The crowd of pirates cheered, waving bottles in the air, lustily yelling encouragement as the two men tugged and turned and slashed, Tremayne's knife nicking Draper's wrist, Draper's knife slicing a thin wet red line across Tremayne's jaw. Both men were covered with sweat now. Draper's green silk shirt clung damply to his back. Tremayne's sun-streaked brown hair was wet, splayed across his brow in dark locks. The floor was sticky with spilled rum that had dried to form a gummy coating. The soles of their boots slipped now and then, causing one or the other to lose balance. Tremayne, I knew, was a master with the knife, lunging, slashing, lunging again with renewed fury, and Draper didn't seem to be a match for him at first, seemed to be spending all his energy fending off those lethal blows.
Tremayne grew more and more energetic, brown eyes blazing as he waved the knife, plunging it toward Draper's heart, and Draper caught the blade with the edge of his own, deflecting it just in time. I was amazed at Draper's lack of spirit. He moved quickly, loosely, almost lazily, as though it were a wearying game he found faintly boring. I realized then what he was doing. He was deliberately conserving his strength, letting Tremayne work himself into a frenzy, wear himself out. The crowd roared obscenely, placing bets now, shoving each other, having an uproarious time.
Pepita had leaped up onto her chair, skirts swaying wildly as she jumped and yelled. Nicholas continued to sip his wine. He watched the combat with frosty blue eyes, clearly indifferent to the outcome. There was a deafening roar as more blood was drawn. Pepita jumped off the chair and grabbed another piece of sausage and began to gnaw it greedily, her eyes alight with excitement. Draper was on his knees, Tremayne hulking over him, panting heavily as he slashed and slashed, always hitting Draper's blade, the clicking, clashing noise ringing loudly. Nicholas looked up at me, a faint smile playing on his lips as he observed my pale cheeks and worried eyes.
Tremayne was exhausted now, lunging blearily, stumbling, his coordination gone. He growled, plunging the knife once more. Draper smiled and reared back, pulling his left arm forward with all his might. Tremayne seemed to fly through the air, describing a flailing arc before he crashed to the floor with a shuddering thud. Draper twisted, turned, swung himself over, and then he was on top of the fallen man's legs and, calmly, he drove his knife into Tremayne's heart. There were excited yells as blood spurted and Tremayne's body reared and bucked violently, once, twice, once more, then fell limp. Draper wiped his blade on the skirt of Tremayne's frock coat, sliced through the handkerchief that bound their wrists together and then stood up.
He ignored the cheers, the clatter of coins, the smashing of glass, pushed aside those pirates who rushed over to pound him on the back in congratulation. He came back over to our table, one sleeve shredded, his right wrist sporting a thin red cut. Pepita threw herself into his arms. He shoved her out of the way and looked down at Red Nick, awaiting his judgment. Nicholas sighed, gently pushing his wine glass to one side.
"I suppose you want the woman," he said.
Draper nodded. He glanced at Em with lascivious gray eyes, then turned his attention back to Red Nick.
"She's yours," Nicholas said. "Everything he had is yours now, including his cottage and his position. You're my chief aide now, Draper. I trust you won't let the woman turn you into a drunken incompetent."
"I'll keep her under control."
"See that you do. Take her back to the stockade now."
Pepita plopped herself down beside Nicholas again, taking hold of his arm and winding her own about it.
"Ve go upstairs now? Pepita dance for you?"
Nicholas ignored her. He looked at me with expressionless eyes. "Go back to the stockade with them," he ordered. "I'll join you later."
I didn't answer. I followed Em and Draper out of the canteen, averting my eyes as we passed the still bleeding corpse. The moon had come up, washing the town with pale silver light that gilded the crooked rooftops and intensified the darkness filling the twisting alleyways. The night air was cool, wonderfully refreshing after the stench of the canteen. We began to walk up the cobblestoned street. A dog barked at us. Lighted windows made misty gold squares in the black walls. After we had gone some way, Em paused, tore a piece of cloth from her petticoat, and, taking hold of Draper's wrist, tied the cut securely, knotting the cloth tightly.
