Stephan bristled and then looked into the cold faces of the partners. Whatever he was about to say remained unvoiced, and he left the ship.
“You have a good eye, Cal,” Lord Farrington said, thumping Caleb on the back. “It was bound to happen sooner or later and this was as good a time as any. In the future, if Langdon comes here, one of us will have to keep a vigil over him. I’ve seen episodes where men were killed on the spot for cheating. Gambling,” he said virtuously, “is an honorable profession. One does not cheat. Our venture is too new for us to have a scandal. Keep your eyes open, Cal, and keep me informed.”
“Damn it to hell,” Caleb muttered under his breath. Of all the men in the world it had to be Regan’s father-in-law. How was he going to explain it to Camilla when he next saw her? His shoulders squared, he grinned in the dim light. He shrugged; he didn’t have to explain anything he didn’t want to. It was as simple as that.
Thoughts of Camilla were pleasant for the moment, but before long a frown settled over his face. Bedding Regan’s wife was something he couldn’t come to terms with. When Regan came aboard this evening, he had felt so guilty he could not look at his father. What would Sirena say if she knew Stephan had been caught cheating at cards? Should he warn her or leave it alone? He decided to leave it alone. He would keep his promise not to interfere in either Regan’s or Sirena’s affairs.
Stephan stormed his way into the house and up the stairs to Sirena’s room. Not bothering to knock, he thrust open the door and shouted for Sirena to get up and join him in the ballroom.
“Are you out of your mind?” Sirena snapped. “It’s after midnight and I’m tired.”
“I won’t ask you again, my dear,” Stephan said, leaning over the bed and leering down at her. “Now!” There was no mistaking the vicious mood he was in.
“Give me time to dress and I’ll join you in a few moments,” Sirena said, sliding from the bed.
“Your nightdress will do nicely. I’ll be waiting for you, so don’t tarry.”
Sirena looked around wildly for some form of escape. What did he plan for her this time? Something must have happened aboard the gambling ship. Afraid to delay any longer, Sirena crept from the room and descended the stairs to meet Stephan. She watched in horror as he lit one candle after another till the immense room was bathed in yellow light. She drew in her breath when Stephan walked over to her and held out a rapier. “I’m going to teach you how to fence,” he said in a calm, though bitter voice.
“At this time of night?” Sirena demanded incredulously.
Stephan ignored her as she grasped the rapier at the hilt, holding it loosely in her hand. “Listen to me carefully,” Stephan said, flexing the thin blade above his head. “Fencing does not take any enormous strength. Anyone with normal reflexes and a relatively conditioned body can do it. Your coordination is very good, my dear, so I don’t anticipate any great problem. As we progress with the lesson, you will see that you must have constant mental concentration as well as total body control. Actually, you could liken fencing to a game of chess but played at lightning speed. What makes fencing exciting is that one needs great intelligence to be masterful at it. Tactics are the brain work of fencing, based on observation and analysis of your opponent, and wise choices of action against him.”
Panic gripped Sirena. With the weapon in her hand and Stephan so close, she could easily slit his gullet. “Stephan, I could never learn this sport,” she lied. “I’m a woman. Why are you making me do this?”
Again, he ignored her comments. “Courtesy is a word closely associated with the sport and is an integral part of the engagement. Each match is preceded by a salute and an acknowledgment of your opponent. Every fencer, no matter how good or bad, can learn something from his adversary, and one should never assume one will win. My old master told me fencing is a school of humility. I don’t necessarily agree with him. I’m going to teach you to maintain control of your body. In the beginning your upper arm muscles and your inner thigh may become sore, but as we work out all of your muscles will loosen up and then there will be no problem.”
“Stephan . . . I—”
“Bring your rapier up to touch mine and say, en garde!”
“But Stephan,” Sirena protested, “don’t we need some form of protective equipment. I really would rather not do this,” she said in a trembling voice.
“You need have no fear, my dear. I shall not hurt you, and there is no way you could touch me, as inexperienced as you are. We will parry and thrust and do a few lunges and then we’ll rest and go at it another day.”
