Captive Splendors (13 page)

 

The late-afternoon sun drifted in through the single window, lighting an array of dancing motes on the worn carpet. The bed loomed large and ominously on the far side of the room, its iron frame gleaming dully against the age-dimmed wall. Wren huddled in a corner, her back against the wall. Her dark, luxuriant hair tumbled down her shoulders and draped her pale face. She was very still, as still as death. Only her eyes were alive, watchful, fearful, burning with horrors known and horrors yet to come.

How could she have let this happen to her? How could she have been so blind? There was no excuse for her. To have thought even for a minute that Malcolm had cared for her, loved her, now seemed to her the height of sublime stupidity. How could she have been such an idiotic, romantic fool? Regan and Sirena had been right when they had said she wasn't ready for marriage, that she really didn't know Malcolm. Oh, God, she moaned to herself, to think I doubted Sirena! Now that she knew the kind of man Malcolm really was, she realized Sirena could never have instigated the little scene she had come upon in the garden. Sirena loved Regan; she would never have encouraged Malcolm to become her lover. And Sara! Why hadn't Wren listened to Sara? If she had only done that now, this very minute, she would be safe with the two people she loved most in the world.

A blue haze of cigar smoke wafted in her direction, causing her to wrinkle her nose and wipe at the tears forming in her eyes. Malcolm and his cronies sat at a small table in the center of the room, playing cards. None of them had glanced in her direction for the last half hour. She toyed with the idea of crawling past them and slipping out the door, but she knew her attempt would be futile, and she was also afraid of Malcolm's booted foot. She had never believed that a man could be so vicious. No, that wasn't true. She had known the evil natures of men. As a child, she had endured the festering alleys and the beatings of men like him, and she had survived. At the age of eight she had fought for food to stay alive and run from the terror that the darkness and the streets had imposed. Only old Lottie had been her friend before Sirena had rescued her. What was it the old woman had said? “Ye need eyes in the back of yer head and yer wits as sharp as a razor's edge.” And Wren's wits were sharp, had been sharp, but with the good life Sirena and Regan had provided, she had forgotten, thinking she would never have to use street tactics again. If one wanted to survive, one did what one had to, whatever the cost.

Wren was so deep in her thoughts she almost missed hearing the conversation at the table. “I saw three ships sail at noon,” one card player said as he swilled his ale and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “The
Cavalier,
the
Vancouver,
and the
Michaelmas!
What I wouldn't have given to be aboard one of those ships as a passenger!” He laughed raucously.

“In two days' time the wharves will be empty for a while,” another offered. “The last to leave will be the
Sea Siren.
She sets sail tomorrow, or so the scuttlebutt goes. There's something fishy there, my friends. That ship is sailing with an empty hold, and that can mean only one thing.”

“What's that?” Malcolm asked, his eyes on his unlucky cards.

“She's one of those ships that sets sail empty and then picks up human trade, in a manner of speaking,” a third seaman volunteered drunkenly.

“After this round of cards, I'm flat,” Malcolm groaned pitifully.

“Mayhap we should sign on the
Sea Siren.
I heard the captain was asking round for good seamen this past day,” the burly man closest to Wren said. “I would have added my X, but when he said the port o' call was none of my affair, I changed me mind. It's suspicious, all right. Sailing time is midnight. Under dark of night. . .”

“Dark of night what?” Malcolm demanded, throwing in his cards.

“Where's your mind, Weatherly? When ye be doing something ye ain't supposed to be doing, ye do it under cover of darkness. Seeing as how you're the proper gentleman and all, I can see why you wouldn't know something like that!”

Malcolm let his eyes travel to the corner of the room where Wren was huddled, afraid to move. His drunken mind whirled with triumphant thoughts of the royal collar, and his renewed ego demanded he celebrate his success with a woman. He had to get his hands on Wren, but he knew the seamen would cut him down if he made a move toward her. She was theirs, won by them, and they meant to keep her.

