Captive Embraces (25 page)

“Are you certain you want to leave right away, Camilla?” Tyler asked. “I know how much you detest storms.”

“Yes, but I detest starvation even more. Really, I must depart. Before I do, though, have I thanked you for your little loan?”

“More than adequately, sweetheart,” Tyler kept his voice light and even. Yet Camilla perceived a hint of contempt edging his words and looked at him inquisitively.

“You're quite a girl, Camilla. One can always say you never take without giving. You always pay somehow or other for what you get, don't you?”

Fury fired Camilla's eyes. “I'd like to think this afternoon was worth more than fifteen pounds to you, Tyler,” she said caustically.

“I could have gotten the same and more down on Rotten Row for a shilling,” he lied, wanting to hurt her.

“Then it's to there you should go, Tyler. And a pox be on you!” her temper flared. “How would you like it if I dropped it in the Baroness' ear that her son frequents the whorehouses in the slums?”

Tyler laughed. “I wouldn't do that, Camilla. My mother is apt to ask you where on Rotten Row your father has opened a house for you.”

“You pig!” Camilla screamed, slapping Tyler soundly across the face. “Perhaps I should let all be damned and confess to your beloved parents that we've been married for nearly three years now and you're simply waiting for them to pass on to their reward to claim me as your bride!”

“What, and have me disinherited? Camilla, you shock me,” Tyler remarked scornfully. “When I wanted to tell my parents, you and your father talked me out of it. ‘Don't do it,' he said, and like a fool I listened to him! I tought it was
my
skin he was saving, but we both know that's not true. I would be ostracized, disinherited and, along with me, your father would find himself resting in the dung heap! It was his own skin he was watching out for. He knew my parents would banish him from their society and the only reason he is acceptable at all among his peers is that he has my father's endorsement. Without that he'd be cast out of those fashionable drawing rooms like a leper!

“Besides, I'm interested to see to what lengths you'd go to please your Papa. I'll reach my majority of twenty-five in two years' time and that is when I intend to lay my claim to you. Whether you're married to van der Rhys or not! I'll come forward and demand you, Camilla. I have warned you before and you don't seem to believe me.”

“You wouldn't dare! You agreed to pretend our marriage never happened. My father paid thousands to have the records obliterated! You couldn't prove a thing!”

“Ah, sweetheart, but I could. You forget the mariage paper both you and I signed, and I'm happy to say your father's signature giving his consent is also present. I have that document, Camilla, and I'll use it. You know how little I care for society. I much prefer my parents' country estate. And a little scandal never harmed a man's acceptability. It's you and your father who will suffer. I've begged you not to go through with this farce, but you insist. You refuse to stand up to Stephan Langdon. Then pay, Camilla, pay by never knowing when I will strike.”

“You'll never have the chance! My father would kill you first!” Her eyes blazed, her skin flushed, yet her voice was smoothly controlled. “Only this morning father told me he'd make a widow of me. Beware, Tyler, you know as well as I what he is capable of doing when crossed.” Swiftly turning on her heel, she stamped from his office, slamming the door behind her.

Tyler smiled, chuckled, then broke into a raucous laugh. The Langdons both thought Regan was far wealthier than he was in reality. Everything he had been able to secure from Sirena's holdings he had poured into his business. It also occurred to Tyler that Regan thought the Langdons well endowed with property and stocks. He laughed again, the sound bounding hollowly off the walls. They deserved each other, he thought, and he intended to be somewhere about when they learned the truth concerning each other's state of affairs.

Tyler stepped over to the window and looked out. Camilla was just stepping into the hackney carriage. He experienced a knot of jealousy deep in his gut. There was no sense to it, but he knew he loved her. He probably always would. Why couldn't he pull himself up by his bootstraps and go to his parents and tell them the truth? What difference if they did disinherit him?

Sadly, he knew the truth. The difference lay in the fact that if he were penniless Camilla wouldn't have him. The only small satisfaction he could reap from the whole stinking situation was that Camilla was marrying Regan for the money, not for the man.