"There," she said. "That's better."
"You're gonna take good care a me, ain't ja?"
"You can count on it, luv. I'm going to make you deliriously happy."
"I had my eye on you from th' first, ever since I seen you standin' there on the beach with your teats bulgin' outta that pink dress."
"I know," she said wearily.
"We're gonna have us a grand time."
"Sure we are, luv."
We walked the rest of the way in silence. Draper was far more exhausted than he had appeared to be at first. He moved up the steep street with considerable effort, his arms swinging limply at his sides. Our skirts made a crisp rustling noise as Em and I walked beside him. Moonlight spilled over her face and bare shoulders in a soft haze. Her shoulders seemed to droop. She wore a resigned expression, and there was a hopeless look in her eyes I had never seen there before, t reached over to take her hand. She turned and gave me a tiny, reassuring smile, but the hopeless look remained.
We passed the shacks, the goats, the chickens. Someone was roasting meat over an open fire in front of one of the shacks. A woman laughed in the darkness. We moved up the winding road toward the stockade. It stood in sharp relief against the black night sky, the great white wails washed with silver, the cannon projecting from the slits at the top like grotesque black snouts. As we entered the gates I felt a hollow feeling inside. The horrible din, the smells, the violence had left me empty, depleted, incapable of feeling anything but this weariness that permeated my whole body. We passed the barracks and moved toward one of the fountains. Draper looked as though he were ready to drop. We paused again, and Em touched his cheek.
"Look, luv," she said, "why don't you go to your quarters and—and rest up a while. You can join me at the cottage later on. I'd like to freshen up a bit, and you're going to need a lot of strength tonight."
"That ain't a bad idea," Draper replied, trying to sound fierce.
"Take a nap, luv," she advised. "Don't sleep too long, though. I don't want to get lonesome."
Draper shuffled away into the darkness, disappearing in the shadows. Em and I stood by the fountain. The cool night breeze stroked our cheeks.
"Are you going to be all right?" I asked.
"I'm going to be fine, luv. After Tremayne, Draper will be a snap. I can handle him easily enough."
"It all seems so futile," I said.
Em didn't reply. There was no need to. She looked up at the starless sky tor a moment, and then she sighed, straightening her shoulders. Leaves rattled quietly in the breeze. We could hear the guard pacing back and forth, his boots crunching heavily on the rocky ground. We stood there for several more moments, silent. Then Em sighed and passed a hand across her forehead and lifted the hem of her brocade gown and started across the night-damp lawn toward the cottage she had shared with Tremayne, the cottage she would now share with Draper. I moved wearily toward the big house where I would await the pleasure of Nicholas Lyon.
Was it really any better than a house in Caracas or Rio? I was beginning to wonder. We had escaped that, but had survival been worth it? My spirits were low indeed as I moved down the corridor and started up the stairs to the bedroom. A bleak depression had settled over me, as bleak, as grim as any I had ever experienced. It was not caused merely by the violence I had witnessed tonight, the bloody death that had been so gleefully enjoyed by those who watched it. It was a cumulative thing that had been building for weeks and had finally enveloped me like an impenetrable black cloud.
Soft lights were burning in the bedroom as I entered. They glowed with a hazy golden mist that washed over the luxury of elegant white wood and Aubusson carpet and mauve and silver han
gings. I stepped over to the dressing table and opened the elaborate jewelry box heaped high with gleaming, flashing treasure. I removed the pearl choker with its diamond pendants and dropped it on top of the heap, the pearls glowing, the diamonds shimmering with liquid fires. I began to undo the strands of diamond and pearl that held my hair back, adding the exquisite ropes to the collection and closing the box.
