"You could have spared yourself that unpleasantness," he said, taking his seat.
"Indeed?"
"You could have made it easy on yourself."
"No doubt I could have."
He poured wine into a silver goblet. There was a roasted chicken, a slab of beef, bread, cheese, a bowl of fruit. He ate with relish, taking an occasional sip of wine, tearing the chicken apart with ease. I ate nothing whatsoever. Even though I longed to tear into the food with a relish equal to his, I felt it would be unseemly under the circumstances. I sat there with chin held high, perfectly poised. Lyon pushed his plate aside and poured more wine into his goblet.
"Not hungry?" he inquired,
"I've no desire to eat at your table."
"Or sleep in my bed, it seems."
I gazed at him with level blue eyes, not deigning to answer. The pirate smiled to himself, a wry, sarcastic smile that curled lightly on his lips. He took a swallow of wine and set the goblet down.
"I suppose you still prefer to go to Brazil with the others," he said.
"I don't imagine my preference matters to you in the least."
"Not in the least," he told me. "You're a very lucky young woman. I've deckled to take you back to the island with me. You're going to be my woman. It's an honor you'll soon come to appreciate."
"I doubt that."
He cut off a hunk of cheese and ate it, studying me with idle speculation in those piercing blue eyes. He seemed to be asking himself what it would take to vanquish my aloof composure. He had taken my body, had plundered violently, but there had been no real challenge involved. It had been merely a matter of superior strength. The true challenge faced him now, and it was one he was determined to master. He finished the cheese and ate a piece of fruit, his eyes never straying.
"You'll live like a queen," he said.
"Do you really think that matters to me?"
"It will eventually come to matter a great deal. One soon grows accustomed to luxury, to fine clothes, to jewels."
"I've no interest in such things."
The wry smile flickered on his lips again. "You're a woman. You're interested."
"Do you really want to have a woman who hates you with all her heart and soul, a woman who will gladly drive a knife through your ribs the first chance she gets'?"
"You won't feel that way for long."
"I'll never come to you willingly," I said.
"You will," he promised, "not only willingly but eagerly as well. Before this day's over you're going to be purring like a kitten."
I looked at him with that same level gaze, toying with the empty silver goblet beside my plate. Red Nick smiled.
"Think not?" he inquired, "We'll see."
He stood up, a dark gleam in his eyes as he thought of pleasures to come. He took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I didn't intend to fight him again. I didn't intend to show any emotion whatsoever, at least not for a while. He had already proved his superior strength. Now he intended to prove his prowess. He led me into the bedroom and undressed me, and when I stood naked before him he examined me as he might examine a piece of sculpture he was thinking of buying. He circled me slowly, examining me from every angle, and then he placed his hands over my breasts, his palms rubbing my nipples, his fingers gently squeezing the soft mounds of flesh. I showed no reaction whatsoever as he continued to fondle and squeeze, as he lifted me up in his arms and lowered me onto the rich yellow satin counterpane. He took off his clothes and stood with his hands resting on his thighs, tall and lean and firmly muscled, smooth skin evenly tanned.
"The first time was for me," he said. "This time will be for you, Marietta."
He sat beside me, leaned over me, kissed my throat, my breasts, drawing me slowly into his arms. He kissed and caressed and stroked, summoning responses I refused to give. He lowered me, mounted me, made love to me slowly and with a taunting precision that stirred purely physical sensations inside me, sensations I found it difficult to conceal. Conceal them I did, forcing myself to remain rigid beneath him. He doubled his efforts, holding back, delaying his pleasure, striving mightily to stir me. Finally, unable to hold back any longer, he allowed release, trembled, fell limp on top of me.
