“You deserve that and more,” Royall said standing erect. “How dare you treat me like one of your whores. How dare you!”
“Shut up, Royall. Can’t you let me die in peace. I am going to die. You killed me,” he managed in a trembling voice.
“If you’re dying, why are you talking?”
“Because you deserve to listen to someone besides yourself for a change. You may have crippled me for life. We may never be able to have children. I’ll wager you never thought of that.”
“What children?” Royall asked as she gathered some brilliant scarlet and yellow flowers. Demurely, she held them between her breasts. “I’m ready when you are,” she said quietly.
Sebastian rolled over. His eyes widened. “Where are your clothes?”
A look of disgust washed over Royall’s features. “There,” she pointed, “where you ripped them off my back. You did say Father Juan was coming here to marry us. Make up your damn mind, Sebastian, before I change mine.”
Sebastian grappled for words. “You aren’t ... you wouldn’t ... you can’t ... the padre will ...”
“I’m not budging. You placed me in this condition and I’m staying this way. I’ll leave it up to you to make a suitable explanation to Father Juan.”
“Royall, if you don’t shut your mouth, I swear I’ll ...”
“What will you do, Sebastian?” Royall purred, her voice throaty and inviting. “Don’t tell me, show me. Before Father Juan gets here.”
Epilogue
Her name was Royall. And the gifts she brought were befitting a king. She was his wife now, but always she had been his wife in spirit. Ever since that night in Rio de Janeiro when they shared the miracle of loving and giving to one another.
The sounds of the jungle outside the window were familiar songs of the night. The wind stirred the trees, and off in the distance there was a baby’s cry. Their child. Born of love and bearing his father’s panther’s head and his mother’s amber-flame eyes. A blessed child.
He listened for the sound of her footsteps padding quietly across the Persian carpet. His senses were alert and sensitively attuned, every nerve vibrating with anticipation. Soon, he told himself, she would come to him, in all her glorious, golden splendor. The sheets would rustle as she climbed into bed beside him, time would cease to have meaning, and his world would fill with the nearness of her and the love they brought to each other.
Soon, he would touch her, adore her, devouring her in a ritual of complete abandonment and adoration. The dim light in the room would somehow be brighter, and as her fingers traced those places she loved so well, he would know she surrendered herself completely and totally to him. And at the very last, when she whispered his name, they would become as one. One heart, one soul, one desire. Together they would chart the heavens and travel in worlds known only to those who truly love. And each time they rediscovered the other, tasting, touching, giving. If the world knew her as his wife, he knew her as his woman. Passionate, indomitable, courageous. Forever, his Royall Banner, possessor of the key to his life, his heart. A woman whose lusts equaled his own.
The door on the far side of the room opened, allowing a brighter shaft of light to pierce the dimness within. She stood in the doorway, knowing the backlight outlined her beautiful body, allowing it to bathe her silhouette and edge it with flame. Her dressing gown was a vibrantly red silk, bringing out the golden hair hung about her shoulders and over one breast, making her appear virginal, denying the message he read in her eyes. She had told him once that virginity was not a condition of the body but rather a state of mind.
And she was right. For all her lusty appetites, Royall was untouched, pure, fresh. The years would age all mortals, but her bloom was frozen in eternity. She held her secret of agelessness and guarded it closely. For hers was a captive innocence that defied the tick of time.
If you enjoyed CAPTIVE INNOCENCE,
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CAPTIVE SPLENDORS
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Prologue
Soft sounds emanated from the center of the large four-poster bed which dominated the geranium-silk-draped room. Impatiently tossing back the bedcovers and exposing their naked bodies to the chill air which even the fire in the grate would not dispel, Caleb van der Rhys rolled over onto his back and brought her with him. In the fire’s glow Celeste read his features, seeing there his unadulterated lust and thrilling to the gleam of dominance in his night-dark eyes.
