"Charming," Em snapped as we passed.
"You think you're better'n she is?" Tremayne growled.
"A damn sight better!"
"Yeah, you think you're somethin' special, don't ja? Always givin' yourself airs. You're a whore, my whore, and don't you forget it!"
"Lay off, Tremayne," Draper warned.
"You keep your mouth shut, Draper! It ain't none of your affair. I know you been pantin' after her. Been pantin' after her from the first, haven't ya? You just find your own whore!"
"It would seem the bloom has worn off the rose," Nicholas observed dryly. "Tremayne's besotted, practically useless to me these past two months. Thai's what a woman can do to a man."
"Not to you, surely."
"Of course not," he said. "I have far too much good sense. I'm disappointed in Tremayne. He was the paradigmatic pirate, ruthless, amoral, a physical brjite who knew no fear. His infatuation for your little friend changed all that, turning him into a surly rum-pot."
Nicholas' superior education frequently showed in his speech. He was a brilliant man, by far the most brilliant I had ever known. If all his drive and immense intellect had been channeled in another direction, he could have been a great statesman or anything he desired to be. Unfortunately, he had chosen to become a pirate, and he was the most feared, the most notorious pirate of the day.
"Here we are!" Tremayne cried, shoving Em through the door of the largest canteen. Draper followed, and Nicholas Lyon took my hand and led me inside with exaggerated courtesy, his blue eyes full of mockery. The smells assaulted my nostrils immediately, sweat and ale and vomit and dirt blending horribly together with the odors of stale grease and red peppers. I tried not to wince, moving through the crowd with my chin held high.
The tables were all full. Tremayne marched over to the largest table and, seizing a drunken pirate by the arm, jerked him out of his chair and shoved him to the floor. One of his mates leaped to his feet, ready to protest. Tremayne gave him a stunning blow across the jaw with his right fist, a blow so hard two of the man's teeth went flying, blood spurting in crimson threads. The rest of the men at the table deserted immediately, almost knocking over their chairs in their hast& to avoid similar treatment.
Em and I exchanged glances. Her cheeks were pale, but her hazel eyes were dangerously bright, glittering with anger. Her small pink mouth was pursed. I prayed she would be able to control herself. Tremayne had grown progressively worse, and I was afraid he might actually kill her if she crossed him. Chestnut waves piled on top of her head and spilling between her shoulder blades in a cascade of curls, diamonds and amethysts sparkling at her ears and around her throat, she wore a rich purple brocade gown. The tow-cut bodice was embroidered with tiny silver flowers, and silver flowers were scattered over the full skirt. She took a seat and began to toy with the diamond and amethyst bracelet on her wrist.
I sat down across from her, spreading out my bronze skirt, leaf-brown petticoats rustling beneath. Nicholas insisted we dress to the hilt for these occasions, knowing our finery would further irritate the sluttish women who consorted in the canteens. My copper-red waves were caught up with heavy strands of diamonds and pearls, and a pearl choker was around my throat, diamond pendants dangling from it in great, glittering drops. The jewels, the lavish gown made me feel even more ill at ease, which was exactly what Nicholas had intended. He took the chair next to mine and crossed long, muscular legs clad in skintight maroon satin, the matching maroon frock coat embroidered with black silk fleurs-de-lis. His black leather knee boots were polished to a high sheen, his tarnished copper hair gleaming with rich highlights, the heavy V-shaped wave slanting across his forehead.
"Rum!" Tremayne shouted, pounding the table.
"I'd like some whiskey," Em said.
"It's pure rotgut," Draper told her.
"So much the better," she replied. "The sooner I lose consciousness the better."
"You'll have rum and like it!" Tremayne ordered.
"My master speaks. Rum it is."
"Some white wine?" Nicholas inquired, addressing me.
"I suppose."
"White wine," he told the woman who slouched over to our table. "Bring the best. I mean the best. Rum, too, several bottles."
"And you might just wipe the glasses, luv," Em added.
"As soon as you wipe your ass," the slut retorted.
"Heaven," Em said. "Oh, she's heaven."
