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“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.”
Marisa didn’t dare question him again as he swept her up into his arms and carried her over to the bed. Not then, while he undressed her with surprising gentleness and then lay beside her, his hands moving over her trembling, acquiescent body as if he wished to memorize it.
“You haven’t learned passion yet, have you?” he said softly once. “And I’m too damned impatient and selfish to be your instructor, although sometimes, when you lie here like a shivering trapped animal I find myself wondering—”
He was talking more to himself than to her, and she wondered at this different mood and its cause. Perhaps he’d be relieved to be rid of her; she knew she would be relieved to have her body belong to herself again.
Now, recognizing the signs of his desire as he pressed his lips against the vein that throbbed in her neck, Marisa expected him to take her without any further preliminaries. For the last time, perhaps. Tomorrow—hadn’t he talked of their going separate ways? But instead, he cursed softly under his breath and rolled away from her.
With disbelieving eyes she watched him get up and begin to dress.
“Where are you going?” And then she bit her lip. Hadn’t he just warned her not to question him?
He answered her in the old, hard voice she was used to.
“On deck—for some air. I let most of the crew go ashore tonight; they haven’t had the kind of sweet consolation you’ve provided me with for the past weeks, my sweet. It’s time I relieved Mr. Benson and took my turn at watch.” Pulling a heavy coat over his shoulders he turned to look at her with unreadable, slaty eyes. “Go back to sleep. You ought to rest well tonight.”
She raised herself on one elbow, puzzled by his sudden change of mood, and half-afraid too.
“And—and tomorrow?” she faltered, to be answered by his sarcastic, cutting laugh.
“Why, tomorrow I’ll smuggle you ashore, and you’ll be free of me, as you long to be. It won’t take you much time to find another protector—perhaps a kinder and more patient one. Good night, little gypsy!”
8
The next day was all bustle and confusion, and Marisa felt like a sleepwalker moving in a kind of daze.
She had hardly slept—her mind a welter of jumbled, unpleasant thoughts. She missed the usual motion of the ship riding through the ocean swells, and the bed seemed suddenly cold and far too large.
When Donald came for her, she felt as if she had barely fallen asleep, and he clucked impatiently, keeping his back turned while she bathed her swollen eyes with cold water and slipped, shivering, into the only garments she possessed. The captain had tired of his mistress, and she was the cabin boy again. In fact he had not even troubled himself enough to wish her a good-bye, and she could catch no glimpse of him when she followed Donald on deck, blinking in the sudden rush of sunlight.
Donald kept hurrying her, warning her to keep the woolen cap he had handed her pulled well down over her head. Too weary and confused to ask him any questions, she went with him unquestioningly, hardly caring where he was taking her. It could not matter; she was in France at last, safe and well, if a trifle shopworn. A slight, bitter smile that she was not aware of touched her soft mouth for an instant, causing Donald to give her a sharp look and then shake his head. ‘Poor child, poor wronged creature! What will become of her now?’ he wondered. It was not right that the captain should have treated her so harshly, unless it was to teach them all a lesson for deceiving him. ‘I should not have brought her aboard the Challenger,’ Donald reflected gloomily now. ‘The lass would have been better off in a Spanish orphanage, or even one of them papist convents.’
He blamed himself, the poor man, but he blamed his captain more and had spoken his mind frankly, risking both the black rage and the punishment that might follow.
“You should not have brought her aboard my ship, old man, if you meant to save her from me!” Dominic Challenger had said harshly. And then shrugging, as if to temper his previous outburst of anger, he said, “Besides, the chit is not important; and if it had not been me the first time it would have been someone else. Do you think she was in such a passion to get to France merely so that she could keep her virtue?”
Even Mr. Benson, after he had received his dressing down, had gone back to reading his Bible and quoting it to all. “If she was not lost before, she is now. Fallen by the wayside…”
Marisa was unaware of the thoughts in Donald’s head. Gradually she had begun to feel as if she were waking up from a dream to realize where she was and what had brought her here. France—her mother’s country. No longer living in terror and torn apart by bloody revolution, but gay and vital and bursting with all the energy of change and progress. She had been a little girl when she had fled, her mind clouded by memories of horror, but she still remembered some of the towns where the gypsies had stopped to give exhibitions of juggling and dancing—and to pick the pockets of unwary citizens. But that had been long ago, and she was back. Oh, surely there would still be some of her mother’s friends alive and still living in Paris who would remember her! Perhaps, by some lucky chance she would be able to find her Aunt Edmée. In France, where all the fashionable ladies took lovers, the little matter of her lost virginity would not brand her disgraced and unfit for marriage.