Grasping her hips firmly, he lowered her body onto his, watching the display of emotions cross her face. Her fingers tore into the furring of soft hair on his chest and stroked the tight cords of muscles banded across his ribs. His hair was tousled and dark against the pillow and his eyes bore through her, seeming to command her senses, greedily enjoying the pleasure he was giving her. His strong, lean thighs accepted the burden of her weight; his hands caressed her breasts, then strayed to where their bodies merged, becoming one.
From below, the throb of music could be heard, and the familiar clinking of taproom glasses blended with laughter. As her passions mounted, Celeste lost her awareness of the sounds in Madame du Toit’s bordello. The man beneath her was all-consuming.
She felt his eyes burning into her, watching for the approach of her ecstasy. Low moans of desire escaped from deep in her throat, her pulses raced, and a thin sheen of moisture veiled her skin. Suddenly she felt herself tumble backward against the mattress; he followed her movement, burying himself deep within her. And still his eyes watched her, triumphant now, realizing the power he held over her senses, fulfilling her passions while he slaked his own.
In the two years Captain van der Rhys could be counted among Celeste’s clientele, she had always found herself looking forward to his next visit. Lusty and powerful, he was a magnificent lover, showing many sides to his expertise. Even now, as she watched him dress, she realized the power he exuded, the heady, masculine strength and potent domination he held over women.
Demanding, forceful, yet with a boyish charm which most women found irresistible, Caleb sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his soft knee-high boots.
“If you like,” she whispered, her voice a soft, contented purr, “I could meet you outside Madame du Toit’s.”
He smiled, seeming to weigh her words. “Meet me where, my sweet? My ship is my home. Ships’ captains don‘t’ usually keep apartments in port.”
“Marseilles is a very big port,” she pouted. “You come here often. I could keep the apartment for you, see to things ...”
He threw back his head and laughed, the sound filling the room. “Could you, now? Celeste, don’t ruin the evening. I’ve told you before, I have no need for an apartment and less need for a woman to keep it for me. Isn’t it enough that the time I do spend in France I spend here with you?” To soften her disappointment, he leaned over and buried his face in her breasts.
“No! It is not enough! Once again I will be the laughingstock among the other girls. I am the only woman you seek out here at Madame du Toit’s, and yet you care so little for me that you do not keep me for yourself.” Her lower lip jutted out in a display of pique, and her finely arched brows came together over the bridge of her upturned nose. “I think perhaps you have other women.”
“Certainly I have other women!” he answered good-naturedly. “Just as you have other men!”
“But that is my business!” she retorted, throwing back the covers and kneeling beside him, wrapping her scented arms around his neck in gentle persuasion. “How would I live otherwise? I am sick of Madame du Toit’s. Why is it you never bring me out to your ship? I could stay with you, be there whenever you wanted me, instead of only for a few hours at night.”
Her petulance was beginning to grate on him. He reached for his waistcoat and pulled it on with a fury. “I’ve told you I never bring women out to my ship.”
“Yes, yes, something about it
being a sacred shrine where your father and stepmother realized their love for one another. Bah! I never thought you could be accused of being sentimental!”
Once again Caleb regretted ever having told Celeste about the history of his ship, the Sea Siren. He owed his foolishness to the liquor he had consumed and perhaps to a barely admitted loneliness. Instantly he knew he would never again return to Madame du Toit’s. Celeste had begun to bore him with her strident demands and pleas.
As if realizing she had pressed too far, Celeste became immediately contrite. She drew herself against him, her lips near his ear, whispering that she would never plague him about his ship again.
His hands found her wealth of golden hair and pulled it viciously until she was once again lying back on the pillows. His mouth came crashing down upon hers, his breath hot and wine-scented. Her pulses throbbed rhythmically, her fingers tore at his clothing, her hips arched in offering. His lips trailed a familiar path from her mouth to her breasts; his hands possessed her, igniting fires she had thought were quenched.
