Captive Innocence (17 page)

Sebastian looked at her curiously, watching her indecision, then decided for her, pulling her up, hard against him.

Sebastian's eyes laughed into Royall's. The jet circles glinted in amusement at her obvious predicament. She faced him boldly, brazenly.

Amusement died in him as he became aware of her nearness, of her womanly scent mingling with the perfume of her hair. The sun made a nimbus of gold around her head, and he held her more tightly, finding himself marveling at the lightness of her, the slimness of her waist. The contact of her body against his thigh was warm, a tingle of slow-burning fire. Golden flecks were dancing in her eyes, heightening the pink flush of her smooth cheek. Bending his head lower, lower, until he could see the slight pulse at the base of her throat, he kissed her, this golden goddess, and she was responding in the way he remembered, had dreamed: deeply, searchingly, passionately.

His lips were soft and warm, hard and demanding. Royall responded to him and felt herself lifted in a surge of emotion. It was as before, his kiss; nothing had changed except that it left her hungrier than before for his arms, his touch. She wanted to forget everything, everyone. She wanted to return to that night of discovery in Rio when he had been her teacher and she had been his most ardent student.

Sebastian broke away first, looking down into her face, seeming to want to memorize her features, his own eyes unreadable. Long, thick lashes threw smudgy shadows on his high, tanned cheekbones and his mouth, that mouth that could caress so softly, so tenderly, was drawn into a hard, thin line. For an instant, Royall thought he might apologize, and when he didn't, it further added to her confusion. She couldn't understand the man who obviously wanted her, reaching out for her time and again, only to put her aside, seeming to hate himself for the hungers she stirred in him. He must enjoy what they shared between them, the kiss, the nearness, the same searing of the flesh and the senses; and yet, he always put her away, withdrawing from her, leaving her confused and feeling abandoned, always giving himself the upper hand.

Royall flushed with shame. Why did she always reveal so much to him? Why did she always give him the satisfaction of knowing how his touch, his nearness, affected her? He was used to having his own way with women; it meant nothing to him. If he did keep a woman in residence in Manaus as Jamie had told her, he certainly had no use for her! Rejection made her tongue sharp.

“Put me down,” she told him, her voice a raspy whisper. “Don't put your hands on me again! I don't need you, Sebastian Rivera, and I don't need your approval either. Not about my being part owner in Reino or my personal life. I'm used to taking care of myself. You've used me, and I'll even admit that I fell eagerly into bed with you, but that was another time and another place. I thought I'd never see you again. And when I did, I was fool enough to think we had something between us that was right and good. I was wrong. You only care about your so-called principles and your goddamned plantation. I'm learning to hate you, you ... bastard!” Hot tears scalded her cheeks.

“That's true, at least. I am a bastard,” Sebastian said coolly, apparently unruffled by her attack.

“At least we agree on something,” Royall shot back, hating him for his composure, hating herself for her outburst. “And for your information, I've known all about you from the moment I saw you on the paddlewheeler, and it never made that much difference,” she snapped her fingers in his face, enjoying the glowering menace she saw in his black eyes. “You made it a difference. Let me make myself clear. I called you a bastard for the way you've treated me, not because you were born on the wrong side of the covers. Now that I've had my say, leave me alone. I'll find my own way back to the house. I don't need you. I never needed you!”

Royall mounted her gray, feeling his eyes on her as she headed back to the Casa. Coming into the courtyard, she slid from her mount and raced into the house, needing to be with someone, anyone, who could protect her from Sebastian Rivera.

Mrs. Quince and Anna looked up, startled at her entrance, concern in their motherly cluckings and demands, “What's happened?”

Royall had plopped herself down into a sea-green armchair and stared straight ahead, her face a mask of stony indignation. Sebastian strode into the room, his steps long and determined. “Where the hell are you, Royall?” he demanded at the top of his voice. When he found himself under the attacking glares of Mrs. Quince and his housekeeper, Royall swore she saw a crimson stain creep up his face.

“What did you do, Sebastian Rivera? What did you do to our Royall? Can't you see she's a lady? What gives you the right to speak to her that way?” Mrs. Quince voiced her objections. “What have you done to upset her? Tell me, you big oaf!”

Sebastian suffered the verbal abuse of his neighbor much as though she were his own mother. Even his housekeeper took up the cry.

Sebastian stood first on one foot and then the other, damning himself for following Royall into the house and walking right into the spiders' parlor. He twirled his flat-crowned hat with his hands, eyes riveted on the floor.