“Look here, Beasley, I have a pound note left. Why don't the lot of you go down to the wharves and do some nosing around and see what you come up with? Bring back some rum, and we'll have a party with the little lady in the corner.” Malcolm knew the promise of drink and a party would make them more amenable to his wishes. “I'll have her as docile as a newborn kitten by the time you get back. Get a move on, lads, and let's see which way the wind blows. It's just possible the
Sea Siren
will sail with contraband.”

“So what if she does? What use is that to us?” the man on his right demanded. “What can we do with contraband? Where've ye been, man? Smugglin' ain't what it used to be. Now the only thing as what gets smuggled is supplies and fancy yard goods to the colonies that ain't been taxed by yer Royal Highness. They ain't worth the trouble to fence. The only one what makes any profit is the man what's got the ship to sail the stuff over to America.”

Malcolm's mind raced. “Yes, but you and I and everyone else knows about the stir that's sweeping the streets. The King's jeweled collar has been stolen. I just wonder if this
Sea Siren
's departure has anything to do with that. I've heard of the captain—I've even met him. Caleb van der Rhys is his name. He's quite an enterprising gentleman who's been employed by the Dutch East India Company. It wouldn't surprise me in the least if this is a Dutch plot.”

The men looked at each other and then at Malcolm. “He could be right,” one of them acknowledged. “That's all the talk, the stealing of the King's collar from the goldsmith's. What better place to fence it than in America? I've heard some very rich men live there now and that the colonies are almost civilized.”

“From what I've been told about the value of them gems, a man could buy the whole of the colonies and live better than the King himself.”

Another seaman spoke up. “Don't go using our prize,” he warned Malcolm, jabbing a finger in Wren's direction, “or we'll run you through. You hear me, Weatherly? We'll ask the little lady ourselves when we return. And if there's no talk about gems aboard the
Sea Siren,
you'd best plan on holding lilies in your hands.” His small, beady eyes underlined the menace in his voice.

“You'll see I'm right,” Malcolm said with more bravura than he felt. Damn the girl. As soon as they left, he would go out and see about booking passage somewhere. These men were more than he had bargained for. He would have to get an advance on the collar from Farrington. What good was the promise of a fortune to him when he didn't have enough pocket money for food? And what did he care if these toughs ransacked van der Rhys' ship in their search for gems? His collar was safe with Aubrey Farrington.

“Not so fast, Weatherly. Beasley here will say behind just in case you get any funny ideas. If he makes a false move, Beasley, slit his throat,” the sailor instructed his cohort.

Well, that takes care of my little plan, Malcolm fumed inwardly. Now I'll have to wait and see what happens on their return. He threw himself on the bed, a morose expression marring his handsome features as he forgot about Wren and his intentions. He knew he had to get away from these ruffians before they killed him. But how? They weren't about to let him out of their sight, because of all the money he owed them. They would keep watch over him, like a cat ready to pounce on a bird, until he took them to his banker. But what would he do in the morning when the banker advised them that his account was bare? He couldn't put them off any longer by saying the man was out of town for a few days. They meant to take him to the bank themselves.

While Malcolm contemplated his dim future, Wren was busily plotting her own. Beasley was sitting with his back to her, seemingly oblivious to her presence as he swilled what was left of the ale. All the tricks and wiles she had used in the dark alleys of London came back to her, and she was once again living in the streets and beneath the bridges, emerging only at night to scavenge for food. When you lived like an animal, you learned to behave like one. And you fought like one. She had to make her mind go back to the alleys and byways and remember what she would do if she were cornered as she was now.

Long moments became minutes, minutes lengthened into an hour, and the room darkened with the setting of the sun. Malcolm was asleep on the bed, snoring peacefully, as though he hadn't a worry in the world. Suddenly, as though being pricked by a thousand pins, Wren raised her head and saw Beasley staring at her. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes or the intention she read therein. He would have her again, would force his burly, stinking body on hers. She had no weapon. All she had were her hands and feet, but she would use them to protect herself, or die trying.

