The Lodestone (51 page)

Her first thought was that somehow Paolo had survived the fire and now he was taking his own special revenge. As she opened her mouth to scream, the big man grabbed her and a gag they’d had at the ready was thrust between her teeth. Her hands were secured behind her with the sash of her own gown and a small sack, still reeking of coffee beans, was placed over her head.

Confused and frightened, she tried desperately to quell her mounting panic. There was a measure of comfort, she told herself, that their orders didn’t include harming more than her dignity. She forced herself to think. Paolo had to be dead. He could not possibly have survived the fire; and she doubted any servant, no matter how loyal, would travel all the way to England to get revenge for a master who could no longer pay. Then who was behind this? There were many people who didn’t approve of her politics, the power her wealth gave her, and the fact that she didn’t hesitate to speak out against injustice. But she refused to give herself that much importance. The aristocracy of London clearly did not like her—perhaps even despised her—but not enough, surely, to hire a band of ruffians to kidnap her.

If these men were planning to hold her for ransom, then perhaps she stood a chance of coming out of it alive. She had no doubt that as soon as they contacted him, Oliver would waste no time in arranging any sum they demanded.

She tried to get her bearings as the coach bumped along over narrow streets. She knew they were still in the Strand, for this section of the city had its own distinctive odor, populated as it was by prostitutes and unwashed sailors. And its distinctive sounds reverberated constantly as the enthusiastic ladies and the street merchants coarsely hawked their wares.

Abruptly, the carriage came to a stop and the large man pulled Cleome out and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. She heard a door open and then close behind them and slowly, the man began to descend what seemed to be a narrow, winding stairway, going lower and deeper until the air around her felt cold and dank. After successfully maneuvering the steps, he set Cleome down and relieved her of the blindfold, the gag and the sash that bound her wrists.

“Now, me fine lady,” said the other man. “Scream all ye like, if it’ll help your feelings, for naught can hear you down here in the belly of the city. Step lively now, and do not give us any more trouble. Sooner you get there, the sooner we gets our money.”

Without a backward glance, he led the way through the underground passage. Oliver had told Cleome about these catacombs that ran through eight acres beneath London’s East End. The labyrinthine passageways had been there since medieval times, perhaps before; and they were successfully used for smuggling and other devious business. These subterranean highways had never been charted and a man unfamiliar with them would be taking his life in his hands should he enter without a proper guide, for they opened into every murderer’s lair and thieves’ kitchen in the Strand. For a moment, Cleome forgot her fear in her fascination with the intricacies of the tunnels.

The smell of the sea stung her nostrils long before their mole-like journey was ended, and it grew stronger with each step she took. She spied a dim light in the distance ahead of them and soon she was helped upward through a narrow door that opened directly onto a large dock. Her heart sank, for it was obvious they were taking her aboard the magnificent ship tethered at its end. The person responsible for her abduction obviously possessed great wealth. Again, she thought of Paolo and was heartsick. If he were alive, he would make her pay dearly for her part in liberating Edwina.

“Aye, this is nice and quiet, like ’e said,” remarked one of the brutes as they boarded the vessel. “All ’ands are out ’aving ’em a last fling afore sailin’, hey Jocko?” Jocko, who was now guarding Cleome from the rear, only grunted. Another man stepped from the shadows and introduced himself as Captain Barnard.

“Below deck, for the moment. Shall I ask these men to escort you?” When Jocko tried to take her arm, Cleome jerked it away and followed the captain. Once on board, he led her to a beautifully appointed stateroom which was furnished with everything a woman could possibly wish for on a lengthy ocean voyage, including a vast array of perfumes and oils as well as books and embroidery paraphernalia. “You’ll be comfortable here, milady,” the captain told her. “Behind the screen, you’ll find a hot bath awaiting you. You’d do well to freshen up a bit before dinner, which will be brought soon. We sail in the morning.” He bowed respectfully and left the room. She heard the sickening click of the lock as he secured the door.

Since she had, at present, no means of escape and since her captors would return soon with something for her to eat, Cleome thought taking a bath and changing her soiled dress would be a welcome distraction. She went to the wardrobe to find the only garment hanging there was a delicate, flowing gown of emerald green with a matching robe.

An Oriental screen fashioned of precious ivory, ebony wood and rich silk of a scarlet hue stood in one corner. When Cleome pulled it aside, she was stunned to see her Grandmamma Adelaide’s bathtub sitting in splendor in the center of a beautiful Persian rug. It was filled with steaming water and the lovely scent of fragrant oils wafted above it. A new and welcome suspicion dawned on her. There was only one man in the world who would take her grandmother’s bathtub out of the tavern house and place it in a stateroom on a strange ship, hundreds of miles from where she had last seen it. Touching the lodestone he had given to her mother, which now hung around her neck on a gold chain, she realized there was only one explanation.

In the tub, the hot water eased the stiffness of her limbs and she began to relax. There was a click in the lock and a large woman, who introduced herself as Dora, entered. She carried a tray piled high with food, china, silver, napkins and crystal wine glasses. Deftly, she set the table for two; and as a final touch, she lit the candles which, surrounded by flowers, made up the centerpiece.

Cleome found she was famished and did not resist when Dora scooped up a sponge and scrubbed her briskly with it until her skin glowed. She then helped Cleome out of the tub, dried her with a warm towel and held the green gown out. Cleome shook her head and was stunned when the servant simply ripped the towel from her body and left the room, taking her ladyship’s dirty clothes with her. Cleome had no choice but to avail herself of the only garments in the cabin. The robe afforded little more camouflage than the gown but Cleome was too hungry to care. As she was about to sit down to the feast that Dora had brought, the door burst open and she stepped back in surprise.

