A Pirate's Agony (Legends of the Soaring Phoenix Book 3) (4 page)

Her laughter reminded him of clanging chimes, and it rang in his ears, intensifying the throbbing pain on his left temple. 

“Since you’re the only one here from the
Soaring Phoenix
, you’ll pay the price for killing my brother.”

He pushed back the terror brewing in his gut. “Hope he’s rotting in hell.”

Her brows deepened, and her lips turned down into a scowl. “Mmm, seems like it’s time for your first lesson in obedience.”

“I’ll. Never. Obey. You.” His voice low, he emphasized each word.

Appreciation flickered in her cold eyes. “Such fire,
oui
? I bet in bed, you are
splendide
.”

“Devil burn you.”

He summoned all his revulsion and spit. Saliva smacked her on the cheeks. He waited for her to wipe the spit off her face then hurt him. But she did neither. She slowly moved her finger around her cheeks and licked her finger as if it were soaked in butter.

“You taste like musk.” She pulled the coiled whip off her hip and walked around him. “Let’s see how tough you really are,
beau
.”

He braced himself for pain. The whip crackled and lashed his back. He gritted his teeth. For a woman, she was strong, and the slash cut through his taut skin. She flayed him again and again, slicing through muscle, opening up old scars and releasing the terror of the past. Each time, he held his tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of begging for mercy. He was Amadi, the formidable master gunner aboard the
Soaring Phoenix
.

Forget the pain.

He clenched his fists and curled his toes, hoping she’d tire. But she seemed to have the strength of eleven men, and he’d lost count at twenty.

“I see the lash will not release a struggled scream, no? How disappointing.” 

She stopped, and Amadi inhaled a ragged breath.

Something shook behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The
Maîtresse
dumped a small canister into her hand. Salt. Lordy. He hadn’t noticed a small canister on a table. 

He inhaled and exhaled faster.

She flashed her gaze over him as she rubbed her palms together.

No!

She smeared her palms over his cut flesh. Searing agony flared through him as she massaged his back, the salt seeping into his wounds. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut and yelled—a deep agonizing scream.

“Ah,
oui
, ’tis what I wanted to hear.”

She leaned her head against his trembling body then ran her tongue over his sensitive back.

He jerked. “Stop!” But to his disappointment, his voice was a dying gasp.

“You’re not giving the orders,
gentil beau
.” She cupped his ass, her nails scratching his flesh. 

He twisted, but he couldn’t move and spasms of pain rushed through his body.

The
Maîtresse
released him and walked over to the wall with torture devices—thumbscrews, saws of different sizes, mallets, daggers, and branding irons. She ran her hand over each device until she came upon a stained mallet. 

He sucked in his breath and couldn’t help but shake. He remembered the Capt’n’s mangled limbs.

She lifted the mallet. “I thought about tying you to my bed, but I wanted you free to worship me.”

His pounding heart sank so fast he had an urge to grab it. “Never,” he panted, his voice strained.

“You lust for freedom.” She slowly flashed her gaze over him.

He wanted a blanket to cover his nakedness. ’Twas as if he were a tool, not human. He lifted his head in defiance. With each breath, he vowed, “When I’m free, I’ll kill you.”

“So brave, so
stupide
.” She swung the mallet and smashed it into his knee.

He leaned his head back and screamed, losing his pride.

“So sorry.”

Her jesting tone flared his contempt. She
was
the one who wasn’t human.

She swung the mallet into his side. Bones broke. Anguish gripped him. He fought to breathe.

But she wasn’t done. She hung up the mallet and picked up the branding iron that had been in the fire pit. The letters SM glowed fiery red and orange. “I want everyone to know you belong to me—including you.” 

As a slave, he’d never been branded. He’d escaped that fate. Terror pushed his heart to beat faster and faster, his blood rushing through him. This couldn’t be happening. He was a free man. A powerful man. A vampire. He struggled, pulling on the damn chains, but he was locked tight.

She studied him as if she was looking where to humiliate him. An evil smile spread across her thin lips. A smile that froze his blood. She edged closer.

“I’m going to brand you as mine. So every woman will know you belong to me.” She brought the iron close to his manhood, warming his inner thighs.

