Wicked at Heart (12 page)

She choked on
another breath.  "The Black Hole?"

The marine piped
up.  "Where the prisoners are punished, madam.  We keep 'em down there for
ten days at a stretch when they're behaving particularly bad."

Her face went
gray.  "Yes, yes, of course.  Just lead the way."

With
Morninghall's hand firmly supporting her elbow, Gwyneth thrust herself toward
yet another hatch, this one so dark and forbidding that it yawned out of the
gloom like an empty grave at midnight.  Morninghall went down first.  Slowly,
his shoulders, his head, disappeared into that black rectangle.

The marines
waited behind her.  Lightheaded, nauseous, and growing more and more
distressed, Gwyneth followed the marquess.

Down into the
hold they went, into darkness and stenches that made the upper decks smell like
a rose garden in comparison.  There were no prisoners here and it might've been
faintly cooler, but the stink — of bodily wastes that had filtered down from the
decks above, of dead and decaying vermin, stagnant water, ammonia, reeking mold
and rotting wood — was enough to steal the last of Gwyneth's already meager
breath.  She paused, unable to breathe, to see, in the darkness.  Behind her,
the guard lit a tiny lantern which sputtered and went out in the airless
gloom.  Cursing and dashing the rivulets of sweat from his brow, he got it lit
once more.

Morninghall was
standing a little distance away, feet braced on a huge rib that curved out of
the keel, hands clasped behind his back as he stared sightlessly into the
gloom.  He looked as though he were in pain.  "Show her the Hole," he
ordered, hoarsely.

Her head
swimming, her teeth clenched to hold back a rising and horrible urge to vomit,
Gwyneth picked her way over the ship's great ribs in the wake of the guard. 
For a moment she heard no sound behind her; then there were splashes as
Morninghall caught up, quickly closing the distance between them.  Moisture
seeped through her shoes as she sloshed through the oily, stinking water.  She
had to hold her skirts up to keep them from dragging through filth and decay,
and her pearls, slimy now with perspiration, felt as though they were choking
her.  She slipped and Morninghall caught her elbow.  As he pulled her up, she
saw shapes rearing out of the gloom, rodents scurrying near her feet and along
the beams high overhead.  Sweat was running freely down her brow, her temples,
the curve of her upper lip, and she was fast losing the ability to breathe.

Dizzily, she
heard Morninghall's deep voice somewhere near her ear.  "You all
right?"

She nodded
gamely.  "Yes.  Thank you.  Show me this thing, please."

Morninghall
nodded to the marine, who, breathing through a filthy handkerchief pressed to
his face, thrust the lantern toward a structure built into the curve of the
hull.

"The Black
Hole." 

Leaning heavily
against Morninghall's arm, her vision reeling and her hair wilting against her
dripping brow, Gwyneth stared through the gloom.  There it was, a box six feet
by six feet, looming out of the darkness like a coffin.

Clutching her
notebook, eyes watering, she stumbled toward it, this unspeakable prison tucked
down here in this grave of a ship, abandoned, forgotten, forlorn.  She saw tiny
holes no bigger than her little finger for ventilation in its side; she felt
the utter misery, terror, and despair oozing from it before she even got to the
thing and placed a shaky hand against its door, leaning against it lest she
faint.

And as she did
so, she heard sounds moving behind it, felt the pitiful scratch of fingers on
the other side.

There was
someone actually in there.

The full horror
of it all overcame her at last.  Heat, shock, and the noxious fumes finally
permeated her brain, and the darkness began to come down over her vision.  She
felt the notebook slipping from her hand, felt her knees collapsing, had a
vague sense of falling backward . . .

And then,
nothing.

Chapter
7

It was the
Marquess of Morninghall who, cursing, stepped forward and caught her.

He stood there,
the oily bilge oozing about his shoes and his adversary's body — warm, soft, a
tumble of lilac skirts and frothy petticoats — filling his arms.  For a moment,
he could only look at her, stunned as he was from the reality of the horrors he
had just seen, her golden head dangling over his elbow and exposing the throat
like a pale offering, the combs already falling from her hair and dragging
soft, uneven clumps of it down with them.  Her lips were parted, her lashes weighty
against her flushed cheeks, and as the damp heat of her body rose, he caught
the scent of her soap.  Peaches.  Delicious, sweet, ripe, peaches —

A host of
feelings smashed the brittle veneer of Lord Morninghall's black heart.

