Love's Odyssey (11 page)

"So?"

"So, I accept the inevitable."

"Good. I'm a man who likes my women agreeable."

They spoke to one another as though Romell weren't there.

"Why did you do it?" Margitte asked. "Are any of the passengers alive except Romell and me?"

"Maybe a woman or two still lives, I'm not sure. None of the men. As to why, that's simple. It's the water—or, rather, the wine. Too many people needing to drink."

Romell stared at him. Did he mean everyone in her group was dead? Butchered by these madmen?

"There's still fifty or so of you," Margitte said. "How long will the two barrels of wine last?"

Jan smiled. "There won't be fifty long. We won't need that many to take the ship when she comes."

Romell swallowed. Had he also ordered some of his own men killed? He was worse than mad—he was evil. The devil’s spawn.

"Take your clothes off," Jan ordered Margitte. "I want to see what I'm getting."

Still not looking at Romell, Margitte gestured at her. "Do we need her?" she asked.

Jan Hardens glanced down at Romell, seeming surprised to see her on the ground, although he must have known she was there. He shrugged.

"She won't mind. Pieter'll be here to get her soon. Take off your clothes."

Margitte undressed slowly, acting as if she had all the time in the world and was disrobing for bed in the privacy of her own room. Romell and Jan could have been thousands of miles away for all the notice she paid them.

Romell wanted to close her eyes, to look away, but Margitte's performance fascinated her. It was a performance, she realized, with Margitte turning her body just so as she stepped daintily out of her petticoats. The skipper caught his breath, and Romell knew Margitte had scored somehow in this game they were playing with one another.

Now there was only the chemise. Margitte bent to grasp each side of the silken garment at hip level. Ever so slowly she pulled it up her body, showing her thighs, her hips, then her full breasts. Jan Hardens' heavy breathing filled the tent. Up over Margitte's head came the chemise, was discarded on the heap of clothes, and, naked, Margitte deliberately pirouetted this way and that in front of Jan.

"By God, you got yourself some fancy tart there," a voice said.

Romell turned and saw that Pieter had come into the tent. A flicker of fear washed over her as he crossed to stand looking down at her.

"I wonder if mine will do as well," he said.

Chapter 11

Pieter led Romell into his tent and untied her hands. She rubbed her wrists, not looking at him, concentrating on the way her fingers burned and tingled as feeling came back into them. But her pulse beat faster in apprehension and she seemed unable to take a deep breath.

He tipped her chin up with his forefinger so that she was forced to meet his gaze. What she saw in his grey eyes was not cruelty, despite the ghastly murders he must have agreed to, but a glowing, as if they were lit from within. Her throat contracted.

"I've not the disposition of Jan," Pieter said. "Understand me, you're mine now and ever will be. I'll not give you up—we'll both die first."

Fear shot through her. Dear God, is he mad too? she wondered.

He grasped her by the shoulders. "Do you understand?" he snarled.

Although her lips trembled, Romell spoke bravely: "Am I to have no choice?"

He shook her. "You've chosen me!"

"And what if I have not? Will you kill me as you have the others? The little children, the helpless women, the unarmed men?" Tears came to her eyes as she recalled what she had seen.

His hands crept to her throat. "Would you rather die?"

Romell shuddered. No, she didn't want to die. Whatever pain and suffering lay ahead of her, she didn't want to die now.

One side of Pieter's mouth twisted upward. "I thought as much. Few have the courage to choose death." He squeezed her neck until blackness began to close in, then took away his hands. Romell staggered, clutching at his arm to stay on her feet.

By the time she could think clearly again, he had begun to undo the buttons on her high-necked dress. She caught at his hands.

"Mind me, woman," he warned. "I will have my way with you, and there are none to care how you plead for help. Should you attack me, I'll beat you senseless."

From somewhere outside the tent, a man screamed— a hoarse, rattling yell that made the hair rise on Romell’s neck. A death cry.

Pieter ignored the sound, his fingers busy with the row of tiny buttons on the bodice of her gown. Romell willed herself to keep quiet.

He unfastened the last of the buttons and slipped the gown from her shoulders, yanking when it refused to go over her hips, not thinking to pull the dress over her head. Finally, he jerked at the material so savagely it tore and the gown fell about her feet. Pieter ran his hands lightly over her bare shoulders and down her arms. She stood without moving, staring straight ahead.