Sweat poured down his back and he trembled. “No!”

But he only received harsh laughter. She thrust the iron into his right inner thigh. Pain seared into him. He flung his head back and howled.

The agony stopped, but he couldn’t think. Dizziness swept over him, and he wished he’d pass out so he wouldn’t have to look at her satisfied smirk.

“You’re mine.” She tossed the branding iron back into the glowing pit.

The stench of his burned flesh churned his gut. He was branded, a piece of property.

But the bitch wasn’t done. She grabbed his cheeks and squeezed, digging her nails into flesh, forcing his mouth open. She stuck her tongue inside his mouth, raping his mouth. He struggled but it was useless. Torment consumed him.

“Until tomorrow.” She released him and pinched his ass hard. Her lips were stained with blood, and she licked them clean. “You taste so good.”

She ambled out of the chamber, swaying her hips. Leaving him with his misery, his humiliation. 

Violet sat across from her
Mademoiselle
Celeste. Celeste waved her fan in front of her flush face. “Tonight I want to win big.
Je veux cèlèbrer
.” Her blue eyes dilated with excitement.

“Yes,
Maîtresse
. I’ll make sure you win.” Violet acted the dutiful servant, forcing a tight smile across her face.

Greed flashed into Celeste’s eyes. “
Bien
.”

Revulsion rolled over Violet. She clenched her fists. How could Celeste torture Amadi like that? Violet and the other servants had been forced to listen to his curses and yells during dinner while Dubois leaned against the door, holding a pistol. Each time Amadi cried out, Dubois had a sick smile on his twisted face. Violet had picked at her chicken. Dubois had walked away from the door to eat a piece of bread. Violet had wanted to run down into the dungeon and kill Celeste, but she’d be dead before she even reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Violet.”

Violet turned her gaze away from the window, wishing she could change places with any of the men and women walking the boardwalks of Saint Kitts. “I’m not gloomy.”

“
Oui
, you are. You’ve been pouting ever since we left the
Sorcière de Mer
.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“Don’t argue with me.”

Violet clamped her mouth shut. She’d learned long ago, arguing with Celeste lead to pain.

Celeste tapped Violet’s knee with her fan. “He’s a slave and meant to do our bidding. Nothing more.”

Bidding? That’s what she called it? Violet pretended to act bored, but her insides seethed with anger. “He hadn’t done anything yet.”

“
Oui
, he had,
imbècile
. He’s an escaped slave and needed to be set as an example. I will not tolerate any rebellions.” She sat taller and braced her back.

But she wasn’t fooling Violet. Celeste lived in fear of a rebellion. She should be afraid, very afraid. If anyone deserved their slaves to revolt, it was Celeste.

The carriage pulled into the circle drive of Harold’s, St. Kitt’s most expensive gaming house. It was a two-story white building with windows with pink shutters.

The young footman, Sammy, opened the door and helped Celeste down the steps. “Welcome,
Maîtresse
Celeste.”

“Hello, Sammy,” she said. But she didn’t look at him. He was skinny and scrawny, not the type of buck she craved. Lucky for Sammy.

Violet dutifully trailed behind Celeste, her head bent. Sammy took her hand and bowed. “Good evening, Miss Violet. You look lovely tonight.” He squeezed her fingers slightly like he always did. Sammy always looked at Violet as if she was the prettiest woman in town. She didn’t know why. She wore drab clothes, thanks to Celeste. In this humidity, her hair curled into an unruly mess. Her skin had turned brown and wasn’t white and pristine like Celeste’s. She usually would give the young man a flashing smile, but tonight she could only manage a slight whisper. “Thank you.”

Celeste glowered and flicked her fan, slapping Violet hard on the arm. “Come along, Violet.”

Violet winced and nodded. “Yes,
Maîtresse
.” She rubbed her arm, not understanding Celeste’s jealousy. Twasn’t like she could compete with Celeste’s hourglass figure and curly black hair.

Two muscular guards stood at the door. Harold Bristol, the owner, only invited the wealthy—the very wealthy. Those who tried to enter uninvited ended up at the nearby doctor’s office. Harold’s word was law.

