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Читать книгу: «Wicked Loving Lies», страница 6
6
Strangely enough, it was the sudden cessation of noise that woke her. That, and the pleasant feeling of warmth penetrating her chilled flesh. She must have lost consciousness during the worst of the storm, Marisa thought dazedly. At least she was still alive.
As circulation crept back into her cramped and aching limbs, the pain was almost unbearable, making her afraid to move.
Her eyes opened a fraction, and she realized that she was lying in bed, the covers drawn over her. In front of a glowing brazier which had been set in the center of the floor, a man stood stripping off his sopping wet clothing, flinging everything aside in an untidy, dripping heap. The ruddy light played over his tall, lean body and the movement of muscles beneath the skin of his shoulders and narrow flanks. His back was to her, its symmetry broken by a crisscrossed pattern of scars. Only a criminal would carry the marks of the lash. Marisa’s golden eyes widened and then squeezed shut quickly as he reached for a bottle that stood on the desk and raised it to his lips.
A few moments later she could not help cringing as the covers were rudely snatched off her cowering form.
“Whose wench are you? Donald’s? Isaac Benson’s? I can hardly believe it of the old hypocrite!” She felt his body drop over hers, taking her breath away, and then he had rolled to the other side of the bed.
“Don’t get your hopes up, scrawny one. I’m too damned tired to find out tonight. And if you want to stay in this bed you had better shed those wet clothes; you’re as clammy as a corpse!”
Numb with fear, she had obeyed him, reacting like a puppet. She fell asleep and when she next awoke, the events of the previous night seemed all jumbled up. She had half-expected to wake up in the same narrow bunk she had occupied for the last week or so, and when her senses swam back to dull awareness of the present, she felt a heavy weight over the lower half of her body and found her face pressed against a masculine shoulder smelling faintly of sweat and tasting like salt. She tried to move away but an arm scooped her closer.
“No, you don’t! You were content enough to keep me warm all night—what’s your hurry now?”
Her golden eyes stared mesmerized into his sleepy grey ones with dark pupils that seemed to contract as recognition flared into them.
“You!” Suddenly he held her pinned down by the shoulders, his face staring down into her. “How did you contrive it? Did you put one of your gypsy spells on poor Donald and on my ship as well? No wonder we’ve had such a bad voyage—a woman aboard ship always brings bad luck! What are you doing here?”
There was a cruel, dangerous look on his face, and sheer desperation made Marisa shout back at him.
“You—you threw me in here last night! And if I’m such bad luck, why don’t you just throw me overboard and have done with it? You’re such a rotten bully, no wonder all your men are so afraid of you! Well, I’m not. You can’t do anything worse to me than you have already—”
She was appalled at her own boldness.
He shook her, his fingers digging into her bare shoulders.
“Don’t be too sure of that,” he muttered threateningly between clenched teeth. “This is my ship. What are you doing aboard her? Did you offer yourself to Donald in order to persuade him to bring you here? Cabin boy—hah! I suppose you’ve been spreading yourself thin—distributing your doubtful favors to every man on board this ship. No wonder you were supposedly too sick to show your face on deck! What’s your game?”
Too overwrought by now to care about the pain he was inflicting on her, Marisa screamed, “Nothing, nothing! I have not done anything, and I’m not what you accuse me of being—you ought to know that! I only wanted to get to France, and if I hadn’t been so—so sick I would have worked my passage there! I’m not a gypsy, and I’m not a whore, although you tried to make me one! And I wish you’d have let me be swept overboard last night. That would have been best, I’m sure for all concerned!”
“What a virago! I can feel you shaking like a trapped rabbit under my hands, and yet you dare shout back at me. I’ll say this much for you—whatever you are, you’ve got courage.”
“Courage is something one finds easily enough when there’s nothing left to fear,” Marisa shot back wearily.
It came to her with a sudden shock, when she saw his eyes harden, that he had made his last statement in English, and she had answered in the same language.
“How did you discover such a cynical truth so young in life? Well, well. Maybe there’s more to you than I imagined at first. You’re beginning to intrigue me all over again, little one.”
She had no idea what he might have done next for a rapping at the cabin door made him stiffen and swear under his breath.
