Captive Embraces (26 page)

Long tables covered with exquisite lace cloths were placed in a row alongside the house. Later they would be laden with pheasant, turkey, breast of lamb, racks of veal and succulent hams. “I did as you asked and told the cooks to flavor the sweets with nutmeg, Mevrouw,” Frau Holtz smiled. “The Mynheer will think he is back on Java. Even the decorations you have chosen will bring him back to the East Indies. Chinese paper lanterns, the flowers, even the musicians you've hired.”

“And you'll never know how difficult it was, Frau Holtz, to find them. Jacobus was the one who suggested trying the wharf for ships coming in from the Indies. He says most sailors are fair musicians. Luckily, a ship arrived carrying several Javanese sailors and two from Bali. I should think their performance will offer a touch of the exotic to the affair.”

“Not to mention making the Mynheer homesick,” Frau Holtz snorted, plainly indicating she did not think Regan worth the trouble. “All this foolishness! If the people in England would put their mind to work instead of play there wouldn't be so many beggars roaming the streets. All I ever hear is parties, balls, dinners! And now this!”

Sirena laughed. “I take it you don't approve of masquerade balls?”

“Bah! As if these people need the excuse to pretend to be something they're not! And what will the Mynheer appear as? A sheep? And that child he intends to marry, will she dress as a shepherdess? Bah!” Suddenly Frau Holtz was sorry she had mentioned Regan. Sirena's eyes took on a pained expression and the anticipation of being in Regan's company showed in the strained lines surrounding her mouth.

The smile left Sirena's face. “Regan will marry in just six days,” she said softly. “I thought for a time he wouldn't go through with it, but he is. I've heard of the lavish preparations being made for their wedding. It's said no expense is being spared. Tell me, Frau Holtz, how can I attend this ceremony and behave as though it meant nothing to me? I've lost him completely,” she whispered, “forever.”

The old housekeeper's face was bitter. “You will do what you must do. Just as you have always done.”

Tears glistened in Sirena's bottle-green eyes. “It was different in the past. I had a hate and vengeance in me then. It was what kept me alive. And when Mikel was born, I had my babe to clasp to my breast and give me comfort. Now it's all gone and I have nothing.”

“You will always have me, Mevrouw,” the elderly woman said haltingly, trying to keep the tears from her voice. “There are still comforts I can bring you.”

“You are my friend, and whatever would I do without you and Jacobus and the others,” Sirena said softly. “Frau Holtz, I've been thinking. After Regan's wedding would you like to return to Batavia? Once the marriage takes place I will know there is nothing left for me here.”

“Mevrouw, I am an old woman, but I know that it is not possible to run away from life. You're only tormenting yourself. What will you do in Batavia? There's nothing there for you now.”

“I could help rebuild the island. There is still much to be done since havoc struck when the volcanoes erupted. But, you're correct, there's nothing there anymore. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I'm a wanderer without roots, no ties. What good is all the wealth in the world if there is no one to share it with? What use beauty and jewels if there is only emptiness? Even Caleb has deserted me. He has not even come to see me once since I last saw him in Spain. I know he's here in England. Jacobus told me the
Rana
is berthed at the wharf.”

“Perhaps he feels he would only upset you by visiting here. Don't doubt that Caleb loves you, Mevrouw,” the housekeeper soothed.

“Yes,” Sirena sighed dejectedly. “After the miserable way I treated him aboard the
Rana,
I can't really blame him for staying away.” Suddenly, Sirena gripped Frau Holtz's wrist, a world of emotion brimming from her eyes. “All I ever wanted was for Regan to love me! When he needed me, after Mikel died, did I really turn from him?”

Frau Holtz gathered Sirena close to her, patting her gently, clucking soothing noises. “Hush, Mevrouw, if you did fail him, the same could be said for the Mynheer.”

“How can I face Regan again? Each time I see him, my heart breaks all over again!” The scene in Regan's room when she had waited for him, bubbled up within her. She knew if she gave in to her desolation, it would destroy her, resign her forever to a place where life had no meaning and the needs of the heart were buried beneath a legion of regrets.