One of the guards opened the door. “Good evening,
Maîtresse
D’Aubigne.”

“Charles,” Celeste said.

Charles didn’t greet Violet. He never did.

Violet followed Celeste into the gaming room. Harold’s was crowded with women of ill repute. Wives were not allowed to come, because they were thought to keep their husbands from gambling. Cheap laughter and the clanging of glasses hurt Violet’s ears. She wanted to be outside rather in this greed pit.

Celeste entered the primero room, where four men, including the dealer, sat at a round table. When she walked in, all four men stood.

“Welcome
Maîtresse
D’Aubigne,” the dealer said. He had gray around his temples, and his wire-rimmed glasses made his gray eyes sharper.

“I hope I’m not late,” Celeste said as she toyed with the diamond pendant that lay between the valley of her breasts. 

Tall, blond, and arrogant, Captain Stocking rushed over to the empty chair and pulled it out. “No, not at all. My, my, that’s a shiny trinket you’ve got there.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the diamond.

“This old thing,” she laughed. “I didn’t know you had arrived,
Capitaine.
You didn’t come and see me.” She pouted and stuck out her hand.

Her deep voice grated Violet’s nerves.

Captain Stocking kissed Celeste’s hand. “I just arrived last night and have delivered new slaves to the auctioneer. I’m sure you’ll find some to your liking.” He played with his mustache and glanced over at Violet, who sat in her usual seat against the wall.

The captain never looked at her face; he always stared at her breasts. She didn’t know why since her breasts were much smaller than Celeste’s. Violet glared and only received a mild amused smirk from the captain. She clutched her hands tight. Captain Stocking’s ship was the
Magnificent
, a notorious slave ship. Slaves arrived in horrible conditions—starved, beaten, diseased.

Simon Overly smiled, and his lewd gaze stripped Celeste of her gown. Violet hated his constant leering stare, but Celeste did not seem to mind. In fact, she encouraged his lecherous attention. 

“You look lovely tonight, Celeste,” he said. “I missed seeing you last night.”

Celeste waved her fan in front of her face. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

Violet bit her lip to keep from blurting the truth. What would the youngest son of the Overly Viscounts think if he knew Celeste passed him over for a slave?

Shrill female laughter made Violet jump. The door opened. Eyes blurry, Brett Livingston hung all over a blond prostitute who was at least twenty years his junior. He kissed her on the lips. “I’ll see you later, Candy.”

She turned and he pinched her buttocks. She squealed and swung her head, her expression blank.

Violet didn’t know if the woman squeaked from pleasure or pain. Livingston was rumored to be generous, but he demanded the women indulge in his every depravity.

“One of these days, Harold’s has to let me have a lady in here.” He licked his narrow lips.

“Prostitutes are forbidden in here,” the dealer said. “Only ladies are permitted.” He gave Celeste an approving smile.

Violet wanted to inform each of the men of what the lady did to her slaves, but the men wouldn’t believe her. Celeste’s beauty fooled all of the idiots. She didn’t feel bad about helping Celeste steal from them. None of the men had any morals.

  She had the perfect angle to observe the men. Celeste had given her signals on how to decipher if the men were bluffing or had a winning hand or a losing hand. Violet was supposed to twirl her hair around her finger if a man bluffed, rub her nose if they held a winning hand, or fold her arms across her chest if they had a losing hand. But tonight, she was tempted to switch to punish Celeste for hurting Amadi, except Celeste would know. Violet’s rashes would turn her into a cherry.

The dealer motioned to a waitress, who hurried over to the table. She took their orders. Celeste ordered sweet tea laced with brandy while the men ordered rum. The waitress did not bother taking Violet’s order. She was invisible.

“Please ante up,” the dealer said. “The starting bet is one hundred pounds.”

Each player complied. No one flinched at the outrageous number. This was high stakes.

The dealer dealt out two cards to each player. Celeste cast a sly glance at Violet. Violet sighed. Each man had a blank expression. They were all experienced card players and experts in hiding a winning or losing hand.

“Captain Stocking?” The dealer asked.

“I do not want to bid.”

“Neither do I,” Simon said.

“Nor I,” Bert said.

“I do not want to bid, either,” Celeste said.

