Never Romance a Rake

“Have me.” He watched her lush lips form each word, mesmerized. “Tonight. Now.”

“You must be mad,” he managed. But he was drawing in the scent of her—that warm, spicy mélange that smelled of orchids and seductive feminine heat—and his traitorous body was eager.

Her breasts were pressed against him now. Her mouth—and that dark as midnight voice—were hot against his ear.
“Beneath you,”
she whispered.
“Under your thumb. Doing your every bidding.
That is your fantasy,
n'est-ce pas?”

Rothewell dredged up what little restraint he possessed, and set his hand to the back of her head. “Were I to have you,
mademoiselle,
” he whispered against her ear, “and act out even the most fainthearted of my fantasies, everyone from here to High Holborn Street would have to listen to the racket, because I'd have my hand laid to your bare backside.”

She drew back, her eyes wide.

“No,” he said, sneering. “I did not think that was what you had in mind. But if you insist on acting like a foolish child, then that is how I'll treat you, Mademoiselle Marchand.
Do not toy with me.
You will rue the day.”

She dropped her gaze, and to his undying agony, backed away.

Camille turned around, and he thought he saw a flicker of pain in her wide, bottomless eyes. “I cannot stop you, my lord, from keeping a mistress,” she said. “But shan't have this
affaire d'amour
of yours flung in my face. Do you understand me, Rothewell?”

“What, jealous?”

In the Cane Fields

T
he West Indian sun beat down on the still and verdant fields, searing all which lay beneath. Galleried white plantation houses shimmered in the heat, dotting the lush landscape like perfect, lucent pearls. Inside the fine homes, their broad corridors were steeped in shadow, and window louvers lay wide to catch the meager breeze, whilst slave children worked the fans which fluttered from lofty ceilings like massive raptors' wings.

This was a prosperous land; a near-magical place where money was wrung from the very earth itself, squeezed out drop by glistening drop in the gnashing teeth of the sugar mills, and rendered forth in every bead of sweat that poured off the men—and the women—who worked the cane. The land of sugar barons and shipping fortunes. A far-flung colonial outpost which was beyond the King's eyes—and often, beyond his laws.

But between the English ladies who languished in the heat on their divans, and the slaves who toiled in misery, there existed a third sort of people in the distant paradise. Sailors who longed only for home, most of whom would never see it again. Servants who had once been indentured, now enslaved by circumstance. Dock whores, street sweeps, and orphans—voiceless and unseen.

In this world of heat and indifference, two boys flew through the narrow rows of green, the razor-sharp cane leaves slicing at their arms and face, their breath coming in sawing heaves. They spared not a thought for the undulating ribbon of sapphire sea below, nor to the ramshackle house left on the hill behind. They had never seen a shaded divan, much less lain on one.

“That way.” The bigger lad shoved the smaller hard on the left shoulder. “The swamp. He'll not catch us there.”

They cut along the edge of the cane field; pale, skinny arms pumping furiously. The smaller boy dived beneath a low tree branch, skittered out, and pushed on. The stitch in his ribs cut like a knife. Blood pounded. Fear drove him. He could smell the brackish water just beyond. Another twenty yards. Their bare feet threw up puffs of dust as they pelted along the field's edge. Almost. Almost. Almost there.

A drunken roar pierced the sweltering silence. Uncle leapt from the cane rows, crouching like some beast beneath the mangroves. Cutting off the swamp trail. The boys skidded in the dirt. Stepped back, and half turned. A skeletal Negro slipped out of the cane, blocking the path behind them, his face impassive but his eyes pitying.

The boys turned around, frail shoulders falling in surrender.

“Aye, cornered you little bastards, didn't I?” Uncle paced toward them, his steps remarkably sure for a man so intoxicated on rum and ruthlessness.

The younger boy whimpered, but the bigger did not.

Uncle stopped, his porcine eyes narrowed to glittering black slits, a riding crop swinging almost cheerfully from his wrist. “Fesh me the little one, Odysseus,” he said, spittle dangling off one lip. “I'll teash the cheeky beggar to sass me.”

The Negro approached, snatched the boy, then hesitated.

Like a flash of lightning, Uncle's crop cracked him through the face, drawing blood across his ebony cheekbone. “By God, you'll strip the shirt off that little beggar and hol' him shtill, Odysseus, or it'll be forty lashes for you—and a week in the hole to repent.”

Odysseus thrust the boy forward.

The bigger lad stepped nearer. “He didn't sass, sir,” he piped. “H-He
didn't
. He didn't say a word. H-He's only eight, sir. Please.”

Uncle grinned, and bent low. “Always the helpful one, aren't you, you little shite?” he said. “Aye, if you're so bloody bold, you can take his beating for 'im. Strip off his shirt, Odysseus.”

The older boy was inching backward when the slave hitched him up short by the arm. “S-Sir,” the lad stuttered, eyes wide, “I—I'm just trying to explain—n-no one sassed. W-We didn't say a word, sir. It was just the peacock. He squawked, sir, remember?”

But Odysseus began jerking the filthy linen shirt over the lad's head, impervious to his struggles. The smaller boy set both fists to his mouth, drew himself into a knot, and began silently to sob.

His brown eyes glistening with tears, Odysseus tossed the ragged shirt into the dirt of the cane field, and forced the boy's arms to the front, holding them there. The lad's thin shoulder blades stuck out like a heron's wings.

“You little bastards are going to rue the day.” Uncle drew the crop through his fist as if savoring his task. “Aye, the day you got off that boat to bedevil me.”

The older boy glanced back. “Please, sir,” he begged. “Just send us back. We'll go. We
will
.”

Uncle laughed and drew back his whip. Odysseus turned his bleeding face away.

When the blows began, merciless and even, the little boy shut his eyes. He did not listen to his brother's cries. The sound of cracking leather. And whilst he shut it out, the sun kept beating down, the faint breeze picked up, and the rich people in their plantation houses savored their fans and sent their slaves skittering off for more lemonade. In the islands, God was in his heaven, and all was as it should be.

When the little boy opened his eyes again, Odysseus had gently hefted his brother over one shoulder and set out toward the house, the filth of the cane field caking his feet. The little boy cast one last look at Uncle.

His eyes glassy with drink and satisfaction, Uncle tugged his flask from his coat, tipped it toward the boy, and winked. “Aye, next time, you little snotnose,” he promised. “Next time, Odysseus'll be carrying you from the fields.”

The little boy turned and ran.