The woman scowled and slouched away, her filthy blue skirts swaying as she wagged her large buttocks. The noise blasted all around us, bottles breaking, gruff voices yelling, harsh laughter rumbling. The floor was slippery with spilled ale. The dirty white walls were blotched with yellow stains and draped with strands of onions and gourds and bright red-orange peppers. Candles smoked in the large, wheel-shaped fixtures hanging from the beamed ceiling. The woman returned with wine, rum and a tray of bread, cheese and hard sausage. Em gave her a dazzling smile and extended a stiff middle finger.
Nicholas examined the wine label carefully, nodded, and uncorked the bottle. He poured a few swallows into his glass and sipped it, his blue eyes full of concentration as he savored the taste. He nodded again. The woman frowned wearily and slapped the bottles of rum down in front of Tremayne. Nicholas poured wine into my glass, and I lifted it to my lips. The wine was cool and tangy, quite delicious. I drank the rest of it immediately. Smiling, he poured me another glassful.
"It's deceptively potent," he advised me. "I wouldn't drink too much of it, my dear. It goes straight to your head."
"Maybe I'd better try some," Em remarked.
"Shut up!" Tremayne bellowed.
"He's all charm tonight, I must say. Can't help it, the luv. It comes naturally."
I drank the second glass of wine and poured a third, Nicholas was amused, blue eyes dancing, wry smile curling at the corners of his mouth. I hated him. How long was I going to be able to endure that mockery without striking back at him? Corrie. I must think of Cerrie. He had meant his threat. He would kill her. He would enjoy doing it. The wine was supposed to go to my head, but it only made everything sharper, clearer, the noise louder, the smells more offensive, colors brighter.
I looked at the man sitting beside me with cool appraisal. The face was indeed handsome, but harsh, so harsh. The nose was too long, the lips too thin, the skin stretched tightly across the sharp cheekbones. The hair was thick and rich, beautiful hair, so beautiful I wanted to touch it, and the piercing blue eyes would be beautiful, too, were they softened with compassion. A patina of cruelty overlaid every feature. If his childhood had not been warped, if bitterness had not etched those harsh lines, Nicholas Lyon would have been an incredibly attractive man.
"You seem unusually pensive tonight," he remarked.
"It's the wine," I said.
"You were looking at me with—unusual concentration."
"Was I?"
"Almost wistfully, my dear. Not, alas, with desire. You're unusually desirable tonight. The gown is lovely. The pearls and diamonds set off the color of your hair. I'm glad I gave them to you."
"You've given me so many lovely things."
"I wish you could give me something in return."
"What?" I asked.
"Your love."
"I wish so, too, Nicholas. I really do. I'm trying."
He lifted the comers of his lips and touched my cheek, then looked up as a roar of delight filled the vast room. "Pepita!" someone yelled. "Pepita!" The crowd parted as a woman with bare feet sauntered forward, two men with guitars behind her. Tall, with a narrow waist and extremely full breasts, she had dark tan skin and unusually long black hair that fell in a mass of glossy, tangled waves. Her black eyes gleamed greedily. Her full red mouth was curled in a surly pout. Her low-cut red blouse barely contained her breasts. Her white skirt was very full and slightly ragged, covered with bands of black and purple embroidery, a purple sash wound around her waist.
"Pepita!" the crowd roared. "Pepita! Dance for us!"
&
nbsp; The woman ignored her admirers and padded across the room to our table, a provocative smile on her lips. She was at least thirty. Her face was heavily made up. She was attractive in a coarse, primitive way, exuding a raw sexual allure men of a certain kind found wildly exciting. I couldn't despise her. She had undoubtedly been brought to the island a captive, as Em and I had, and she had made a place for herself. Pepita was a survivor. I admired her for that, even as I recoiled from the cheap perfume she had splashed on her body.
"Dance for us, Pepita!" the men yelled.
Pepita placed her hands on her hips, tossed her hair back and looked directly into Nicholas' eyes.
"I dance for Red Neek," she announced throatily.
"Clear a space!" a man shouted. "Clear a space for Pepita!"
Eyes hungrily devouring Red Nick, Pepita smiled and lifted her arms in the air, whirling slowly as the two men who had accompanied her began to strum their guitars. The crowd moved back, clearing a space for her, and she moved onto the floor with provocative undulations, swaying, swirling, slowly, moving with a feline grace. Nicholas watched with amused blue eyes, sipping his wine as the woman arched her back, her breasts thrust out, her long hair almost sweeping the floor. She rocked back and forth, lifting first one bare foot, then the other, red lips parted.