The dealer dealt two cards to each player.

“I’ll pass,” Captain Stocking said. He discarded two cards and drew two more.

Violet couldn’t see his cards since his back was to her.

Celeste tilted her head. A signal that Violet was supposed to read the man’s voice. But Violet pretended like she hadn’t heard the Captain’s voice. He was lying. She knew he was lying, but she’d be damned if she’d let Celeste win tonight. She’d pay for ignoring Celeste, whether it was a mistake or intentional. Celeste liked to play to win. Violet’s back bore the scars of Celeste’s losing streak.

Simon discarded two of his cards. “Give me two more.”

“I have a numerous thirty,” Bert said. “I bid another fifty pounds.” His face was blank.

But Violet knew he was bluffing. She twirled her hair, hating herself.

“I’ll pass,” Celeste said. She discarded two cards and drew two more.

“I’ll stake,” Captain Stocking said. He put another fifty pounds into the pot. “I bid a numerous thirty-two and bid another fifty pounds.”

Violet clutched her hands tight. Captain Stocking had a winning hand but understated what he held. She should rub her nose, but she wanted Celeste to lose. Knowing she’d pay for this later, Violet twirled her hair. Her skin burned on her throat. The damn blotches were coming.

“I’ll take another card,” Simon said.

To stop the blotches, Violet quickly folded her arm across her chest to signal that Simon had a losing hand. Her neck still burned, but it lessened in intensity. She hoped Celeste hadn’t noticed.

Bert rubbed his finger under his nose, a sure sign he’d drank too much and was not concentrating on the game. “I’ll take more cards.”

Costly mistake, since he definitely had a winning hand.

He tossed fifty more pounds into the pot. She couldn’t read his mind, but suspected the new cards helped his hand.

“I’ll pass,” Celeste said.

The dealer gave her two cards.

Based on how stiff she sat, Violet knew she had a losing hand. She’d blame Violet for sure.

Captain Stocking threw in another fifty pounds. His gesture screamed that he had a winning hand and Violet had lied.

Celeste wrinkled her brows. Suspicion grew in her eyes.

Violet turned her head away. She’d be punished.

“I’ll pass,” Simon said. He took two more cards.

Bret threw in another fifty pounds.

Celeste glared at Violet. “I’ll pass.”

Violet squirmed under her hatred. 

“The hand has ended,” the dealer said. “Please show your cards, gentlemen and my lady.”

Captain stocked turned his hand over. He had a queen of clubs, an Ace of spades, seven of hearts, and four of diamonds.

“Very good sir,” the dealer said. “You have a primero worth sixty-one points.”

Simon slammed his cards down. “I have nothing but a numerous.”

Brett turned his hand over. He had a five of spades, two of clubs, three hearts, and a five of diamonds.

“Mr. Livingston has a primero worth fifty-nine points,” the dealer said. “
Maîtresse
?”   

Celeste tapped her fingers on the table. Her clicking matched Violet’s beating heart. “I have nothing,
Monsieur
.”

Violet got her wish, but she’d pay for it. Celeste always blamed her when she lost. This time would be no different.

***

Later that night, Violet kept repeating to herself that Amadi was worth it. Or was he?

Celeste pushed Violet hard. “You’ll pay for your insolence. Now take off your gown and lay down on the bed.”

Violet lifted her chin in defiance and hoped she hid the fear brewing in her stomach. She hurried to take off her gown, hating that her fingers shook.

Celeste smacked the end of the whip in her palm. She had lost over three hundred pounds at the gaming table and blamed Violet. The
Maîtresse
refused to admit that she was not a sharp primero player. Her endless arrogance would be the death of her.

Violet lay on her small bed and gripped the rough blanket tight. She clenched her jaw and vowed not to give Celeste the satisfaction of hearing her cry out.

The whip cracked. The first lash tore into Violet’s shoulder. Pain sliced through her.

“You will do as I say. I own you. I paid Thomas a good price for you and until you pay every coinage, you’re mine.” With each word, Celeste wielded the whip again and again.

Slashes ripped Violet’s shift, flaying her back. Agony pulsed through her. Tears pooled in her eyes. She released a muffled groan.