“Sebastian, I demand an answer! Look at her! She says nothing; she just stares!”

“I kissed her,” he said defensively.

“Ahh!” the housekeeper breathed with satisfaction.

“Lord a mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Quince.

Royall bolted out of the chair, facing him, hands on hips, face flaming. He was grinning. Grinning! He
could
smile now that her two companions seemed to be on his side.

She was the picture of defiance. Golden hair wind-torn and disheveled framing her face, eyes flaring, mouth set. “If you ever lay a hand on me like that again, Senor Rivera, I promise you you'll pull back a bloody stump!” A tear, crystal and pure, coursed down from the corner of her eye and glistened on her cheek.

Daring a glance at the housekeeper and Mrs. Quince, he saw them staring at him with cold, hostile expressions. He had made the golden girl cry!

He stomped from the room muttering something about vaporous women. He decided then and there he would go to Manaus and Aloni. She, at least, wouldn't behave as though she hated him just because he kissed her!

The Baron's townhouse in Manaus was built of pink bricks, made from the light colored clay indigenous to the northern bank of the ever-flowing Amazon River. Imported black wrought iron decorated the facade, bellying out from the front windows and marching like little sentries around the tiny front garden.

The inside, like outside, was cleverly decorated and immaculately kept. Consisting of three floors, as were so many of the homes in Manaus, it mimicked the houses surrounding St. James Park in London, England. Fireplaces in every room were used only during the rainy season and then more to burn off the excess moisture than for heat. Carefully laid parquet floors were covered by vibrantly colored carpets that, like every luxury in Brazil, were imported from Europe at great expense.

The front parlor looked out onto the street and was decorated in deep jungle greens and hibiscus against a backdrop of the palest yellow silk walls. Dark teakwood tables gleamed with care and polish and reflected the objets d'art skillfully displayed.

Alicia was dressed in a femininely ruffled pink wrapper, her slim legs propped on the sofa, high-heeled slippers dangling off her tiny feet. She eyed the brandy bottle on the table in front of her, liking the way the shaft of sunlight penetrated the glass, lighting the liquor within. The tip of her tongue moistened her lips. She looked at the bottle with longing, with actual desire.

Vaguely from somewhere in the back of her numbed brain, she likened the feeling to the times she had eagerly anticipated Carl's arrival at her home. There had been a need in her then too, a need for Carl. But that was all gone now, she had to make it be all gone. Now she was involved in an affair of a different nature. A love affair for the sticky sweet brandy and a deep, abiding hatred for Carlyle Newsome. It was the former that made the latter bearable. Without a moment's hesitation, she sipped the fiery liquid, relishing the taste, welcoming its effects. Putting the glass to her lips once again, she gulped it down and quickly poured herself another. Soon the Baron would arrive and she needed to be numbed, drunk, oblivious. And when it was over, perhaps a merciful God would let her sleep. Sleep.

The past several days, between drinks she had engaged in a self-debate upon whether or not there was a God. If so, how could He have allowed this to happen to her? How could He have made her so weak, so lacking in character? It was because she knew that Carl was lost to her whatever she did, Alicia told herself. The Baron would see to that. Also, she had this damnable addiction; it was called eating, needing a place to live, clothes to wear ... his father's sanction. And once the Baron convinced his son that Alicia's reputation was severely lacking, Carl would have turned his back on her anyway. “There's no God,” she said slowly and distinctly, satisfied with her decision.

Where was Carl now? What was he thinking? What was he doing this very moment? If she could only have a glimpse of him, touch him ... She stared at the brandy bottle again. All I have to do is walk out the front door and run in front of the first passing carriage. Or walk down to the river ... The thought was so appalling, she reached for the bottle and gulped its contents. Her eyes watered as she gasped for breath, and a trickle of brandy dribbled down her chin into the cleft between her breasts.

Alicia became slowly aware of someone watching her, imagined she could hear the sound of breathing. Whirling around, she found herself face to face with Carlyle Newsome. Standing suddenly, feeling the blood rush from her head, she struggled for a haughty expression and knew she failed miserably when the Baron smirked.

“Drinking again, Alicia. It's most unbecoming, and I find it takes the edge off our passion. You reek!” he told her with disgust. “Go to your room and make yourself presentable. I'll be up shortly, and I want you in control of yourself. I didn't come here to witness your drunken orgy. I suggest you hurry and do as I say.”