He made love to me again later on, his blue eyes angry and determined, and again I managed to withhold any sign of response. The sunlight streaming through the portholes had turned from yellow to a dark, wavering orange when he made love to me the last time, when I finally moaned and stirred and clung to him and shuddered with pleasure and gave him the responses his ego demanded, my soft cries and passionate caresses assuring him he was a lover beyond compare. He had won, and he savored his triumph as I held him to me and ran my hands over his back and shoulders, rubbing the smooth skin, sighing, submissive at last. Neither of us spoke. There was no need for words. After a while he got up and slipped on the leaf brown dressing robe and gave me a triumphant look.
I stretched and gathered the sheets over my bosom and sat up, meeting his eyes with a new composure, conquered but no longer a victim, proud but no longer defiant, accepting his victory calmly and with a cool, worldly attitude that pleased him immensely. Nicholas Lyon didn't want a slave. He wanted a sophisticated and intelligent mistress. He looked at me a moment longer, an arrogant, self-satisfied smile on his lips, and then he gathered up his boots and clothes and went into the dressing room. I saw him pass through the study a short while later, fully dressed, his hair damp, an even darker shade of copper because of the wetness.
He left, going back up on deck to attend to duties, and I returned to the dressing room and bathed thoroughly, scrubbing away the perspiration and smells of sex. I dried myself and perfumed my body again before sliding between the cool silken sheets. Waiting for him in the darkness, lulled by the slight swaying motion of the ship, I felt a sense of triumph that matched his own. He was thoroughly amoral, a dangerous animal who knew no mercy, who killed without the slightest qualm, but I had bested him at every turn. I had planned everything that happened and had been in complete control the whole time, even though he believed the whip hand was his.
It must have been well after eleven when he returned. He lighted candles in the study and sat down at his desk. I could see him through the open door. He worked for some time, his eyes grim, a frown making a deep furrow above the bridge of his nose as he studied charts and made notations on a sheet of paper. After half an hour or so, he put away the charts and stood up and blew out the candles, striding into the bedroom. He undressed in the darkness and climbed into bed, pulling me to him roughly as though I were a pillow, not wanting to make love again just yet, wanting merely to savor his new possession. I sighed and placed my hand on the back of his neck, snuggling up against him as though not fully awake. Thin rays of moonlight wavered through the portholes, making pale silver patterns on the floor, intensifying the velvety black shadows that danced on the walls. Nicholas Lyon clutched me tightly and slept, never once suspecting that I had him exactly where I wanted him.
Twelve
The water was a deep indigo blue, faintly touched with purple on the horizon, the sky a pale pearl-gray lightly tinted with blue. Overhead the great sails swelled majestically, propelling us smoothly over the waves. Draper stood at the wheel, legs apart, hands steady as he steered, and Michael Tremayne moved about like an arrogant young bull, making an inspection and snapping terse orders. There was an air of expectation as the great cannons were cleaned and readied for firing, as the fierce, efficient crew moved briskly about their duties.
"They're expecting the French ship," Em told me. "If Michael's calculations are correct, we should spot it sometime this afternoon. They plan to take it."
"They'se goin' to sink it?" Corrie asked.
Em nodded grimly. "It's not going to be a pretty sight, luv."
Corrie's lovely dark eyes grew wide with apprehension, and her shoulders trembled just a little, but she didn't sob. She made a visible effort to be brave. She stood beside me in the pale orange-tan
cotton dress which she had washed and mended, frail, docile, still fearful that something would happen to her even though I had assured her that she was safe now, that the captain had agreed to let her stay with me and none of the men would hurt her. She had a dark, tiny room down near the galley where, by candlelight, she was altering the sumptuous gowns that had been intended for King Louis' cousin. Corrie was a wonderfully skillful seamstress, and the one time I had let her do my hair she had performed miracles with brush and comb.
The Sea Lyon had made a rendezvous with the other ship yesterday afternoon, and the rest of the women were now on their way to Brazil. Poor Nadine had protested vehemently, sobbing and shrieking, but her fate was sealed. I tried not to think of that frightening scene, tried not to feel selfish relief that Corrie, Em, and I had been spared that particular fate. I knew full well that what lay in store for us might prove to be equally as bad, perhaps even worse. I squeezed Corrie's hand and suggested she go down to her room and try to rest. The girl nodded meekly.
