Captive Embraces (36 page)

Once again on White Chapel Street, Aubrey looked around him, his breathing ragged. He didn't know exactly what he expected to see. Business seemed to be going on as usual. No one was looking at him suspiciously or paying him any kind of attention at all. Yet fear crawled up his spine and his natural gambler's instinct told him something was devilishly wrong.

His suspicions were confirmed when the bootmaker and the barber also told him his accounts were settled. His fear was rapidly turning into blind panic when he entered the Blue Nose Pub and sought out a bookmaker named Hawkeye. Aubrey was in debt to Hawkeye for several thousand pounds. There were others who had extended Lord Farrington credit in like amounts. When Hawkeye raised his head and greeted Aubrey warmly, panic turned to terror. Even before the bookmaker said it, Aubrey knew that this account, too, had been paid and in his bones he knew
all
his debts had been taken care of.

Stumbling out of the Blue Nose, he walked blindly down White Chapel to the Boar's Tooth, where he found an empty table and ordered wine to quench his thirst and calm his shattered nerves.

He could be called to reimburse his so-called benefactor at any time. When that happened, even selling the
Sea Siren
and making off with Caleb's share wouldn't bail him out It was a perfectly splendid means of ruining a man if someone had a mind to do it. The practice was legal, although not usual. The person buying up a man's debts was within his right to demand exorbitant interest on the loan. Aubrey had even heard of one-thousand-percent interest being upheld in the courts. Numbly, he shook his head and lowered it to the table. Just when everything was going along so well. He was pulling his affairs together. Young Caleb's ship and his brains were going to make them both rich. And now this.

A tall, swarthy man entered the pub. His eyes surveyed the room and came to rest on the drunken Lord Farrington. His eyes became slits and his cruel mouth curled into a smirk. Limping painfully, his left arm at his side at an awkward angle, the man seated himself and called for a jug of rum.

When he paid for his drink, he was not surprised to discover he had but a few shillings left. A few coins and a sheaf of paid receipts from Aubrey's accounts. He had existed on less and still lived, the man told himself. He would do it again and survive. Hadn't he survived that oily Spaniard's vicious tongue and underhanded ways? Bah! he spat. Chaezar Alvarez was long dead and, if what he heard was true, it was by the Sea Siren's hand. What a fool he had been to listen to Alvarez. He had been a respected pirate in those days, and somehow that bastard had lured him into becoming a part of his schemes. From the moment he had agreed, his life had changed. And all because of that woman! That bitch, the Sea Siren! He would gain his revenge on her if it took him the rest of his life!

He swallowed his rum and poured himself another. Twice, he had tried to kill her and twice he had failed. He had followed her for days and, when she was shopping at the Royal Exchange, he had stolen a hack and tried to run her down. Another time, at a masquerade party at her house, he had rigged the lantern over the dais to crash down on her and send her to her death in a crackle of flames. This, too, had failed. Now he wanted her out in the open sea, like before, only this time
he
would be the winner.

He poured another tot. He had almost given up hope of ever finding her. By sheer luck, he had heard of the folly,
Sea Siren,
and knew that wherever that ship was, she would be close by. How he had wrangled with one idea after another until, one night, it had come to him. The sweat in his armpits ran down his sides and his hair was plastered to his head. Even now, he could remember his excitement. The boy. Caleb. He would use the boy to draw her out. And the way to get to young van der Rhys was through Lord Farrington's debts. Then that living, breathing she-pirate would be his for the taking. All he had to do was be careful and play his cards the way he planned. He couldn't lose.

Another glass of rum, then another and his mind wandered as the pain in his arm eased to a dull ache. How long ago that had been when the bitch drove him against the rail and shouted, “En garde! En garde!” as she flexed her arm and brought up her cutlass and slashed at his weapon. His arm had flown backward and he was stunned with the force of the blow. He had recovered quickly and jabbed straight for the Siren's midsection. Nimbly, she had sidestepped his attack, her blade striking repeatedly. “How does it feel, Blackheart, to see your arm in tatters?” she had mocked. “Guard it well, for I will strike again and again until I lay it open to the bone!” She had feinted to the right, her cutlass finding its mark across his shoulder. The crack of shattering bone had brought cheers from the Siren's crew.

“Let me hear you beg, Blackheart!” the Siren had demanded. “Shout for quarter and I'll throw you to the sea!”

“Never!” he had hissed through clenched teeth.

The Siren had held the cutlass loosely in her hand as she watched his agonized face. “You have only one leg left to you. Surrender to me or you leave me no choice.”