The trees in Saint James' Park burst into bud and then into bloom. King Street, which passed in front of Sirena's house, became a well-traveled thoroughfare as spring spun greenly toward summer. The ladies of London dug through their wardrobes for lighter gowns of pastel colors. Seamstresses experienced the usual rush for their handiwork. Coaches were polished to gleaming, their matched equine beasts curried to perfection. London was wearing the mantle of sunlight and flora like a new bonnet, and a sense of celebration freshened the air.

Sirena was becoming well known in aristocratic circles. When Stephan Langdon wasn't on her arm, it was Tyler Sinclair. Many other prospective suitors sought her company and she often obliged; but when they would promise her their undying love, she would gently and thoroughly put them aside. She had no wish to enter a relationship with any of them. Tyler was a friend and she enjoyed his company; it was strictly a platonic relationship and Tyler never pressed it further. For this, she was grateful. Stephan, on the other hand, was a perfect gallant, but he never insisted on her kisses or to strengthen their companionship. He sometimes seemed intimidated by her, almost cautious, as though a false move on his part would find him cast from her society.

Stephan enjoyed being Sirena's almost constant escort. His status in the social whirl climbed, and he did not fool himself for a moment that it was his charming self who was welcome at the balls and intimate soirées. It was Sirena and her endorsement by the Baron and Baroness and, of course, her money.

Sirena found herself in demand as every hostess requested her presence whenever they entertained. In return, Sirena repaid their hospitality with lavish balls and elegant dinners that were the envy of the entire city. She spared no expense on food and music. Her gowns were the most stylish and beautiful, and her entertainments gracious without ever being gauche.

Tyler watched her budding romance with Langdon with a cautious eye. He wanted to tell her what he knew about Stephan, but decided against it. Sirena was capable of taking care of herself, and would probably resent his interference.

“Nine more days till Camilla's wedding,” Tyler moaned through clenched teeth. How was he to attend that bogus affair and behave as though there were never anything between himself and Camilla. For a moment he felt pity for van der Rhys. The poor man was getting it from all ends. Then he experienced a bitter bite of hatred for Regan because he was taking Camilla for his own; would share her bed and know her intimately; would learn to know how satiny those girlishly round arms would feel around his neck; would be offered those smooth, white charms and alluring lips. Tyler still loved her; there was no point in denying it. He was helpless. If his parents ever discovered his youthful marriage, they would disinherit him without a second thought. They loved him; they indulged him in all but this. He knew, without doubt, they meant what they said. Until he reached his majority, there was nothing he could do.

How often he had dreamed of proclaiming to the world that Camilla was his wife and inheritance be damned. Yet, while it would free him from this paralyzing agony of loving her and being unable to claim her, it would also be his total undoing.

The lights on the Thames reflected in the inky water like thousands of fireflies. It was the middle of May and the Royal Flotilla was a highlight of the season. Each year, according to tradition, the King, his Court and invited guests, would gather at the Whitehall Privy Stairs, where hundreds of barges and small craft took on their passengers for a leisurely cruise on the river accompanied to minstrels' rhymes and music. All along the route torches blazed, guiding the way. On the banks the citizenry gathered en masse for a glimpse of their sovereign and his party. Finally, when the flotilla passed beneath London Bridge, the passengers would disembark for food and drink on the bridge itself and dance to the minstrels' jaunty tunes.

Because Tyler's parents, the Baron and Baroness, were abroad in Scotland, he took Sirena to the annual event with their invitations. The night had been warm, yet the air was fresh with the salt breeze from the Channel. King Charles had been most charming to his guests and roamed among them freely, wishing them welcome.

The cruise had been a gay affair and Sirena was still laughing at some ridiculous remark of Tyler's when they walked along Thames Street to find Tyler's carriage. The vehicles were lined up and down the thoroughfare, even extending up Bridge Street and onto Fish. It reminded Sirena, suddenly, of the commotion outside the Change where she had very nearly been run down by the mysterious hackney. Even as she thought of it, her blood ran cold and chills coursed up her spine. She had no reason to suspect it had been deliberate, but the occurrence had come back time and again to haunt her dreams.

