked cards and fresh, young whores, and because he didn’t carry a British price on his head, he could visit Tortola without fear of arrest, free to gamble and copulate to his heart’s content, or to the depth of his pocket, whichever was reached first.
Justin read on. “You little witch,” he snarled. “Discussed but never agreed on terms.” His words trailed off in an inarticulate growl. “Want a week, do you? And if I need you sooner, I’m to come fetch you? I’ll come, all right,” he promised, reaching for his breeches. “You just better pray that when I do, I find you alone.”
Christiana awoke from her nap disoriented. The stale air reeked of sex. A flood of red assaulted her when she cracked open her eyes. Crimson damask draped the massive bed and darkened the single window. The walls, papered in red silk, were hung with gilt-framed paintings and one huge, strategically placed mirror. Seeing her reflection in it, captured while lying atop a harlot’s bed, she nearly snorted in disgust.
Druscilla’s room.
The chamber was a hedonist’s delight. A carved oak bedstead large enough for four people dominated the room. Erotic art adorned the walls, designed to titillate the senses and entice a customer to be more creative in his amorous endeavors. The effect was blatantly, unapologetically carnal and not at all what she needed at the moment.
Sitting up, Christiana swung her legs over the side of the bed and smoothed her skirt, finding comfort in its familiarity. She adjusted her once-white cuffs, dismayed that the laundress hadn’t been able to scrub out the stains, wondering what else might be done to improve the appearance of the last dress that she owned.
Thank God, Druscilla hadn’t burned the plain gray governess’s gown as she had threatened to do. “Weeds,” she’d shuddered, wrinkling her nose. Shaking her head, she’d clucked over Christiana’s deficiency of hips and fashion sense, advising panniers for the first and blaming the latter on Jean Delacorte, for letting her play the boy for so long. Druscilla had taken it upon herself to see Christiana trussed up for her meeting with Vallé, instructing her on how to walk, how to talk, while transforming her into the semblance of a creature who might attract his eye and gain her a private audience with him, even when she refused to wear a corset.
Christiana sighed. Druscilla was presently gone, no doubt smiling over her success, heartened to know that their ploy worked and Vallé had agreed to do the job. Christiana hadn’t told her everything, of course. She hadn’t confessed that her disguise had gotten her much more than she’d bargained for. But then true confession required repentance on the part of the sinner, and she wasn’t sorry. On the contrary, given the chance, she would do it again. And again.
As long as it was with Vallé.
Memories of last night washed over her, a hot tide that flooded her cheeks and pulsed in her veins. All her dreams, all her fantasies paled in the light of reality. Druscilla had once warned her to guard her heart, and now she’d slept with the man who unwittingly held it, a swashbuckling privateer who’d had his wicked way with her. Hardly an auspicious beginning. She’d intended to be alluring and elusive, remaining just out of reach and letting him pursue her until she’d captured his heart. Instead, he’d had her begging him for more.
“Best laid plans,” she murmured, grimacing when she moved. Still sore—inside and out—from her tryst with Vallé, she forced herself to rise and slipped off the bed, crossing the room to Druscilla’s dresser, uncertain what she would find when she looked in the mirror. Would she see the same face as yesterday, or had last night’s experience changed her?
Much the same. Her worry lines had not faded. The set of her mouth was far too grim. Her eyes, however, reflected a new awareness, and she was dismayed to feel her body quicken at the memories of Vallé’s.
Enough.
Squaring her shoulders, she looked into the mirror and finished her transformation, wielding the brush and inserting hair pins with ruthless efficiency. She’d been an actress all her life, it seemed, pretending she was as good as other children, playing O’Malley’s nephew, then niece, able to change her appearance and attitude as surely as a chameleon. She had a talent for mimicry, and with nothing special about her face, she was able to hide herself, allowing others to glimpse only what she wanted them to see.
