Captive Embraces (37 page)

Stephan gripped her arm and tried to force her to face him when Frau Holtz suddenly stepped into the room. Immediately, Stephan released her and pushed Wren away from him.

“Look what this nasty child has done!” he roared. “Get her out of my sight!” he commanded a bewildered Frau Holtz as he stood up from his chair and stomped toward the library.

Wren flew into the kitchen. and out through the back door to the garden. Her cheeks were flushed red and her dark eyes welled with tears. She hated him! Hated him! He was the nasty one, not her. He was dirty! Tears streaked her cheeks and she thought of going to the Frau or to Sirena to tell them what had happened. But even as she formulated the words in her own mind she realized there was not much to tell them. Mayhap the master was right. Could it be she was really a nasty, clumsy child and that she was the bad one for even thinking for a moment that the master liked touching her?

Back in her room, trembling hands clutched at her sides, Sirena noticed the package on her bed and sent it sprawling to the floor with a sweep of her arm. Gold chains! Thick chains, thin chains.

She kicked at the half-opened parcel and one of the chains looped about her ankle. Sirena looked down at it and tried to shake herself free of it. She bent over and ripped it from around her foot and tossed it against the wall. An expression of hatred and loathing on her face, she gathered all the shining links and threw them under the bed, too revulsed to look at them and too frightened of Stephan to dispose of them.

“I'll take your present, Stephan darling, and rope it around your skinny neck, choking the life from your odious body!” she spat. “I'll watch your eyes pop from your head and laugh when your tongue swells and your face turns blue!”

The only other person in her life she could remember hating this way was the pirate captain, Dick Blackheart.

Blackheart! she thought. Rapist, murderer, kidnaper! On that day, long ago, when he had boarded her ship while it sailed to Java under the guise of being in distress, he had led a band of ruthless pirates who had used her brutally at will. Time and again they had used her, beat her, stripped Sirena of her will. She had become less than human, praying for death.

And then that final day, when her spirit and will to survive had been restored by Caleb, the cabin boy, and Blackheart had sent her to his quarters. Sirena's eyes narrowed and her chest rose with deep, heavy breaths. The memory came back to her in all its harsh reality. Her flesh had recoiled from what she knew Blackheart had planned for her. “You're mine now,” he had growled. “The crew won't come near you again.”

Sirena had backed away, dreading the touch of his pawlike, calloused hands. But there was no escaping his long arms which pulled her toward him, crushing her. With savage intent, he had wound his fingers in her sable curls and yanked her head back until she had thought her neck would snap. His thick, wet mouth had burned her throat where he kissed her, nipping at her tender flesh, making her recoil.

She had fought him, writhing to escape his grasp, but when she had been almost free, he caught her again and had flung her onto the bunk. He had stood over her, a lustful glitter in his eyes, his tongue wetting his viscous mouth. She had cowered on the bunk, apprehensive of his next move.

He had thrown himself atop her, his weight pushing her into the bedding. His intimate touch to her stiff, unyielding form had been light and seductive in its intent. His kisses to her unwilling mouth, throat and breasts had been fraught with suppressed frenzy.

Sirena had refused to allow him to take her without a struggle. His attempt at arousing her had been almost worse than the attacks she had suffered previously. At those times she had been used, nothing had been expected of her except as a receptacle for their lust. But this attack of Blackheart's had been a blatant effort to elicit a willing response from her. It had been an admission that she was alive, real, capable of choice. That the barbarian has assumed she could be enticed by his advances had added outrage to her already wounded dignity. She couldn't . . .
wouldn't
have allowed him to assume she might respond like a wanton to his insidious caresses.

“Get your filthy hands off me!” she had cried. “Leave me alone!” she had spat, pushing him away and wriggling out from under him.

The shock on his grizzly face had been almost comical.

Sirena had wrestled to her feet, her eyes flying to the door and its bolt. The helplessness of her situation had nearly rendered her insensible. In that moment Blackheart had pounced on her.

She had felt herself being forced to the floor, his weight knocking the breath from her body. She had lashed out at him blindly, her nails gouging the flesh on his cheekbones. He had cuffed her on the back of the head and then had pinioned her arms to her sides. Her struggles had been the minuscule protests of a flea biting a dog.

“So, there's spirit left in you yet,” he had crowed exultantly. He had forced her arms above her head, holding them there with one powerful hand.