Pieter's fingers lingered on the curve of her hips as he undid her petticoats, brushed her breasts when he stripped off her chemise. She stood naked except for her tattered stockings, her slippers already gone. He picked her up; she stiffened in his arms but didn't protest when he laid her down on a blanket. He knelt beside her and removed first one stocking, then the other, his fingers caressing her thighs as he did so.

For the first time, Romell became aware that she might not be able to bear his touch, for revulsion snaked through her.

Pieter stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. His chest was almost hairless. He undid his breeches and removed them Romell bit her lip and took a deep breath

"You are doing this against my will and desire," she said, her voice quavering despite her determination.

He paid no attention
. When the last of his garments lay on the ground, he knelt beside her again. His hands gripped her breasts, kneading until it hurt. Romell clenched her fists and remained silent.

"If only Torrentius were with us," Pieter said.

What was he talking about? Who was Torrentius? Then she recalled Amsterdam and remembered Pieter talking about the man he so admired, the man who taught that there was no evil.

"When I take you, he would paint us. Torrentius often painted men and women lying together and ... in other poses, like in the miniature I gave you. To see such art is to relive the feelings."

Pieter's breath came faster, as though thinking about Torrentius painting them was more arousing than touching her. Romell couldn't repress a shudder. "Ah, you long for me," Pieter said. His head bent to her breasts.

I can't stand it, she thought, this great slobbering mouth on me. No, I can't. She shoved at him. Pieter struck her face with his open hand, palm first, then with the back of his hand. Her head snapped back and forth, and she was momentarily dazed by the force of the blow.

"Next time I'll use my fist," he told her. "Be warned."

"Why do you want to hurt me?" she gasped.

"To make you know who's master. Women need to be beaten when they misbehave."

When he shoved her legs apart, Romell closed her eyes and turned her face to one side. He straddled her, probing, and she tried not to cry out with pain as he thrust into her unwelcoming flesh. His weight came down on her and his breathing was harsh in her ear.

"Love me, my Romellje, love me," he pleaded.

Half suffocated, hurting inside where he thrust back and forth, Romell could bear it no longer.

"Never!" she shrieked, pounding on his back with her fists. "No matter what you do, I'll never love you."

He shoved into her all the faster, moaning, and then collapsed, shuddering atop her for long minutes before he rolled off onto his side. She tried to stand, but he grabbed her by the hair and threw a leg over her.

"You've nowhere to go," he told her. "You'll stay here until you learn to love me properly."

His hand moved across her breasts, began to rub her nipple until it stood erect, moved down across her stomach, then lower and lower. He slid his leg away and his fingers went inside her. She was sore and it hurt. Romell flung herself away from him and burst into tears.

"Pieter, put the girl aside and come with me." The voice was Jan Harden’s. "Those fools are breaking into the last wine barrel. I need your help." Scowling. Pieter released her.

When he’d dressed and left the tent, Romell looked for her clothes, only to find they were gone. She wrapped a blanket around herself and huddled on the ground. When she heard someone outside the tent, she shrank back, thinking of the hulking Joost who’d taken Loulie away. Most of the sailors were louts much like him.

When Margitte slipped into the tent, Rommel cried out in relief. Margitte was dressed and stood over Rommel, eyeing her.

"I see you have a bruise on your cheek," she said, "I hope you’re not being a great fool and resisting." Tears sprang to Rommel’s eyes. "I can’t stand him."

"Better Pieter than one of those wild boars out there." Margitte jerked her head toward the tent flap. "They think nothing of passing a woman from one to another until they all have had their chance."

Romell grimaced, remembering the second man stopping to rape the minister’s daughter. How many had taken the girl since?

"Do you think I like Jan Harden’s rough hands on me?" Margitte demanded. "But he’s a better fate than any other at the moment. You’ll learn."

Romell sprang to her feet, clutching the blanket to her. Catarina, the minister’s daughter…I saw her raped, but she was still alive. We must try to help her."

Margitte shrugged. "We can do nothing."

"She’s but thirteen. She was on the ground outside the skipper’s tent."

"Catarina’s not there now. One of the sailor’s has her, no doubt. There are only--" Margitte drew her shoulders together as though cold,"—only dead men by the tent."

The sharp crack of gunshots startled both women.

"Killing their own now," Margitte said. "Take heed, if you care to live—that's what I came to tell you." She turned away. "I'd best get back to Jan's tent. He'll be back and expecting a welcome."

Romell stared after her. How could Margitte, the wife of another man, adapt so easily to someone she didn't even like? Romell was repulsed by Pieter's touch. She knew that not only could she never submit to Pieter and mean it, she doubted if she could even pretend.