She’d thanked God for that ability when she’d left Vallé’s bed and returned to O’Malley’s ship before dawn hours. The Annie Laurie wore a mask as well, repainted and rechristened the Bold Avenger, no longer captained by Jean Delacorte but by “Ian O’Manion” to better elude British authorities. Mick McGuire, the acting commander, hadn’t questioned the tale she’d spun, just accepted her word that all had gone as planned. He’d dropped her off here before heading to Île à Vache in French waters, away from the hands of the British.
Christiana refused to feel guilty for deceiving Mick, but regret stabbed her when she thought of how she had fooled so many others—particularly her employers, letting them think that she was like every other young woman who had been schooled by the Ursulines. If she’d told the truth, she would never have received an education, or found friendship, and meaning, and purpose. She would have lost the chance for employment and a measure of independence that came with earning an honorable wage.
Her employers, the Joberts, were good people. Decent people. They knew only what their daughter told them, and Christiana had perpetuated the latest of the mythic backgrounds O’Malley had created for them both.
As Jean Delacorte, he’d brought her to the convent in her mother’s native France, to be nurtured in the true faith and trained in the feminine arts. Trying not to feel betrayed and abandoned, she’d held her tongue and hidden herself among the other Ursuline students, mortified by her deficiencies and helpless to explain the reasons for them. She’d quickly learned that children were as capable of cruelty as any Brother of the Coast—except that, instead of using cutlasses and knives, they slashed with their tongues and flayed with words.
She had survived their cruelest taunts—but then, she always survived, didn’t she?—even when she tempted death. Climbing the rigging before she was old or large enough to be much help, she’d shin to the royal yard and stand on the foot-rope, one hand grasping the grommet, the other on the jack-stay, feeling the pitch and roll as the crew worked to tack the ship, delighting in the feel of the spindrift and sunshine, the sound of the flag snapping in the wind. With death as close as a careless step, a loosened hold, she clung to life, high above the deck, touched only by the wind.
God’s breath, O’Malley called it, convinced that a fair breeze and a woman’s arms were a bit of heaven on earth. A heaven Christiana had known nothing about, until Charlotte Amalie. A heaven that her mother may have known, once, before fate had driven her into Dante’s circles of hell. Haunted by the memories, Christiana feared that she, too, was unlikely to see an altar. She was a bastard child, a prostitute’s daughter who’d inherited the sins of her mother. She had wondered, who would consider her worthy of marriage?
And then she’d met Philip, the overseer of The Oaks, the plantation owned by Ian O’Manion, an identity created so that no one could connect him with his pirate past or British service. In Maryland, she was believed to be a niece, his ward, une jeune femme, an orphan of gentle birth and breeding, living on her “uncle’s” charity.
She did her best to keep his house, to live a quiet country life and not draw attention to herself. She drew it anyway, capturing Philip’s interest despite offering him no encouragement, giving him no reason to pursue her. His proposal, when it came, was unexpected. A part of he
r was flattered—and, perhaps, relieved, that he found her worthy of his name, until she realized that she could never tell him the truth. She could never let Philip know that Ian was her father without endangering O’Malley’s life.
Philip declared, and she demurred. He begged her to reconsider, and she ultimately declined—though he would never know the true reason for her rejection. His proposal had forced her to search her heart and soul, to ask herself what she really wanted, and at what cost. She’d prayed, and contemplated, and during one journey of introspection, she’d thought of Vallé and had realized that her heart was not hers to give. For better or worse, it belonged to another—a man who, until yesterday, didn’t even know that she existed.
Looking in the mirror, Christiana shook her head at the woman who stared back. This chary imposter, with her hair pulled sharply back and pinned into place beneath a starched white cap. Like an actress dragged onto the stage of life, she entered this role with less reluctance, embracing it more fully when she realized how perfectly it met her immediate needs. Becoming a governess had given her purpose and kept Philip at a distance, until news of the accident that crippled him demanded her return.