Yes, what a long way she had come, the young girl who had wanted to stay hidden behind the walls of a convent for the rest of her life! She had learned that to be raped by a man did not necessarily mean being ripped to pieces inside, and that to submit passively made it easier, if no less unpleasant. If that was all that marriage entailed, then she would much rather be a wife than a mistress, who could be too easily discarded.
With a curiously defiant gesture of pride, Marisa lifted her head, staring about her. They had left the noise and bustle of the harbor front and were now walking down a narrow street in the older part of town. Unused to walking on dry land, Marisa’s legs had already begun to ache, and the rough cobblestones stung her bare feet.
Where was Donald taking her? He turned his head to give her a worried look.
“I’m sorry to have made ye walk such a distance, lassie, but folks would think it strange to see the likes of what you look like now to be riding in a carriage. It’s no’ far now.”
He led her through a narrow, dirty alleyway where the sun seemed cut off by the buildings on either side of it, and then through a small gate into the back courtyard of what appeared to be a small inn, or posting house. There was no one about, although a few scrawny-looking chickens ran squawking out of their way. Up a rickety wooden stairway that seemed to lean against a wall for support and then from a tiny balcony into a small but clean and pleasant-looking room.
To cover his own embarrassment, Donald’s manner had become gruffly businesslike. “There’s a change of clothes for ye laid out on the bed and water in the pitcher there if you’d care for a wash. It’s a good thing they were all so busy out in front with a party of damned English stopping to change horses. They’re all over France now, I hear, since the peace was signed these few months ago. But ye’ll not be concerned with that. I’ll be going down now to find you something to eat, for you must be starved. Best lock the door behind me—you never know in these foreign places.”
Clothes, female clothes at last! How had Donald procured them for her? But before she could ask, he had disappeared, tactfully closing the door behind him, and Marisa could not bear to wait another instant before she stripped off her scratchy, disgusting boy’s garments, to try on her new attire.
How the fashions had changed! She remembered that the queen of Spain and the duquesa de Alba had worn such high-waisted, flimsy gowns, although theirs had been of expensive, transparent material covered with embroidery in silver and gold. This gown was of cloth, a dark brown color that reminded her for an instant of the Carmelite habit. But there the resemblance ended for it was bound just under the breasts with yellow-gold ribbons that fell fluttering almost to the hem, following the straight lines of the narrow skirt. The high neck and long sleeves, puffed in tiers, were also trimmed with the same color ribbon, and so was the straw bonnet which was lined with brown.
A plain dress, obviously made by a provincial dressmaker and meant for traveling, but it was still the prettiest that Marisa had owned since her childhood. She decided critically that although a trifle loose it fit her passably well, as did the kid half boots that laced with ribbon.
Peering into the small mirror, Marisa pulled at her short curls trying to make them lie in place around her face. There. That was better! And now she almost looked like a woman, or would have if her figure had been a trifle fuller.
A knock at the door made her whirl about, and when she heard Donald’s voice she ran to open it, almost throwing her arms about him in gratitude for his thoughtfulness.
While she wolfed down a slice of cold mutton pie she listened as he explained that the captain had given him orders to see that she got safely to Paris. If she had no objections, they would tell anyone that asked she was his French niece whom he had not seen since she was a baby, and that they were on their way to Paris from the province of Toulouse.
Marisa gave him a suspicious look.
“How do you know so much about France?”
“I don’t, lassie! Only some of the ports. But the captain told me what I was to say.”
She sniffed. “How considerate of him! I’m sure he’s good at making up lies.”
“Ah, well.” He shook his head at her. “He’s a hard man to understand, sometimes, an’ there’s a devil riding his shoulder that makes him the way he is. You wouldna’ understand.”
