Like the sea, Sirena had felt her resistance ebb to be replaced by a surging tide of passion. Her lips had answered his, her body had arched against him. She had pulled his head down and pressed her warm, passion-bruised lips to his.
Even now, years later, Sirena could taste his mouth against hers, feel his hands on her body, relive the response he evoked in her. And when she reached out her arms to bring her lover closer, the pain of loneliness clutched her heart like sharp talons.
Frau Holtz looked in on Sirena and found her preparing her hair. The Mevrouw’s eyes were wounded and hurt. The sparkle she had hoped to see was missing. “Are you ready for your gown, Mevrouw? Do you need help with the fasteners?” The woman hoped her voice was light and cheerful.
“Yes,” Sirena nodded dully. Her reminiscing had left her drained of spirit and life.
Frau Holtz removed several wide petticoats from Sirena’s wardrobe. “Will you need three or four, Mevrouw?”
“None,” Sirena stated simply, steeling herself for the Frau’s disapproval.
“Your gown has its own petticoats attached,” the housekeeper declared confidently.
“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn’t,” Sirena said, “and I don’t want to hear any of your objections. Just help me dress and not a word out of you! Now, if you’ll come over here and help me with the pins for my hair.”
Frau Holtz snapped her mouth shut. It was rarely the Mevrouw worked herself into a black mood like this, but at those times it could be outright dangerous to displease her. If the old woman didn’t want to find herself back aboard the Sea Spirit, cooking and cleaning for the crew, she knew she’d better do as she was told. It was also possible to make an excuse that she was needed elsewhere in the house, but her inborn curiosity prevented her from doing so. If the Mevrouw was up to something outrageous, it would be best to know it from the first.
Sirena sat at her vanity table, hairbrush in hand, sweeping the bristles through her long, thick tresses. When Frau Holtz picked up the curling iron to heat it in the lamp’s flame, Sirena said tersely, “We won’t be needing that.” She brushed her hair severely away from her face, catching it at the back of her crown and tying it with the Frau’s help. Dipping her fingers in the pomade jar, she rubbed it vigorously between her palms and smoothed it over her hair, the light oil bringing out glistening blue-black highlights. The remaining tail of hair was twisted into a full coil at the back of her head and secured with pins. Into it she pierced long, decorative sticks with jeweled tips.
“Mevrouw,” the Frau whispered, “you’ve done your hair like a Chinee!”
“Chinese,” Sirena corrected. “If I’ve done the gardens to remind Regan of the exotic Indies, why should it end there? He always had a taste for Oriental women and I intend to whet his appetite. Now hold your tongue, Frau Holtz, and help me.”
From the jars and pots on the dressing table, Sirena produced a vial of Indian kohl and a tiny, pointed brush. With it, she lined her eyes with delicate, thin strokes, sweeping the ends out toward her temples. When she had finished, the effect was startling. The natural tilt of her eyes was enhanced and produced the oblique slant of the Asian eye. A blending of powders, a touch of Spanish paper to her high cheekbones and a gloss over her lips created the effect she sought. The delicacy and piquancy of her features lent themselves perfectly to her artistry.
Frau Holtz was stunned at the reflection in the mirror. “Mevrouw, you look like ... like—”
“Stop stammering. I know what I look like. It’s just as I intended. I look like the Eurasian girls in Clarice’s brothel on Java. Since Regan was such a loyal patron of that establishment, I thought he would appreciate this small touch of home.” Sirena stood and walked away from the vanity table, unable to meet Frau Holtz’s gaze. From the interior of the clothespress she withdrew the gown Mrs. Wittcomb had created for her. The serpentine silk overlayed a heavier, dazzling green satin. When the old housekeeper saw the gown Sirena had commissioned, she gasped.
“Mevrouw! What can you be thinking of? You’ll be a scandal!”
“I’ll live with it!” Sirena said sarcastically.
“You’ll live to regret it, you mean!” the Frau shot back.
“Whatever. Now bring me the new slippers I ordered from the cobbler. Remember, I told you to hold your tongue, I meant it. Hurry.” Even as she spoke, she cast off her dressing gown, revealing she wore nothing beneath it save long silk stockings held up by diamond-studded garters. Frau Holtz nearly swooned and was about to ask where Sirena’s chemise and underwear were but cautioned herself not to comment.