"There may be some trouble, Corrie. There may be an awful lot of noise. You stay in your room. Don't be afraid."
"I'll try not to be, Miz Marietta."
The girl crossed the deck and disappeared down one of the hatches. Em and I continued to stand on the poop deck, out of the way and completely ignored by the men. Em was wearing a gown Tremayne had found for her, a deep violet taffeta lavishly trimmed with black lace ruffles, and I was wearing sapphire-blue brocade. Em looked quite fetching as she twirled the black lace parasol Tremayne had given her.
"I love this gown," she remarked. "I'd grown terribly weary of the pink, luv, and it was in shambles. Michael dug this out of a trunk—it fits nicely. He insisted I wear it, told me not to give him any lip when I said it was much too grand."
"That's strange," I remarked. "Red Nick insisted I dress elaborately, too. Corrie washed and mended the gown I wore through the swamps, and I intended to wear it. He pulled this one out of the chest, ordered me to put it on."
"Michael told me not to forget the parasol. He said the parasol was very important—and it wasn't because he was worried about my complexion. They plan to use us in some way."
"I have the same feeling."
"I asked Michael about it. He scowled at me and told me to do what he said if I didn't want a beatin'. He's marvelous in bed, and he's really quite taken with me, but he can be terribly surly and rough. He's got a vicious temper. I have to mind myself around him and be careful not to rouse it."
Em twirled her parasol and watched Tremayne stride about the deck in his high brown boots, snug brown breeches, and black and tan striped jersey. His sun-streaked brown hair framed his face in ragged locks, and the tight jersey emphasized his powerful build.
"I suppose I could have done worse," Em remarked. "I could have ended up with Draper. He had his eye on me, luv. Still has."
"We've been very lucky, Em."
"Luck had very little to do with it," she observed. "I can think of a number of places I'd rather be than on this ship."
"You could be on The Crimson Hawk.
"Don't I know it, luv. Poor Nadine. She's not going to last very long, I fear. None of them are. Thank God you were able to save Corrie."
"It wasn't easy," I replied. "The first time I brought the subject up he flatly refused. He said he didn't want a nigger underfoot. He said he had servants on the island."
"What did you do?"
"I told him that Corrie was a wizard with needle and thread and that she could perform miracles with my hair. I told him that if I was going to be his mistress I wanted to look the best I could and Corrie could help. He still refused."
"And?"
"I pouted. I was very cool, very remote. He finally relented. He told me to keep her out of his way and said the first time she got uppity he would get rid of her. Corrie's terrified of him, of course. I've given her very careful instructions on how to conduct herself when he's around."
"Rotten bastard," Em said.
"At least she's safe, Em. Temporarily."
"And that's something," she agreed. "We're going to get out of this, luv. They've got pistols and knives and swords, but we've got our own weapons. Thank God we know how to use them."
"It's not easy, Em."
"I know. Michael's quite fond of me already, although he'd go to the stake before he'd admit it, but I keep reminding myself he's a bloodthirsty pirate. I know he could turn on me at any minute."
"I have the same feeling about Red Nick."
"Is everything under control?" she asked.
"He's quite satisfied. I intend to keep him that way."
Nicholas Lyon came up on deck at that moment, looking unusually resplendent in glossy brown leather boots, brown satin breeches, and a gorgeous bronze satin frock coat trimmed with gold braid, cascades of gold lace at the wrists. He wore a dashing broad-brimmed hat of brown felt, bronze and white plumes sweeping down over one side. He spoke to Tremayne for a moment. Tremayne nodded and went below, and Lyon examined the cannons, giving terse instructions to those who were to man them, and then he joined Em and I on the poop deck.
"You both look quite elegant," he remarked.
"Thank you," I said.
"I see Tremayne found a gown for you," he said, addressing Em. "We keep a supply on hand for just such occasions as these."
"What kind of occasion would that be?" Em asked.