A slow, sly smile tugged at the corner of her mouth and her long, slanted eyes gleamed with conquest. He forgave her; he always would. In time she would manipulate him, make him see he couldn’t live without her. She wanted him, needed him; in all her experience she had never known another man like him. His touch could fire her passion, his lips could conquer her desires. A slow curl of heat warmed her like a summer sun, and she knew she wanted him, again, and again . . .
When she had reached a dizzying height, Caleb tossed her away from him, leaving her hanging over an empty abyss. “That’s right, Celeste, you’ll never plague me again.”
His boots were almost soundless on the carpet as he strode to the door and banged it shut behind him.
Chapter One
Tyler Payne Sinclair strode down the wide gallery which winged out over the main staircase and entrance hall of his London town house. As he glanced at the impressive row of family portraits lining the wall, he again realized how difficult it was for him to comprehend that, since his father’s death, he had inherited the title of Baron and taken his father’s place in Parliament. All the dire threats put forth by his parents to disinherit him if he should ever marry his distant cousin, Camilla Langdon, had not come to fruition. When Camilla’s jackanapes father had finally met his end at the hand of Sirena van der Rhys, the elder Sinclairs had experienced a change of heart. Or so they had told themselves and Tyler, explaining that Camilla, once free of Stephan Langdon’s evil influence had been found to be a girl of exquisite taste and a loving nature. It had never been spoken aloud that they would sooner have cut off their arms than alienate themselves from their only son.
Tyler’s dark eyes became thoughtful as a squeal of girlish laugher rang in his ears. He would sorely miss Wren when she left with Sirena and Regan, who were expected in London within a fortnight. Now that Camilla had at last come into her own with approaching motherhood and little else filled her thoughts, he would be lost without Wren’s exuberance for life and her flattering dependency on him.
How alike the beautiful Sirena and Wren were, yet how unalike. He supposed he should resign himself to the fact that he would always worry about her in the manner of an older brother. He could never seem to gain the detachment toward her that even the role of a substitute stepfather would designate during these years in which Wren had come under his care. He sighed heavily. It was time for Wren to return to the Spice Islands with Sirena and Regan and find her place in life, whatever that might be. Just as long as it didn’t include that dandy, Malcolm Weatherly.
God! How was he to explain that fop to Sirena? He shuddered as he pictured how those emerald eyes would spew fire when she was told that her little Wren was bent on marrying that rapscallion as soon as he could properly ask for her hand. A grudging smile split Tyler’s handsome face. If Malcolm Weatherly managed to escape Sirena’s fury, he would find he still had Regan to deal with. Tyler imagined he himself should be chagrined to consider that Regan might be able to gain control of a situation where he had not, but he soothed his spirit with the thought that Regan had not lived under Wren’s charm and winning ways for these past three years.
Tyler had found it impossible to deny Wren anything, and Camilla had found herself in the same predicament, especially where it concerned Mr. Weatherly’s courtly attentions. In fact, Camilla’s fondness for Wren was surprising on all accounts. Tyler smiled again as he thought of his pretty blond wife. Camilla had come a long, long way from that pretty, empty-headed young girl he had known and loved in spite of her selfish, self-serving behavior. She had grown into a loving, tender woman, and Wren, as well as he, was grateful for her cloak of maternal regard. The only area where Camilla was disapproving of Wren lay in the young girl’s friendship with the Puritan, Sara Stoneham. But even in that Camilla was being protective and defensive of her little family. The Puritans were speaking out dangerously against the King’s control of the Church of England, and there were even rumblings of civil war.
As a member of Parliament, Tyler knew Camilla’s fears were not unfounded, but he refused to allow his own concern to color his feelings toward Wren’s young friend. Sara Stoneham was a lovely girl from a notable family, one he had known for years. If her religious preference was different from his, it mattered little to Tyler. Besides, how could he, in all conscience, have turned Sara out into the street when she had come here, at Wren’s invitation, to await the arrival of her parents in London?
