Captive Splendors (7 page)

Jason had held true to his word and had all of Sara's clothes removed. Even her dressing gowns were considered devil's attire and had been taken from her. Now all she had to wear over her nightgown was the black dress.

She brushed her long, silky hair off her face and prayed that Malcolm had not left yet. She prayed even more fervently that her mother would not awaken and alert her father that their daughter was missing. From the front of the house she could hear good-byes being said. Caleb was leaving, and Camilla was complaining to Tyler that she was really quite weary. After a few moments, when she felt it was safe, Sara stole through the back door, into the kitchen garden and over to where the carriages were parked. The last one in line was Malcolm's hired phaeton, the driver fast asleep on his perch. Silently she pried open the door and climbed in. She didn't release her breath until she was safely hidden on the floor between the seats.

After what seemed an eternity, she felt a stirring atop the phaeton when the driver snapped to attention at Malcolm's approach. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it would explode through her breast. At least she would be alone with Malcolm. Within her stirred the faint hope that he would take pity on her and whisk her away. She didn't know how she could face life without being near him, seeing him, hearing his gentle laugh and waiting for the occasional touch of his hand.

The darkness of her gown concealed her in the shadows, and she waited until Malcolm had entered the coach and the driver had pulled away before she revealed her presence. “Malcolm, Malcolm. . .”

He turned his head, his blue-black hair shining in the moonlight. “Sara . . . ! What are you doing here?” he asked, incredulous at her boldness. “What if your father should find out? A fine mess it would be for me to explain to the van der Rhyses why you're with me!”

“Malcolm, Malcolm, please. I had to see you. It may be for the last time! My parents are taking me away somewhere, and they won't tell me where. Malcolm, please,” she begged, crawling forward on her knees and placing her hand on his arm.

“Can't you see I'm done with you, Sara? Why won't you leave me be? I'll never understand your sordid attachment to Wren when you knew I had asked her to marry me . . .”

Sara rose and sat beside him. His eyes flashed with fury and she silenced him with her lips. He tried to pull himself away from her, to release her arms from about his neck, but she pressed closer, burdening him with her slender body.

Suddenly his struggles ceased and his lips were clinging to hers. “Sara, Sara, you little fool,” he whispered, drawing her closer and burying his face between her breasts. Her flesh tingled where his fingers touched her, and her lips sought his again and again.

The buttons of her gown were quickly undone, and with the ease of familiarity, Malcolm pulled the black garment over her head, leaving Sara in her thin nightdress. The phaeton rocked through the streets, the driver oblivious to what was occurring in the cab beneath him. Sara's hair veiled her nakedness as Malcolm pulled the nightdress down over her shoulders and bared her firm, round breasts. She shivered with uncontrollable desire as her arms closed about him, bringing him down on top of her, relishing the feel of his lithe body pressed against hers.

He whispered her name over and over, filling her with a delight she had never known before. This was Malcolm kissing her, caressing her, penetrating her very soul. This was her love.

His mouth grazed her flesh with a practiced art, his fingers tantalized her skin, his breath was hot upon her cheek and she could feel his muscular back beneath her hands. Surging yearnings locked them together as they rode the dizzy heights and approached the crest. Sara cried out, “Love me, Malcolm, love me!”

She never wanted to leave his embrace. Her heart sang with joy as she rested against him, their passions abated.

“Sara, you must get dressed now. I must get you back to the Baron's home before your absence is discovered.”

“No, Malcolm, don't make me go back there. I love you! I know you love me!” she implored, tears spilling from her eyes.

“Don't cry!” Malcolm admonished. “Why must you always cry?”

“How can you be so cruel? I've given myself to you, Malcolm, and you took whatever I had to offer. How can you think of casting me away like trash?” she sniffed.

“Trash is trash, Sara. When something is no longer needed, it becomes either treasure or trash. You, my passionate little Puritan, are no treasure.” Malcolm smiled, his lips drawn into a sneer. “This is the last I'll see of you, Sara, unless, of course, you attend my wedding. But perhaps your father will have something to say about that. He seems to consider Wren a bad influence on you.” Malcolm laughed aloud, the sound so derisive to Sara that she clamped her hands over her ears to block it out.