I had luxury, yes, sumptuous gowns and incredible jewels and a magnificent room, but the jewels, the gowns meant nothing, and the room was a prison. The man who held me prisoner was superbly adept at lovemaking, was able to summon physical sensations that swelled and exploded inside until I was drowning in an ocean of ecstasy, but these same sensations filled me with self-loathing, seemed a betrayal of myself. He was a cold, inhuman monster who employed a subtle torture that, in many ways, was far worse than physical blows would have been. He didn't bruise my body, no, but he had bruised my spirit until it was ready to expire.
I picked up the hairbrush and began to run it through the rich copper-red waves, gazing at my reflection as I did so. The skin seemed to stretch tightly across those high cheekbones, The mouth seemed to droop. The sapphire blue eyes were filled with the same hopelessness I had seen in Em's. I had given up hope. Yes, that was it. Alter all this time, I had finally given up hope, and life had no meaning. The last spark had been extinguished, and only ashes remained. Ashes. Cold gray ashes.
"Miz Marietta?"
I turned, startled. Corrie stood in the doorway with her sewing kit, an elaborate blue and silver gown draped over her arm. Her soft black hair covered her head like a puffy cloud, and her lovely brown eyes were filled with concern as she looked at me. She was so small, so frail, so defenseless, yet there was a strength in her I had constantly underestimated.
"I heard you come in," she said. "I—I knew Red Nick wasn't with you, and I thought you might like some company. I wanted to finish alterin' this gown he brought back—there's just a little stitchin' left to do on the bodice—and the light in my room ain't—isn't strong enough. Mind if I sit over there in that chair and finish it?"
"Of course not, Corrie."
She moved over to the chair and set her sewing box down on the table beside it. She took out scissors and thimble, needle and thread and spread the gown across her legs, silver and blue folds spilling over the carpet, I continued to brush my hair, in no mood to talk. The long, frightfully sharp scissors flashed as she deftly snipped at threads. Putting the scissors aside, she threaded her needle and began to resew the bodice, making tiny gathers in the cloth. Her head was bent. Her eyes were lowered in concentration. Pale gold light streamed over her shoulder as she worked.
"You'se—you are low," she said quietly.
"Yes, Corrie, I'm low."
"You mustn't be, Miz Marietta. Things are going to work out."
I put the hairbrush down and, tossing my head, shook the waves away from my temples. "I wish I could believe that," I said.
"It's been hard," she continued, "but we're still alive."'
"Yes, we're still alive," I replied. My voice was flat.
"Lotsa good has happened," Corrie's voice was low, soothing. "I can read now, at least if it isn't too complicated with a lotta big words. I can spell my name and write lotsa other words, too."
"You've done very well, Corrie."
"When we get back, I—I'll be ready to take my place in the world, just like you told me."
I was too dispirited, to reply. Corrie made another delicate stitch, the thimble shining on her finger. She shook the bodice and held it up to examine it, then frowned slightly and continued to stitch. She still had faith. She still had hope. Em and I might have given up, but this lovely child still believed we would leave the island and safely return to the civilized world. I didn't want to discourage her, and I knew that in my present mood anything I might say would be bleak. Straightening the sleeves of my bronze satin gown, I turned, the skirt belling.
"I think I'll take a walk in the gardens," I said, trying to sound casual. "You go ahead and finish your work, Corrie."
She looked up apprehensively. "Will it be all right?" she asked. "If he came back and found me here—"
"Nicholas won't be back for some time," I assured her. "I imagine he'll be occupied for most of the night."
I left the bedroom and went slowly down the stairs, running my hand along the polished banister. My skirts made a soft, silken music as I walked down the narrow back hall and stepped outside. The flower beds were ragged in the moonlight, the large shrubs casting long shadows over the pathway leading toward the enormous trees that grew in back, near the wall. I shivered a little in the night air. It seemed much cooler than it had earlier. I really should go back in and fetch a wrap, I thought, folding my arms around my waist.
I strolled past the shrubs and moved under the trees, the limbs spreading out overhead, creaking faintly in the breeze. It was very dark here, very few rays of moonlight penetrating the canopy of leafy boughs. Shadows shifted and moved at my feet, great nests of shadows shrouding the wall. I paused beside one of the trunks, and as I did so I heard a heavy thud that sounded like something dropping. I turned toward the sound, but I could see nothing, I put it out of my mind, leaning against the trunk, shivering.