Tyler quickened his step toward the elaborately carved door of Wren’s apartment to bid the girls good night. He had lifted his hand to knock when the sound of their voices penetrated the thick panel.
“Wren! In the name of all that’s holy, I didn’t think you were ever coming back! What could you have been thinking of? Sneaking off with Malcolm and staying out so late! What if the Baron or the Baroness popped in to say good night? What would I have told them?”
Wren spun around the room, her blue and mauve striped silk skirt ballooning away from her slim legs like a brightly colored parasol. She hugged her arms close to herself, an expression of rapture softening her features. “Ooh, Sara, don’t spoil this for me. You’re always so disapproving every time I’m with Malcolm. Not tonight. Please?” Wren’s eyes glowed softly in the light of the lamp, her thick lashes casting feathery shadows on her smooth cheeks.
Sara noticed the huskiness in Wren’s voice and that her hair was disarrayed and wispy tendrils curled toward her ivory brow. There was no mistaking that look of voluptuous satisfaction which pouted her kiss-bruised lips, nor the languid, sensuous expression in her eyes. Sara was familiar with these outward signs of lovemaking. She had seen them branded on her own features after slipping out of school for a spring night’s rendezvous. And, like Wren, but unknown to her, she, too, had spent breathless hours in Malcolm Weatherly’s arms. She knew how the touch of Malcolm’s hands on her flesh could transport her to worlds never before imagined ... how his lips could plead and then tease until she was half mad with wanting him, with wanting to give herself to him. Then, suddenly, it had ended. The secret notes had stopped arriving; when she had slipped out of the dormitory at night, hoping to meet him, she had waited until the chill, damp, early-morning air had penetrated her clothing, causing her to shudder from the cold and from the deeper, more painful quiver of love lost.
After several weeks of pining for Malcolm and experiencing rapidly dropping grades, Sara had heard it rumored that Wren van der Rhys was keeping trysts with a handsome stranger. Her suspicions aroused, Sara had managed to befriend Wren and learned that indeed it was Malcolm Weatherly who tempted the innocent, young Wren to brave the dark and perilous rose trellis for a few moments in his arms. It was torture being here with Wren and knowing she was Malcolm’s new love, but Sara was beyond helping herself. In some undefinable way, being close to Wren was like being near Malcolm.
“You don’t like Malcolm, do you, Sara?” Wren said quietly, touching her friend’s sleeve. �
�I know you’ve gone along with my little deceptions, but underneath you disapprove, don’t you?”
Sara turned so that Wren couldn‘t’ see her face. She wanted to lash out, to scratch Wren’s beautiful face, to force her to face the truth. Poor silly little Wren. Couldn’t she see that Malcolm was more interested in her family’s wealth than he was in her? Sara wished she had the courage to tell Wren that Malcolm had loved her Sara, until he had discovered that the Stonehams had lost favor with the Crown over some loose remarks about the King’s failure to call together a session of Parliament. Times were uneasy for Puritans, to say the least. A swift seizure of properties, and the Stonehams were on the verge of bankruptcy. But to reveal this to Wren would mean a certain end to their relationship and to her vicarious closeness to Malcolm. Sara’s only satisfaction lay in the fact that Malcolm didn’t love Wren. It was just a scheming, self-serving game he was playing. Sara knew she should hate Malcolm Weatherly, and she’d even experienced twinges of guilt because she was keeping the truth from Wren, but she couldn‘t’ hate him. She loved Malcolm Weatherly more than she had ever loved another person in her entire life. I must love him, she told herself; otherwise what kind of person am I, to have allowed him to do the things he has done to me?
A sly smile tugged at the corners of Sara’s generous mouth when she remembered the nights alone in Malcolm’s arms, the things she had done, the things she had permitted Malcolm to do to her. No one in the world knew what they had shared, and Malcolm certainly wouldn’t tell.
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