The next hour was a revelation for Sirena as she fumbled and moved awkwardly with the rapier, to Stephan’s amusement. He knew his sport and it interested her to see where this charade would lead. She managed to handle herself well enough to keep his interest, yet awkwardly enough not to give herself away.
“Do you see what I mean about perfect coordination?” Stephan laughed as he flicked at her nightdress, exposing her rosy-tipped breasts.
“If you wanted to see my naked body, why didn’t you just come to my room instead of this insidious cat-and-mouse game you’re playing? You know that I can never hope to be a fencer and yet you want me to play with you.” Suddenly, the tip of his blade was at her neck.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you, my dear, nor would I speak. I am fully aware of the fact that I can see your body whenever I desire. You are here because I want you here. And you will do what I want when I want it. Is that understood?” The tip of the blade moved downward and pricked at her breast. “Answer me, Sirena, do you understand?”
“Yes, Stephan, I understand perfectly,” Sirena said in a cool, calm voice, her eyes downcast.
“You can go back to bed now, my dear, unless, of course, you would like to join me in my chamber. Ah, I see by the revulsion in your eyes you have no desire to climb in my bed.” He shrugged as he brought up the rapier and sliced downward across her naked breast. Sirena’s eyes widened and then narrowed.
“You see, my dear, what a master of my craft I am. I didn’t draw one drop of blood. All you have is a slight welt which will soon disappear. Good night, Sirena,” he said, turning his back on her.
“Insufferable bastard,” Sirena muttered under her breath as she left, the tatters of her sleeping gown trailing out behind her as she climbed the curving stairway.
Wren walked across the rear lawn humming softly to herself. The morning was bright, the air fresh and the sun glanced off Jacobus’ brilliant blooms in a kaleidoscope of colors. Her pretty yellow ankle-length dress matched the marigolds for vibrancy and heightened her glossy curls and huge brown eyes.
Wren had removed her stockings and shoes, glancing cautiously around for signs of Frau Holtz, who was bent on teaching her to become a proper young miss. But Wren loved the feel of the icy morning dew creeping between her toes and the spongy earth giving beneath her slight weight.
When she had first come out to the garden she had searched for Jacobus, hoping he would let her help him cut fresh flowers for the house. The old man was nowhere in sight and Wren assumed he was lingering for a second cup of morning coffee with the Frau. It was just as well, the child smiled to herself; she loved having the garden all to herself. It had become her own private heaven. The green lawn, the gay flowers, the small summerhouse at the edge of the walled acreage, had been almost more than she could comprehend when she first explored the area. To her mind it was as large and sprawling as St. James’ Park across the way and twice as beautiful. Raised in the slums and alleys. Wren drank in the beauty of nature and could feel it nurture her soul.
Humming a nonsensical tune and stopping occasionally to caress a velvety petal or bask in the fragrance of the rose hedges, she didn’t notice a tall, silver-haired figure treading the path parallel to the one she was taking. Near the end of the rose hedge, where the paths merged, Wren walked blindly into Stephan’s arms.
Her first impulse was to free herself from his grasp and run, run, as fast as he
r little legs could carry her. But Stephan had taken a firm hold of her bony shoulder and forced her to stand as she was. Panic seized Wren as she remembered the scene in the dining room not too many days ago, and the sound of her own heartbeat echoed in her ears.
“Such a pretty little girl in such a pretty garden,” Stephan said softly. As he shifted his weight the gravel made a grating noise beneath his boots and Wren somehow knew beyond a doubt that the master had stalked her, walking on the spongy grass so she wouldn’t hear his footsteps and race back into the house.
Stephan tipped her chin up to look down into her face. Stubbornly, Wren kept her gaze lowered. “Do I frighten you, child? You shouldn’t be, I had a little girl like you, once. Now she’s a grown woman and married. Camilla is her name.”
Wren had never heard the master mention his daughter before and she became curious. “Was she pretty and did she wear pretty dresses?” she asked in a squeaky voice that seemed to please the master.