"We're going to welcome compatriots of ours."
"I didn't know pirates had compatriots," she retorted.
Red Nick gave her a cold, thoughtful look that would have sent shivers up the spine of a less courageous lass. Em faced him without fear, saucy and defiant, and after a moment a wry smile twisted on his lips.
"It seems Tremayne hasn't performed his duties," he observed.
"He's performed 'em, all right. My backside's black and blue. Want a peek, Captain?"
Red Nick ignored her. "When we spot the ship," he said,
"when they are close enough to see you, I want you both to
wave. Where's the little nigger? She might add a touch of
authenticity."
"She's in her room," I said. "I—I don't want her up here."
He elevated one slanted brow, his blue eyes hard as stone.
"She'd be terrified. She'd give the show away," I added, thinking quickly.
"She might at that," he agreed. "I suppose two lovely ladies, their courtiers and a dozen French soldiers will have to do."
"Just what I've always wanted to be," Em said, "bait."
"I see I shall have to speak to Tremayne," Lyon observed dryly.
Em started to make another saucy reply, but I gave her a warning look. She restrained herself, and Red Nick moved on to inspect twelve men who had just come from below, all twelve dressed in French naval uniforms. He gave them a careful scrutiny, ordering one to remove a gold hoop from his earlobe, ordering another to tie his hair back.
"I don't think I'm going to like this," Em remarked. "I might as well confess it, luv, I hate bloodshed. It makes me terribly edgy. I've a feeling we're going to see a lot of it."
"Do you think we could signal them somehow?"
"Warn them, you mean? Not a chance, luv."
Em gave the black lace parasol an extra twirl. "Maybe they'll win," she said. "Maybe we'll be rescued right away. That would be ripping. I've always had a weakness for Frenchmen."
"Em, you must learn to curb your tongue with the captain. Tremayne might tolerate your sauce, he might even find it appealing, but Nicholas Lyon is—he has no sense of humor."
"You're telling me," she replied. "I know I'm going to have to watch myself, luv, but sometimes I just don't think. This tongue of mine has gotten me into so much trouble."
"It's gonna get you into a whole lot more," Tremayne informed her.
Neither of us had heard him approach. He had changed into an outfit almost as resplendent as the captain's, black boots, blue satin breeches, and a matching frock coat trimmed in silver. His
wide black hat was adorned with long, sweeping black and white plumes.
"Don't you look fancy," Em said.
"The captain spoke to me just now, said you'd been lippy, said I was ta give you a good beatin' when we get below. I mean to, too."
"I can hardly wait, luv, You do it so well."
He scowled, and Em sighed wearily and reached up to adjust the slant of hiss hat, setting it at a more rakish angle. When she was satisfied with the tilt, she patted his cheek and ran her thumb over his full lower lip.
"You actually look handsome in that getup," she told him. "You keep wearin' it, and I might even let you sleep with me."
"I ain't jestin', Emmeline. You're gonna get it."
"So are you," she promised.
Tremayne scowled again, obviously infatuated, a sullen bulldog bewitched in spite of himself by a playful kitten. He glared at her menacingly, hoping to intimidate her.
"He give you your instructions?" he growled.
"Yes, luv. We're supposed to stand here and look lovely and smile and wave and lure the Frenchmen to their doom."
"One false move," he said, "just one, and you'll feed the sharks. I mean it, Emmeline. This is serious business, and you're part of it now."
"Some girls have all the luck."
"I'm gonna keep my eye on you," he warned,
"Don't worry, Handsome. We'll play our roles to perfection."
He stalked away, the long black and white plumes billowing. There was a loud cry from the pirate perched high up in the crow's nest. Tremayne snatched a telescope from one of the men, put it to his eye and tensely studied the horizon. Far, far away, where the blue waters turned purple before merging with the pearl-gray sky, a tiny black speck was visible to the naked eye. Tremayne put the telescope down and began to bark orders in a gruff, excited voice.
Jennifer Wilde Page 18