Captive Innocence (2 page)

Words and foreign phrases rioted through her head. Belém. Rio de Janeiro. Impressions of a world far from the one she knew. Sparkling opalescent waters of Guanabara Bay stretching across the Tropic of Capricorn. Names and places on a map—places she never dreamed she would see. Sun. Heat. Throngs of people, darker skinned, wearing brighter colors. A people of the tropics in this land south of the Equator where unfamiliar languages were spoken. This land called Brazil.

A thrill of anticipation tingled Royall Banner's spine as she watched the natives of Rio de Janeiro ready the streets for Mardi Gras. It seemed so strange to be here, on the other side of the world from her native New England, where dark skin was more familiar than white, where colorful dresses and bare feet were the norm. Royall's amber-gold gaze peered through sooty black lashes, preserving the memory of her first day in Brazil's seaport city.

“This must seem like a fairy story to you, Royall,” her companion, Rosalie Quince, smiled. “Traveling by ship to a tropical city south of the Equator, seeing things that you'd only read about in books. I grant you, Rio is a far cry from Boston.” The older woman's bright eyes took on a gleam as Royall's infectious excitement made her remember her own experiences at Mardi Gras. She sighed. That was so long ago—when she herself was a lovely young woman like Royall. When her own complexion would flush to pink, and her own eyes couldn't see enough. Where had those days gone? “It's a pity we can't stay for the celebrations, but we must leave on the boat that will take us to Bel6m and then by paddlewheeler up the Amazon to the plantations.”

Royall nodded her bright golden head, her amber eyes never leaving the far side of the cobbled street where vendors were preparing their stalls and arranging their merchandise of huge paper flowers and glittering sequined masks. From the distance came the beat of drums and the sound of musicians tuning their instruments. Tonight there would be music, dancing, revelry, the last celebration before the start of Lent. Shrove Tuesday, Mrs. Quince had called it. Tomorrow would be Ash Wednesday, when the predominantly Catholic population would flock to church where a priest would smudge their foreheads with holy ashes and intone the message, “ashes to ashes, dust to dust”—a reminder of man's mortality.

A frown etched itself between Rosalie Quince's sparse brows. She sensed in Royall a desperate need to join the revelry, to tap her feet to the music and dance in the streets. Scandalous behavior, since Royall was still in her period of mourning—highly improper for a widow whose husband had been buried less than a year before. And it was unheard of to wear a carrot-colored silk dress while still in mourning. The frown etched deeper. Royall said she had done her grieving at the gravesite and left it there in the clammy dampness. This was a new life, and she wouldn't be bogged down with heavy black bombazine. Rosalie Quince had never truly seen the imp of devilishness in anyone's eyes in all her fifty-two years, but the unmistakable gleam in Royall Banner's eyes clearly stated that she meant to get on with her life and enjoy it.

Royall whirled around suddenly and exuberantly threw her arms around Mrs. Quince. “This is an adventure, and I don't want to miss a minute of the excitement. I'll stay here and watch the preparations while you go back to the ship and take a nap.”

Mrs. Quince was properly horrified at the suggestion. “You'll do no such thing. Whatever would Baron Newsome think of me leaving you to your own devices? Royall, you must come with me,” she scolded as she hooked her arm through the younger woman's. “You can watch the activities from the deck of the clipper ship. I take my responsibilities very seriously. This country is a far cry from what you're familiar with in Boston. Now, come along. You'll positively wilt in this heat. We'll have a nice cool drink, and then I'll take my nap.” The plump little woman gathered her old-fashioned voluminous skirts in hand and proceeded down the street that would lead them to the wharf.

Royall's back stiffened. It was no different here than back in Boston. Someone was always telling her what to do, how to behave. She was, after all, a responsible woman of twenty-three years, and a widow. She hadn't needed a nanny since she was a little girl and she didn't need one now. Especially a self-appointed nanny like Rosalie Quince, who was determined to perform her Christian duty by playing duenna. What had begun as an adventure to remove herself from the cloying overprotectiveness of friends and family in Boston had ended in her becoming a prisoner of propriety under Mrs. Quince's tutelage.