Suddenly embarrassed, Marisa dived under the covers like a guilty child. A wooden-faced Donald entered, bearing dry clothes over his arm.
“Beg pardon, captain. I thought you’d be needing these. And Mr. Benson has a jury mast up, all right and tight. If the wind and weather hold, we ought to fetch port with no more trouble.” In the face of an ominous silence he cleared his throat and went on awkwardly, “Thought—you dinna’ gave me a chance to explain matters last night, and—”
“If we hadn’t been shorthanded you’d be clapped in irons and making your explanations to the rats in the hold. No, I’ll have my explanations from the right party, and hear your side later, if my temper holds out! Here. You can take our erstwhile cabin boy’s clothes and have them dried. And fetch me some breakfast, while I decide what to do with her.”
“Captain, you don’t understand. The puir lassie has no friends or family to protect her in Spain, and those gypsies had vanished like the wind—”
“You’d be wise to vanish yourself, you sneaking old reprobate, before I change my mind and have you flogged for insubordination!”
With a last worried glance at the mound of covers on the bed, Donald decided on discretion instead of valor and fled, hearing the door kicked shut behind him.
Marisa could hear her own heart thudding, and the next moment the covers were yanked off her curled-up body, and, crying in pain, she found herself dragged upright by her hair.
“What the hell do you think you’re hiding from? And just a moment ago, you were so brave!”
In spite of the tears that sprang to her eyes she noticed with relief that he had pulled on a pair of closely fitting breeches, with a wide belt that snugged his flat stomach.
“Here. You might as well put this on.” A ruffled linen shirt hit her in the face. “I’ll have some answers to my questions now,” Captain Challenger’s voice continued harshly.
She blushed all over under the cold scrutiny of his eyes as she forced herself to pull on the garment he had thrown at her; but for once he seemed not so much interested in the sight of her body as in studying her face.
“I’ve told you everything—”
“Only that you’re not a gypsy and not a whore. You’ll excuse me if I reserve judgment on the last! But I must admit it’s not usual to come across a gypsy wench who speaks Castilian Spanish and English as well! Who are you?”
Marisa tried not to shrink under his look, gathering her confused, scattered thoughts together. She told him the same story she had told Donald—which was not too far from the whole truth, after all!
“My father was Spanish and my mother French. They put me in a school and forgot about me. And when I learned that they were both—gone—I ran off with the gypsies, Blanca told me they would take me to France. My mother’s sister used to live there—”
“Where?”
“In Paris. She married, and I don’t remember her last name, but she used to enjoy going to the theater, and I know that if I saw her again I would recognize her. And I’d heard that Paris is gay, and all the ladies wear pretty clothes, and I had no one in Spain—”
“I see.” His voice had become dry. “So you thought you’d sell your virginity to the highest bidder—or maybe your gypsy friends had such a plan. A pity I had to arrive on the scene and spoil everything! But then, you should not have been running off alone on a dark night unless you were hoping that young man would come after you!” His tone turned harsh. “All women are whores at heart, and for all your look of childish innocence, I’m sure you’re no different. It’s a pity you went so far as to cut off your hair. It was quite pretty as I recall.”
“I don’t care what you think about me, I could never become a whore. I’d rather be dead!”
“Spare me your theatrics, wench!” he sneered. “Once you’ve filled out a little and let your hair grow back, you might be passable—and in a better position to bargain. For now, like it or not, you’ve thrown yourself on my hands, and as little as I like it I suppose I’m stuck with you until we reach France. You could cause trouble, if the crew knew there was a female on board. I’d hate to have to hand you over to them to keep them mollified! So—” he rose, stretching “—if you know what’s good for you you’ll keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Who knows? You might learn a few things to prepare you for your future profession in case you don’t happen to run into this pleasure-loving aunt of yours!”
He seemed to have accepted her story, at least; but obviously her defiance had put him in a black mood again, prompting him to insult and vilify her.
When he left the cabin, he locked the door behind him, and Marisa found herself a prisoner. She did not know what passed between Donald and his captain, but when the Scotsman brought her food and dry clothing he seemed ill at ease and almost afraid to talk to her, except to warn her not to cross the captain when he was in a temper. He shook his head and murmured “Puir lassie—puir little creature,” until she thought she would go mad and was almost glad when he left her alone with her thoughts.
