Till Dawn Tames the Night (22 page)

"Because I want a guarantee that Flossie shall not be hurt."

He scowled. "You may not believe this, but I have never made it a practice to rape and torture old women."

"I'm
not an old woman."

"I see that." His gaze skimmed her figure,
then
rested on her face. "Tell me the Verse."

She shook her head. "No, I'm not going to tell you."

"Do you tease me then? Have you a need for me to get it out of you?"

She looked at him. He was alluding to something filthy, she was sure. Ignoring the comment, she shook her head again. "No. You cannot get this out of me. I don't know where the Star is, but nonetheless, I hold the key to its acquisition. You shall have that key as soon as Flossie and I are set free."

"I shall have it now." He rose from his chair and towered over her. But this time she could not be intimidated. Her face was a mask of alabaster.

"You'll never get it from me, Vashon.
Unless you release me first.
And if I go to Mirage, I swear you shall never know it."

He frowned. A muscle hardened in his jaw, but then, the corner of his mouth lifted in a dark smile. "I see you've heeded my advice too well."

She looked at him. "Yes
. '
Forget your prim and proper little past,' I think you told me. Well, as of now I consider it forgotten. No longer am I a schoolmistress from an orphanage. From now on I'm the woman who holds the secret to all your wretched plans. And I'm the woman you must please." Unconsciously her hand rose to the emerald locket.

"And how shall I please you?" he taunted.

"To begin with, I demand my own cabin."

"I see."

She didn't pause. "At the next island, Flossie and I are to be released and compensated for this misery."

"How so?"

"You are to give Flossie enough money for passage back to St. George's, and you are to give me enough for passage back to London."

He looked as if he might laugh. "Is that all?" he asked with mock
solemnness
.

"Yes, that's all. For that I shall give you the second verse, and you can go after this wicked jewel on your own."

He put his hands behind his back and studied her. "But have you no sentiment, Aurora? After all, your father wanted you to have this jewel, or why else would he teach you that nursery rhyme?"

A slight frown appeared on her face. She had enormous sentiment for her father. He was the only member of her family she had ever known and every time she thought of him, a lonely ache blossomed in her chest. She wished fervently that he'd never left her, and as a child she had even nurtured the secret hope that one day he was going to appear on the Home's doorstep looking for her. But now, after all that had transpired the past few days, she wasn't sure if the sentiment she held in her heart was actually for her father or for the man she thought he'd been. All that was left was the image of the man she wanted him to be.

"If I have any sentiment at all," she answered, "it's the wish that I could prove my father was no thief. But since I can't do that, I certainly want nothing of the goods you claim he stole. All I want is for Flossie and me to be set free."

"And if I let you and the widow go, shall you not bring charges upon me for kidnapping and piracy, and see me twisted for it?"

"If Flossie so wishes it, she may. But I would very much like to forget this shadowy adventure and return to London in peace."

"And return to your dashing fiancé, John Philips, I suppose?"

"Phipps," she corrected.

"Ah, yes, of course.
Phipps
," he said with great emphasis. "I suppose you want to become Mrs.
Phipps
just as soon as you can."

She remained silent. She wouldn't marry John. If this trip had told her anything, it made most clear the fact that she was not suited for John Phipps.

"Whatever I do," she said briskly, "it's of no concern to you. What is your concern is the second verse to my father's rhyme. And you shall get that as soon as—"

"Yes, yes," he interposed, suddenly venting his annoyance. "But what you naively dismiss, baggage, is the fact that I won't know if this second verse of yours is truly the one your father gave you until I find the emerald with it."

"You have my word that I shall give you the truth."

He tipped his head back and laughed. She felt as if she had just told him some kind of bawdy joke.

"Whatever is so funny?" she asked, irritated.

"Your word," he mocked. "And don't you think I know that a prisoner is not above lying to get his desired freedom?"

"But I shall give you the truth and I can prove—" She almost bit off her tongue trying to stop her words. She had almost told him about the locket. Once he knew about that, she'd have no bargaining chip at all.

Suddenly his interest was piqued. He cupped her face in his hands and studied her. "How shall you prove it?" he asked.

"When the time comes I shall be able to. Just release Flossie and me at the next port and you shall have your verse."

"Is it written down somewhere, Aurora?" His gaze slid to her willow basket at the foot of his bed. He dropped his hands and walked to it.

"It's not in there," she told him, her voice rising in panic.

"But it is written down?"

She remained mute.

Suddenly his eyes lowered to her clothes. She lifted her hand protectively to her chest.

"Where is it,
Aurorel
Written on a tiny piece of paper, then sewn into the hem of your frock?"

"Of course not," she said, worry creeping into her eyes.

"Or is it tucked into the seam of your chemise? Surely it would be safe there, wouldn't it?" He began to stalk her.

"No, it isn't." She began backing away.

"Take off your dress, Aurora."

"I shall not!"

"Take it off or I'll take it off."

She stumbled over his mahogany armchair. He caught her just as she fell. His hand wrapped around her waist and it intimately wandered over her
uncorseted
torso.

He smiled and commented, "Ah, how I love a woman who needn't cinch up her waist." With that he dragged her to the bedstead, blithely ignoring her kicks and demands to be set free.

"It's not there!" she cried futilely when he threw her on the bed. She squirmed beneath him, but the moment she made some headway in escaping, she heard a knife rip through her dress. He stood over her as she lay panting on the mattress and he easily tore through her hem. It was the second time that day a knife had been taken to her, but right now Robert's knife almost seemed preferable to Vashon's.

