She felt him come up behind her. His hands took her upper arms in an iron caress.
"You would have, that's true," he answered, his voice a deep rumble against her back. "But I can see you've had no knowledge of the emerald's existence, so how could you look for something you didn't even know about?"
"But I know about it now, and still the rhyme makes no sense to me. I can't decipher it for you. So you must let Flossie and me go."
"I won't."
"Why?" she demanded.
"Because you're hiding something."
She whipped around and faced him. His eyes were as hard as the emerald itself. "What are you saying?" she gasped.
"I'm saying that you're keeping something from me. I can see it in your manner. You know something you're not telling me."
"And if I did know something, what would you do if I told it to you?"
"I would discover if it was true."
"And then, if it was, would you let Flossie and me go free?"
"If that's all you knew, perhaps."
She turned back to the open port. The cooling breeze was no longer working. She felt hot and her thoughts were difficult to articulate. Slowly she said, "How can I believe you after all that you've done to me today? You're not an honorable man."
He laughed darkly. "Perhaps not, but there are worse characters out there who want the Star quite as badly as I do. I can only tell you that any information is best put in my hands rather than in theirs."
"Or best left in my own."
His hands tightened on her arms. "Listen to me, Aurora, I've gone to a lot of trouble to get you. And I'll keep you until I get what I want, however long that may be. Are you willing to endure that?"
"I cannot trust you. I have no choice but to take the risk."
"You have another choice." As if she were a doll, he flung her around to look at him. "Tell me what you know and I shall be generous."
"And if I don't?" she said with a rebellious set to her chin. "What shall you do about it? Torture it out of me? Well, perhaps you misjudge me. Perhaps I've more fortitude than you think."
"And perhaps you haven't. You know, in some cultures torture is elevated to an art. It needn't even hurt, it just needs to bring a man . . . or in your case, a woman . . . to his breaking point."
"My breaking point shall be elusive indeed." She stared up at him, her eyes glittering with the sheen of defiance and intoxication.
"Your breaking point, my little maiden, is all too obvious," he answered pointedly.
Their gazes locked and they stood for a long moment in mute combat, the primeval understanding and hostility of the sexes flowing between them. Finally she declared, "That's not so," but as if mocking her statement, he merely lifted one black eyebrow, then abruptly caught her up into his arms.
She fought to be free from his hold, yet her movements were softened by the brandy, and she quickly found she was no match for him at all. His hand rode at her back while his other hand stroked the tangle of her hair. She made to cry out, but before she could, his mouth stifled her protest. His lips found hers, and once he had them he refused to relinquish her no matter how hard she pushed him away. Eventually his kiss became so deep and thorough that his tongue broke the barrier of her teeth, and he thrust himself again and again into her mouth until she moaned in despair. His hands became as brutal and unrelenting as his mouth, and beneath the linen of her gown she felt him cup her buttocks as he pressed her closer into his embrace.
But the final shock was his other hand moving up her torso. She had never ever had a man touch her breast, and when she realized that was what he was about to do, she knew she wouldn't last. Feeling as if she might faint, her vision blurring, she fell limp against his chest. She waited for his assault, but her surrender seemed to bring about a very different reaction. He stiffened. As if he felt he'd proved his point and was afraid that he might indeed break her, he tore his lips from hers and his hands fell away. Left without support, she quickly grasped the casement of the ports, all the while sobbing and panting her dissent.
It took quite a few moments for her to calm down, but finally she did. Her face was as pale as a wraith's, but this only enhanced the luminosity of her eyes and fragility of her coloring. With her hair atumble and her breath coming in short, sporadic bursts, she looked like quite the little girl lost.
But as usual she was not to be underestimated. Her hand quickly found her glass of brandy still resting on the sill, and with a passion and bravery she had never known before, she flung the contents into his hard, handsome face.
"You evil man."
As still as death, he stared at her, the brandy running down his cheeks and nose. Just by his look she was sure no one had ever done such a thing to him. She was also sure he had killed those who had done far less. In the back of her mind she wondered if he might try that with her. Though she could see the jaws of death opening, she doubted he would go that far. As he had just proved, his torture for her would be far less physically damaging, and far more unendurable.
