Captive Innocence

by Fern Michaels

  A rush of memory made her wince as she recalled the day the Baron and his wife had gone off in the carriage to a neighboring plantation, leaving Jamie with her. Angry and insulted with the circumstances that had demoted her from paramour to servant, Elena had left the toddler unattended, and when she finally returned to him, he had fallen from his chair and lay still as death and unconscious for four days. But Jamie wouldn’t have been the first baby to die on the Reino.

  Elena also remembered with bitterness and hatred her own stupidity the day the Baron had ordered her to get rid of the life she carried within her. He didn’t want any bastards in this house, he told her. She had killed her own child—and then had been expected to nurse the Newsomes’ white-skinned child.

  It had become evident to the most casual observer that Jamie didn’t function as well as his older brother had at the same age. He appeared slow, clumsy, growing at a normal rate, yet not developing mentally. When he was six years old and the retardation could no longer be denied, Senora Catarine had taken to her bed and pined. Within a year she was dead, and Elena’s hatred for Jamie’s father continued to increase with each passing day. Guilty because of her own negligence, she appointed herself Jamie’s guardian, and she had come to love him as much, she was certain, as she could ever love a child of her own.

  How proud and arrogant and in love she had been with Carlyle when he had taken her for his mistress. Nothing else had mattered, only her love for him, a love that was great and all-encompassing, forgiving and loyal. But he had killed that love, leaving her an empty shell of a woman whose whole existence was centered upon protecting the child he had placed in her care.

  Now this, Jamie’s preoccupation with the four little girls the Baron insisted on keeping at the plantation. She’d seen the way he liked to touch them, witnessed the expression in his eyes. Jamie was only a boy in a man’s body, but even boys had sexual drives and hungers. How much better it would be if Senora Banner had her way and the ninas were sent back to their parents. Especially for Jamie. Then there wouldn’t be anything or anyone to tempt him.

  Elena had told the Baron of Jamie’s increasingly disturbing appetites, and his answer had been a coarse laugh. “Why, Elena, you surprise me! What a delicate choice of words. And tell me,” he whispered as he clutched her arm, squeezing it painfully, “why do you feel you must be delicate with me? Haven’t we known moments when delicacy was abandoned for something more basic and infinitely more exciting?”

  His hard gray eyes peered into hers meaningfully, stirring all the old, hot memories. “And as for Jamie,” he had continued, apparently enjoying Elena’s embarrassment, “why else should one amass a fortune if not to bring to one’s son those things he desires?”

  Elena had pulled away from his grasp and quickly took her leave. Behind her, his cruel laughter echoed raucously, sending shivers up her spine and a fuller determination to protect Jamie not only from himself but also from his father.

  Chapter Eleven

  Sebastian took the steps to his Manaus townhouse two at a time. He was eager to see Aloni, and the hassle at the docks hadn’t done his humor any benefit. Aloni knew how to soothe his ruffled temper.

  As he thrust open the door, she came running to greet him; her small, lithe figure was in his arms, and she was kissing him, murmuring soft endearments. Waist-length black hair hung over one shoulder, and he could smell its sweet fragrance and feel the smooth as silk skin as her arms twined around his neck.

  Pulling away from him, Aloni looked up at him from her diminutive height, staring at him with her mahogany dark eyes, her full moist lips parted over her dazzling white teeth. “Come,” she said softly, her voice childlike, “I will prepare you a cool drink.”

  “It’s not a drink I want, Aloni,” he whispered hoarsely, pulling her back to him.

  She giggled seductively, this woman that was more a child, and sighed seductively. “Handsome master, tell Aloni what it is you want. Tell me, Sebastian,” she coaxed enticingly.

  “You little tease,” he answered huskily, a familiar surging need coursing through his body and seeming to center in his nether regions.

  Playfully, she struggled away from him, skipping up the first few steps to the bedroom. Sebastian bounded after her in hot pursuit, laughing at her little game. This ritual never failed to amuse him.

  He followed her to the top of the stairs and saw article after article of clothing being thrown through the open doorway in accompaniment to her squeals of expectation.

  First her tiny slippers, and then her petticoats—faster and faster the garments flew through the air. He dodged a high-flying chemise and marveled at her agility in undressing herself so quickly.