She had spit and snarled, twisting her head, trying to sink her teeth into his capturing arm. He had smashed his fist into her face, splitting the lower lip against her teeth, filling her mouth with blood. His knee had forced her legs apart; his free hand had touched her breasts, her stomach, between her thighs. His face had been directly above hers, and he had salaciously grinned down at her. She recoiled her head and sprayed his beast's face with spittle and blood.

“You can take me morning, noon and night!” she had spat out her words with revulsion and disgust, “but I'll never be yours. Never!”

“And I'll never be Stephan's either,” she said aloud, the sound of her own voice breaking her from her reverie. She had hated Blackheart and ultimately had destroyed him. She was repulsed by Stephan, in some ways more than by Blackheart, and she would find her way to victory again. Slowly the tears rained down her face. Such brave words from such a frightened woman.

 

Throughout the remainder of the day, Sirena was distracted. Even Wren's cheerful chatter couldn't jar her loose from the thought of what was hidden beneath her bed. She was nervous as a cat. By the dinner hour she pleaded a headache so she wouldn't have to join her husband at the table.

Hour after hour she sat in her room, refusing the tray Frau Holtz had brought her. The old woman looked at her with puzzled, worried eyes, but did not question Sirena about her state of mind.

The downstairs clock chimed nine, then ten. With each melodious note, Sirena grew more feverish. Any minute now he could climb those stairs.

By eleven o'clock Sirena was in a state of near hysteria. She hoped, prayed, Stephan would retire soon. Anything, just to get it over with! Simply to know she could close her eyes in sleep and not have to think about him till the following day. Abruptly, there was a sound from the room adjoining hers.

Slowly, the connecting door opened and Stephan stood framed in the doorway, the light behind him, throwing his face into shadow. “Why aren't you dressed and waiting for me, Sirena? Didn't you like my gift?” His voice was low, deprecating.

Sirena's eyes flew to the bed where she had placed the chains. Earlier, after Frau Holtz had retired for the night, she had crept down on hands and knees and retrieved them from the darkness beneath, but could not find a good place to dispose of them.

“Ah, I see you have waited for me to dress you. How charming,” he said, closing the door behind him. He wore a brocade robe and, when he walked past her, she could detect the sweet aroma of brandy. “Take off your clothes, darling. Let us see how you would look in bondage.” Picking up one of the lengths, the links tinkled against each other.

“I said undress!” he menaced. “Shall I do it for you?”

Never taking her eyes from his, Sirena divested herself of her own attire and stood there in her chemise.

“Everything!”

Locking her stare with his, she peeled off her chemise and petticoats.

“Leave the stockings,” he ordered. “I somehow like the feel of silk against my skin.”

Almost completely naked, Sirena stood poised, ready for his next move.

Selecting a chain, Stephan walked over to her and draped it about her neck, crossing it between and under her breasts and fastening it at the back. Another length was draped around her waist and over her hips. On and on, he applied the cold, metal links until they were wound about her limbs. While he was doing this, Sirena stood with her arms outstretched, never flinching when. he tugged at a coil and it cut into her flesh. For all the world she seemed a mannequin, moving only when told, posing however he directed, while her face was a study in passivity.

When he was finished, Stephan stepped back and admired his handiwork. “Beautiful,” he murmured, the heat of his passions lighting his eyes. “Now come here to me!”

Hesitantly, she stepped forward, anticipating his next move. Roughly, he seized her by the chain looped about her waist and forced her to him. His lips found hers, pressing, hurting, while his hands covered her flesh, probing, seeking. Suddenly, he threw her away from him. “Bah! You're an icy woman, Sirena, and you need to be taught a lesson.” His hand reached out and clubbed her on the side of her head. Unflinching, she readied herself for his next attack.

Stephan slipped his dressing gown to the floor. Beneath it he was naked as she knew he would be. Again, he reached for her, this time knocking her to the carpeted floor, his arm hovering over her, ready to strike again.

In spite of herself, Sirena flinched, throwing up her arms to ward off his blow. Again and again, he struck her, pulling her by the chains, pushing her lower to the floor, watching her feeble attempts to protect herself.

“And you think me not a man?” he demanded. “Look, look you bitch! Tell me I'm not a man!”

Slowly, she lifted her head, knowing what she would see. Stephan's slim, athletic body showed its supple strength and the object of his pride rose out from his body in masculine power.