“Never!” he had spat, using his uninjured arm to lash out with his cutlass. He never saw the blade as it ripped his other leg from thigh to toe. The Siren had backed off. “You have only seconds to surrender.”

His weapon had thrust forward, aiming for her abdomen. In the instant of protecting herself, she had avoided his attack and her cutlass had parried and found its mark in the flesh of his belly and he had crumpled to the deck.

The pain had been unbearable but he had lived, lived to see another day, then another and another. She thought she had killed him, but he had survived. And he would continue to do so. At least until he saw her dead, the blood flowing from her wounds, wounds that he inflicted. But first, he would see her humiliated, tortured in both mind and body.

Even the rum he consumed could not dull the knifelike pain that shot across his gut. He doubled over and cursed the Sea Siren vehemently. Damn her soul. She would pay and pay with her life, he muttered through clenched teeth. When the stabbing sensation eased a trifle, he wiped at his perspiring brow and cursed again. If she made one mistake, she could make another. She had left him for dead, being so intent on van der Rhys. All women were idiots. If it hadn't been for the quick thinking of one of his old crew, he would be dead. Rolph had told him later how he laid in a near coma for weeks and then miraculously pulled through. He knew now that it was his vengeance that kept him alive. And it would keep him so till he killed the Sea Siren.

All his dastardly, insidious plans would not be in vain. Madame Córdez's little accidents would take on a new meaning now that he had Lord Farrington in his pocket. He would do whatever he was told or he would rot in Newgate.

Blackheart finished his whiskey and watched Aubrey reel drunkenly from the pub, a look of fear in his eyes. “You have good reason to be scared, my friend,” he muttered as he followed Farrington.

Sirena had awakened feeling well and rested. Sitting in her bedroom, sipping strong, hot coffee, she watched as Frau Holtz threw open the long windows to admit the fresh morning air and bright sunlight Wren had accompanied the old housekeeper to help with the bed and just to be in her benefactor's company.

“Oh, Missy-ma'am, it's a beautiful day!” the child cried with exuberance, using with affection her adopted name for Sirena. “Would it be all right if I went to help Jacobus work in the garden?” she asked, looking at Sirena with adoring eyes. “I'll earn my keep so I can stay here with you,” she added happily.

“Wren, there's no need for you to work in the garden unless you would like to. And,” Sirena added sternly, “I don't want to hear any more about your earning your keep, is that understood? Frau Holtz and I love having you here.”

“But, Missy-ma'am, I
have
to pay my way! My mum always taught me you can't take something for nothing!”

What was she to do with the child? She gathered the small, thin body close to her and looked at Frau Holtz. The old woman shook her head and smiled. She, too, adored the wide-eyed little girl.

“Instead of working in the garden with Jacobus, why don't you cut some of the flowers, and we'll arrange them in bowls to brighten the rooms? Go on now,” she said when she saw Wren's eyes turn to the unmade bed, “I'll help Frau Holtz here.” Sirena knew that Wren's main concern was assisting the German woman with her chores. Frau Holtz had told Sirena how often Wren insisted she sit down and put her feet up while the child continued with the work at hand. “Go on now, and remember to mind Jacobus.”

Sirena watched the child skip away, a smile on her face. How beautiful this little urchin was and how she brought joy to her days. Eventually Wren would grow into a beautiful woman. The problem was, how could Sirena give her the best possible start in life? “Frau Holtz, what shall we do with Wren? I've taken her away from the only life she knew, and she's now my responsibility. In the short time she's been here, I've grown so attached to her. Just as you have. Don't deny it, I've seen the way you cuddle her every chance you get.”

“Ja,
Wren needs love and affection, and she gives it in return. If only she knew how she's brightened an old woman's life, she wouldn't be so obsessed with earning her keep, as she puts it.” Frau Holtz plumped up the pillows on Sirena's bed and bent to the chore of straightening the sheets. The maid could tend to the keeping of Sirena's room, but the Frau wouldn't hear of it. She preferred to do it herself.

“Well, I guess that's part of our answer. We'll have to contrive small things for Wren to do so she'll feel useful and wanted. However, there's always the question of schooling. She's almost ten and has had no formal training.”

“Ten!” Frau Holtz exclaimed. “She looks no more than seven or eight!”

“You would look the same, old friend, if you were left to fend for yourself on the streets of London and have occasional scraps for food. Do you see how she's blossomed with your good care? She needs someone to mother her, Frau Holtz, and you are that person. She loves you; I see it in those magnificent eyes of hers.”