  When the assault of clothing ended, he strode into the dimly lit bedroom on cue; it was cool from the shutters being drawn against the afternoon sun. His eyes adjusted to the half-light and found her laying atop the bed, waiting.

  Sebastian stood before her appraisingly, removing his shirt, deliberately fumbling with the buttons, watching her eagerness build. Through slitted eyes, their gazes locked. His hands went to his straining trousers, his movements slow, watching, filling his senses with the sight and scent and anticipation of her.

  The pink tip of her tongue moistened her lips and, as always, he was struck by her beauty. Her lean, supple body never failed to excite him; her sensuous lips promised fulfillment; her oblique, almost oriental, eyes measured him knowingly, without coyness. Aloni realized the impact her beauty had on him, and she capitalized on it.

  He stood before her, fully aroused, wanting her, enjoying the sight of her small, uplifted breasts with their chocolate-colored nipples. Aloni lowered her eyes and held her arms out for him.

  Sebastian stood in front of his shaving stand, trying to avert his eyes from the reflection that bore a startling resemblance to his enemy, the Baron. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Aloni’s image in his shaving mirror. Her eyes were narrowed as she studied him. He steeled himself against her onslaught of questions; he had heard them so often. “Is not Aloni pretty? Why can’t I go with you? Are you ashamed of your Aloni?” And on and on she would whine, until he was dressed and ready to leave. At that point she would change her tactics for fear he would order her from his house, and she would once again become his sweet, undemanding Aloni.

  “I think maybe Aloni will be leaving.” A practiced sob caught in her throat.

  Sebastian turned to face her, angry at her words.

  Aloni’s eyes were now mere slits. “It is true. I think maybe Aloni will have to leave. My Sebastian has thoughts for another.”

  “What are you saying, Aloni? I have no thoughts for another.” Even as he said the words, he knew he lied. It was true; their lovemaking had been clouded by his thoughts of Royall. At one point he had almost moaned her name in his desire.

  “It is true. Sebastian has found another, I feel it here,” she said, dramatically touching her heart. “Is it one of those milk-skinned, overfed ladies you see at the opera house? No, Sebastian would not care for a fat lady. Perhaps,” she said shrewdly, “it is the golden girl I have heard spoken of in the marketplace.”

  Sebastian ignored her bid for reassurance. “Enough, Aloni,” he said angrily.

  “It is,” she said whiningly. “It is the golden girl! I knew it, I feel it. Now you will discard me like one of your dirty sheets.”

  Angry at the insight of his mistress, Sebastian snatched up his jacket and strode from the room.

  Aloni followed him, small sobs catching in her throat. Anger welled up in him, and he felt the urge to slap her, to still the words that tumbled from her petulant mouth. Immediately, he was contrite and ashamed of the impulse. What’s gotten into me? Have I gone mad? Within him beat the answer: Royall Banner.

  “I have business, Aloni. I’ll be back this evening. Have something light for dinner. Perhaps we can go to the Chaucer Gardens tonight and dance. Would you like that?”

  He knew Aloni would like it. She was always beggin
g him to take her out. “Aloni has no need for these pretty gowns. Aloni never goes anywhere where she can be seen,” she would pout.

  He watched her face light up. Another time he might have been pleased with himself. Now he couldn’t care one way or another if Aloni was happy or not. All his spare thoughts were of Royall and the brief time they had spent together. If the truth were known or if he cared to admit it to himself, he was tiring of Aloni and her childish, clinging ways. For a woman of twenty-four she was often infantlike in her behavior.

  She came to him and threw her arms around his neck and kissed him gratefully. “You make Aloni so happy!”

  “Be ready when I get back,” he said curtly.

  He strode out to his waiting coach and instructed the driver, “Vengar de Soltero, Lawyer Morrison’s offices.”

  Sebastian settled back in the comfortable coach as it made its way through traffic to the Avenue of Bachelors.

  Damn. When would Aloni grow up? Never, he answered his own question. It grated on his nerves to hear her use her name instead of the personal pronoun. Damnation, he swore silently, couldn’t he think about anyone but the golden-haired cat? Settling back further in his seat, he pushed his thoughts away from Royall and toward the meeting with his lawyer friend, Victor Morrison.