The rest of the voyage lasted five days, with the weather perfect, but during that time Marisa was never permitted to leave the cabin. She was more than just a prisoner—she was the helpless, unwilling captive of a pirate captain who treated her like a prize of war.
When she refused to undress for him he took her clothes away and kept her naked. When she attempted to claw at him he tied her wrists to the bedposts. Once, she tried to brain him with the heavy, double-branched candelabra that stood on his desk; he snatched it easily out of her grasp and turned her, squirming and whimpering, over his knee smacking her bare rump until all her pride and defiance left her and she screamed for mercy.
After that, she was tame—in a fashion. When he felt inclined to take her she submitted limply, without showing any reaction, keeping her eyes tightly closed and her teeth clenched against his kisses. And in this way, by her very passivity, she defeated him and gained her own small victory when, swearing, he rolled off her body.
She resisted him by not resisting, and Dominic found himself staying away from his own cabin, scowling and watching the cloudless blue skies while his crew kept their distance, eying him and shaking their heads. Even Donald had nothing to say out loud, although his reproachful eyes spoke volumes. Mr. Benson muttered under his breath and quoted passages from the Bible. ‘Damn her!’ Dominic mused. A cold, unresponsive child-woman—he must have been out of his mind or blind drunk to have felt himself attracted by her in the first place.
If he’d had any sense he would have allowed her to continue her masquerade as a cabin boy, made her work until she dropped from weariness, and let her bunk with Mr. Benson and listen to his Bible-reading all night. That would have taught her a lesson!
She was the first woman he’d had to rape—and she’d been a virgin. She had seemed acquiescent enough, curse her! And then she’d turned up again, after he’d put her out of his mind as an unpleasant memory. What a bedraggled little scarecrow she’d looked that first night when he’d discovered her stumbling across the deck, all wet and sticky with salt water. But since then he’d made her wash her hair, and, although it was still far too short, it had begun to curl in ringlets all over her head in a style that ladies of fashion were beginning to emulate all over Europe. She was a mixture of defiance and surrender, naivete and cynicism. And someone, somewhere, had given her an education, so that she spoke like a lady. No doubt that would prove useful to her later, when they got to France. She was hardly inexperienced any longer—he had seen to that; and with the right clothes she should have no difficulty finding herself a rich lover—or more than one. The best whores were women who didn’t permit themselves to feel….
And he must be out of his mind to wonder what her future might be once he was rid of her. He had never given any woman a second thought, nor exerted himself to conquer one, since Lizette. Lovely, false Lizette, who had betrayed not only him but also his friends to the cursed British one long-ago night in Ireland.
“I’ll be glad when we sail into Nantes harbor,” Donald McGuire muttered from the side of his mouth to the long-faced Isaac Benson. “Captain’s not been hisself since—”
He did not have to complete his sentence. Mr. Benson, who had thought the same, merely grunted.
“Women!” he said succinctly. Then hastily drew himself up and began bellowing unnecessary orders as their captain strode by, his face like a thundercloud.
“He’ll be wanting his dinner, I don’t doubt,” Donald muttered hastily. “I’d best see to it, or he’ll be in a worse mood than this.”
When the cabin door banged open, Marisa was sitting up in his chair, reading a battered volume of Shakespeare he’d picked up somewhere on one of his voyages. Fascinated, she hardly looked up, and her voice held more animation than he’d heard in it for a long time.
“I had no idea you would be interested in reading. And you know, I wasn’t allowed to read anything but religious literature—or geography, which I hated!”
“Get up!”
She looked up then, sighed, and rose obediently to her feet, putting the book down reluctantly. What was the matter now? He was so moody and bad-tempered!
She was naked, her small crimson-tipped breasts teasing him in the half-light. And in spite of the fact that she had not been out in the sun, her body retained a faint golden tint all over—a legacy, no doubt, of a Moorish ancestor.
She had given up trying to hide her body from him; in fact, she seemed quite unconcerned as she gazed curiously at him. How dared she?
“You look like a strumpet waiting for her first customer,” he snarled cruelly. “For God’s sake put something on or get into bed. Donald will be bringing dinner in soon—or did you hope to seduce him as well?”