With barely leashed fury he wiped his face with his hand. Surprising her with his swiftness, he reached out and grasped her chin so that she would look up at him. "I don't know where the Star of Aran is, but it's not in St. George's. So we have nowhere to go but to sail to Mirage. And when we get there, there'll be nothing to do but watch the tide roll in and roll out. In short, I have time, Miss Dayne, to await your information. All the time in hell. Think about it."
He twisted away his hand and walked to his wardrobe. Finding a linen towel, he dried his face and thrust his arms back into his shirt. When his boots were on, he slammed out of the cabin. Only when the door was firmly locked behind him did she sink unsteadily to her knees and gasp her relief.
Chapter Nine
The isle of St. George's was but a bump on the horizon when Vashon appeared on the quarterdeck. Evening had fallen and the sun had sunk low in the sky, painting the waves with a brilliant wash of golden red. A good breeze snapped in the sails above and the pale pink shell of a full moon could already be seen topping the mizzen mast. It was going to be a fine night for sailing, but Vashon either didn't care or was oblivious to this fact as he leaned stiffly against the railing. A hardness was in his eyes that even the beautiful seascape couldn't soften, and he cut a fierce figure as his long thick hair blew in the breeze and his earring gleamed red from reflecting the dying sun.
Deep in thought, he stared out to the east where a school of porpoise arched through the sea, playfully swimming alongside the ship. Yet the sleek black-and-white animals could have been the ship's trailing bilge water for all Vashon seemed to notice.
"How goes it?" Isaac asked quietly, stepping from the binnacle, where he had just logged their position.
Vashon shot him a glance, then resumed his staring in the direction of the porpoise. "It didn't go quite as I thought it would. But nothing has gone well this entire damned day."
"No, it hasn't. Flossie Lindstrom's so mad, the old girl almost swooned into a faint when I told her she couldn't see Aurora." Isaac turned his guilty gaze seaward. "I wish to God that widow had stayed off this ship."
"I expect you to keep her under control."
"She'll stay locked in her cabin. I promise you."
"Good." Vashon released a deep breath.
For the first time Isaac seemed to take note of his sour disposition. "And Aurora? Is she—?"
"She's in my cabin. Where she will stay until she cooperates."
"She could hold out a long time."
"She could."
Isaac frowned and took a moment to stare out to sea. When he seemed to have gathered the courage to speak his mind, he eyed Vashon, then commented, "I don't see how you two can compatibly share one cabin."
"And one bed?" Vashon flashed him a surly glance.
"That too," Isaac finished quietly.
Vashon riveted his gaze to the blushing horizon. "Her comfort and destiny are up to her. I've informed her as muc
h."
"She's certainly got more backbone than we first thought. I expect she'll be quite obstinate. It'll take a great effort to win her over to our side—"
"She's fragile, naive, and overly protected. I could break her in one night if I chose it."
Vashon's harsh words seemed to take Isaac aback. He stared at the younger man's profile as if unsure of his next move. "I've never known you to condone rape, Vashon."
Vashon only grimaced.
"God knows," Isaac continued, "where our travels have taken us we've seen enough women shattered and abused that way. But you of all people have never been one to resort to it. In fact, I remember well the night we found that beaten slave girl in Barbados. You nearly strangled the drunken sailor who had forced her down to the beach."
Vashon remained silent.
"It might kill her," Isaac stated softly.
"I know that," he snapped. He ran an agitated hand down his jaw. "This is a damned vexing situation."
"Ah, I see your dilemma. You use too much force and she'll crumble like a Roman ruin. Not enough and she'll fight you to her last breath. Yes, that is perplexing." The captain nodded. "Quite a new dilemma for you. After all, subtlety is not your forte. You usually have the touch of a machete."
"She's only a woman, Isaac. I'll have her in my palm eventually."