  Sebastian leaped from his coach and strode toward the pink brick building Victor Morrison called home.

  Lawyer Morrison’s manservant smiled at Sebastian as though he were glad to see him. He was. Azus had been with the Morrisons for many years, a family retainer, and Azus knew how bored Senor Morrison had become with the retired life. Not enough of the old gentleman’s friends came to call, and Sebastian had always been one of his favorites.

  “Senor Morrison has a caller at the moment, Senor Rivera, but I’m certain their meeting will end shortly. If you care to wait in the drawing room, I’ll fetch you a glass of the master’s favorite brandy.”

  “Yes, Azus. I’d like that. A caller? Anyone I know?”

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen the lady before, although Senor Morrison was quite pleased when I announced her.”

  Resisting the impulse to impose on Azus’ friendship and cajole him into revealing the name of the caller, Sebastian accepted the snifter of brandy and sat back to light a cheroot.

  Minutes later, the door to the drawing room swung open. Victor Morrison entered the drawing room, in the company of Royall Banner.

  Sebastian’s face turned dark, and Royall’s expression matched his.

  “Sebastian. How nice to see you! When did you arrive in Manaus?” Victor Morrison demanded.

  “Several days ago,” Sebastian said curtly, his eyes on Royall.

  “Forgive my manners. Mrs. Banner, may I present Sebastian Rivera.”

  “Senor Rivera and I have already met, thank you, Mr. Morrison. How are you, Senor Rivera?” Royall inquired perfunctorily.

  “Well, Senora Banner, and yourself?” His tone equally cold.

  “Well.” As if he cared how she was.

  Victor Morrison frowned, bewildered by the ensuing silence. One would have thought these two handsome people would find much to talk about.

  “Mr. Morrison, thank you so much for seeing me today. I’ll be in touch within the week,” Royall said quietly.

  Was Sebastian mistaken, or did Royall’s golden-flecked eyes hold a warning message for Mr. Morrison?

  When his servant closed the door behind Royall, Victor Morrison joined Sebastian in a snifter of brandy. “I wasn’t aware that you knew Senora Banner, Victor. You certainly are an old rake. I should have guessed you would know every lovely young woman who arrives in Manaus.” Victor Morrison’s eyes grew serious as he measured Sebastian. “I’d like it if you watched over her for me, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian almost choked on a swallow of brandy. “You can’t be serious, Victor! Watch over her! Damned if I will!”

  Shocked by this sudden outburst, Morrison could only stare at Sebastian, mouth agape. “But surely you can do this for an old friend,” he pleaded. “I’ve never known you to refrain from the company of a beautiful woman?”

  “I’ve been in Senora Banner’s company, Victor, and I’ve found her to be a lovely lady, although a devious one.”

  Sebastian felt duty bound to explain his attitude in regard to Royall. His lip curled in distaste as he described how he had felt himself deceived that Royall was a guest of Mrs. Quince. “I tell you, Victor, had I known she was traveling to the Reino, I would have cut a path a mile wide to stay away from her. And now I’m given to understand she is part owner in that den of unpardonable injustice to humanity.”

  “Sebastian, the girl has only been here a matter of weeks. Surely you can’t blame her for the injustice that has run rampant on the Reino all these years. That girl is within a hair’s breadth of trouble! Judgment tells me she’ll be in need of a friend. And these sources that informed you that Royall Banner is part owner in the Reino, have they also informed you that she’s trying the will of the Baron in order that four children be permitted to return to their mothers? And have they told you of her misery because of the condition of the slaves on the Reino, and of her guilt because her own life has been one of ease and luxury at their expense?” Seeing Sebastian’s look of embarrassment, Victor Morrison softened his tone. “I knew her father, Sebastian. Richard Harding was a man to your liking. He never would have allowed the deplorable conditions on the Reino if he had known of them. Take pity on her, Sebastian, and me. Please watch over her.”

  “I’m afraid the damage is done, Victor. Senora Banner has reacted accordingly to my hostile behavior. She can fend for herself, take my word for it.”

  “Perhaps,” Victor said soberly, a knowing gleam in his eye. “Nevertheless, you could be very unobtrusive, couldn’t you?”