“Now, let me hear you say I am more than a man! I am a god! Say it!” he demanded. “Say it! Stephan, you are more than a man, you are a god! Say it, you bitch!”

Unexpectedly, the whole situation seemed ridiculously funny. She, cowering on the floor covered only by numerous links of gold chain, and Stephan, standing naked as a jaybird before her, wearing only his dubious erection, demanding she tell him he was a god. A peal of laughter was born in her throat and bubbled forth. The sound filled the room and danced off the walls. Hearing it, she laughed again and again. Stephan loomed over her, hatred in his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. Dropping her gaze, she noticed the effect her hysteria was having on his passion. Again, she allowed the sound of her laughter to ring out.

Stephan was enraged. “Laugh at me, will you, bitch?” He struck out with his fists, catching her in the fleshy part of her arm, in the lean section of mid-thigh. The more he punished her, the harder she laughed. She was beyond controlling herself and for one instant wondered if she were as insane as Stephan.

The longer and louder she laughed, the more limp Stephan became until his staff, which had caused him such pride, was completely flaccid.

Long after he had sent her one last ineffectual kick and stamped from the room into his own, slamming the door soundly behind him, Sirena remained on the floor, laughing till the tears came from her eyes and blinded the last few moments from her thoughts.

The weeks passed with Sirena a virtual prisoner. She was watched over constantly. Beside Smythe and Rathbone, Stephan had added two more footmen who lived in the loft over the stables. Jan and Willem had joined the household, acting as gardener and stable hand. From time to time she would see them, and they would nod politely, but due to instructions from Frau Holtz and Jacobus, they were not, under any circumstances, to engage in conversation with her. It was important that they establish themselves as being in Stephan's employ and solidly faithful to him.

Invitation after invitation was sent back with Sir Langdon's regrets that his wife was not well enough to attend. Stephan was too tired after his arduous days at the academy and his many trips to the
Sea Siren
to be concerned about missing social engagements.

In one way Sirena felt relieved, because he no longer came to her room at night after the debacle with the golden chains and the ridiculous costumes ceased appearing on her bed. Still, she was afraid and the hackles on the back of her neck would rise every time Stephan came within range. By now, she told herself, his impotence was an embarrassment and he was finally going to leave her alone. For some reason this annoyed her almost as much as his pestering and violating her.

Day after tiresome day dragged by with Sirena doing little more than pacing from room to room or supervising a few informal lessons for Wren. Her eyes became haunted with deep hollows underneath. Even Tyler Sinclair had not come to see her recently, and she suspected Stephan was at the bottom of that.

She longed for the warm, easterly trade winds and for the sight of Regan's face. She knew she would have sold her soul to be free again, aboard the
Sea Spirit,
feeling the motion of the sea and the spindrift on her face. She prayed for a violent storm to purge her emotions, so she could run out into the garden and let the pelting rain wash down on her and the wind blow through her hair. She would drink it in, taste it, drown in it. And when the lightning streaked the sky, she would lift adoring hands and give thanks to be amidst the elements.

“No more. Never again,” she said in a quiet, deadly voice. Slowly, she walked to the large wardrobe and flung the door open. She licked at her dry lips. She knew exactly where it was. All she had to do was reach in and draw out the rapier that had killed Dick Blackheart, the Hook, and wounded Regan.

Imperceptibly, her shoulders straightened and the muscles in her legs tensed. The feel of the blade in her hand was all she needed to remind herself of who and what she was. A killer of men, Regan had once called her. She frowned. Perhaps. But she was Sirena Córdez van der Rhys—her own woman. She would remain so till the day she died. What a pity Stephan Langdon didn't know that. Though, soon he would, she promised herself.

Tears shimmered in the sea-green eyes as she lifted them upward. She flexed her legs, brought up her arm and parried the weapon. She lashed out at the draperies and slashed them to ribbons. She attacked the coverlets and perforated them with knife sharp slashes. She thrust at the stout wood of the clothespress. Each time she pulled the rapier from the wood, she smiled. The Sea Siren was reborn!

Frau Holtz entered her room carrying a full load of bedding. Her watery eyes took in the shambles and she shivered, dropping her burden. “Mevrouw!” she whispered hoarsely. “What are you doing? God in Heaven, when your husband sees what you've done, we will all suffer!”

“And if a wager were placed as to who would come out first, where would you put your money, Frau?” Sirena asked as she flicked the rapier point in the air.