“But I thought that’s what you were training me to be—a strumpet. But must I lie on my back all day just in case you might come in and want me?”
Her words acted like a glass of cold water thrown in his face. It was only when she spoke in such cynical fashion that he realized how naive and innocent she had really been at first. Until he had changed her. Controlling himself with an effort he walked behind the desk, turning up the lamp.
“Such a painful sacrifice on your part isn’t necessary, mademoiselle. Please wrap a sheet around yourself at least—improvise a Roman toga, if you can. I can assure you that a little modesty and even coyness at times can be much more appealing to a man than such a blatant display of nudity.”
“Oh!” He had managed to make her angry at last. “And what makes you think that I am interested in making myself appealing to a man? If I am to judge all men by you, it wouldn’t matter; all you think of is your own selfish pleasure even if it has to be forced on an unwilling victim!”
He looked at her consideringly, the reflection of the lamp’s light in his eyes making them appear as golden as hers for an instant.
“Am I really that selfish? Poor little victim! But then, you see, I’ve been used to taking women as they come—and go. Do you want me to make you an exception?”
“I want nothing from you except my freedom!”
Sullenly Marisa turned her back on him, snatching a sheet off the unmade bed to wrap around herself. How she detested him! And what subtle new form of torment did he plan to use on her this time? What she had flung at him was true. She only longed to be free, and especially of him!
7
An obviously disapproving Donald brought dinner, sniffing loudly as he laid the table and setting down steaming covered dishes with an unnecessary clatter that caused his captain to raise an eyebrow and inquire politely if perhaps he was getting too old for life at sea.
Marisa sulked in the farthest corner of the big bed, keeping her back stubbornly turned; but she could not help overhearing the conversation. She could almost imagine Donald’s long face, and the way his lips must be pursed. Well, at least Donald was on her side, and as soon as they reached France she’d beg him to help her….
“And why would ye be wanting both wine and champagne?” Donald was asking in a gruff voice. “I can’t recall as ye’ve ever displayed much liking for the vile, wicked stuff before. All bubbles, it is, and only meant for—”
He cast a pitying glance towards Marisa who was smothered under the bedcovers, and he was angry enough to glower at the captain. He had no right to treat a young, unprotected child as if she were some dockside trollop picked up for his pleasure!
Dominic Challenger, reading what was in the older man’s mind, gave him a sarcastic smile. “Why should I need to seduce her when both you and she keep reminding me that she’s ruined already? And I happen to have a taste for champagne tonight—and none at all for your preaching, you old reprobate!”
Donald opened his mouth to speak again and found his speech cut off by a steely, threatening look. He left without speaking again.
Suddenly a spicy aromatic scent filled the cabin, making Marisa’s mouth water in spite of all her resolutions. Dominic had taken the covers off the silver dishes that Donald had brought in, and the delicious smell was almost too much for her to bear! Marisa bit her lip, her back stiffening, and the next moment she jumped as a cork popped loudly.
‘So that’s his game. I’m supposed to crawl and beg for my food now…. Well, we’ll see!’
The odor of seafood and spices and saffron-flavored rice took her suddenly back to Martinique. Oh, why hadn’t maman left her behind on that warm, happy island with her grandparents instead of dragging her off to France?
She was so hungry that even his presence could not stop the involuntary growling of her empty stomach, and Marisa blushed with shame.
“If you’re not hungry, petite, perhaps a glass of champagne will help you cheer up. We’ll soon be in France, and you might want to celebrate the parting of our ways!”
Lately he had taken to speaking to her in French; and as usual, his sarcastic tone of voice made her grit her teeth with anger. If she didn’t eat he was just as likely to have the meal cleared away as soon as his own appetite was satisfied.
Wrapping a sheet loosely around her, she finally sat down opposite him. Captain Challenger’s shirt was open to his waist, and she could not help noticing, all over again, the strangely wrought medal he wore on a silver chain around his neck. She had asked him about it before, and he’d only shrugged, telling her it was a good-luck charm given him by an old friend.
“It looks like a heathen thing to me!” she’d said primly and saw his lip curl ironically.