Frau Holtz felt Sirena's spine stiffen beneath her ministering hands. And when she looked into her Mevrouw's face, her generous, mobile mouth was pinched with determination and the emerald eyes were flashing with resolution.
“Ja,
this is better. Tonight you must be in his company and your paths will often cross. You will not wear your heart on your sleeve; you will keep up this charade as long as you must!” The housekeeper's voice became gruff as she led her mistress back to the house. “A little nap, you will take, to make your eyes sparkle.”

Through the house and up to her room, Sirena walked on leaden feet. She lay staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep, and her thoughts strayed far away to another time and another place. Regan's face flashed before her, and she threw up her arm to cover her eyes as though warding off a blow.

Fitfully, she thrashed about on the bed. Her slender arm lashed out and knocked the lamp from the nearby nightstand and the tinkle of the shattering glass reminded her of that night, long ago, when Regan had stormed into her bedroom.

It had been after a party at the Spaniard's, Chaezar Alvarez. He had come to her door, demanding to be admitted, demanding an answer to his question. “Is Chaezar Alvarez your lover?”

“I refuse to answer you, Regan, you're drunk!”

Regan's face had shown his uncertainty. Then he reached out and pulled her against him. “I want you,” he had murmured huskily, his lips seeking hers.

Sirena had fought his embrace, but her struggles were useless against his powerful arms. Ignoring her protests, he had picked her up in his arms and cradled her head to his chest, all the while whispering soft, indistinct phrases.

Almost tenderly, he had laid her on the bed and began to remove her gown. Head reeling, Sirena gasped. “Please, Regan, don't do this. Don't do this to either of us. We won't be able to face each other in the morning.”

His lips had found hers again; his hands worked at her gown. Lost in the moment, Sirena could only surrender to the emotions engulfing her. All the anger and bitterness was forgotten and she had felt herself in the cabin of her ship, the
Rana,
surrounded by the isolating fog. “Regan, stop!” she had cried hoarsely, pushing him away from her as she rolled across the bed to escape him. He said nothing, his eyes said it all. She was his wife and he meant to have her.

Drunkenly, he had stumbled toward her. She knew if he got his hands on her she would be powerless against him. She had backed away, groping behind her for a weapon to stave him off. Her hand had closed over a silver-backed hairbrush. “Don't come any closer, Regan,” she threatened.

In the end Sirena had found herself once again on the bed. She had lain there wild-eyed, anticipating his next move. And Regan, still glaring at her, had knocked the glass chimney from the bedside lamp and extinguished the flame with the palm of his hand.

He had come to her, locking her kicking legs between his knees. He had torn the clothes from her body, leaving her naked. Sirena remembered the feel of the hard network of muscles beneath his sun-ravished back.

Despite her struggles, his hand had grazed her body, his fingers had woven in her hair, and his lips had sought hers, parting them and seeking out the warm recesses of her mouth.

His kisses had covered her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her throat. In spite of herself, Sirena had been aware of a building response. This was Regan, her mind had cried. Regan who had taught her about lovemaking aboard the gently rocking frigate. She had closed her eyes and imagined she could smell the thick, pungent salt tang that rolls in with a sequestering fog.

Like the sea, Sirena had felt her resistance ebb to be replaced by a surging tide of passion. Her lips had answered his, her body had arched against him. She had pulled his head down and pressed her warm, passion-bruised lips to his.

Even now, years later, Sirena could taste his mouth against hers, feel his hands on her body, relive the response he evoked in her. And when she reached out her arms to bring her lover closer, the pain of loneliness clutched her heart like sharp talons.

 

Frau Holtz looked in on Sirena and found her preparing her hair. The Mevrouw's eyes were wounded and hurt. The sparkle she had hoped to see was missing. “Are you ready for your gown, Mevrouw? Do you need help with the fasteners?” The woman hoped her voice was light and cheerful.

“Yes,” Sirena nodded dully. Her reminiscing had left her drained of spirit and life.

Frau Holtz removed several wide petticoats from Sirena's wardrobe. “Will you need three or four, Mevrouw?”

“None,” Sirena stated simply, steeling herself for the Frau's disapproval.

“Your gown has its own petticoats attached,” the housekeeper declared confidently.