“Yes, she did. As a matter of fact, she once had a yellow dress almost exactly like yours.” He touched the sleeve of Wren’s garment, feeling the fine muslin with appreciation. “She was a good little girl, my Camilla. Are you a good little girl, Wren?” Color suffused the child’s features. “No sir,” she answered softly, “I’m not.”
Stephan was amused. “And why aren’t you? Don’t you have everything you could wish for?”
Wren shrugged her shoulders in a helpless gesture. The master had never spoken to her this way before and she wasn’t certain how she should react. He seemed different this time. She wasn’t scared of him. His voice was so low and gentle and she hoped he would tell her more about Camilla.
“Is it because I told you you were a nasty, clumsy girl, that you feel you are not good? I was angry that day, child. I didn’t mean what I said. I even apologize for spilling the relish dish on you. There, are you happy now?” His fingers had crept up from the sleeve to her neck and he touched the tender skin behind her ear.
Wren shook her head. “No, that’s not why. Here, see?” she said, poking forward a tiny foot. “I took off my stockings and shoes and Frau Holtz says a proper miss doesn’t ever go barefoot. But I like the way the dew feels between my toes and at least I won’t ruin my shoes.”
“Yes, I see,” Stephan answered, staring at her chubby foot with its pink button toes. “Frau Holtz is correct, Wren.” He couldn’t seem to take his eyes from her foot and Wren tucked it beneath the hem of her skirt, somehow embarrassed. All her life she had run the streets of London minus shoes and stockings, but nobody ever looked at her bare feet the way the master did.
“Where are your shoes and stockings?” he asked. Wren pointed to the beginning of the path where she had left them. “Be a good girl and run and get them. I’ll help you put them on. I always helped my Camilla with her shoe straps when she was a little girl. Just like you,” he added, seeing interest light her eyes whenever he spoke of Camilla as a child.
Wren hesitated, but on the master’s urgings, she ran back down the path on the narrow border of grass so the gravel wouldn’t hurt her feet, which had lost their callouses since living in the big house. Almost at once she returned, carrying her soft kid slippers and white lisle stockings. “I can put them on myself,” she said in a boast. “It took me a week to learn to work the lacings, but I can even do it in the dark now!”
“I used to help my little girl,” Stephan sighed, “and then just like you she grew up and didn’t need me anymore. A father misses being needed by his daughter. Did I ever tell you about the time Camilla was invited to her first party and she couldn’t decide which of her lovely dresses she would wear? You see, her mother was dead and she came to me for help.” As he spoke he led Wren to the bench at the end of the path and pressed her shoulder gently to make her sit. He bent on one knee and continued the story of Camilla and her party dress.
Mesmerized by the soft sound of his voice and by her curiosity about another little girl, Wren allowed him to take one of the stockings from her hand and slide it over her foot, all embarrassment gone. The master kept his gaze level with hers, his fingers working mechanically as he regaled her with his tale. But as she watched him something else became evident on his face. Wren was too young and inexperienced to put a name to it but her basic female instincts rebelled. The master seemed to be having trouble with his mouth, he kept wetting his lips with his tongue. All of a sudden, her stocking seemed to be giving him trouble; his fingers kept straying up the inside of her leg. Almost before she knew it, he had rolled her dress up past her knees and his fingers were fumbling and stroking the soft skin leading to her thighs.
Wren stared at him, no longer hearing his words. She knew his voice had become thick and he was stumbling over the phrases he was uttering. The flesh on her leg crawled and goose bumps broke out on her arms.
In her mind’s eye she remembered sleeping in an alleyway when a doxie and a man were suddenly beside her. They had awakened her but she was wise enough not to utter a sound. The woman had been leaning against the wall of a building and the man’s hands were roaming over her body. The couple had stepped off the street because they wanted to be out of sight. If they discovered Wren they would have cursed her and the man would have possibly hit her to chase her away. Wren hadn’t wanted to go away. She had found a nice supply of old rags to make a soft bed and she was tired.