The phaeton took the return trip to the Sinclair home while Sara begged and argued and pleaded with Malcolm. But in the end she was left standing at the edge of the drive, near the stables, reluctant to go upstairs for fear her racking sobs would awaken her parents.

As he had been asked to do, Caleb had come to Tyler's house for an early breakfast with Regan in order to discuss the latest events within the Dutch East India Company, for whom they were both representatives. Caleb sensed that it wasn't business which had inspired Regan to summon him for this quiet breakfast, nor was it a desire for a renewal of their relationship. Regan had something very definite on his mind, and he would take his own good time to reveal it. Whatever it was, Caleb didn't think he was going to like it.

On and on, late into the morning, Regan spoke of the Company, his home on Java, the four young sons who were impatiently awaiting their parents' return. He and Caleb caught up on news of common acquaintances and spoke of the looming civil war in England. Still Regan eluded the point of this meeting with his eldest son.

At last, when the maids kept interrupting them to clear off the table so they could prepare it for luncheon, Regan beckoned Caleb into the library. He poured himself and Caleb a healthy measure of rum and settled into an oversized leather chair. “What do you think of the young man Wren has chosen to spend the rest of her life with, Cal?”

No answer was necessary. Caleb curled his lip and drank deeply from his glass.

Regan laughed. “I thought as much. Sirena and I share your astute opinion, but Wren is another matter. She's positively smitten with him.”

“Worse luck for her,” Caleb muttered. “Surely you and Sirena aren't going to allow this marriage?”

“Wren is headstrong, as you know. Regardless of Sirena's and my protests, she'll do as she pleases. Sirena is quite distressed.” Regan watched for Caleb's reaction on hearing of Sirena's concern. The lad was always sensitive to his stepmother and usually sympathetic to her feelings.

“What do you plan to do?”

“Nothing. What can we do? To forbid her to see him would only make him a more romantic figure in her eyes. Wren has to want to break this off on her own. She's always been sheltered. First with Sirena and myself, living on Java, where, you must admit, society isn't nearly as dazzling as it is here in London; and secondly, at the academy. I think our little Wren has fallen for the first man who has paid her court.”

“A likely assumption,” Caleb agreed. “You still haven't told me what you plan to do about it.”

“What Wren needs,” Regan continued, ignoring Caleb's remark, “is to know that she is desirable, beautiful and wanted by men other than this Weatherly.”

Caleb raised his brows. “I would say you haven't enough time for that. From what I understand, Wren wants to be married before you and Sirena leave for Java.”

“Exactly! And I can't tell you how happy I am that you agree with me. It's settled, then.
You
will be the man to show her that Weatherly isn't the only one who finds her attractive. Wonderful! Sirena will be delighted to hear you've brought yourself into our little scheme.”

Caleb nearly choked on his rum. “I haven't agreed to anything! Do you mean to tell me that you and Sirena want me to pay court to Wren so she'll forget about Weatherly?”

“Exactly!” Regan repeated. “It's comforting to know you understand.”

“You wily old fox!” Caleb exclaimed. “I never said I would do anything of the kind! Wren's a wonderful girl, a beautiful girl, but she's hardly my kind of woman. I doubt that I could bring it off, Father. And even if I did, then what? I would be the scoundrel who broke her heart.”

“Oh, so you admit you could turn her head and take her mind off Weatherly?”

Caleb smiled. “Of course. Don't you know whose son I am? Say, did I ever tell you about that little tavern wench with the unusual appetites whom I happened upon in Cádiz?”

Regan leaned forward in his chair, a proud smile on his face. For the next hour they shared intimate details of the women they had loved and left behind.

Swirling the dark rum in his glass, Regan seemed intent on the burnished liquid when he casually remarked, “So, Cal, all the success you speak of with the fairer sex—it's mostly with tavern wenches and admitted prostitutes, right?”

Caleb raised an inquiring brow and smiled crookedly. “I think it's safe to say that those women are accepted authorities on the matter of what constitutes a man.”