Marisa bit her lip to stop herself from asking the questions she longed to, and she told herself that she had already put him out of her mind. Once she arrived in Paris she would never see him again. No doubt he’d go back to his pirating after the broken mast was fixed and Donald had returned to Nantes, his errand completed.
And in the end, it was easy enough to occupy her mind with other things, once their journey had begun.
The crowded diligence followed the meandering course of the Loire River for a while, and, although their progress was slow and they stopped frequently to rest or change the horses, Marisa did not really mind. Donald pretended to sleep for the most part, and she was free to gaze out of the window, reacquainting herself with the familiar landscape. Her fellow passengers were peasants or minor clerks, and once she had told them she was taking her Scottish uncle to visit some friends of the family in Paris, they did not question her further. Even during these changed times there were refugees everywhere trying to find the families they had been separated from during the revolution. And spies as well, if the rumors were true. It was best not to ask too many questions.
It took them several days to reach the outskirts of Paris, and by this time Marisa felt tired and wilted. She had watched smart carriages, sometimes escorted by dashingly uniformed soldiers, rattle by them in a cloud of dust and had noticed with a pang of envy the women who rode in them. What a peasant she looked like after all!
Suddenly the whole notion of her traveling all the way to Paris on the off-chance of finding some member of her mother’s family seemed utter madness. Look at the trouble it had already brought her! She should have stayed in the convent and obediently married that detestable Don Pedro Arteaga. She should have….
But she had to collect her wandering thoughts quickly when the diligence pulled to a halt with a squeaking of wooden brakes and the passengers began to clamber over each other in their eagerness to alight.
They had stopped before an inn, but on what street and in what part of the city she had no idea. She had no bundle of clothes to cling to; she had nothing, in fact, but the garments on her back and the small purse Donald had thrust awkwardly at her before they set out. Payment for her services, she had thought, blushing angrily, but she had taken it so she wouldn’t hurt Donald’s feelings, and now she was glad she had, for the few coins gave her a feeling of independence.
She had begun to glance around, confused, almost forgetting Donald until he touched her arm gently.
“It’ll be dark soon—and a rainy night into the bargain, to judge from the looks of the sky.” He was looking around him anxiously as he spoke, as if he, too, were at a loss now that they had finally arrived. “Perhaps we’d best—” he had begun when suddenly he gave a grunt of relief as a man, unobtrusively dressed, who had been studying the faces of the passengers, came forward and spoke in English.
“You’re Donald McGuire? I’m Silas Winters, late of the brig Stella Maris out of the Carolinas. Captain Challenger sent me to look for you.”
Apart from a slight, polite inclination of his head in her direction Silas Winters, a quiet young man, was tactful enough to leave Marisa to her own confused thoughts. He helped her into the small closed carriage, but he seemed more at ease talking to Donald, explaining that his ship had been taken by a Frenchman, and he had recently been released in exchange for a French prisoner.
“I’ve signed up with Captain Challenger. It was a stroke of luck running into him at the ambassador’s house just two nights ago. It seems that we’ve settled our difference with France—for the time being, anyhow!”
All during this time, Marisa felt herself incapable of uttering a word. If she opened her mouth she might very well shriek with sheer rage and frustration. How dare he? She wouldn’t become his prisoner again! If he thought he could treat her as he had done, abandon her without a word, and then have her picked up and brought to him on some whim—what did he want with her this time?
The answer, springing into her mind, made her blush and clasp her hands tightly together in the darkness of the carriage. Oh, no, she wouldn’t! They were no longer on his ship, where as captain he had the power of life and death over everyone on board. She was free, and in Paris, and if he attempted to molest her she would not hesitate to scream as loudly as she could, to bring the gendarmes running. He’d find out….
It began to drizzle as the carriage bowled along the darkening streets, some of them already lit with sputtering oil lanterns, but Marisa was too agitated to notice anything, not even when the two men who sat opposite her fell into a low-voiced conversation that excluded her.
‘He cannot do this to me. Only a few days ago he was telling me how glad he would be when we could go our separate ways. And now, oh! It’s too much to bear.’