The shoes the housekeeper found, still in their wrapper, matched the gown and sported ridiculously high heels. “You’ll break your neck for certain in these,” she muttered.
“That’s my worry, not yours,” Sirena answered as she slid the shoes on her feet.
“Harrmph! You’ll see over every man’s head! You—” A wicked look from Sirena snapped the Frau’s mouth shut.
Sirena held her arms up so the Frau could slip the gown on. The bodice fit snugly, the wide, open neckline dipping to a point between her breasts, revealing their lush fullness. The sleeves were long and tight, showing the smooth, round curve of her shoulders and the elegant length of her limbs. The long, narrow, sheathlike skirt hugged her body and looked wet, pouring over her hips and down her legs like the tail of a mermaid. The hem in front was slashed and cut away so, when she walked, the length of her silk-clad leg was exposed halfway up her thigh. Frau Holtz gulped. “Mevrouw! The flesh above your stocking shows when you move!”
“It does, doesn’t it,” Sirena said casually, wondering where she would get the courage to appear like this in public. Refusing to dwell on it, she reached for the jewel box on her dressing table and opened it to reveal the royal dragon pendant. When she slipped it over her neck, the jade rested high on her breasts, drawing the eye to her seductive cleavage. In her ears she hung dangling jade earrings which accentuated her long neck and heightened the ebony of her hair. When she turned to Frau Holtz for a comment, she thought for a moment the woman was going to throw herself against the door to prevent her from leaving. Instead, the Frau pursed her lips and looked down her nose, scowling.
“After tonight, we’ll be leaving this damnable country sooner than I imagined! You won’t be able to show your face after you make your appearance in ... in that!”
Chapter Seventeen
Practically all the guests had arrived at Sirena’s informal affair, and they strolled through the gardens or danced to the music while others surrounded the long tables where the array of food was amassed. Sirena had yet to make her appearance and Stephan was becoming very impatient. As he looked through the doors out into the milling throng, he mentally counted eight shepherdesses, eleven cavalrymen, nine soldiers of the Crown, three tavern wenches, two medieval knights in full armor, four astrologists, and eight gypsy dancers.
“Father, must you wait in here for our hostess?” Stephan turned and saw Camilla standing beside the Dutchman. His eyes flicked over his daughter, and he thought how tiresome her costume was. Another shepherdess, bringing the total up to nine.
“I thought it only proper, my dear,” he answered kindly. “How lovely you look.”
“Not very original,” Camilla observed, tossing her bright, yellow curls. “However, it was the best I could manage, considering how frantic I am with the arrangements for the wedding. Isn’t that correct, Regan?” she cooed.
The Dutchman looked decidedly bored with the whole conversation, and Stephan could imagine Camilla had wearied him with the tedious details of the nuptial preparations. Regan was dressed as a common sailor, his short-sleeved, striped shirt revealing the power in his arms and chest. His visored cap was worn at a jaunty angle over his eyes and his snug-fitting breeches were stuffed into knee-high boots. “You wear the costume well, Regan,” Stephan complimented. “You look for all the world like an able-bodied seaman. And allow me to say that scar on your cheek only adds to the
effect”
Regan’s hand flew up to touch the red line. His agate-blue eyes became stormy as he recalled the circumstances under which he been marked. He swore under his breath. The last place in the world Regan wanted to be this night was here at Sirena’s party. But Camilla had insisted, saying how she “simply adored” costume parties and they simply had to make an appearance. As usual, Regan had given in to her whims, but he regretted it the moment he stepped into the garden and saw the decorations. Chinese paper lanterns glowed softly, casting their alluring light amid the shrubbery. He saw the cages holding the tropical birds and heard the Javanese musicians strum their instruments and pound their drums. Even the tantalizing aroma coming from the banquet tables was calculated to remind him of Batavia and the lushness of Java. Grudgingly, Regan had to admit to himself that Sirena’s preparations had succeeded in bringing back a vague feeling of nostalgia. Sirena knew his weaknesses and was capitalizing on them. Bitch! he thought as he vowed he would not fall into her traps like the fly into the spider’s web.