Where was Adrien? Had Pieter murdered him too? Surely not, for the soldiers on the raft with Adrien had been armed. Had Adrien been thrown to the sharks? Or left to die on the little island?

Oh, Adrien, she mourned, we had so brief a time together, and what we had, we wasted. I love you. There'll never be another man who means as much to me. If only I'd told you so, before it was too late. Her throat ached with unshed tears.

Outside, a man shouted and another replied. Romell pulled the blanket close about her, facing the entrance to the tent. If she couldn't be like Margitte, she could at least take heed of her advice. Fighting Pieter would only gain more bruises for her and perhaps worse. Whatever happened between them from now on could be no more hurtful and humiliating than what Pieter had already done to her. Romell raised her chin and waited for his return.

In the days that followed, Romell found that Pieter’s domination was based as much on a growing madness as on rituals of passion sponsored by his wild religiosity.

"I am your destiny," he ranted. "Torrentius has seen your fate and given you to me. You will love me as it is appointed in Torrentius' world of pure love. You shall never escape."

Once, when Romell remarked how much evil had been done in the name of Torrentius' world, Pieter rushed at her and roared. "I'm your master! You shan't forget it."

So she learned to pretend to submit while, for the first time in her life, the festering flower of murderous rage grew in her heart. I'll kill him, she told herself when she was alone. I'll take his knife and, when he can't defend himself, plunge it into his back. Then I'll rejoice because he's dead, dead, dead!

But in her more rational moments, she knew it would be no use to kill Pieter, for another man would have her. Maybe, as Margitte had said, all the other men.

When Pieter at last let her out of the tent, Romell went looking for Catarina. She found the girl sprawled on the sand, bloody and begrimed, and thought at first she was dead.

Romell knelt beside the pitiful body and saw that the girl's eyes were open and that she was breathing. "Catarina," she said softly, touching her shoulder.

The girl showed no reaction, no flicker of understanding appeared in her eyes, but when Romell's hand urged her up, she sat. When Romell helped her to her feet, she stood, then walked—with urging—into the shallow water where Romell cleansed her.

Catarina drank water from a cup held to her lips; she chewed and swallowed bits of food placed in her mouth, but her eyes stared at nothing and she did not speak. She befouled the garments Romell found for her and would stay for hours just as she was left by one man or another.

I should let her die, Romell thought; it would be kinder. But she couldn't bring herself to stop caring for the girl. There were thirty left on the island; five were women. The fifth was a married woman named Anna. Like Margitte, Loulie, and Romell, she had her own protector, an older, scar-faced soldier. Anna said little and, in fact, looked and behaved much like an Amsterdam vrouw. Did she seethe and rage beneath her quiet exterior? Did she hate the man who bedded her—one of the murderers who had killed her husband?

No man of the passenger group had been allowed to live, plus Pieter and Jan had seen to it that their own group was reduced to those men who didn't defy them.

Before the last of the wine was gone, it rained, then it rained again and again until now all the empty barrels had water in them. Everyone was tired of fish, for no more seabirds flew to the island to be snared and roasted. The days slipped away from Romell--she wasn't sure if two months or three had gone by since the shipwreck.

Once she heard Jan and Pieter talking about seeing a fire on the small island and her heart lifted. Could Adrien be alive?

"We could take the raft and kill them," Pieter said.

"What's the need? Once we take over the rescue ship, we're our own masters, and we damn sure won't rescue them," Jan said. "You leave that raft where it is. No use giving any notions to anyone."

Romell would have used the raft to try to get to the little island, but the men had pulled it far up on the sand until it rested just outside Jan's tent. She couldn't launch the heavy raft by herself, even supposing no one noticed what she was trying to do. Romell no longer wore proper clothes, for her only dress had fallen to rags and all the garments washed ashore from the Zuiderwind had been men's. She wore these, until Pieter brought her a cloak lined with scarlet from a salvaged jewel chest. The improvised dress barely reached her knees, and she couldn't help thinking that she'd gotten her wish never to wear black again—gotten it with a vengeance, for she must look like a gypsy in the scarlet and gold.

Even Jan Hardens noticed her.

"You got yourself a beauty now she's put off the black," he told Pieter.

Pieter scowled. He hated to have the other men look at Romell and had clouted more than one.

Jan nudged Pieter in the ribs. "We might trade us once in awhile," he said. "My Margitte is eager as a whore in bed. You'd like her."

"No," Pieter said shortly.

Jan persisted. "What's the harm? A man needs a bit of variety."