In the darkness Wren had seen the man press himself against the prostitute, she had heard his breathing become ragged. In the moonlight she had seen his face and the expression he wore was the same one the master was wearing now.
Just as Stephan’s fingertips slid higher up her leg, Wren jumped off the bench and began to run for the house. She hadn’t gone more than a few steps when Langdon grabbed her by the hair and dragged her backward. “Stupid little bitch! Come back here!”
“No!” Wren screamed, terrorized. Quick as a flash, she pushed and managed to knock him off balance. In order to keep himself from falling, Stephan released Wren’s hair and swayed against the bench.
Without looking back, Wren tore for the house, leaving her shoes and stockings behind, not caring whether or not the Frau would scold her. This minute, she would dearly love to hear the housekeeper’s voice, to feel her stocky arms go around her protectively. But When Wren reached the kitchen the Frau was nowhere to be seen. Glancing blindly over her shoulder, the child ran to the front of the house and up the stairs to her room, fighting back shudder after shudder of revulsion.
Chapter Twenty-four
As the days passed, Frau Holtz came to love the young girl placed in her care. At night she would tuck the child into her bed and tell stories of life in the Spice Islands.
“Frau Holtz, could you tell me the story about the Sea Witch again? It’s my favorite. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but you’ve told me the story of how you worked to plant the nutmeg trees seven times. Do you think someday I could grow up to be like the Sea Siren? I wonder where she is now, Frau Holtz. Do you think she’s happy?”
“No, little one, I do not think she is happy where she is. The Sea Siren loved only one man and he chose not to return her love.”
“What will happen to her, Frau Holtz?” Wren asked sadly.
“Only the Lord above knows, child, only the Lord above.”
“She sounds so beautiful when you tell me about her. And the man she loved, he sounds so handsome. If there is a God, like you teach me there is, why doesn’t He help the Sea Siren?”
“Perhaps because Heaven helps those who help themselves. I don’t know, Wren,” the old woman said, gathering the child close to hide her own tears. “I don’t know. It is time for sleep,” she told the child, patting her firmly on the rump and laying her against the snowy pillow. “It is you who will grow to be as beautiful as the Sea Siren. Already your cheeks have filled out and your hair shines to match the sparkle in your eyes. That is what proper living and happiness does. When you are older, you will find someone as handsome as the man the Sea Sir
en loved. But you will be luckier, ja. He will love you back.”
“Oh, I hope so,” Wren cried, throwing her arms around Frau Holtz. “But I must not keep taking all of this proper living and happiness for granted. I must help Missy-ma’am. I hope I dream of the Sea Siren tonight. Each time I do, she becomes more beautiful. Like Missy-ma’am. Good night, Frau Holtz, and thank you for the warm milk.” Wren snuggled beneath the covers and whispered a few quick prayers the way Frau Holtz had taught her to do and was soon asleep.
Hours later, while the girl slept, a dark shadow crept into the room. Cautiously and stealthily, the figure walked to the window and drew the heavy curtain to block out the moonlight. Slowly, on cat feet, the tall figure moved toward the bed. Inch by inch, the coverlet was pulled back to reveal the petite body.
A sensuous smile crossed the face of the man who stared at her. He dropped to his knees and gathered her small form to him, jarring her awake. Quickly, he covered her mouth to prevent an outcry. “Not a word, do you understand? Keep silent.”
Wren’s eyes widened in fear and she pushed against him, trying to pry herself from his grasp. She hated him more than she ever hated anyone. He was so strong, too strong to break away from. And when she struggled, he laughed, low and menacingly.
His hands covered her body and he pressed his mouth to hers, rubbing his hands over her slim legs and trying to part them so he could steal his hands between her thighs. She wanted to die as his tongue found hers. She squirmed and tried to kick herself free of him. Unexpectedly, he released her and she rolled out of his reach.
“Remember, not a word of this to anyone. If you tell, Frau Holtz will find herself out of work and your precious Missy-ma’am will develop a limp,” he threatened before departing just as quietly as he’d entered.
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