Drake stood in the portal, his large form outlined in the dim light of the passageway behind him. He stood for a moment, staring at her, his eyes traveling slowly over her; and then, with deliberation, he turned and locked the door behind him. Though she was infinitely glad to see him, she could not control her outrage.

“Precisely what is the meaning of this?” she demanded. “You divest me of my home, deceive me about my father, insult me on every occasion—when you’re not ignoring me! You torture me for months, allowing me to think Mignon is your lover when she is really your sister. You accuse me unjustly of lies and betrayal, and then you have me abducted by cutthroats and cruelly imprisoned here. How
dare
you!”

“Tortured? Were you—by me? I’m flattered,” he answered her with a lazy smile. “You do me a great injustice, Cleome. Careless, yes. Cruel, never. Not to you. And if this is a prison, it’s a pleasant one, don’t you think?”

“A castle would be a prison if I’m held against my will.”

“Ah . . . but I do not think you’re at all unwilling.”

“Why have you brought me here?” she fumed. “And I most certainly
am
unwilling!”

“That remains to be seen. I’ve brought you here because I’ve finally come to my senses where you’re concerned. I couldn’t sit idly by and let you become a bitter old maid.”

“To America. Mignon and Collins have started a new life there, where no one will ever learn of her past,” he explained. “It’s a place that fascinates me, and I want to show it to you. You and I will share this cabin, as the rest of the ship is full of cargo. A few weeks at sea in such close quarters should make you more susceptible to my charms, and when we arrive at our destination we will be married.”

She drew herself up to her fullest height and squared her little shoulders. “What if I do not wish to marry you?”

“Then, milady, we’ll live in sin—and quite happily on my part. But you’ll not get away from me this time, Cleome. I’ve waited long enough to claim what is mine.” He took a step nearer her and reached out to close his hand over the bit of magnetized rock she wore against her heart. “This is what you are to me,” he whispered. “Your flesh draws my own like copper to a lodestone, and your heart directs mine like a compass, so that I’ll always be able to find my way to you. And tonight, I will make love to you or I’ll die trying.”

Looking into his eyes she recognized the hunger in them and knew her spell was cast upon him forever. “What makes you think I
want
you to make love to me?” she asked softly.

At her unexpected proximity, he drew his breath in sharply, no longer immune to the lure of her untouched beauty. He caught her to him, wrapping her securely in his strong arms, and his lips closed over hers. He kissed her with longing and when she responded with equal passion, he shuddered.

“The way you feel,” he said. “The way you taste, the way you return every ounce of my desire.”

“Very well, then,” she said. “I surrender.” He kissed her again and she pressed close to him, so close that she could feel the hard outline of his need pressing against her, insistently matching her own. “Now, if you do not come along quietly,” she whispered, “and let us finish this thing we started so long ago, I fear I shall go mad with wanting you.”

Scarcely believing what he’d heard and aroused as he’d never been in his life, Drake looked deeply into the lovely blue eyes which were now dazed with passion. As her velvet laughter tickled his cheek, he picked her up and walked with her to his bunk.

Placing her down gently, he drew off her gown and then removed his own clothes. For a moment, he just looked at her; then he joined her on the bed. At first, all he could do was hold her and kiss her. She responded eagerly to him, and pressing her back down upon the pillows, he ran his hands lightly over her shoulders, then her breasts. They lingered there, and he caressed her until she thought the delicious yearning that was building within her would explode. His lips traveled to where his hands had been and his mouth stopped for a moment to suckle her small, pink nipples, now taut and tingling with her desire for him. Then he moved on, kissing her abdomen and suddenly, his lips were on the most private part of her and his tongue was lightly touching the bud of her womanhood and then delving into her female core. A heated rush went through her, coursing through her like quicksilver, and she arched against him, moaning with the sensuality his touch invoked.

He rose then to kiss her breasts again and her hands moved to stroke his back, his chest, and then to his delight, they found the unyielding mast of his sex. As her fingers played over it, he sighed and moved between her legs. Gently, slowly, he pushed himself into her, thrilled with the moisture that was evidence of her desire; and at last, he was part of her. She looked into his eyes and lost herself completely in them. As they began to move together, a hundred colors and a thousand lights erupted like a sweet, hot volcano inside her; and she cried out as her pleasure took her. Only then did he allow himself release, groaning with an ecstasy that matched her own.

Thus they loved the night away, giving each other only a scant time to rest before coming together again, and again. It seemed that their long wait for each other had made them insatiable.

They did not notice the motion of the boat pulling away from the dock, and they were oblivious when the anchor was hoisted and the sails unfurled to the rising wind. All thoughts of food or drink, of friends, of the past or the future, of any world save the one within those walls, were completely forgotten. When at last their need of each other was satisfied, they lay quietly in the tangle of sheets. She was growing drowsy and would have been content to lie forever against him. The moment was precious to her, better than she could have ever imagined, and not to be intruded upon with mere words. A great sigh of happiness escaped her and she opened her eyes to find him staring down at her intently, as if considering something of vast importance.

“It will never again be possible for me to allow you out of my sight,” he whispered to her in the twilight of morning and she answered him with a smile. “You are mine, Cleome. Mine alone—and you will be my wife.”

“I have not yet accepted your proposal,” she reminded him sweetly.

“But you will,” he insisted. “I love you more than my own life, and you
will
marry me.”

“Perhaps . . . someday,” she said, distracting him with a smoldering kiss, which again ignited the fire in his loins.

They made love once more, and her soul overflowed with this new fulfillment; and in the rosy dawn of the rising sun, with waves lapping gently against the sides of the ship, she watched him as he slept. Fully awake now, she must give careful consideration to his proposal. It would likely come as a shock to him when she did not fly to do his every bidding. Their marriage, for example, would take a bit longer to arrange than he suspected, for an agreement must be drawn up on their return to England.