“Doesn’t Father look dashing, Regan? Regan?” Camilla asked again, her blue eyes seeking his. Gaining his attention, she persisted, “Regan, I asked you if Father doesn’t look dashing? Have your thoughts flown to business again, darling?” she pouted.
Regan smiled indulgently. “Sorry, sweetheart, what? Oh, yes, very inventive, Stephan,” he said, noticing Sir Langdon’s costume for the first time. “You make a convincing devil.”
“I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” Stephan said smugly, brushing away imaginary specks from his black vest and adjusting the long, red satin cloak over his shoulders.
“Where are your horns, Father?” Camilla asked innocently, her sarcasm meant only for Stephan’s ears. “And your tail! Surely you haven’t forgotten that?”
“Yes, where are your horns, Stephan?” asked a voice behind them. They turned and gasped with astonishment. There stood Sirena, dressed as a Chinese courtesan, the shimmering green of her costume matching exactly the blaze of her eyes.
For a full moment, Stephan was speechless. His eyes took in her womanly curves from the deep wide V of her neckline to the high slash in her hem which revealed her spectacular legs.
Camilla was visibly astonished. She had expected Sirena to dress as a chaste, Spanish lady, complete with high ruff and full farthingale. Not this slender, full-hipped woman who appeared as though she had been poured into her gown. Camilla’s feminine speculation took in every detail, from the high crown of dark hair sleeked back from her beautiful face to the outrageously high heels on her slippers. Even the diamond garters winking out from the slash in the front of her skirt did not escape Camilla’s scrutiny. Suddenly, she flushed as she realized how ridiculously juvenile she looked beside this full-blown image of seductiveness.
Regan stared frankly at Sirena. His cool eyes were lit from within and a mocking smile played about his lips. She was gorgeous! If he didn’t know better, he would think he was in Clarice’s brothel, which boasted beautiful Oriental temptresses to suit any man’s taste. But Clarice had never imported anyone like Sirena. If she had, she would have increased her business a thousandfold.
Regan’s forthright admiration was evident and Sirena considered scandalizing herself small payment for Regan’s renewed interest. “You haven’t answered me, darling,” she directed to Stephan. “Where are your horns?” Her voice was low and as seductive as her dress.
Stephan blanched uneasily. “I ... er ... I’ve got them here,” he said, pulling out a cap with bright red satanic horns fastened to it. “I felt rather ridiculous wearing them. Sirena, I’ve told you how I detest these masquerades.”
“Yes, you did, Stephan. However, I like them. They give one the opportunity to see what people secretly consider themselves.”
“Heavens, Sirena! I should hope not!” Camilla said sweetly, her voice dripping with honey while her gaze flicked over Sirena’s costume.
“And you, little Camilla, how lovely you look. A shepherdess, is it? And where are your sheep?” she laughed. “There aren’t many women who can wear that paricular shade of lavender. In Spain, when a child dies, he is laid out in lavender. It compliments the waxy pallor of death.” Camilla blanched slightly, but managed a smile.
“Mynheer,” Sirena smiled, offering her hand to Regan, “how nice of you to bring Camilla to my little party.”
“Little party?” Regan questioned, raising his eyebrows. He could have operated his business for three months on what she had spent on this gathering.
“When we’re married, we must have a ball exactly like it, Regan! I think masquerades are going to become the rage,” Camilla cooed.
“But of course, dear, when money is no object, you can have whatever your heart desires. Isn’t that so Mynheer?” asked Sirena.
“Only what can be bought with money. There are things, as well as people, that can never be bought,” Regan replied curtly.
“Everyone has his price,” Sirena said smoothly. “If not money, then something else.”
Camilla’s hand trembled slightly on Regan’s arm. What manner of conversation were they having. The Spaniard sounded as though she were baiting Regan and he was livid. She could feel it in the tenseness of his arm. When Regan became like this, her whole evening was ruined, and tonight she was in no mood to cajole and flatter him into being agreeable. All she wanted to do was eat and eat till she became sick and they had to carry her home. The aromas from the banquet tables were wafting in through the open doors and Camilla’s knees felt weak with hunger. She looked to her father to end this conversation between Sirena and Regan; but what she saw there nearly made her mouth gape.