"But you've got to admit she's unlike other women you've known. You can't just throw her to your mattress and be assured she'll be purring in the morning. No, my sorry friend, you'll have to devise a new method for her."
Vashon's mouth took on a grim set. "I only know one thing."
"And what is that?"
"Peterborough wants that emerald. And because Peterborough wants it, I swear I'll be the one to get it first and nothing—not oceans, not continents, not even that tight-laced little chit in my cabin—is going to stand in my way." Vashon pounded his fist on the railing and left, totally ignoring the captain's worried expression.
The cabin was dark when Aurora awoke. She had no idea of the hour except that it was night. Through the open stern ports, the stars glittered across a velvet sky like a dusting of diamonds. She could hear the waves beat against the ship as the Seabravery cut through the water, neither the fatigue of its crew nor the dark of night keeping it from its destination. An ominous dread built in her chest as she rose to a sitting position. The counterpane fell away, and with a shaking hand she flung her hair across one bare shoulder, then looked around.
After Vashon had gone, she'd tried to come up with some kind of plan. She'd opened her locket and read the nursery rhyme over and over in the hopes that it might clue her in to the whereabouts of the Star and thus bring her her freedom. But it had been no use. The rhyme was just as silly and meaningless as it had always been, perhaps even more so now that she was trying to find some hidden intelligence in its lines.
When the rhyme offered no ostensible salvation, she'd turned her worries to Flossie. She was sure the kind widow was all right, but it was vexing being kept apart from her only ally on the ship. She prayed the captain was treating his captive better than Vashon was treating her. Every time she thought of that pirate's ruthless kiss, she trembled in anger. His threat had been all too clear. Submit or retreat, he had told her, neither of which she was ready to do.
She spent the better part of an hour trying to devise an escape. She even went so far as to search the cabin for a weapon, something she could use to force him to turn the ship around. But her search had come to naught. The bookcase held nothing of any use, and the one intriguing cabinet she found was locked. Undaunted, she kept looking, for a key, for anything, but she couldn't even find a razor tucked in the trunk where he kept his smallclothes. With defeat temporarily staring her in the face, her liquor-fogged state finally got the better of her. Too tired to pace, too sleepy to think, she'd slumped on the edge of Vashon's mattress.
Her thoughts morosely turned to what he'd said about her parents. He was wrong, she'd told herself, snuggling deep into the feather mattress of his huge japanned bed. She fell asleep to the words ". . . thy sire was a knight, thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright," but her dreams soon turned to nightmares wherein the words were proved false.
Now groggy and with her head feeling as if the slightest noise might crack it wide open, she rose to her feet. The door to the cabin opened just as she was able to clutch her gown to her chest. She turned around only to find Benny sheepishly lighting the wall lanterns near the bookcase.
"Benny!" she called out to him, her voice still thick with sleep. "What—what hour is it?" "Four bells. Ten o'clock, miss."
She ran a shaky hand through the heavy tangle of her hair. "Do you know if I can return to my cabin?"
"Vashon told me to serve you in here, miss."
She shot the boy a reproving glance while Koonga chattered on his shoulder oblivious to her wrath. As if she'd whipped him, Benny limped to the threshold. Guiltily she looked away. "Is Vashon going to keep me captive in here forever, or do you know, perchance, if he's ever going to free me?"
"No, miss," he answered obliquely before bringing in a tray laden with food from the passage.
In a perfunctory manner, he set up her meal where the cold tea service had been, all the while trying to keep Koonga from the sugar bowl. It was then that she realized he'd been in the cabin before. While she had been asleep he had taken away the teapot. Gone, too, was Vashon's discarded torn shirt.
Warily, her gaze slid to the bed. The black satin-striped counterpane was mussed and tossed aside. When she had awakened she remembered pushing the luxurious covering off. What she couldn't recall was ever putting it over her. So who had done that? Benny? Or had the cabin been visited by another as she slept?
She closed her eyes and composed herself. She blushed every time she pictured Vashon standing over the bed as she slept. Scouring her memory to see if she could recall his returning to the cabin, she couldn't find anything. There was only a black, nightmarish void.