She was wearing this dress, or its twin, the last time Philip saw her. Still bearing the burden of guilt for his untimely end, Christiana made the sign of the cross and begged God to have mercy on his soul. Sweet, gentle Philip, gone, she hoped and prayed, with his angel to a place blessedly beyond suffering and death.
Christiana kissed her fingers in silent benediction and exhaled a deep, cleansing breath. Looking in the mirror that begged worship of mammon, in a room dedicated to carnality, and seeing her spartan image like the simplest of cameos in the most vulgar of settings, the irony was not lost on her. The last time she’d worn her governess’s uniform, she had been a virgin. She still looked as straitlaced and proper as a Quakeress…and yet all she could do was think of what she had done with Justin Vallé and wonder how soon she would see him again.
Her pulse quickened, then hunger of a different nature intruded, demanding her attention. Christiana’s stomach rumbled, as empty as a drained coconut. Past the musty odors that hung in the air, she thought she smelled fresh biscuits. Her mouth watering, she followed her nose down the lengthy hall, headed for the stairs, unafraid of being accosted—not so much because she was dressed as plainly as a spinster but because few patrons frequented Mrs. Smith’s in the forenoon. All who did were required to abide by the house rules but precautions were duly taken: no locks were on the doors to the doxies’ rooms, in case a customer’s play grew too rough. If a whore needed help, she’d call for Hulk, the large bald giant of a man who guarded the entrance downstairs and who had no problem ejecting anyone who bent or broke the rules.
Judging from the sounds that greeted her when she reached the staircase, he was doing just that.
A thud sounded, heavy and ominous. “Hulk!” Mrs. Smith’s plaintive cry pierced the air. “What have you done to him?”
Clutching the mahogany newel post, Christiana had second thoughts about going down, particularly with Hulk’s prostrate form sprawled by the bottom step. Standing over him, rubbing his bare knuckles, was an earringed sailor dressed in a plain white shirt worn open at the throat, a brace of pistols held fast in the scarlet sash around his waist, and a cutlass hanging by his side. Snug fawn breeches were tucked into polished black boots, and a white-blond queue trailed from the black silk scarf worn on his head.
He looked up, and she nearly smiled, congratulating herself on her cleverness. Vallé had come for her, and so soon! She took heart in that. She’d left him the note and the gold. He could have waited a week and let her return to him. Instead he was here—unhappily so, judging from his expression.
She bit her lip. His mouth twisted grimly above his unshaven chin, glowering fiercely, Vallé took the steps two at a time until he’d come high enough to look her squarely in the face. “We need to talk,” he gritted, his scarred cheek ticking ominously.
“Yes.” She replied absently, her gaze focused over his shoulder on Mrs. Smith, who dropped to her knees beside the fallen Hulk to pat his hand, promising him that of course she would not dismiss him from service. “This way.”
Christiana ushered him down the length of the hall and into Druscilla’s room, closing the door behind them. She didn’t think herself in any particular danger, but she decided to stand close by the exit anyway, until she saw which way the wind blew. Judging from the steely glint in Vallé’s eyes, she looked to be in for some rough weather.
“You’re angry with me.”
Furious was more like it. Justin clenched his fists rather than trust himself not to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. A relative innocent like her didn’t belong in this place, hands clasped primly at her waist, dressed like a virtuous maiden, ready to be corrupted by any man with coin enough to cover the cost of pigeon’s blood and a sponge. And the way this room smelled, she could have sold her virginity any number of times.
“Oui.” Justin cast a spurious glance about the room. “Explain this. Why here?” he demanded, bracing himself for her answer. Until this morning, he truly didn’t realize how capable he was of violence towards a woman, given provocation.
She tipped up her chin to look at him, green eyes wide as an innocent’s, her black hair scraped back and tortured into prim respectability—a sham wasted on someone who knew what passion lay beneath that sterile facade. “Druscilla loaned me clothes that I’d promised to return. I came to give them back and fetch the dress I’d left. She is pleased, by the way, that you’ve accepted the job and will see O’Malley free.”