Stephan, having gotten over the shock of seeing Sirena’s costume, now had his attention focused on the valuable necklace. The rubies twinkled in the precious jade. For one horrible second, Camilla thought her father’s hand would reach up and caress the jewel as it lay between Sirena’s breasts. Careful not to catch either Sirena’s or Regan’s attention, Camilla jabbed the end of her shepherd’s crook into the soft leather top of Stephan’s shoe and smiled with satisfaction when he cried out in pain. “Oh dear, Father, are you ill?”
Stephan managed to compose himself. “No, no. I’m quite well, thank you.” Adroitly, he turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.
“How is your fledgling business, Mynheer? Has it taken wing yet? Or are those vicious rumors true, that because of the pirate attack your wings were clipped, so to speak? I only ask,” she said casually, “because I was considering having you export back a hold of nutmegs. I know of a place where they can be gotten at a very good price.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help you,” Regan said coolly. “I have all the business I can handle. I’m afraid it would be impossible to take on any new clients.”
“Too many clients! How wonderful!” The emerald eyes flashed warningly. “That can be so easily changed. One trip to sea and poof!” she snapped her fingers, “no more clients.”
Her message was not lost on Regan. His own expression became murky and dangerous. “If I should ever find myself without clients, I would be forced to take ... other measures.”
Sirena laughed, the sound causing the fine hairs on the back of his neck to prickle. “It always comes back to money, doesn’t it? Money can buy anything.”
There was a new tone in Regan’s voice when he replied. One Sirena had never heard before. “Take me, for instance,” he said. “Money cannot buy my services. There is a word for what I’m referring to, it’s called ethics.”
“Where I come from, we call it stealing. Whatever it’s called here, it’s punishable by death. Think about it, Mynheer. Enjoy yourselves,” she said, turning to Camilla, “I must see to my other guests. Are you coming, Stephan?”
Regan watched her for a moment, his eyes the color of deep indigo and brimming with cold hatred. Hatred for what he knew she could do to him and hatred for himself because he would not be able to stop her.
Later in
the evening, Sirena stood alone in a dim comer of the garden. The stir caused by her daring costume had died down although the women still gazed at her covertly and the men still ogled her everywhere she went. Watching the merriment all around her, her eyes fell on Stephan Langdon as he talked with a buxom lady and offered her a glass of punch. When she saw the woman glance up at Stephan with a flirtatious gleam in her eyes, Sirena made a decision. She would marry Stephan and, in this way, she could destroy Regan’s plans to inherit the Langdon fortunes through Camilla. Regan would be left holding an empty bag. Frau Holtz said there were more ways than one to skin a cat and this was the time to do it. It was only a few more days until Regan took Camilla for his wife. If there had been any hope left that Regan would come back to her, it was gone. Dead like the leaves of autumn. All her calculations had gone awry. This party, this costume, everything, had been wasted. Regan was stronger than she thought. Sirena sighed miserably. But she would never let him win. Let him marry Camilla if he must; she would never believe he loved her. Never! A shudder ran through her as she remembered the last time she had lain in his arms and felt him bring her with him to the heights of ecstasy. It was all becoming clear to her. Regan felt he had to fortify himself against her. And the only defense he could rely upon was gold sovereigns. The Langdon money. “And he claims to have no price!” she snorted. “He’s determined I won’t get the better of him this time. Regardless of how many times I try to tell him I love him, he believes it to be a trick. His conscience pricks him so savagely and he’s strangling in his own guilt. He could never believe I would forgive him.” Foolish man, she thought, but if it’s games he’s willing to play, he’ll soon find who’s the winner.
Sirena strolled toward Stephan, masculine eyes following her every step. As she approached him, he turned and quickly looked about to see if someone else was the recipient of her outrageous flitting. Seeing no one else save a group of chattering women, he preened like a peacock and stepped forward to take her hand in his.
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