“Hmmm. I suppose you could say that; however, that's their business. Let me put it this way: you wouldn't take the word of a horse trader who was interested in your money for his nag, would you?”

“If you're saying that prostitutes always tell their customers what they want to hear because that's the way of business. . .”

“Exactly,” Regan said softly, watching Caleb's indignation rise.

“You know perfectly well that women of breeding aren't allowed to associate with seamen, Regan . . . or have you been married so long you don't remember?” Caleb baited.

“I remember . . . I remember,” Regan laughed. “And a catastrophe that is. Even when a girl is betrothed, there is always someone peeking over her shoulder and standing guard, not allowing a moment's intimacy. A catastrophe,” Regan repeated, shaking his head.

“Come, now! A catastrophe? You're exaggerating. It's just the way things are. Every family wants to protect its daughter from bounders.”

“Are you saying you're a bounder, son?” Regan raised his eyebrows and observed his son critically.

“Hell, I hope not. But I haven't had much traffic with the kind of girl I eventually hope to marry. I can't quite see myself with a tavern wench.”

“No, I wouldn't imagine so. You've always wanted someone like Sirena, if I remember correctly, from when you were this high.” Regan held his hand at waist level.

Caleb laughed uneasily. What was his father aiming at? Had he discovered that Camilla and he had carried on a love affair behind his back?

“What I'm saying, Caleb, is that I know you through and through. You regard marriage seriously. You'd want your wife to be your mistress as well. And you'd be right there. Nothing could be better than for a husband and wife to love each other totally, sharing their bodies as well as their souls, without the slightest hint of reticence. False modesty has been the death of many a marriage. Yet if you persist in your present attitude, you would certainly spoil any chance you have for such a marriage.” Regan stared into his glass, his thoughts flying to Wren. How he would hate to think of her locked into a marriage with an unfeeling, self-serving bastard who thought only of his own satisfaction. How much happier Wren would be if she were loved by a man whose main concern was bringing her to a full realization of her passions. He thought of Sirena, his woman, beautiful, self-possessed and without inhibitions when she was with the man she loved.

Caleb laughed again, uneasily. This was by far the most difficult conversation he had ever had with Regan. “First you speak of whores and then you talk about making mistresses out of wives. In that case, what is the difference between a legitimate spouse and a woman who sells her favors?”

“The difference, my son, is between passion and venality. It is the line between inspirations of desire and planned behavior, the wide breach between tenderness and love and promiscuousness.”

“God, Father, you really do take me for a bounder, a jackanapes, a whoremonger!” Caleb said hotly, the fine hairs at the back of his neck bristling. “If any other man talked to me in such a way—”

“It's because I care for you,” Regan interrupted. “You haven't had the most normal upbringing. Not in the least. You've spent your life among men, aboard ship or in the seaports of the world. Not exactly the kinds of places where a man could learn to appreciate women. All I'm saying is that when the time comes for you to marry, in all likelihood it won't be to one of the doxies on the wharf. She'll be a girl carefully nurtured and watched over by her family. And in that case, her initiation into love will come from her husband, and he must take full responsibility.”

Caleb ran a hand through his dark hair. “All right, Father, it seems as though you're not going to let me off without this little talk about the birds and the bees. But you're years late with it. I'll play your little game and listen to what you have to say. You were telling me about a man's responsibility for turning a sheltered, innocent girl into a passionate, responsive wife. What does that responsibility entail?”

“For one thing, a man must understand he is not an animal in a state of rut with only one purpose in mind —to satisfy himself by raping the woman.” Regan's voice lowered, and a deep note of sorrow entered his next words. “You saw what rape did to Sirena and how she suffered.”

“Father, whatever you may be thinking, I am not a rapist,” Caleb said defensively. “I saw what happened to Sirena, I was there, yes. I'll never forget it. I don't consider myself like those scurves who—”

“Don't be so hotheaded. However you look at it, if a woman isn't ready for you, taking her is tantamount to rape. Can you imagine what it's like to be an inexperienced young girl in her first encounter with sex? The nudity of a man, the hugeness of his sex? And to be ridden? I am fully aware that it isn't always horrible to every young woman. I'm speaking of the sensitive, intelligent girl. A girl like Wren, for instance.”