“Mevrouw, they hang people in this godless country. Jacobus has told me what the prisons are like. That man you married will have the lot of us locked up,” she said. “If you can't think of yourself, think of Wren. The poor child is terrified of Sir Langdon as it is. He'll do away with the
Liebchen,
too!”

“Not if I kill him!”

“God in Heaven,” Frau Holtz muttered. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“I'll take a page from his book and stalk him the way he does me. Tell Jacobus to go to the harbor and ready the ship. Stephan rarely ventures out into the gardens so he'll never miss him. Do it, Frau Holtz,” she ordered coldly, “now!”

“They'll hang you by the neck,” the old woman warned as she backed from the room.

Sirena shrugged. “First, they'll have to catch me. I don't think there is anyone on the face of the earth I hate more. I'll carve the manhood from Stephan's body and laugh while I do it. I've had enough!” she screamed. “Enough!” Without warning, she collapsed to the floor, her arms reaching out to her old friend.

Frau Holtz ran to her, holding her close, crooning to her as though she were a small child while heaving sobs shook Sirena's shoulders. The Frau knew that Sirena had vented her rage and there would be no need to send Jacobus to the ship. Sirena wasn't going anywhere.

 

Regan's head pounded as he looked at the figures in the thick ledgers. How Sirena must be laughing. Although, come to think of it, maybe not. She might have money to pay off Stephan's debts, but he was also gambling away her fortune; and, at the rate he was going, she would be impoverished fairly quickly.

He lit a cigar and swung his booted feet onto the desk. An aromatic puff of gray-blue smoke circled the room and came to settle around his head like a halo. A month, two at the most, and he would be finished. Figures didn't lie. Something had to be done soon. His small capital was dwindling alarmingly and, when he told Camilla to stint herself for a short while, she had laughed and said she would not be made the fool. In her new position as his wife she had to entertain and dress correctly. There was no point in arguing, so he was now controlling his anger with an effort. Before the day was over he would have to arrive at some sort of answer to his miserable affairs.

Groping in his desk, he opened some rum and drank thirstily. He thumped the bottle on the rough desk just as the door opened to his offices. “Dykstra! You son of a bitch, what are you doing here?” he said, jumping up and heartily clapping the Dutchman on the back. “Christ, I never thought to see your ugly face again. What brings you to England?”

Dykstra beamed good-naturedly. “You. I came to hand over the profits from the sale of your crops in Java. As yet, the plantation has no buyer, but all things in good time. It's a tidy amount and more will be coming shortly. Tell me,” he laughed, “how much is left in that bottle and is there another handy. I feel a drink coming on.”

“There's plenty more where this came from. Dykstra, do you remember the time I took you to the brothel back in Batavia. Do you remember how magnanimous I was in giving you the two ‘virgins'?”

“Virgins, my ass,” Dykstra guffawed. “You didn't fool me. Those were the two most experienced virgins I ever saw. They taught me a few things!”

Dykstra downed his rum and poured himself and Regan another hearty jolt. “What are these English women like?” he asked. “Are they as good as Clarice's women?”

Regan stood and leered down at his friend. “Dykstra, old friend, I hate to tell you this but here isn't a woman in the city who could hold a candle to the worst of Clarice's girls. They cover themselves with twenty-three layers of clothes and a man gets sorely tired trying to remove them.” He grasped Dykstra's shoulder and leaned over. “They bat their eyes and swoon. Dead away,” he said, throwing his arms wide and losing his balance and tumbling against the wall. He laughed drunkenly as Dykstra's eyes popped. “And,” Regan said indignantly, “either they're too skinny or too fat That's why they wear so much. So we men can't see what we're getting.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” his friend asked piteously. “I came all the way to this goddamn city knowing you would take care of me. I was hoping for a woman tonight.”

“And you shall have one,” Regan laughed. “I'll find you a woman if I have to waylay her husband for you. Nothing is too good for you, Dykstra,” he said virtuously. “What kind do you want, old, young, skinny or fat?”

“One of each,” Dykstra hiccoughed.

Regan pursed his lips together. “I know just the place,” he said drunkenly. “My son, Caleb, is operating a gambling ship at the harbor, and I've seen some women that might appeal to you.”

“We need another bottle,” Dykstra mumbled.

“Whatever you want,” Regan said, pulling the cork from another bottle and handing it to the captain. “Dykstra,” he muttered, “if you had a real virgin, would you know what to do with her?”