I stood there for a long while, listening to the night noises, the rustle of leaves, the creaking of boughs, the sleepy twitter" of a bird, and I had the feeling someone was watching me. It was foolish, of course. I paid no attention to it. I stared into the darkness, wondering how much longer I could endure. How much longer would it be before I broke completely, just as he wanted me to? I had endured and endured, it seemed. Somehow, in the past, I had always found strength to go on when one treachery followed another, when hope gave way to despair and joy turned into anguish and grief, but the reserves of strength had all run dry now, and I no longer had the will to fight.
The air turned cooler still. I was shivering badly, my arms and shoulders freezing. I turned to go back inside, and it was then that I saw the man standing a few yards away, looking at me. I clasped a hand to my heart, so startled I almost fainted. A scream welled in my throat. He leaped forward, grabbed me, and whirled me around. A strong hand clamped over my mouth, jerking my head back until it was tilted against a wide shoulder.
"Easy, lass," a familiar voice crooned. "I've come a long way to get you out of this mess, and I don't want you mucking things up by screaming your silly head off."
Nineteen
He held his hand clamped firmly over my mouth while shock and dismay and a wild surge of conflicting emotions swept over me. After a moment, very cautiously, he removed his hand and took hold of my shoulders and turned me around so that I faced him. He gripped my upper arms, supporting me, and I would surely have crumpled to the ground if those strong hands hadn't held me. In the hazy darkness I could barely see his face, merry eyes, a slightly twisted nose, the wide, full mouth grinning saucily as though this were a delightful prank,
"Are you goint to faint?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," I whispered.
"Go ahead. I'll hold you. I'm terrific with swooning females."
"I'm not going to faint."
"Pity," he said.
"How—"
"You've got dozens and dozens of questions," he interrupted. "It's only natural. I'll answer 'em all eventually, when we've time, but for now all you need to know is I'm here, and ten of my best men are at this moment loading every ship in the harbor with explosives, plantin' explosives in the warehouses, too. In half an hour we're going to have a terrific fireworks display."
"Jeremy—it—it's really you."
"It's me, lass, in the flesh."
"I feel like I'm dreaming. It can't be true—"
"It's true," he assured me, his voice tender now, oh so tender. "You're not dreaming, Marietta."
I started to cry, and he folded me to him and held me close, gently stroking my head, murmuring soft words that were mere music, making no sense, making my heart
turn over. J wrapped my arms around his broad shoulders and held onto him with all my might, afraid he would dematerialize and I would wake up and discover it had all been an illusion. He was wearing a buckskin jacket. I could feel the strong, soft leather under my fingers, could feel the fringe swaying as he rocked me slightly, his right arm a band of steel holding me, drawing me closer as his left hand continued to smooth my hair, I felt his warmth, his strength, that tall, muscular body supple and relaxed. I cried for several moments, my face buried in the curve of his shoulders, and after a while I finally looked up and he smiled and brushed my tears away.
"I—I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to give way like that."
"It was my pleasure, lass. Weak, defenseless females are my specialty."
"I'm not weak."
"I know. You're strong, one of the strongest, bravest women in all the world."
"Don't patronize me."
"Wouldn't dream of it, lass. Are you ail right now? Are you going to fold up and sink to the ground?"
"Just let me hold on a little longer."
He nodded, and I clung to him and closed my eyes and let the conflicting emotions swirl, reveling in the luxury of his strength, those protective arms enfolding me. The boughs creaked quietly. The leaves rustled. Jeremy Bond smelled of leather and sweat and dirt, and it was the sweetest smell on earth, a pungent, virile musk that filled me with euphoria. I tightened my arms over his shoulders, and he chuckled and squeezed me so hard I was sure I would snap in two.
"You came," I murmured.
"Did you ever doubt I would?"
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