Matching her steps with Rosalie's, Royall craned her neck to see a group of women with wide, bright-banded skirts and white peasant blouses pulled low over their smooth brown shoulders, cooking chickens over an open fire. Children played nearby, and she saw one little boy get his hand slapped soundly when he attempted to steal a piece of delectably crisp, spicy meat. “Royall, I declare, must you see everything? Come along. This heat has just about done me in.”

Royall obeyed, as she had always done. Obeying first her father and then her husband and, most recently, her husband's grown sons and daughters with their narrow-minded New England sensibilities. When, oh when, Royall silently cried, would she be allowed to follow her own instincts and seek her own adventures?

What in the name of all that was holy did Rosalie think would happen to her if Royall was out of her sight for a few hours? Was she afraid of Royall being robbed, her money taken? Impossible! The only funds she carried in the little reticule that swung from her arm were small amounts, for shopping and gratuities and perhaps for carriage fare.

A small giggle erupted in Royall's throat, making Rosalie turn and look at her askance. She could just imagine Rosalie having fears that her charge would be kidnapped, sold into slavery, carried off by a dashing dark-haired scoundrel who was intent on ravaging her slender, young body.

Ignoring Mrs. Quince's quizzical glance, Royall kept her eyes straight ahead, kept her feet in rhythm with the older woman's step. In spite of herself, moisture gathered at the corners of Royall's prettily pouting mouth at the silly thought. What would it be like to be ravaged, loved, desired by a handsome, hard-muscled man? A man who could fulfill those longings in her that her marriage to MacDavis Banner had only hinted but had never accomplished.

Guilty at such a disloyal thought, Royall felt her cheeks coloring. No! she thought sternly, what's fair is fair; and MacDavis, while a gentle, considerate man, had never imagined the fires that burned within his young wife, much less done anything to satisfy them. Older than Royall by almost thirty years, Mac had never been her choice for a husband. It was in deference to her father that Royall had agreed to accept his proposal.

MacDavis was a wealthy man, and he had promised Royall's father that he would always see to her needs. And he had, while he was alive, at least. Soon after his death, his four children, each of whom was years older than Royall herself, took control of the family fortune. Her allowance, once so generous, became a mere pittance. They became intent on selling their father's home, and there was nothing Royall could do to stop them. MacDavis's will read that his sons were to see to their stepmother. He had relied on the honesty and generosity of his children. How wrong he was. Royall had little more to show for her two years as MacDavis Banner's wife than her jewelry, her yearly stipend, and his name.

So it was with a clear conscience that Royall was able to put those two years behind her. She owed MacDavis nothing and owed his memory less. While he had provided her with a beautiful home and jewels and standing in the community, she had provided him with the comfort of a wife, tender care during his last days, and tolerance for his inept and impotent lovemaking.

A slow, rosy-hued flush crept up her slender neck. Actually, all things considered, she was almost a virgin. Almost. Her sexuality had been aroused but never fulfilled, her appetite whetted and left unfed. She was no longer an innocent, young girl, unaware of the ritual of the marriage bed. She was a woman, awakened and aware and needing. She wanted a man, someone who would make love to her, caress her body with strong, sensitive hands till she cried out with desire, not with frustration as she had done so many times with MacDavis and his Puritanical Scottish morals that preached a “good woman” saw the marriage bed as one of her duties, not one of her pleasures. But there had been times ... times when a strange and forbidden pleasure was within her reach; as if sensing this, MacDavis would push her away, leaving her with needs and desires that had no name.

The sparkling blue waters of Guanabara Bay could be seen at the end of the wide thoroughfare they were walking. The wharves were straight ahead, where cargo ships and passenger ships alike were anchored in the deep harbor. Tall, ranging masts seemed to scrape the sky in stately parade. Although their sails were reefed, the majesty of the ships was still evident. Ships that had sailed the world, gathering goods for distant markets. Names and places that were unfamiliar to the tongue and held all the dark mystery of romance. Royall's house had had a spectacular view of Boston harbor, and she had never tired of looking through the brightly polished windows down to those wonderful ships that circled the world. A world she hungered to learn about, to experience. Coming to Rio de Janeiro was the farthest she had ever been away from Massachusetts. She had always envied the young men of her acquaintance who had been allowed to take the “grand tour” of Europe before settling into life and responsibilities. She remembered remarking upon it to her father, who was properly aghast at the idea that his daughter, his lovely feminine daughter, would dream of traveling abroad without proper chaperones.