"Benny!" she called out hastily, halting the youth in the doorway.
"Yes, miss?"
"Benny, if I may not leave here, would you be so kind as to bring me my things from my room?"
"I'm not sure, miss . . ."
"Vashon did not disallow me my clothes, did he?" she asked incredulously.
The boy almost colored. "No, miss."
"Then would you bring me my things? I need to attend to my toilet."
Benny paused only a moment. "I'll bring you your things, miss," he said before limping to the door.
When Benny had gone, Aurora held out one last hope. There was nothing in the cabin she could use as a weapon, but perhaps among her belongings she might find something.
In less than a minute Benny returned. He put her willow basket on the bed and laid out her comb and hairpins on Vashon's massive mahogany bureau. When he had seen to all her belongings, he departed again, once more locking the door behind him.
Finally alone, Aurora rushed to her willow basket and dug through to the bottom. There was nothing there of even the slightest use except a precious pair of steel embroidery scissors Mrs. Bluefield had given her on her sixteenth birthday. She studied the small stork-shaped scissors, even testing their sharp points. But the picture of her holding Vashon hostage with a froufrou pair of embroidery scissors was just too absurd.
Defeated for the moment, she changed into one of her drab linen gowns and absentmindedly put the scissors in one of the skirt's serviceable pockets. She wasn't sure what to do now. It seemed all her options were gone.
Desperately trying to think and growing more agitated with her lack of ideas, she paced the carpet until she swore the dragons woven into it were looking threadbare. She glanced about the cabin for something to occupy her, and that was when she spied her comb and hairpins on Vashon's bureau, lying intimately next to his own comb and shaving strop. She was most certainly not going to be on this ship long enough to get used to sharing that villain's bureau! In
a wave of panic she rushed up to the bureau and swept all her belongings off it. Combing out her hair, she quickly knotted it and used all her pins to pull it tightly to her nape. Then she hastily deposited her comb inside her willow basket.
More time passed, and she finally had to force herself to settle on the couch. But once there, she found herself growing sleepy again. She looked over at the dinner Benny had brought her, but she knew a full stomach would only further increase her drowsiness. Sitting on the couch, she stared at the cabin door until her eyes fairly glazed over.
At some point in the night she must have dozed. When she awoke, her head lolled against the thickly padded scroll arm of the couch, and her feet were tucked beneath her. Her eyes opened slowly, rebelliously. With a heavy-lidded gaze, she assessed her surroundings, made foreign by the distance of slumber. It wasn't until she turned her head that she saw him.
At first all she really saw were his trousers. They were black and finely cut, molding themselves perfectly to the slim hips and well-formed thighs of their wearer. He was standing so close that she had to look up even to see his torso. Finally when her head was tilted back as far as it could go, she met that ferocious green gaze and it nearly sapped her of all her strength. He really was a hard character, this pirate. She could see it in his eyes. Human frailty touched him not at all. She wondered what in this man's life could have ever turned him so completely cold and unyielding.
"Sleep well, Miss Dayne?" A shadow of a smile crossed his lips. Suddenly she knew he had been in the cabin when she'd slept before. But had he or Benny placed the counterpane over her? Benny, most likely. Somehow she just couldn't picture this fear-inspiring man performing such a tender task.
"Is it time for another interrogation?" she asked smartly, all the while trying not to squirm beneath his green stare. "If not, I insist on being allowed to remove to my own quarters."
"In good time."
He dismissed her and went to his bookcase. From the waist of his trousers he procured a key. He opened the cabinet that she had found locked and revealed a veritable arsenal. Hung on the door were six brutal machetes that each looked as if it could cut off a man's leg as easily as it could slice through cane. Three pairs of silver-handled dueling pistols were ensconced on the top shelf, and at least seven finely tempered sabers were propped on the shelf below them. There were kegs of powder and boxes of lead balls. In short, there seemed to be enough ammunition and weapons for a man to wage his own private war. Aurora was completely aghast.
Till Dawn Tames the Night Page 12