She gritted her teeth as the carriage came to a sudden halt before a tall, narrow house in a quiet street, and it was all she could do to murmur a few polite words of thanks to Mr. Winters, who bowed solemnly over her hand. What did he think of her being here? How would he react if she suddenly jumped back into the carriage and demanded to be taken away—taken back to the inn they had just left?
But he had turned away to unlock an iron gate set into the wall and now stood aside to allow her to precede him up a flight of steps lit by a lantern over the door that now loomed up in front of her.
An elderly servant answered a tug on the bell cord, and Marisa found herself within—looking about a small, rather shabby-looking hallway leading to a thinly carpeted stairway at one end and some closed doors to the left and right.
“Guillaume will show you to your room, miss,” Silas Winters said behind her. He coughed apologetically. “I am afraid there are no other servants, not yet. Accommodations are difficult to find in Paris at this time with the English swarming across the channel in droves trying to satisfy their curiosity.” He added quickly, as if he had said too much, “The captain will be staying over at the ambassador’s house tonight—there’s a reception there. But I was to tell you he hopes you’ll find everything you need. Guillaume has already prepared a light supper, and—” he said giving her a sudden, shy smile “—you must be very tired, I’m sure.”
He was quite young, Marisa noticed with surprise. Probably no more than twenty-two or-three at the most. And at least he had the manners of a gentleman. She gave him a tentative smile in return, uncertain now what she would do, and heard Donald say briskly, “That’s right, lass. You go upstairs and rest. And if someone would just show me to the kitchen, now, it’s something I’m needing to eat!”
Once again Marisa felt matters taken out of her hands. Mixed with a feeling of relief that he was not here she could feel her keyed-up mood vanish to be replaced by exhaustion. It wouldn’t hurt, after all, to spend one night here, and in the morning, when she felt rested, she could leave. Somehow, she didn’t feel that this polite young Mr. Winters would feign ignorance at her being kept locked up like a prisoner. Yes, there was always the morning.
How soundly she slept that night! Waking, she did not at first realize where she was. A strange room, like so many others she’d slept in as they had traveled the long road to Paris. The bed was more comfortable than most, and the room quite large but cold, for the small fire that had been lit last night had gone out.
Marisa stretched, blinking her eyes, and noticed that faint sunlight filtered through a crack in the worn velvet draperies covering the window. Somewhere in the room a clock ticked, and she remembered seeing one on the mantelpiece last night, just before she had locked the door.
Memory came flooding back, and she sat up, alarmed, but the door was still closed, and she was alone, shivering with cold and apprehension, in a sparsely furnished room. What time was it? Had he returned yet? She must get away!
Marisa leaped out of bed and ran to the door, testing it to make sure it was locked. A glance at the ormolu clock told her it was already past twelve—she had slept far too long!
Her teeth chattering now, she quickly splashed icy cold water over her face and arms, performing her ablutions as quickly and as best she could. Her crumpled clothes still lay carelessly slung over the chair she had thrown them on last night, and now she began to dress hastily, one eye on the door.
The remorseless ticking of the clock hurried her shaking, numb fingers as she fastened her gown, trying to smooth some of the wrinkles out of it by running her hands down the skirt. Now her stockings and shoes. She pushed the little purse as far down the bosom of her dress as it would go, snatched up her straw bonnet, and with a last glance around the room crept to the door and drew back the bolt, praying it would not make too much noise. Had someone locked it from the outside? No, thank God. It opened without too much squeaking, and she tiptoed out onto the narrow landing she remembered from last night, still without seeing another soul.
Marisa did not quite understand why she suddenly felt so panic-stricken. But she did not want to see him again, her instincts told her that much, and she was following them blindly, intent only upon escape.
Cautiously, she started down the worn stairs, clinging to the thin railing. One careful step at a time, testing each one to make sure it would not creak. There was still no one to be seen, but halfway down she heard the murmur of voices and froze, until she realized that they came through the half-open door of a room to the left of the stairwell.
Her heart began to pound suddenly when she recognized Dominic Challenger’s harsh, exasperated voice.
“Dammit! She’s worth a lot more than that, and you know it! If I didn’t need the money right now I’d keep her for a while longer; she’s trim and easy to handle once you’ve mastered her, but I’m in a hurry to get back home and must be rid of her.”