The music was extremely sensual, Spanish music, evoking intense heat, passion, hot sunlight, sweat. Pepita undulated, swaying her torso, smiling, moving gradually back over to our table. She lifted her skirts, shook them, placed her hand on Nicholas' jaw, and then, turning, arched her back again until she was half-resting on the table. I moved my wine glass out of the way, my face expressionless as she writhed with her back on the table, her legs slowly lifting until her skirts fell back, exposing her thighs. Nicholas ran his hand along her leg, still amused.
Pepita clapped her hands and leaped to her feet and, as the music picked up tempo, began to whirl like a dervish, faster, faster, hands clapping loudly as the strumming became a passionate fury. The music stopped abruptly. She fell to her knees, spread them, arched back until her head touched the floor. There was thunderous applause and a shower of gold coins. Pepita jumped up, scooping the coins off the floor. Tying them in a handkerchief, which she tossed to one of the guitarists, she sauntered back to our table, tossing her long black hair. She smelled of sweat and garlic. Forcing herself between my chair and his, she smiled, stroking Nicholas' lean cheek.
"You like, Red Neek?"
Nicholas nodded, smiling his twisting smile.
"You buy Pepita a drink?"
"Certainly," he said.
"Here," I said, "why don't you take my chair."
I stood up and moved around the table, angry now. I wasn't angry with Pepita. She was only looking after her own interests, and I couldn't blame her. I was angry with him because I saw the game he was playing and felt it was beneath him. Pepita slid into my chair, glistening with a moist coat of perspiration. Her breasts were almost completely exposed, red silk clinging to her nipples. Her black hair was damp. Nicholas poured her a glass of rum, and I reached over to retrieve my glass and the bottle of wine, sitting down in the chair beside Em. Tremayne, on her other side, had a glazed look in his eyes. I poured another glass of wine.
"Easy, luv," Em warned.
"I need it," I snapped.
"You're reacting just as he intended you to react," she said under her breath, looking across the table at Nicholas and the dancer. "Don't give him the satisfaction."
"I don't know how much more of this I can take, Em."
"You can take a hell of a lot more, luv. So can I. We have no choice."
"What are you two mutterin' about?" Tremayne snarled.
"We were talking about you," she replied sweetly, "discussing your social graces and overwhelming charm."
"More rum!" he barked. "We're outta rum!"
Draper passed another bottle over to him. The gold hoop In his ear glittered in the candlelight. His fierce gray eyes had a crafty look, as though he were planning some devilment, and, beneath the beaklike nose, his thin mouth stretched into a tight smile. Tremayne seized the bottle. He smashed the top of it across the edge of the table, splashing rum into his glass and splattering it over his soiled pale blue satin breeches. His pale blue frock coat was soiled, too, the silver lace tattered.
"You reel-ly like Pepita's dance, Red Neek?" the woman asked coyly.
"I found it most interesting."
"I dance in private sometime. I give private performance sometime."
"I'll bet she does," Em observed.
"Sometime zee men—zhey want to have me dance for zhem alone, in private. Zhey pay much gold. You want Pepita to dance just for you?"
"Perhaps."
"I like to. For you, free."
"Jesus, she'd never make it on Rampart Street."
"Is honor for Pepita to dance for Red Neek in private. Zhere is room upstairs."
"Convenient," Em said.
"Hush," I told her.
"Ve go upstairs?"
"Later, perhaps," Nicholas said.
"Pepita has wanted to meet Red Neek for long time. She come to island as woman of one of his men she pines for music. He sends for her two brothers. Zhey come to play music for Pepita. Jason, he die. Run through by a bad man on board a ship. Pepita all alone."
"My heart is breaking," Em remarked.
"Other men, zhey all want her, but Pepita dances instead, She dances for zhem all, and zhey give her gold. Zhey all love her, but Pepita sees Red Neek one day, and she long to dance only for him."
"Subtlety," Em said, "I've always admired it."
Nicholas was enjoying himself immensely. He was deliberately trying to provoke me, toying with this poor, pathetic trollop who had no idea she was being used. Confident of her allure, convinced he found her irresistible, she threw back her head and laughed huskily. The damp red silk blouse slipped half an inch lower. I could smell the sweat, the garlic, the dreadful perfume across the table. Nicholas' nostrils quivered. He lifted a scented handkerchief to his nose, ever so tactfully. Pepita began to gnaw a piece of sausage.