“Ach!” the Frau exclaimed, clearly flattered. “What do I know of raising a girl? The Mynheer was the only child I ever had a hand in raising and look at the way he's turned out! Bah!”

“Then you will learn to raise a little girl.” Sirena's eyes followed Frau Holtz around the room and her gaze came to rest on the connecting door between her room and Stephan's. “Frau Holtz, have you seen my . . . husband this morning?”

The housekeeper's face became hostile and she answered with a note of venom in her voice. “
Ja!
I've seen him. He's in the library sipping whiskey and water. He has his feet on the desk and he looks like he's taken root there. I have to say it, Mevrouw, marrying that man was the biggest mistake of your whole life! He'll be the end of us all,” she said doomfully. “I feel it in my bones!”

“I can't dispute you on that. But for the moment, at least, I must make the best of a bad situation.”

“Your husband wishes your company at luncheon,” the woman snapped. “I nearly forgot to tell you,
Lady
Langdon,” she added pointedly.

Sirena felt her stomach chum. God in Heaven, what did he want now? Surely he wasn't going . . . he wouldn't, not in the full light of day! He revolts me! Sirena thought as she walked to the wide windows that opened out over the garden. He makes my flesh crawl. She couldn't help but remember how she had used the only weapon open to her. Immediately after their wedding night, Sirena had quickly learned that if she remained completely impassive, not moving a muscle, Stephan became impotent. It appeared his passions were directly proportional to the degree of her struggles. She had steeled herself against his demands; and even when he became enraged and hit her and treated her roughly, she would not fight back. Within a few moments Stephan would lose all interest in sex and would go back to his own room, cursing her. She wasn't certain which sickened her more, Stephan's aberration or her own passivity. How often, since their marriage, had she cursed the English system of law wherein a wife was a man's chattel? A man could beat his wife, kill her even, and the law would stand on his behalf.

What did he intend to do with her this afternoon? Once or twice he had brought home preposterous costumes. One of a serving wench, complete with laced stomacher and short, knee-length skirt, whose bodice left her breasts almost completely exposed. Another was of a Roman goddess which draped over one shoulder leaving half of her chest open to his salacious eyes. Each time she had hesitantly donned the costume. Each time she had remained cold and aloof, as unmoving as a statue, and no amount of his cruelty would draw a cry from her. Thankfully, so far he had left her in a rage of helplessness.

His unctuous voice, when he tried to make love to her and failed, sickened Sirena. When it happened the first time, she thought he would kill her, so angry was he with his own inability to perform. How many nights of his insidious torture was she to endure before she took matters into her own hands.

What was worse? The humiliating nights or his hate-filled eyes staring at her across the dinner table? His remarks of late had been frightening. The day before, at breakfast, he had watched her pour cream over her figs. “I never remember your using so much cream before, darling,” he had drawled. “Doesn't it seem to you that your behavior is undergoing a change?”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Oh, nothing really. It is only that I have noticed a change in you, Sirena. A radical change. And your fondness for the grape? Really, darling, you must pull yourself together.”

“If you are referring to our wedding day, Stephan, I want to hear no more about it. I have never drowned my sorrows in wine and I doubt I ever will. But you must admit, darling,” she added, using the same deprecating tone as he, “our wedding day was reason enough to drink!”

“Do you see what I mean, Sirena?” he pretended concern. “I can barely utter a word that you don't bite my head off.”

“I'd like to
cut
your head off!”

“Tsk, tsk, control yourself, darling. I wouldn't like to see you do anything rash; Smythe and Rathbone might have to take you in hand.” He was referring to his valet and footman, two brutal-looking scurves that Sirena wouldn't have had scrubbing the bilges on her ship.

“Did I ever tell you about the first Lady Langdon? Sad woman,” he said smoothly, fingering a new diamond stickpin that he had purchased with Sirena's money. “It was pathetic. In the end I had to have her committed to Bedlam. For her own good, you understand.”

Too angry to retort, Sirena left the table, cursing herself for the position she had placed herself in. She was also afraid for her life and she didn't like the feeling. She was no fool. One word from Stephan and these burly servants of his would have her in their clutches and that would be the end of her.

Her head began to ache as she thought of myriad wild schemes to leave this house and free herself from Stephan.

 

The luncheon hour arrived all too soon for Sirena. She had changed into a watermelon-colored day dress with crisp ruching around the modest neckline. Patting her hair into place, she descended the stairs to meet Stephan. Only one hour of his company and the remainder of the afternoon would see her free of him. Until evening, she thought, gulping, her mouth dry as sand. Not to think of that now, she chastised herself. Just take it hour by hour.