Deep hatred for herself and for the Baron swelled in Alicia's breast. How could she be sobered just by the sight of the man? She must have drunk half that bottle, and here she was mentally alert and cripplingly sober. The brandy had failed her. She looked at the bottle with a senseless accusation.

The Baron smiled. Seeing her looking at the bottle, he picked it up and held it aloft, tantalizing her with the shimmer and sparkle within the glass. “This, my little pigeon, will be your reward if you do well this evening. If you don't, all spirits will be removed from the house or locked away from your reach. I learned that trick from my father when he was training a hunting dog. When the pup obeyed, he would give him a piece of meat. When he disobeyed, he gave him nothing. The dog soon learned how to behave. The way I expect you to behave. You understand, don't you, Alicia?”

“Perfectly,” she answered quietly, twisting her hands behind her back, wringing them in a silent agony. At this moment the brandy became all-important, an anesthetic to blunt the sharp edge of reality. She would cheerfully kill to know for certain she could have it. It would be hers; she would earn each and every drop.

“I'll see you shortly,” the Baron told her, satisfied to see her vanquished. “And, dear, add a little scent. It does delicious things to me.”

Carlyle walked around the decorative parlor after Alicia fled up the stairs. He felt magnificent. He
was
magnificent, in perfect control of his life and, even better, in total command of the lives around him. The last pleased him the most.

It puzzled him that he hadn't considered placing Alicia in his townhouse sooner than he had. It was something he should have moved upon as soon as he confirmed that that interfering Royall Banner was coming to Brazil. He should have taken a mistress, at any rate, much sooner. He was well on his way to solving his temporary impotency, he knew it; he could feel it in his bones.

Allowing his eyes to sweep the room, he knew a gratification for having done well for himself. Certainly, to all appearances, he was as successful as the most prominent plantation owner, Alonzo Quince, and as much as Sebastian Rivera, bastard that he was. No one would ever have to know that his yield from his trees hadn't lived up to his expectations for the last four or five years. No one, including Royall Banner.

Considering outside appearances, anyone could see that his furnishings both here in Manaus and at Reino were of the finest quality and in the best of taste, imported at great expense from America and Europe. The monstrous chandelier hanging in the center of the room and its twin in the dining room had taken ten men to install. His eyes traveled farther around the room to fall beneath his proprietorial glance. Gold and silver bowls held fresh tropical flowers, and the rich amber shine of the parquet floors was further accoutrement of the care his servants took with their master's belongings.

Pouring himself two fingers of fine, imported Scotch, the Baron liked the look and feel of the fragile crystal goblet he held in his hands. Elegant hands, like Elena's. A pity his housekeeper at the Reino had been born among the lower classes. She would have been the perfect hostess, the perfect accessory to his already perfect life. The piercing gray eyes dropped to the glass. Only the stem of the wafer thin goblet remained; whisky ran down his trouser leg, dropping into a little puddle at the tip of his gleaming black shoe. Small pinpoints of blood dotted his palm. A snowy handkerchief materialized and he deftly wiped at the blood, a snarl pulling his mouth downward. Elena: just thinking about her made his pulses pound and made him lose his tightly held self-discipline. At times he thought he hated her, hated the sight of her, hated the constant reminder of her presence in his household. But he realized he needed her, that she was a valuable asset both in controlling Jamie and seeing to the running of his household. And, he admitted, he couldn't bring himself to part with her, to allow her her freedom. Thinking about Elena stirred his loins, and his eyes went to the central staircase.

Carlyle strode into the dressing room adjacent to the master bedroom. Swiftly, he removed his clothes, replacing them with a burgundy dressing gown that waited for him on the back of the clothespress door. He adjusted the silk belt and knotted it. A piece of paper followed his hand from the inside pocket of his waistcoat, and he slipped it into the pocket of his robe.

The Baron thrust the bedroom door open, knowing he would see Alicia cowering as usual in the huge four-poster bed. “Alicia, darling,” he purred, “I thought you might like to see something I have in my pocket.” He played with her emotions cat and mouse, aware that she knew full well what he was talking about. “It's a letter from Carl. I stopped the messenger that was to bring it to you. Later I'll allow you to read it.” Carefully, he watched her expression, delighting in the intensity of her anticipation. The letter, coupled with the brandy, should work to his favor, and Alicia would go beyond what she considered her duty to him.

Desperately trying to control herself, Alicia asked calmly, “What does Carl have to say, Baron? I don't understand why you don't let me see it before. I want to see it now! It's mine, give it to me!”