"Er. . .  Uh
. . ."

He looked up to
see the marine staring at him.

"Best get
her topside," the man finished sheepishly at Damon's glare.  "Fresh
air's the best thing to revive a lady from a swoon."

"Well, lead
the way then.  You have the damned light."

Easily cradling
his burden in one arm, Damon paused to retrieve her notebook from where it had
fallen, picking it up with two fingers, shaking the water off, and shoving the
thing into his pocket.  He was so angry he was shaking inside.  Partly with
Lady Simms for forcing him down here; partly with himself for not taking any responsibility
for it; and mostly with Foyle and Radley, whom he had entrusted to keep this
place clean.  Foyle had made daily reports, assuring Damon that things were not
this bad, but these conditions were appalling, criminal even and it was obvious
the cheeky little wretch had been lying to him all along.

Heads were going
to roll, Damon thought savagely.  Foyle and Radley were not going to escape the
full fury of his rage.

Just ahead the marine
was trudging up the ladder now, one hand gripping his musket, the other holding
the lantern behind him to light his captain's way.  Lady Simms weighed less
than a bundle of feathers, but Damon still found it no easy task to carry her
up the steep, narrow ladder without knocking her dangling legs against the
grimy wood, harder still to ignore the jeering laughter that met him without
losing his carefully controlled composure.

"Ah, look
at the fancy lady!  Guess she must've seen a mousey, eh?"

"Or taken a
good look at
le capitain
!"

Damon walked
straight through them, his arms rigid around his burden, his face devoid of all
emotion.

"Naw, 'twas
Ronny's pissing against the bulkhead that did it!  Probably ain't never seen a
cock that long!"

"Well, what
d'ye expect?  She's a
lady
, ain't she?  Probably ain't
used
to
seein' cocks the size of Ronny's rod!"

"Aye, well,
she ain't seen
mine
, then!"

Guffaws, shouts,
and laughter roared around them.  Filthy bodies pressed close, staring,
laughing, leering.

"Hey,
Cap'n, ye show her yers?"

Damon kept his
impassive gaze straight ahead and shoved his way through them as he started
toward the next ladder.

A hand grasped
his sleeve and a dirty, grinning face filled his vision, blasting him with its
sour breath.  "Ye hear me, Cap'n?  I asked ye if ye'd showed her —"

He turned then,
impaling the wretch with the full effect of his blazing gaze.  "
Sod off
,"
he snarled, his low, dangerous voice and murderous eyes instantly shutting the
heckler up.

Immediately, the
entire deck went silent.

The prisoner
gulped, spread his hands, and backed up.  "Hey, look, Cap'n, I didn't mean
nothin' by it —"

"Get out of
my way."

"Really, I —"

"
Move.
"

The prisoner
retreated, and without sparing him another glance, Damon resumed his journey to
the deck above, the silence following him all the way topside.

There, clean,
blessed, healthy air, at last.  He filled his lungs with it, wanting to inhale
until his chest burst, wanting to forget the nightmare he'd just left, but
already prisoners were pressing and shoving to get a glimpse of his lovely
armful and the guards were clearing a path through them to the door of his
cabin.

Midshipman Foyle
came running.  "Shall I fetch the ship's doctor, sir?"

Damon turned on
him, trembling with fury.  "I will see
you
in my cabin in one
hour.  Be late, and so help me God, I'll have you whipped so severely you won't
be able to sit or shit for a week,
do you understand
?"

Foyle paled and backed
away.  "R-right, sir . . ."

Damon strode
into the cabin, kicked the door shut behind him, and deposited Lady Gwyneth
Evans Simms atop his bed.

His heart was
pounding.  The blood was screaming through his temples.  His head felt ready to
explode.