The table was set according to Frau Holtz's scrupulous standards. The white lace cloth was pressed faultlessly and the silver service gleamed with a high sheen. Stephan was already seated and digging with relish into his brisket when Sirena entered. He hadn't even lifted his head to acknowledge her.

Sitting opposite him, she watched him out of the corner of her eye. She felt she would choke on her food if she had to swallow another bite. When was he going to get to the point? She could tell by the set of his jaw there was something on his mind. She refused to meet his eyes and would not speak unless spoken to. Her heart fluttered madly and she wanted to strike out in order to slash his head from his body. How she hated him with a passion.

“Tell me, darling,” he drawled, “how do you plan to spend the afternoon?”

“I thought I would go into town and see my dressmaker,” she answered quietly.

“That will never do, darling. You must have your dressmaker come here. I don't want my wife strolling through the merchants for all the world to see. It's definitely not seemly,” he cooed unctuously. “No, have your little seamstress come here. Sirena, I find it strange you haven't asked me how my affairs at the academy are going. Somehow, I thought you would show a bit more interest in your husband's activities. Especially since the whole idea can be attributed to your dear friend, Baron Sinclair.”

Sirena could feel his eyes on her, waiting for her to placate him. Despising herself, she heard herself say, “How is the academy coming, Stephan?”

“The school will open within a fortnight. I have scheduled my classes for two afternoons a week. Only the sons of the best families will attend. The cost is prohibitive, quite expensive. I was quite impressed by the engraved plaque near the door with my name on it. Of course, the stipend is ridiculously small, no more than a pittance. But then, I have no need of money, do I, darling? I feel I am being more than gracious in accepting the appointment.”

“Yes, it is generous of you, Stephan. Most befitting a man of your stature.”

His pale gray eyes widened and then narrowed. It was difficult to tell what Sirena was thinking at any given moment. Bile rose in his throat when he considered she was mocking him for his ineptness in the bedroom. Yes, he decided, she was indeed. And his inability to perform was all her doing! Well, his little purchase this morning would change all that. “Sirena, I brought a present home for you. When you retire tonight, I want you to wear it for me.”

Unable to restrain her tongue, Sirena lashed out, “Are we to again witness your impotence, Stephan? What did you conceive this time? I can barely wait to see what it is you think will stir your manhood!” She rose from the table, her emerald eyes glittering. “There is no device known to man that will bring life to a dead man, Stephan.” Gathering her skirts, she stamped from the room, leaving him at the table, feeling the pinpoints of his glare stabbing her back.

At a sound from near the kitchen door, Stephan snapped his head around to see a large-eyed Wren standing there holding a relish dish. Apparently Frau Holtz had instructed her to bring it into the dining room. Blood rose to Stephan's face as he thought of what the child had overheard. The glare he fixed on her paralyzed her on the spot.

“Come here with that dish,” he commanded. Still Wren didn't move. “Give it to me!” he commanded again, his voice louder and harsher.

Slowly Wren advanced. She didn't like Sir Stephan, not one bit. She had seen men of his ilk in the back alleys of London. Nasty men, men who beat the whores after using them. It was sufficient for Wren to know he was cruel to Sirena and that she was frightened of him to encourage Wren's dislike to bloom into hatred.

“Not over there, I can't reach it. Here,” he instructed, taking pleasure from the child's apparent terror.

Wren did as she was told, carrying the relish dish carefully so as not to spill a drop of the pickling on the Frau's spotless carpet. Just as she neared him, Stephan reached out a hand and deliberately tipped the dish, spilling the sweet-sour juices down the front of Wren's apron. “Now see what you've done, you clumsy girl!”

Astonished, horrified, Wren stood helplessly by as the fluid dripped down onto the toes of her shoes. Choked with fear, she raised her eyes to her master, her childish pink mouth forming a soundless O. Stephan dragged her toward him and placed her between his knees. “Stupid girl,” he scolded as he reached for his linen napkin and began to wipe the front of Wren's dress. “See what you've done to yourself!”

Wren was in severe distress. She wanted to cry out for Frau Holtz and explain that it wasn't her doing, but no words would come out of her throat. She didn't like the way the master had trapped her between his legs and was cleaning her clothes in light, long touches. She didn't know exactly why his actions scared her so much, she only knew she wanted to run away from him, away from his white fingers and wine-scented breath. In the way of a child she stood firmly planted to one spot, determined not to turn toward him and aid him in his ministration.