“You would appear the heathen to the man who gave me this, little wildcat. Stop acting so curious.”
Well, she would not ask him any more questions. She knew all she wanted to know about him, although his behavior tonight puzzled her. He had made Donald lay the table as if for a formal dinner party; and now he instructed her on the correct implements to use, all the while keeping her glass full to the brim with champagne.
“You might as well learn to eat like a lady instead of a hungry savage! Do you want this aunt of yours to feel ashamed of you? Or your lovers—”
“I would not take any lovers! Now that you’ve taught me what men really want from a woman I think I would much rather be a nun, after all!”
“Just think what you would have missed—immured in a Spanish convent!”
His eyes crinkled at the corners—why did she have to notice that? And when she would have answered him loftily, Marisa choked on her champagne instead. She spluttered, breathing up bubbles of champagne that seemed to penetrate her very brain, making it float away from her body.
“I think it’s time for your next lesson, ma fille.”
The sheet she had wrapped herself with had somehow vanished, and she was lying backward on the bed, her head spinning alarmingly.
“Since you are so determined to become a nun, you had better learn the ways in which men can take advantage of you.”
Had she dreamed the husky whisper? Marisa gasped with shock as something cold and wet trickled over her breasts and down her belly. Her body jerked, arching involuntarily, and her eyes, as she tried to focus them, held a puzzled, confused look.
“You are pouring champagne all over me! Are you mad? Stop—”
Marisa began to giggle helplessly the next moment when Dominic, bending his dark head to hers, said severely,
“Will you hold still, vixen? It would be a shame to waste all that champagne.”
Neither of them had eaten very much, being far too occupied in arguing, and she thought for a moment that he was as drunk as she. She became aware, all of a sudden, of a strange sensation. His lips and tongue were tracing the path of the champagne, and going even further, in fact…
Marisa tried to wriggle away, but he held her pinioned, concentrating first on one quivering breast and then the other until she felt her whole body burning with embarrassment. And—and—oh, it was the strangest feeling, but although she struggled and moaned, she did not really want him to stop, not even when her nipples were achingly sensitive under his hands, and his seeking mouth moved much lower—across her taut, shrinking belly—lower still, until—
Until frightened both of herself and him, she began to fight against him in earnest, her breath sobbing in her throat, limbs writhing as she fought to close her thighs against this different kind of encroachment.
Forgetting her pride in her fear, Marisa began to plead with him, although somewhere in the back of her mind a small demon sat grinning and damned her for being a hypocrite. She had come closer than she ever had before to understanding desire—so close that when with a muttered expletive he slid himself up her body and kissed her mouth instead, she was almost sorry. She felt as if she had been on the brink of some strange and new experience, and now she had lost it.
Still, when he parted her thighs with his hands she made none of her usual protest, but let him, quivering again only very slightly when his fingers touched her. There, where his lips had brushed only moments ago.
“My poor jeune fille. Is the thought of seduction so frightening to you that you have to fight me tooth and nail?”
She realized then that she had actually clawed at his shoulders. When he leaned over her, penetrating her quickly and deeply, she tasted his blood against her lips and wondered in the back of her mind what had made him so patient with her tonight. Any other man she might have called kind, but she had learned that Dominic Challenger wasn’t. He was a man who took what he wanted, and women were a convenience, no more—she remembered that he had snarled that at her one night.
She would never understand him, why even try. It was the champagne that made this time different from all those others and made her head whirl and her breasts ache against his chest where the funny foreign medal he wore pressed into her flesh, warm from his body, like a brand.
He held her against him all night, his flesh still part of hers. And he took her again in the morning when she was still half-asleep, quickly and impatiently this time, without a kiss or a caress. But at least he pulled the covers back over her when he left; and turning over with a sigh, Marisa slept again.
When she woke it was well past noon. Donald, his eyes carefully averted, brought her a tray and informed her that they were approaching the coast of France. They should be safely berthed in the harbor of Nantes by nightfall.
When he had gone, Marisa jumped quickly out of bed, grimacing slightly at the bad taste the champagne had left in her mouth. She could see nothing out of the porthole, for the captain’s cabin was at deck level and not high enough for her to catch a glimpse of anything but the same blue, heaving ocean. Turning back with a sigh of disappointment, she discovered her “clothes”—the same patched-up garments she had worn during her short masquerade as a cabin boy. They were folded and lying neatly on a small chest at the foot of the bed.