The way she said it, she was either a facile liar or she was telling the bald-faced truth. He was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt, until she looked at the bed and blushed.
Justin surveyed the room, its size, and the quality of its furnishings. Mrs. Smith was a businesswoman, and rooms were real estate. One like this belonged to someone who promised to make the house money.
“Whose room is this?” he demanded.
One slim shoulder lifted in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” In three strides, Justin had her pinned against the door, a hand planted on either side of her head, breathing dragon’s fire. Hearing her tremulous breath, he smiled darkly, relishing her fear only because it would make her think twice before acting so foolishly again. “Listen to me, and listen well, Mademoiselle Delacorte. If I ask a question, you can be certain that it does matter, and you will answer accordingly, n’es-ce pas?”
She bit hard on her lip and nodded.
“You understand. Bien. Now again. Whose room is this?”
“Druscilla’s,” she told him. “She’s Delacorte’s—O’Malley’s favorite when he comes.”
No wonder she blushed at the bed, thinking of how her father used it. But he must not show her how relieved he was.
“And these are your clothes?” Justin asked more gently.
She nodded again, her face colored with a telling blush of mortification and something else. “These are all I have left,” she said stiffly, “of what I brought. The rest I sold to help pay you.”
The mock-tough tone she used failed to mask her embarrassment. She had acquired some feminine vanity in the years they’d been apart and was clearly ashamed of her meager wardrobe. Straightening, Justin pushed away from the door and put some distance between them before he did something foolish, like pull her back into his arms and apologize, or offer to buy her a dozen new dresses, each of brilliantly dyed silk that would enhance her sexuality, now buried beneath yards of plainest cotton. But he was already treading enough dangerous ground by coming to Tortola. Any words between them would have to wait until they were away from British-governed soil and waters.
“Is there anything else you have? Anything you need to take with us?”
She shook her head, bruised pride in her magnificent eyes. “Just my gloves.”
“Get the
m, s’il vous plait, and let us go. Be warned—I had to bring a sloop to fetch you, since the Raptor would have drawn attention.”
“Oh, dear,” she whispered, looking suddenly stricken. “I never thought—”
“Obviously.” Justin flicked a quick glance at the door and rubbed his sore knuckles. “Get them now, please. I’d rather not be here when the bear downstairs wakes up growling.”
Christiana went to the dresser. Lifting her gloves, she uncovered the ring that Druscilla had given her before she’d left this morning. A present that, before his arrest, O’Malley had intended for her eighteenth birthday. Druscilla claimed that, in all that had transpired, she had forgotten he’d left it in her keeping, until Christiana had already gone to meet Vallé. Under the circumstances, Druscilla saw no reason to wait until September.
If she’d only yielded it up earlier, Christiana could have used it for O’Malley’s freedom fund. She would not have had to beg and borrow from the men under his sail. Instead she’d been given the ring after her return to Tortola. At least now when she sold it, she could pay back O’Malley’s crew and have enough left to give O’Malley and her a fresh start somewhere beyond the long arm of British law. Or it could just take them north, to the home base they’d already established, where they could fade into happy obscurity as Ian O’Manion and his ward.
Christiana slipped the ring on her fourth finger and grabbed her gloves, all the while cursing her foolish pride. Vallé had been safe on St. Thomas, but here? The British would pay dearly for him. Imbécile! she named herself. What if Vallé had been recognized? What if Mrs. Smith had already sent word to one of the well-placed officials who frequented her establishment in exchange for letting her operate without interference?
Lifting a silent prayer, Christiana opened the door to find that God hadn’t listened again. The sound of the front door bursting open justified her worst fears. Grabbing Vallé’s arm, she urged him to the far side of the room and pressed a hidden latch. The huge mirror swung away from the wall, revealing a narrow passage that ran the length of the house, its numerous peepholes used by men and women who gained pleasure from watching others.
Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Page 5