“But, father,” she could hear her own voice come down to her through the years, “what would be the sense of chaperones? I would not have any more freedom than I do right here in Boston!”

Freedom, it seemed to Royall, was something that women were denied. It was a right and privilege reserved only for the opposite sex.

Their ship was docked at
muelle doce,
pier twelve, reserved for passenger ships. Their own vessel was a sleek-lined clipper, boasting seven sails and fast as the wind. From Boston they had stopped in several ports before reaching their destination in Brazil's largest seaport. From here they would sail north again, to Belém, where they would board a paddle-wheeled steamship to take them up the Amazon to the wilds of the jungle, to plantations near the new city of Manaus. Traveling by one of the new steamers would have been quicker, but Mrs. Quince would have none of it. God gave us the wind to sail by, she told Royall indignantly when a steamer was suggested. If He had meant for us to travel by machine, it would say as much in the Bible. Royall didn't dare remind the lady that the paddlewheeler that would carry them up the Amazon River had no sails.

“Here we are, safe and sound,” Rosalie Quince chirped as she maneuvered her bulk up the gang plank.

“More's the pity,” Royall grimaced as she daintily lifted the hem of her orange-gold skirt and followed behind. “I don't want to be safe. For once in my life I want to be free. If I have anything to be sorry about, I can worry about it later. I want to taste life. Here! Now!”

“And now for a nice, cool lemonade. Let's sit here on the deck and relax a bit.”

“Mrs. Quince, that's all we do! Relax! That's all we've done since we boarded the ship in Boston that brought us here to Rio. I don't want lemonade. I'd like a nice glass of port wine.”

“There is no such thing as a ‘nice' glass of port. Now claret, that's something else. Port is too heavy, too potent. Why, in this heat it could go straight to your head and you could fall overboard! These roughnecks and dock workers would have the time of their lives hauling you out!” The older woman was obviously agitated, but Royall was feeling too restless to care.

“Not to fear,” Royall snapped. “With these petticoats I'd go straight to the bottom, and this damnable bustle would keep me there. I'd like to take this dress off and strip down to bare skin ... feel the sun on my body ...”

“Child, child! You must not speak that way! Good Lord, what if you were overheard? Why, we could be raped in our beds!”

Royall smiled.

“Child, you must learn to curb your tongue. Why, there are savages all about us, lusting after fair-skinned women. I can't believe my ears. You really do need someone to look after you, and I, for one, intend to do my duty until you're safely in the hands of the Baron.”

Royall sighed wearily. How dreary this all was. All she wanted was a little harmless adventure before she settled down into her new life on one of Brazil's lucrative rubber plantations. Just a harmless little adventure—was that too much to ask?

Rosalie Quince tapped the tip of her parasol on the deck to gain the steward's attention. “Two lemonades,” she said firmly, eyes daring Royall to contradict or defy her.

Leaning back, sipping the tart drink, Royall decided that she would give anything if she could walk down the streets of Rio, join the festivities tomorrow. She could pretend to be anyone other than who she was. She could throw caution to the winds and never once worry about her reputation. She would flirt with handsome men, and if there happened to be one in particular who caught her fancy, why she would just ... she would.... Her eyes darted to Rosalie Quince, who was busily draining her glass. Why, I'd just take him to the bushes and I'd ... kiss him soundly! A wicked gleam shone in her amber eyes. Maybe, just maybe, there was a way.

“Mrs. Quince, I know I've shocked you. I don't know whatever possessed me to say those things. I suppose MacDavis's death is still a shock. I apologize, sincerely. Perhaps you should nap here in the shade. I don't imagine there's the slightest breeze in our cabins. I'll sit here beside you.”