A tacit reminder that the captain now desired her dressed for a change? Biting her lower lip, Marisa stared at the dirty-white shirt and breeches with distaste. During the time she had spent at sea, she had managed, somehow, to detach herself from reality. A ship was a world within itself, and since he had elected to keep her for his use, she had not come in contact with a single other human except Donald. She found herself wondering now if the rest of the crew even knew of her existence. The ambiguity of the situation she was placed in suddenly struck her with the force of a blow, and she flinched, snatching up the garments she had despised a moment ago.
France! But they were still quite some distance from Paris. What did he intend to do with her once they had disembarked? Surely he would allow her off the ship; he had said that women were considered bad luck. And if he did, then what?
She was given no chance to ask any questions. Some time much later in the afternoon Dominic came striding into the cabin, giving her only a cursory glance, and collected a sheaf of papers off his desk before leaving again. She heard voices, running feet on the deck, the shrill whistle of the boatswain’s pipe, and the creaking of timbers. Mr. Benson’s voice shouted orders that were unintelligible, and she guessed they were hauling down sail, for the normally swift passage of the ship seemed to have slowed so that now she could actually hear the lapping of water against her sides instead of the hiss as the sharp prow cut through the waves. It was intolerable that she should have to stay cooped up here, and especially now; but she dared not show herself on deck, either.
The rough cotton garments, washed in sea water with strong soap, chafed her skin, especially at the neck and waist. For a time Marisa paced angrily about the cabin, and then, flinging herself into a chair, she picked up the shabby, leather-bound volume of Shakespeare’s plays that had so fascinated her before. As she turned the pages, trying to find the place where she had stopped, Marisa wondered how it was that the bad-tempered Captain Challenger should come to have such a book in his possession. She could not imagine him taking the time to sit down and read, and yet it appeared well-worn, like a book of poetry by someone called Donne that she had also discovered on his desk.
Suddenly she found herself staring down at the frontispiece—why hadn’t she noticed it before? There was a scrawled Latin inscription, Inopem me copia fecit, ‘Plenty makes me poor’—not his writing, surely? The hand was feminine, the ink faded. And below it, simply a name. ‘Peggy.’ Who was Peggy? What had she been to him?
It was the first question she asked him when he finally returned to the cabin, once the ship was safely at anchor.
He looked tired and irritable and didn’t bother to speak one word to her; he merely sat on the end of the bed to take off his boots.
“Who is Peggy? Your wife?” Until the words slipped out she had not considered the possibility that he might, indeed, have a wife tucked away somewhere. She didn’t know why the thought should disturb her—except that it made her own position so much the worse. His mistress!
Still occupied in tugging off his wet boots he looked up uncomprehendingly at first; then he frowned.
“What?”
“I asked you if your wife’s name is Peggy. Or was she merely one of your mistresses?”
His face whitened, and then a look of such fury came over it that Marisa shrank back against the bulkhead.
“You damned, prying little bitch!” He said it softly, between his teeth. “What in hell do you mean by that? Where did you—”
The book she had been holding dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, catching his eye.
There was a silence that stretched unendingly, while Marisa stayed flattened against the wall, not daring to look at him. Oh, God. Why had she spoken? He’d looked furious enough to kill her with his bare hands!
And then he said in a surprisingly quiet, controlled voice, “Peggy was my mother. And I have no wife—nor do I intend ever to saddle myself with one. Do you understand?”
At last she managed to raise her eyes to his face, and he gave a harsh, ugly laugh. “Your eyes are as big as saucers. Did I really succeed in frightening you at last?” Before she could find her voice to respond, he stood up and crossed the room with two long strides and caught her shoulders. “Don’t ever ask me questions about myself, menina. You might not like the answers you receive!”
“I—I didn’t mean—” She didn’t mean to stutter either, but she could not help it.
He pulled her against his chest and held her there as if to comfort her for having scared her half out of her wits. “Never mind. It’s not your fault, and I’m a moody devil at the best of times. It’s a good thing for you we’ll soon be going our separate ways.”