“I'll ask again. What responsibility does a man take?”

“Patience. Knowing how to enjoy the awakening of a woman's spirit and passions. Learning how to arouse her and lead her into the mysteries of the flesh. Even if a woman isn't a virgin, if she's been badly used, can you conceive of how frightful it would be to be taken without tenderness? Compare that fear with the delight of a woman overflowing with love for the man hungering for his body, yearning for his caresses.” “And suppose a man finds himself strapped to a woman who is incapable of this sublime passion even after every consideration and patience has been shown her?” Caleb wondered, watching for Regan's reaction.

“Then either she's a goose or the man is a bounder. And since you tell me you're not a bounder, Cal, be careful not to turn the woman you marry into a goose.”

Caleb laughed again, this time uproariously, leaving behind the embarrassment he had felt earlier.

Just then the door opened and Sirena appeared. “What's going on in here between you two?” she asked, moving over to Regan, her taffeta petticoats rustling with each step she took. A puzzled expression crossed her face. “Caleb, what in the world is so funny?”

Bringing his laughter under control, Caleb managed to choke, “Nothing, Sirena. Regan was just telling me about goose herding. One more thing, Regan. Where did you learn all this?” His white teeth gleamed in a broad smile.

Regan put his arm about Sirena's waist and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Everything I told you, son, comes from the best authority. Now, why don't you get your tail out of here so I can learn more about the subject?” he suggested in a husky voice as he gathered Sirena into his arms. “And, Caleb, close the door behind you.”

 

Caleb sat in the garden, a feeling of doom dampening his normally outgoing personality. Why in the world had he promised Regan he would do as he had been asked? Now he wouldn't be his own man until he had resolved this problem with Wren and Malcolm. She was no one's fool. What had made Regan think she would fall for such an age-old trick? Man's vanity, Caleb told himself. He smirked slightly. It was true; he had always been successful with women, and he could have the pick of the litter, so to speak. And speaking of picking, he knew he could have little Miss Stoneham in his bed within the hour if he had a mind to. Just the thought of all her pink and whiteness sent a warm, pleasant flush through his body. She reminded him of someone, but who was it? A delicate flower ready to be plucked. He threw back his head and laughed. He'd bet his whole cargo that she had already been plucked by experienced hands, and quite soundly, too.

Some of the tension between his shoulders eased with his laughter. He needed a woman. It was that simple. But there wasn't anything he could do about it now. He had to put the first part of his father's plan into motion. Poor Wren. He would sweep her off her feet, and then what would happen to her? God forbid he would then be saddled with her. Regan hadn't said what he should do if that happened. It never occurred to Caleb that the young woman would find him anything but dashing and irresistible.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wren approach the garden, unaware of his presence. How in the devil had Regan managed this? Caleb wondered.

Wren continued her walk, her eyes cast downward at the flagstones, completely oblivious of Caleb. When he spoke, she raised startled eyes and flushed a deep crimson. “Hello, Caleb,” she murmured, her voice a bare whisper.

“I didn't think anyone but me would be out this early,” Caleb said, getting up from the iron bench and taking her slim hand in his. How unhappy she looked. Damnation, if she loved the fop, why couldn't Regan and Sirena allow her her happiness? Why did they have to interfere?

“This is my favorite time of day,” Wren replied, smiling slightly. “I love to see the dew on the grass and feel it between my toes. Look,” she cried girlishly, “I don't have my slippers on.”

Caleb smiled in spite of himself. “I won't give away your secret. Sit down and let's have a talk. Yesterday was so hectic that we didn't get a chance to say much to each other. You've grown into a remarkable young lady, Wren. You're quite beautiful.” He studied her features intently, lingering over her amber eyes and light ivory complexion. Her luxurious dark hair was tied back neatly and he fought the urge to free the pins and run his hands through the thick, silky strands.