He pressed his
fingers to the sides of his brow and shut his eyes, trying to block out the
things he had just seen.  He changed his shirt, washed his face and neck, threw
open the windows, and leaning out over the harbor, gulped great, greedy breaths
of cool air. 
Don't think about what you saw down there.  Later.  Not now.   There
isn't a damned thing you can do right now anyhow.  Don't think about it, and
don't think about
her
.

But if it wasn't
for her, he wouldn't
be
thinking about it.

It was all her
fault.  Hers for showing it to him, Foyle's and Radley's for letting it get
that way.  But no, he should've gone down there before this.  He was as much to
blame as the others, if not more.  Guilt and anguish twisted his gut.  He shut
his eyes on a deep, steadying breath.  Opened them.  Tried to get control of himself. 
Couldn't.

Unable to help
himself, he stormed over to the bed and stood looking down at the catalyst of
this storm of emotion.  He clenched his hands with impotent rage and swallowed,
hard.  Then he knelt before her, stripped away her dirty gloves, and chafed her
wrists.  No response.  Annoyed now, he splashed some water on a cloth and
mopped her face and neck.  Such ministrations only fueled his lust, his wish to
conquer this woman who had been the cause of such anguish.  She had humbled and
excited him with her courage, and he wanted her as much as he hated her.  His
breathing sharpened.  Again he caught the scent of her soap, or maybe it was
just her perfume . . .

Peaches.
 
He shut his eyes.  He wanted to throw her in a bowl and sprinkle sugar and
cream over her, gorge himself on her sweetness and lick her clean. 
Peaches.
 
He wanted
her
.  Here, now.  He felt the blood beating in his ears and
drawing back, pressed two fingers into his brow, terrified of what he was
capable of, knowing he was beyond help.

Look at her,
Damon!  Seduce her!

God help him,
she looked soft, delicate, lovely, sweet.  Even fragile.

Fragile
,
like the daffodils, the porcelain, the pretty cups he had smashed to bits
beneath his rage. 
Sweet
, like the scent of peaches clinging to her. 
His head began to pound violently.  He hated fragility and he hated sweetness,
because if you were fragile you were weak, and if you were weak you got hurt. 
He wanted to crush both fragility and sweetness right out of existence,
annihilate them, destroy them, conquer them.

Conquer her. 
Now
.

He made a fist
and drove it into his throbbing brow, his erection hard against his breeches.

Take her,
damn it!

He spied a
half-empty bottle of brandy on the table and, with shaking hands, grabbed it up
and poured himself a glass, somehow managing to avoid spilling the entire lot. 
And still, she lay behind him, across his bed like a sweet offering.

It was no use. 
He started to move toward her — and with a savage curse, spun and fired the
goblet across the cabin with all of the strength of his rage.  It exploded
against the bulkhead with a splintering crash.

A moan issued
from the bed.  His hand still outstretched, Damon froze.

She lay where
he'd left her, head pillowed on a fan of disheveled gold hair, one hand resting
childishly near her temple.  Her eyes were open and she was staring hazily at
him.

"Why did
you just destroy your goblet, Morninghall?"

He felt like a
child who'd been caught in the act of doing something naughty.  Blood heated
his face.  He snapped upright and moved threateningly toward her, fists
clenched.

"Because I
like
breaking
things," he snarled, defiantly.

"Why?"

"Because it
feels
good, damn it!"

"I
see."

"You don't
see a damned thing, and now that you're awake you can just get the hell off my
ship before I break something else."

He glared down
at her, and Gwyneth, who was just recovering the full use of her senses, had no
illusion as to what he wanted to
break
next.  And the sight of him —
looming over her in a black fury she could not understand, hands clenched at
his sides, face dark as a thunderhead, and those soulless devil's eyes blazing
with a hellish fire — was not exactly one that she found benign.  Dangerous,
yes; magnificent, yes; but far from benign.

Her own anger
made her reckless.

Propping herself
up on one elbow, she smiled sweetly, mockingly, up at him.  "Why, you look
shaken, my lord.  Upset even.  Dare I think you actually had a concern for my
welfare?  Or that the wretchedness of the conditions beneath your feet has
finally penetrated that granite tomb containing the remains of your heart?"

"I don't
have a heart."

"Oh, but
you do.  A very black one though, isn't it?  Cold as the grave and just as
rotten."