“No, as a matter of fact, it doesn't,” Sirena said, “and I don't want to hear any of your objections. Just help me dress and not a word out of you! Now, if you'll come over here and help me with the pins for my hair.”

Frau Holtz snapped her mouth shut. It was rarely the Mevrouw worked herself into a black mood like this, but at those times it could be outright dangerous to displease her. If the old woman didn't want to find herself back aboard the
Sea Spirit,
cooking and cleaning for the crew, she knew she'd better do as she was told. It was also possible to make an excuse that she was needed elsewhere in the house, but her inborn curiosity prevented her from doing so. If the Mevrouw was up to something outrageous, it would be best to know it from the first.

Sirena sat at her vanity table, hairbrush in hand, sweeping the bristles through her long, thick tresses. When Frau Holtz picked up the curling iron to heat it in the lamp's flame, Sirena said tersely, “We won't be needing that.” She brushed her hair severely away from her face, catching it at the back of her crown and tying it with the Frau's help. Dipping her fingers in the pomade jar, she rubbed it vigorously between her palms and smoothed it over her hair, the light oil bringing out glistening blue-black highlights. The remaining tail of hair was twisted into a full coil at the back of her head and secured with pins. Into it she pierced long, decorative sticks with jeweled tips.

“Mevrouw,” the Frau whispered, “you've done your hair like a Chinee!”

“Chinese,” Sirena corrected. “If I've done the gardens to remind Regan of the exotic Indies, why should it end there? He always had a taste for Oriental women and I intend to whet his appetite. Now hold your tongue, Frau Holtz, and help me.”

From the jars and pots on the dressing table, Sirena produced a vial of Indian kohl and a tiny, pointed brush. With it, she lined her eyes with delicate, thin strokes, sweeping the ends out toward her temples. When she had finished, the effect was startling. The natural tilt of her eyes was enhanced and produced the oblique slant of the Asian eye. A blending of powders, a touch of Spanish paper to her high cheekbones and a gloss over her lips created the effect she sought. The delicacy and piquancy of her features lent themselves perfectly to her artistry.

Frau Holtz was stunned at the reflection in the mirror. “Mevrouw, you look like ... like—”

“Stop stammering. I know what I look like. It's just as I intended. I look like the Eurasian girls in Clarice's brothel on Java. Since Regan was such a loyal patron of that establishment, I thought he would appreciate this small touch of home.” Sirena stood and walked away from the vanity table, unable to meet Frau Holtz's gaze. From the interior of the clothespress she withdrew the gown Mrs. Wittcomb had created for her. The serpentine silk overlayed a heavier, dazzling green satin. When the old housekeeper saw the gown Sirena had commissioned, she gasped.

“Mevrouw! What can you be thinking of? You'll be a scandal!”

“I'll live with it!” Sirena said sarcastically.

“You'll live to regret it, you mean!” the Frau shot back.

“Whatever. Now bring me the new slippers I ordered from the cobbler. Remember, I told you to hold your tongue, I meant it. Hurry.” Even as she spoke, she cast off her dressing gown, revealing she wore nothing beneath it save long silk stockings held up by diamond-studded garters. Frau Holtz nearly swooned and was about to ask where Sirena's chemise and underwear were but cautioned herself not to comment.

The shoes the housekeeper found, still in their wrapper, matched the gown and sported ridiculously high heels. “You'll break your neck for certain in these,” she muttered.

“That's my worry, not yours,” Sirena answered as she slid the shoes on her feet.

“Harrmph! You'll see over every man's head! You—” A wicked look from Sirena snapped the Frau's mouth shut.

Sirena held her arms up so the Frau could slip the gown on. The bodice fit snugly, the wide, open neckline dipping to a point between her breasts, revealing their lush fullness. The sleeves were long and tight, showing the smooth, round curve of her shoulders and the elegant length of her limbs. The long, narrow, sheathlike skirt hugged her body and looked wet, pouring over her hips and down her legs like the tail of a mermaid. The hem in front was slashed and cut away so, when she walked, the length of her silk-clad leg was exposed halfway up her thigh. Frau Holtz gulped. “Mevrouw! The flesh above your stocking shows when you move!”