Slowly she rose to her full height, her amber eyes molten and glowing as she watched Beasley's appraisal of her. She moved wordlessly to the rough table, lifted the almost empty pitcher of ale and poured the liquid into a tankard. Taking a sip, she banged the cup down in front of Beasley, noting the marked appreciation in his narrow eyes.

“That's better, wench. I always did like my women friendly,” he jeered.

Wren managed a weak smile and sat in the chair opposite him. Lottie's words came back to her as though she were still eight years old and it were yesterday. “Always make do with what ye have, child. If it's only yer own hands, make do. Catch a man unawares and he's little more than yer own size.” Still smiling, Wren leaned back in the chair and lifted the hem of her skirt. Extending her leg upward, she slowly began to remove her stocking, allowing Beasley's eyes to linger on the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Then she rose and worked the buttons of her dress, moving around the table to stand near the seaman, close enough to hear his ragged breathing. All the while her mind raced; she could do it, she knew she could. Before she had been frightened, racked with despair because of Malcolm's evil. Not any longer. If her plan failed and she died, then so be it. She would cling to the last breath, but at least she would die knowing she had tried to save herself. She glanced toward Malcolm, still asleep on the bed, his mouth slacked open in an unattractive manner. How could she ever have thought she loved him? If he awoke suddenly, she would have to do to him what she had done to Caleb, what she should have done to Malcolm the instant she entered his room.

Keeping a watchful eye on Beasley, who was draining the last of his ale, she tested her stocking for flexibility. One loop and a knee in his back, careful to stay away from his groping fingers, and it would all be over. The amber eyes were alight as she slipped behind him, and they roared to a blazing fire as she brought up her knee and curved the stocking tightly around his throat. Beasley began to fight, his hands warped into claws stretching backward for a moment before they tore at the silk at his neck. Closing her eyes, terror twisting her mouth into a soundless scream, Wren gave the stocking a vicious yank and choked off the last of Beasley's air.

Malcolm opened his bleary eyes and took in the scene before him. It was the thud of Beasley's body hitting the floor that had brought him to the full awareness of the danger he was in.

Crouching low like a wild animal readying itself for attack, Wren advanced a step, then another as Malcolm, mesmerized by her feral look, tried to back away. Once again the amber eyes breathed flame as she stalked him, aiming for the fire tongs resting near the burning grate. Another step and she would be able to reach them. The moment her hand grasped the metal device, Malcolm's foot shot out; she raised her weapon and slammed it down across the side of his face. Blood spurted profusely from the deep gash. She lifted the tongs and again lashed out, this time rendering him a stinging blow to his head.

Reeling backward, Malcolm could do no more than bring his hands to his wounds, his mouth mewing his agony at what she had done to him. Wren advanced again, this time jabbing the tongs to his midsection. Again and again she attacked him, till he fell to the floor, begging her to stop.

“You took me like an animal, treated me like an animal, and now I'm doing the same to you. Which of us, Malcolm, will survive?
I
will, because I'll be gone when your cutthroat friends return. They'll blame you for what happened to Beasley. Your life will be worth nothing. Nothing, Malcolm.” She stood back, her quick, ragged breathing slowly returning to normal, and laughed. The sound was unlike anything Malcolm had ever heard. It frightened him more than the wounds he suffered and more than what he knew would happen to him when the seamen returned.

Through a red mist he saw her remove the stocking from Beasley's thick neck and roll it up her leg. Daintily, she buckled the buttons on her slippers and smoothed down her dress. “I'll be leaving you now, Malcolm. If you ever come near me again, I'll do to you what I just did to your friend.” And then she laughed once more. It was her laugh not her threatening words, that made him crawl blindly in search of escape.

Outside, in the cool evening breeze, Wren and the darkness blended as one. She slithered down one narrow alley after another, her old life coming back to her as she made her way. People lived all their lives in dark alleys, leaving their sanctuaries only at night to fight for the very food that would enable them to last one more day. She had done it before and she could do it again. One more day, and then she would sneak aboard Caleb's ship. She couldn't allow herself to think beyond that point. For now, she had to get through the rest of the night and find a place to stay until the
Sea Siren
was ready to sail.