“Come back here, ye filthy little sniper!” A man's angry voice rang over the distant celebration coming from London Bridge. Tyler immediately pulled Sirena closer to him, protecting her against an unseen threat. This particular section of London was notorious for beggars and thieves. “Come back here!” the loud masculine voice sounded again.

Without warning, from around the corner of St. Martin's Lane came a barely distinguishable form, careening at breakneck speed directly toward them. Beneath the light of flaring links, it was only possible to perceive it was a child, tattered and ragged, wild-eyed with terror, running away from a pursuer. Behind the child raced a footman, the gold braid on his livery gleaming, the light glancing off the heavy cudgel he waved in the air. “I'll get ye, stinking little hellion!”

Unexpectedly, the hurling figure of the child ran directly into Sirena, becoming tangled in her skirt. In that one, brief instant, Sirena looked into the face of a little girl, not more than ten. Frantically, the child tried to disengage herself. Sirena gathered her close, protectively, smelling the rank odor of unwashed hair and filthy rags. The girl looked behind her, shrieking in terror as her pursuer gained ground.

“Please, Mum, let me go! He'll kill me for sure!”

Looking down, Sirena saw a tangle of curly, brown hair and a thin petite face whose dark, shoe-button eyes were too large for it. Not only was there terror in those eyes, but a stricken expression of mistrust and loneliness, the look of the hunted animal. Twisting in Sirena's arms, the child was gone as suddenly as she had come, running down the street on tiny feet which were bare to the elements. The liveried footman came abreast of Tyler, the expression on his face vicious.

“Tyler! Stop him!” Sirena shouted. The thought of what this burly, rough-hewn man could do to that fragile child was abhorrent to her.

Instantly, Tyler imprisoned the footman, wrestling him down to the ground. They struggled for a while before the servant realized he was resisting a member of the gentry. The footman offered no further resistance and quickly lay still beneath Tyler's grasp. “I'm sorry, sir,” he uttered. “You can let me up now.”

When Tyler stood, the footman jumped up and began brushing at his clothes, murmuring over and over again how sorry he was to inconvenience the gentleman.

“That's not important now,” Sirena said angrily. “I want to know why you were chasing that child?”

The footman stopped what he was doing and said, “I'm sorry to have troubled ye, milady. But the filthy little urchin was hiding in my master's carriage and cutting the brass buttons off the seat cushions, she was. When I caught her at it, she spit right in me eye! Little trashmonger!” he said scornfully.

“Watch the way you speak to the lady,” Tyler warned.

Immediately, the footman lowered his head. It would never do to go against the gentry, that was a lesson he had learned early in life. A trough boy from the slums of Whitefriars didn't become footman to a nobleman by bucking the classes.

“And where were you, that the girl was able to slip into the coach?” Tyler asked. “I'd be willing to wager you were visiting a nearby taproom, eh?” From the way the man shifted, Sirena knew Tyler had hit the mark.

“I was feeling a terrible thirst, milord,” the footman excused. “I merely chased the beggar to retrieve the ornaments. I've a wife and four young'uns to support. Them buttons are worth a half-year's wages! My master won't be pleased, sir, not pleased at all,” he whined, glancing off in the direction the child had taken.

“Give him five pounds, Tyler, that should more than cover the cost. I won't have him chasing after the poor little thing when we turn our backs.”

Tyler reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold sovereign. “The lady's being much too generous with you,” he scowled. “I, for one, would have your master discover what a sluggard you are. Here,” he said, pressing the coin into the footman's palm. “Now, be on your way and leave the mite be. After you've seen to new buttons, there's more than enough left for your trouble.”

“Yes, sir. Thank ye, milady,” he stammered obsequiously, as he bowed and turned off in the direction of his coach on St. Martin's Lane.

In the Sinclair coach Tyler watched Sirena. Evidently, the scene with the little girl and the footman had upset her. He had seen a bit of the tiger in her as she protected the waif from the footman.