“What kind of question is that?” Dykstra asked, slurring his words. “I had a virgin once in Sumatra. Hours, Regan, it took hours. But, by God, she was worth every minute of it,” he said, sighing deeply.

“What happened to her?” Regan demanded as he took another pull from the bottle.

“You should ask, you bastard, you snatched her from me right under my very nose. You remember that dark-skinned beauty. The one who wore all the bangles. The one who pierced your ear! Now, do you remember?”

“That wasn't all she pierced,” Regan mumbled as he slid half on and half off the chair. “I never forgave you for that. Look, I still have a scar from that damn hole in my ear,” he said, fumbling with his earlobe.

“What's a bit of a scar between friends. I broke her in for you. You should thank me instead of grumbling,” he said, slipping from his chair onto the floor.

Regan eyed his friend and grinned. “I'll forgive you for the virgin, but not for the damage to my ear. Is that all right with you?”

“Now that I think about it, she was a little too handy with that needle. How's your wife, you bastard?” Dykstra demanded, thumping Regan on the back.

“Don't ask and I won't have to lie,” Regan laughed.

“The most beautiful woman I ever saw. You have luck up your ass, Regan,” he groaned.

“You got it all wrong, Dykstra. I divorced Sirena. I married someone else. Her name is ... is . . . What the hell is her name?”

“Whose name?”

“The woman I married.”

“How the hell should I know? Right now, I can't remember my own. Maybe it's Polly?” he said, trying to bring the rum to his lips only to have it dribble down his chest.

Regan leaned over to look at the front of Dykstra's shirt. “You spilled good liquor, you bastard. What the hell kind of friend are you, anyway? You don't even know my own wife's name! Polly! It's as good as any,” Regan laughed.

“I always liked Sirena,” Dykstra said, punching Regan on the arm. “I think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and you're the biggest goddam fool ever born. Come to think of it, I should punch your teeth out for the way you treated her. Maybe I will,” he threatened, raising his arm only to find it too heavy. He let it fall back on the table.

Regan looked at his friend from beneath scowling brows. “You want to fight? Why? What did I do to you?”

“I like Sirena,” Dykstra complained, “and you left her behind when you left Java. Christ, Regan, I thought she'd become a madwoman when she watched the tip of your tops'l drop over the horizon.”

Suddenly Regan grew serious. “When was this?” he asked, trying to enunciate.

“The morning you sailed out of Batavia harbor. Sirena came riding up to the company office with her hair flying down her back. Ah, I've never seen a more beautiful woman.”

“She came to the offices and what?” Regan pressed.

“She came riding down the wharf like the hounds of Hell were on her heels. She ran down the dock and into the office calling for you. I don't think I've ever seen a woman happier than she was at that moment. Cheeks all flushed and pink from the ride, the glow of love lighting her eyes ... Christ, man! How could you leave her behind? When I told her you'd already gone I watched the destruction of a woman's heart. You really are a bastard, Regan.”

Regan fought to clear his head so he could absorb Dykstra's words. Sirena
had
told him the truth. Heaven help him, what had he done? Blindly, he reached for the bottle and wrested it from Dykstra's hands.

“You're more than a bastard, Reg, you're the biggest idiot I've ever met! There can't be another woman as gorgeous as Sirena. Or is there, you old dog? Is Polly as beautiful?”

Regan shook his head. “No one is as stunning as Sirena,” he said, lurching to his feet. “And do you know what, you son of a bitch, she said she's going to ruin me.”

“Serves you right,” the captain retorted, holding out his hand for Regan to help him to his feet. “Anybody with a scar on his ear doesn't deserve someone like Sirena. I hope she does split your gullet. I hate the name Polly. Parrots are named Polly.”

“A bird, eh. Well, she doesn't eat like a bird. She eats like a ... a wolf, and all she wants to do is spend money. Come on, old friend, it's time you met ... what's her name. I'm going to take you home so we can sober up.”

“I hope she eats you out of house and home and sends you right into the poorhouse.”

 

Camilla donned her shawl in preparation for going out when the doorpull sounded. She opened the door and stood back, a look of shock on her finely wrought features. “You're crocked,” she snapped. “Quickly, get inside before someone sees you,” she said, grabbing Regan by the arm and pulling him into the foyer. “Who is this?” she demanded as she let her eyes fall on the staggering seaman at Regan's side.

“He's the one who told me your name,” Regan laughed uproariously.