“Later, darling,” he soothed unctuously, “trust me.” The robe slithered to the floor, and Alicia knew she was lost; there would be no chance of seeing the letter if, in truth, there was a letter. She averted her eyes from his nakedness, her heart pounding with fright as she visualized the intimate acts she would be made to perform. Imperceptibly, she moved over as far away in the bed as she could.

The Baron stretched out luxuriously, and Alicia was hugging the far edge of the bed as she read the lust in his eyes. She would have to pretend again, pretend that it was Carl lying beside her, that it was Carl's flesh she would touch, caress. She would pretend she was a captive and she was being brought before the king, who was Carl. Whatever Carl wanted, she would give. Gladly. She had to remember that it was Carl's hands that would touch her, open her body to ravaging kisses and intimate caresses. Not ever the Baron.

“Dance for me, Alicia.”

“But ... no music ...”

“Dance!” Alicia recognized the iron command.

Alicia left the bed and began to move, her movements at first slow and awkwardly embarrassed and gradually becoming more sensual and provocative as she swayed to an unheard tune. Her slim body lent itself to wantonness as she brought into play her proud high breasts and rounded hips. Graceful arms lifted over her head as she had seen the Indians do so often in their rituals, softly clapping her hands to an increasingly rapid rhythm. As she twirled around the room, her tiny feet barely touched the floor, her hands, reaching and eloquent, caressed her body, driving the Baron to the edge of the bed. Perspiration beaded on his forehead as he stared at Alicia's undulating body. When he reached for her with a quick, groping hand, she seemed to throw her body into a frenzy of gestures that bordered on the immoral, knowing what he demanded, giving it to him.

Aided by the alcohol, feeling as though she was somewhere a world away, her fingers tore at the buttons on her dressing gown. It slid to the floor, and she demurely covered her breasts that were still hidden from his sight by the dainty camisole. Slowly, inch by inch, she opened the satin ribbon that held her swelling flesh prisoner.

The Baron rolled over on the bed, his eyes glazed as he stared at the expanse of skin that was suddenly free of confinement. Alicia danced closer, following a silent drum beat in her head, a knowing smile playing across her lips. This was her love, Carl, wanting her, desiring her as he always had in her dreams.

Suddenly whirling again, she stood even closer to him, tantalizing him, just out of his reach, freeing her breasts, baring them completely for his eyes. He gasped as he reached for her, her small, delicately formed body, losing her again, seeing her back away a step, her breasts with their rosy crests pointed and erect. She swayed ever closer until she was directly in front of him, her movements seducing him, flaunting her body without restraint. Slowly, she exposed a long, shapely leg from between the open front of her lace petticoat and languidly thrust it out, withdrawing the silk stocking from thigh to toe. Tossed away, it fell near him, brushing against his agonized face. She followed her action with the other stocking, hearing him groan, hearing him beg, “Now, come to me, Alicia, come to me.”

Instead of obeying him, she dropped her petticoat at her feet, and from the deep groans coming from the bed she knew he was beyond control. Gliding gracefully to his bedside once again, she allowed him to touch her.

He swallowed hard; his half-closed eyes devoured her, his hands clutched for her breasts, her thighs, her legs; low, animal sounds escaped him.

Perspiration dripped from his face, and he felt the blood soar through his veins as the pressure in his loins became unbearable to him. He reached for her, clutching at her soft, dark hair, covering her mouth with his own.

He mounted her, knowing that this time the same blood that pounded through his veins would erect his failing manhood. Wild frustration flooded through him as he rolled over onto his stomach to hide his body's defeat. He had been so sure!

Exhausted, Alicia lay quietly, waiting for his next move. He rolled over onto his side, playfully nibbling at her breasts. Determined to overcome his impotence, he let his hands trace her silken body, searching out the coveted moistness between her thighs. In desperation, he strained every fiber of his being to produce the tightening of muscles, the throbbing of his genitalia that was necessary to satisfy his wants. At Alicia's scream of despair he fell back in resignation, ignoring her, totally absorbed in his own black thoughts.

Alicia lay back with her eyes squeezed shut. She needed the brandy, craved it, almost more than she craved the letter from Carl. Was this then going to be her life from now on? God, help me, she cried silently.

Covering herself with the edge of the sheet, Alicia lay beside him for a long time, listening, waiting, anticipating a return attack. He didn't move, not a muscle, and his face was turned away from her. But she could hear his labored breathing, sense his desperation, could almost feel his stiffly controlled rage for having failed. Again.