Sirena knew Tyler was concerned by this sudden silence of hers. Yet, she could not help herself. Somehow the dark, bright eyes of the small child became confused with her memories of Mikel. Mikel, her baby. Beyond the fact they were both children, there was no similarity between the gaunt, dirty beggar with her springy mop of dark curls and the plump, precocious, fair-haired Mikel. Yet, the waif had struck a long, silent chord of motherhood in Sirena and brought with it all the pain of her loss and the need to feel a child near her once more.

She squeezed her eyes shut and barely controlled the shudders of sorrow reborn as she remembered the touch of her son's arms about her neck, the brightness of his smile, the warm, fragrant scent of his hair and the smoothness of his plump cheek beneath her lips. Her heart cried out, her body rebelled at this hollowness, her breasts craved the feel of a child's head resting against it in sleep.

Thankfully, the carriage pulled into the drive; and, before Tyler could disembark and help her down onto the cobbled drive, Sirena tore out of the vehicle and ran past him into the house. The tears had welled up within her and threatened to bellow forth in a scream of anguish. Up the stairs she raced, nearly tripping on her skirts, twisting an ankle, nearly toppling over on her head, till she reached the solitude of her room where she could cry out her rage and enmity to the fates who had taken Mikel.

 

Jacobus settled himself comfortably beneath the sycamore tree in the garden and watched through rum-soaked eyes the progress the workmen were making. He wondered vaguely if he should offer to help. One look at the bottle clutched in his hand and his decision was made. Why work when he could drink? Completely satisfied with his decision, he brought the jug to his lips and guzzled greedily.

The sound of furious cursing woke the seaman from his half-drunken sleep. His hand still clutched around the handle of the jug, he opened a bleary eye, and grimaced. Hell's bells, now what? He forced his other eye to open and looked around. Was it too much to ask to get a little sleep? An unsavory lot if he ever saw one, he thought virtuously. Paid to work and they spent their time arguing. He vowed to bring the matter to the Capitana's attention as soon as he could get his land legs to working.

He was drunk, he decided, and this was no time to go to the Capitana with anything. For now all he could do was sit and hold his hands to his head to ease the pounding between his ears. Dastardly lot of men. A motion in the thick yew bushes to his left drew his attention and he squinted to see if it was Frau Holtz on his trail with another of her make-believe errands. Ever since she told him what her first name was he knew she meant business. She was not the type of person ever to reveal that fact unless she planned to marry him.

He blinked his watery eyes again. It couldn't be, he must be seeing things, he mumbled to himself as he rubbed at his eyes to clear his vision. Dick Blackheart! Next thing he would be seeing was flying angels with harps. The Frau had warned him that when he started seeing things it meant his mind was being eaten by the liquor. What did a crazy old woman know about visions and rum?

Struggling to his knees, his hands still clutching the bottle, he tried to creep nearer to the hedges. It was Dick Blackheart and he would wager his drink against anything anyone wanted to put up against it that he was right. “Damn and blast,” he grumbled. “You there!” he yelled. “What's your business here?”

The figure looked up, then quietly withdrew into the thicket of greenery. When Jacobus opened his eyes again the man had disappeared. He glared at the rum bottle and then tossed it into the hedge. If seeing Blackheart was what rum was going to do to him he would give it up. From now on it was the love of a good woman and strong black coffee. He grinned to himself as he cradled his head in the crook of his arm and was asleep instantly.

 

In the meantime, Sirena walked beside Frau Holtz, nodding approvingly at the preparations behind her mansion for the party she was holding that evening. The previous owners of the dwelling had seen to it that the grounds were a tribute to horticulture, and Sirena had hired several proficient gardeners to foul-low suit.

The weather had held and the lush grasses underfoot were dry. Early spring blooms had burst into color in neat borders surrounding carefully pruned shrubbery. Michaelmas daisies had been brought in, it being too early in the season for their delicate simplicity, and were bowing gracefully in the gentle breezes. The fruit trees and ornamentals sported new green foliage; but most spectacular of all was a strange blossomed tree which one of the gardeners had told her was a raintree. Its leaves were like feathers of spun gold and it held and reflected the sunlight like the armor of a warrior god. The bottom branches dipped in the attitude of a swan, and it was beneath this spectacular sentinel Sirena had ordered the construction of a dais for the musicians.