"We're outta rum again!" Tremayne roared. He whirled his torso around, glaring at Em. "Go get me some, woman!"
His dark brown eyes were full of menace. Sun-streaked brown hair tumbled over his brow. An ugly snarl curled on his lips. Em looked at him for a moment, debating whether or not to make a smart retort, and then she sighed and started to get up. She didn't move fast enough to suit Tremayne. He gave her a vicious shove that sent her reeling backward. She fell to the floor, brocade flying, the chair crashing down with her. I screamed, jumping to my feet, and Draper and Tremayne stood, too, Draper's eyes glittering.
"Bitch!" Tremayne cried.
"That's enough, Tremayne," Draper warned.
"I'm gonna kick your guts out, bitch!"
Draper caught his shoulder and whirled him around. I reached down, taking Em's hand, helping her up. Her cheeks were bleached of all color, chalk white, but she wasn't really hurt. The comers of her mouth quivered. I held her to me, looking over her shoulder at the two men who stood glaring at each other like two bulls ready to charge. The enormous room was silent, all eyes on our table.
Tremayne was sober now, stone sober, seething with cold fury.
"You afraid I might damage her?" he growled. "Afraid I might mess her up for you, is that it?"
"Could be."
"She been slippin' out to meet you in the bushes, too?"
"Not yet," Draper replied.
"You sonuvabitch! We're gonna settle this1 We're gonna settle this right now!"
His hand flew beneath the skirt of his frock coat and came back out clutching a knife. Em shuddered. I held her tightly. Nicholas hadn't bothered to get up. He remained in his chair, calmly sipping his wine. Pepita held onto his arm, visibly excited by the prospect of bloodshed. Draper looked at his captain, knowing knife-fighting was forbidden, waiting for some signal. Nicholas set his glass down and lifted the handkerchief to
his nostrils again.
Everyone watched him with eager anticipation. If Red Nick gave the word, the two men would fight to the death with knives, and it would be great entertainment, a rare and unexpected treat. Em freed herself from my arms and adjusted one of the sleeves of her elaborate purple brocade gown, composed now, awaiting his decision with stony calm. Draper stood with eyes narrowed, loose and lean, not at all impatient. Tremayne gripped the knife tightly, so tightly his knuckles were white. His chest was heaving. Nicholas pulled his arm from Pepita's hold and looked up at Draper, finally nodding.
"You may as well settle it," he said.
The crowd of burly pirates greeted his words with lusty cheers, the women among them cheering even louder. A dozen men surged over, taking hold of Draper and Tremayne and hauling them to the center of the floor. Draper pulled out his knife. An enormous red-haired brute with a broken nose seized Tremayne's left hand, seized Draper's, and tied their wrists tightly together with a soiled white handkerchief. The two combatants stood facing each other, holding their knives in their right hands, their left arms crossed in front of them, wrists bound so securely their hands must already be growing numb. The pirates moved back, clearing a space for them. Silence fell.
"It'll be all right," I told Em.
"I'm not worried at all," she said in a flat voice. "Draper's sure to win."
"Do you want him to?"
"He's no prize, luv, but after these past weeks anyone would be better than Tremayne."
In the center of the floor the two men circled each other warily, drawing back, tugging at their bound wrists, moving in a macabre ballet. Overhead, the candles flickered, spilling down a smoky yellow light that threw their shadows over the floor, elongating them. The shadows moved as they did, dancing, distorted black patterns shifting and changing over the filthy, slippery surface. Tremayne was tense, taut, his powerful muscles bulging as he pulled back with teeth bared. Draper remained loose, relaxed, almost nonchalant.
Tremayne made a growling noise and jerked his left arm violently, pulling Draper toward him, his knife flashing, glittering in the candlelight. Draper ducked, turned, made a sudden twist, throwing Tremayne off balance. The knife sliced through Draper's billowing sleeve. Green silk shredded, but there was no blood. Tremayne plunged the knife again, and Draper dropped to one knee deftly, swinging his own knife up. The blades scraped together with a horrible scratching noise that gave me chills. Em's face was perfectly immobile as she watched. She seemed totally unmoved, as though it had nothing whatsoever to do with her, but I knew it was because she wouldn't allow herself to give way to emotion.
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