"Where is it, wench?" he snarled after he'd pulled apart her gown's hem. When all she could do was shake her head, he went for the seams.

In seconds her drab linen gown was in shreds. Ignoring her violent protests, he rifled through the torn fabric, touching her in places she never dreamed she'd be touched. His knuckles grazed her thighs, her waist,
her
torso before he centered his attention—and his hands-on the seams just to the sides of her bust.

Outraged that he was using his search as an excuse to fondle her, she grew even more outraged when she felt herself responding. Groaning, she looked down and saw her nipples tighten and strain against the ripped linen of her bodice. When he saw it too, she wanted to slap the expression right off his face.

"I hate you," she swore to him under her breath.

"Yes, I know . . . I see how much you hate me. . . ." He began to smile.

"You play the fool if you think I'd ever desire an ignoble wretch like you," she spat.

His green eyes glittered with mirth.
"Of course.
You're right. Your
fiance
Phyfe is the only man you could desire. That's why you're running to the opposite ends of the earth to be away from him."

"Phipps," she hissed. "His name is Phipps."

"Thank you.
Phipps
," he answered.

"And see that you remember that name, too, for when John comes to rescue Flossie and me, no doubt he will bring the Royal Navy, and we'll all see you hang at
Wapping
!" It was a lie, but she hoped it struck a chord of fear in him anyway.

It didn't. He raised one infuriating black eyebrow and said, "My, my. Old Phelps can truly do all that?"

Her anger exploded. She lashed out to scratch his face, but he easily captured her. He straddled her on the bed and with arms much stronger than hers he forced her beneath him. She moaned in frustration and longed for her embroidery scissors. She surely had the bravado to use them now.

"Where is your proof, Aurora?" he said, an ultimatum.

"You won't find it in my clothes, so
release
me!" she nearly screamed.

"But I have to be sure." He looked down at her heaving chest and did a poor job of hiding his smile. "How will I know you're speaking the truth until I've searched you—
thoroughly!
"

Wriggling beneath him, she tried to make him stop, but it was no use. He pulled at her gown until her dress was reduced to mere tatters, then he thrust it to the floor and began to prey upon her again. Now clad in only her chemise and pantalets, she felt as if she might as well be naked, and she expected she soon would be when his knife tore at the delicate homemade French work of her undergarments.

But suddenly he ceased. Deep in thought, he fingered the pierced cotton at the neckline of her chemise, letting his palm fill with the swell of flesh that peeked over it. She wasn't sure what he would do next, but when he put the knife down on the mattress and in its stead produced her embroidery scissors, she moaned in despair. It was an abomination that he was trying to strip her with the blade of a knife, but she'd never be able to endure his cutting away her remaining garments, inch by painful inch.
Particularly when his palm felt so warm and so oddly right on her skin.

"Don't do this," she whispered, trying to pull away his hand.

"But this garment requires a finer touch." Pensively he stroked down the valley of her bosom with the sharp point of the scissors. He was so gentle she could barely feel them as they glided along her breastbone, but the cold metal and even colder gaze of the man above her sent an uncontrollable shiver down her spine.

"Please," she said, her breath coming in short little gasps, "I haven't many clothes—"

"And the ones you do have are wretched. Paupers dress finer than you, love."

"My garments may indeed be plain, but they're all I possess—"

"They're pitiful . . . yet I daresay the finest of gowns could hardly make you more beautiful than you are now."

Her eyes met his and she was shocked by his hungry stare. He had obviously had many women. And it was certainly no great surprise that a man like him would want to spend his pent-up shipboard lust on the only young woman available. But what did surprise her was the shadow of longing deep within his emerald eyes. Somehow she didn't believe he was looking at her as just another woman who could ease his physical needs, then fade into the corners of his memory. Instead she felt, if it was possible, that she somehow intrigued him; that he viewed her as something foreign, something elusive and rare with which he had had little experience. And because he had suddenly found himself so captivated, his desire to possess her became more ravenous with every passing second.

"No," she whispered just his scissors made the first tiny cut down the middle of her chemise. Her hand grabbed his wrist, but he calmly pulled her off.

He snipped again.

"This isn't right," she pleaded. She put her hands on his chest in supplication.

He ignored her.

"I'll never tell you the second verse. Do you hear me?"

Even the threatened loss of his precious emerald seemed not enough to make him stop. He looked down at her,
then
deliberately ripped her chemise further with the scissors. He paused only when the entire valley between her breasts appeared beneath the tear. Then, as if she was tempting him beyond control, he lifted his hand to touch her.

"Don't," she said, desperate to stop him. Her hands clutched his in an effort to push him away, but as she well knew, her strength was negligible in comparison with his. He kept going, pausing only once to look at her face.

Her expression was an exquisite blend of fear and desire. Fear, because she had watched him kill a man that very morning, and no matter how ruthless his enemies were, he had proved himself to be equally ruthless; and desire, because as she looked up at him, at this wild, handsome pirate, she was suddenly overwhelmed with the terrible knowledge of what had been missing in her feelings for John Phipps.

"Why do you look at me in that manner?" he asked, suddenly stopping.

She quickly averted her eyes. What was wrong with her? How could she feel this way about a man who hadn't any more honor than the thieves of Field Lane? She pushed away his hand and grabbed at the edges of her chemise. She must be delirious. Or mad. She glanced at him, letting her gaze linger on his angry, handsome features. She was mad, she thought as she looked away again. That was the only explanation for it.