  Sebastian smiled and heaved a sigh. “I suppose I could.” He felt ridiculous because of the way the idea pleased him.

  Royall leaned her head against the back of the seat and rubbed a hand over her weary brow. So much, and yet nothing. Mr. Morrison had revealed very little to her about the mysterious words in her father’s ledger. “Now is not the time,” he had insisted. But she had extracted a promise from him to tell her something soon. She thought of his round, kind face narrowing into deep lines of concern. Why did men feel they had to coddle women? Why couldn’t they be honest and frank? Still, Mr. Morrison had been helpful in explaining the finer points of her partnership with the Baron. Even Morrison couldn’t be sure where the line was drawn. Tired, beaten ... and then to meet Sebastian! A small groan escaped her, and she forced back her frustration. A commotion in the street caught her attention. Several blacks were erecting a papier-mâché tower that was painted in garish colors. Festival was two days away, and no one in Manaus felt less like celebrating than Royall.

  Chapter Twelve

  Manaus, for the week of the opera opening at least, had become a tropical Vienna. Music seemed to be everywhere, played on street corners and by marching bands; native minstrels wandered the streets begging coins for their songs; violinists and pianists displayed their talents at the numerous parties and soirees held in the performers’ honor; and dark-eyed Latin singers, cantante, serenaded much like Christmas carolers did in Royall’s New England.

  From Europe artists and performers had traveled up the Amazon, tenors and sopranos, orchestras, all bound for the flagrantly opulent theater for the performing arts in Brazil. The trip was arduous, the cost to the opera guild, which seemed to include everyone in Manaus, was astronomical. But worth every penny. Sophistication and culture had come to Brazil.

  In preparation for the festivities, Royall had moved to Manaus with Rosalie Quince, making herself at home in her friend’s townhouse. Now, as she sat before the mirror putting the finishing touches to her hair, a heavy tap sounded on the door and Mrs. Quince strode briskly into the room. “Royall, aren’t you dressed yet? The DuQuesnes are expecting us in thirty minutes! You’ll have to hurry or we’ll be quite unfashion
ably late.”

  “I’m not going. You can tell the DuQuesnes for me that I have a very fashionable headache, and I can’t join them for still another night of revelry.” Royall’s tone was hostile and tinged with weariness.

  “What are you saying?” Mrs. Quince squawked. “You can’t disappoint the DuQuesnes; the table will be uneven, and I’m afraid it would take another century of festivals for Tilly DuQuesne to recover.”

  Royall laughed, delighting in Rosalie’s scorn. It was comforting to know that she, too, was bored and disgusted by the endless suppers and parties of Manaus’s elite society.

  “Mrs. Quince, it delights me to know that your feelings are the same as mine. You alone make this social parade bearable for me. It’s the only thing that keeps me from running screaming back to the Reino.”

  “I know, dear. Suzanne hated it too. But as I used to tell her, it’s what’s expected of us. Duty calls and all that posh!” she sighed.

  “How do you do it every year? I’m warning you, friend, if I have to look at another gilt-edged anything, I’ll reward myself with a case of the good old-fashioned vapors. The gowns, the perfumes, the jewelry!” she exclaimed. “The Queen’s own jewels are trinkets compared to the rings and fobs and stickpins the men wear. And those geegaws the women wear!”

  “I understand, but try to understand these people yourself. They’re wealthy beyond imagination, thanks to rubber. And they’ve no outlet for their money and the frustrations that the remoteness of this part of the world imposes on them, aside from their homes and their dress. Take pity on them. If they were in America or Europe or somewhere civilized, they wouldn’t need this show of success. But here, in the wilds of Brazil, it seems to bring them a feeling of security.”

  “Homes! You call those decorated mausoleums homes? I’d sooner live in a thatched hut than in one of those painted, pretentious galleries of bad taste and worse art. The ceilings in the drawing rooms alone could rival the Sistine Chapel. Last night at the Beaumonts’ I found myself eating through an orgy of an overseasoned, overcooked, nauseating seven-course meal while waiting for Mrs. Griswald’s bosom to pop out of her gown and land in the tapioca pudding. And it all took place under the sweetly smiling gazes of the painted cherubs perched on the stone pedestal above her head.”