Venus (2 page)

Polly looked across the crowded taproom, trying to decide what approach would be best with this particular gentleman. Mostly the gulls were so boorish, so repulsive with their lewd suggestions, insulting in the way they handled her as if she were meat on the butcher’s stall, that a delicate approach would be wasted. This gentleman seemed of a different order. He was a large man, certainly, with broad, powerful shoulders and thighs barely contained by his velvet coat and breeches. But the impression was of muscle rather than fat, and the sword at his hip was of plain design, instrument rather than ornament. In a fair fight, Polly decided, he would be a better than even match for Josh and his bully boys.

He wore his own hair, curling richly to his shoulders, the candlelight catching auburn glints, and his eyes were a clear emerald green. She remembered the way they had been fixed upon her earlier, how he had witnessed the way she had been pawed by the revelers at the center table, and a ripple of self-directed disgust ran through her at the impression she would have given him. He was not to know it had all been pretense, necessary if she was to keep on the right side of Josh. Why should she imagine that he, so demonstrably a gentleman, would find anything appealing in the advances of a tavern whore? But then, she didn’t have to play the part of a tavern slut, did she? She could be anything she chose as long as she achieved the desired end.

Her chin went up. She would surprise the gull with this performance—intriguing him with the speech and manners of a gentlewoman, even while she made the whore’s offer.

Nicholas watched her come toward him. He had kept his seat with the greatest of difficulty earlier when that bullet-headed brute had struck her. Such a spectacle would not normally have interested him in the slightest—a man was entitled to keep order in his own establishment, and if the girl was not his daughter, she was certainly in his employ, as much subject to his authority. But there was something utterly
repellent about the idea of such a man holding mastery over that beauteous creature—as repellent as had been the groping hands of the tavern’s customers.

“Will you take another tankard of mulled wine, sir?”

Her voice was amazingly sweet, carrying none of the harshness he had expected. The vowels were softly rounded, each word carefully articulated, her speech wildly at odds with the tawdry vulgarity of her dress; but not with the perfection of face and form. She placed the fresh tankard at his elbow. “May I bear you company, sir?” That come-hither smile drew him like a lodestone, and he half rose from his seat as he gestured in invitation to the bench beside him.

“I should be honored.” Both the words and the gesture were out of keeping when a man was simply accepting the company of a tavern wench who, it was to be presumed, was as much harlot as serving maid. Nicholas was aware of the absurdity of his courtesy, just as he was aware of the dirt beneath her fingernails, the grubbiness of her dress and apron, her uncombed hair, and the chapped skin of her hands. Yet none of these things seemed to matter, transcended as they were by her amazing beauty, and by her own manner, which seemed to deny such disadvantages utterly. Nicholas Kincaid felt himself bewitched.

“Will you not drink with me?” he asked, smiling. “I hate to drink alone.” He put sixpence on the table.

Polly picked up the coin. “My thanks, sir.” She went to the counter and drew herself a mug of ale. Josh’s sharp eyes had not missed the flash of the coin, and he snapped his fingers imperatively. She handed over the sixpence without protest, although her spirit rebelled. Sometimes she was able to secrete a few coins if they were slipped to her in the throng, but it was a rare occurrence, and her chances of amassing sufficient funds to enable her to make an escape from this hellhole without assistance were minuscule. But such gloomy thoughts were not appropriate to the part she was playing at present.

Polly returned to the gentleman, sitting down close beside him, her eyes glowing with invitation over the rim of her
tankard while she waited for him to fondle the breasts pressed so temptingly against his velvet-suited arm, to put a hand on her knee, pushing up her skirt to reach the softness of bared flesh. These preliminaries were not usually long acoming; then the suggestion that they should continue matters abovestairs would follow naturally.

What a crying waste of such perfection, thought Nicholas, drinking deeply of his mulled wine, wondering through his enchantment if he dared risk accepting the invitation. Young though she was, disease was the inevitable concomitant of this life that she led, and he had no wish for a case of the pox. She moved sinuously against him, her fingers whispering across his thigh as her wonderful, sensuous mouth hovered too close to his own for refusal. He yielded with a tiny sigh, his arm encircling her, enclosing the peerless body that melted instantly into his embrace, her lips parting sweetly for his kiss. There was no further question of resisting temptation.

“If you’ve a mind for a little privacy, sir, we could repair to a chamber abovestairs,” the temptress whispered, a delicate blush mantling the ivory complexion as if she were overcome with embarrassment at her temerity in making such an improper suggestion.

Baggage! Nicholas thought, a flash of amusement bringing him back to earth for a moment. A consummate little whore who would play at the innocent maiden! And did so with great skill, he was obliged to admit as a small hand found its way into his with a tentative squeeze. Such pretense of sweet innocence and modesty yielding under pressure added another dimension of entrancement, he found—no ordinary whore, this one; not in face, form, speech, or manner.

Polly glanced covertly into his tankard as she stood up, her fingers twining tightly around his. It was not quite empty, but he had surely taken sufficient for Josh’s purposes. Prue laced with a heavy hand.

Nicholas’s head buzzed, and he wondered uneasily if he could be overgone with wine. The taproom seemed very hot suddenly, the innkeeper’s raddled face, rearing up in front of
him, was fuzzed at the edges. But the girl held his hand fast as she led him toward a narrow staircase at the rear of the room, so he shook his head as if to dispel the fuzziness and concentrated on keeping his footing on the stairs.

Polly unlatched the door of the single chamber on the tiny landing. “In here, if you please, sir,” she murmured in dulcet tones, curtsying for all the world as if she were ushering him into some palatial apartment. He walked past her into a mean, ill-furnished room, where a tiny fire smoldered sullenly in the grate and the wind whistled through the cracks in the poorly fitting casement. The coverlet on the bed was crumpled and stained; something scurried under a lopsided dresser propped against the far wall. His head swam, and he decided abruptly that he did not feel strong enough for whatever games he had contracted to play in this unsavory place, however desirable his prospective playmate. He reached into his pocket for his purse. She was entitled to payment.

Then his hand stilled; his entire body became motionless as she began to unlace her bodice in a strangely matter-of-fact fashion. In a gesture devoid of artifice, she opened the front of her smock beneath, revealing the full, creamy swell of her breasts, rose-crowned and proudly upstanding. Nicholas sat down on the lumpy flock mattress on the narrow bed. The ropes creaked in protest beneath his weight. His eyelids were inordinately heavy, yet he could not take his gaze off her as the tawdry red dress fell to the floor, to be joined by the grimy petticoat.

Polly stood still, wondering desperately what to do next. She had never been obliged to remove her smock before. The gulls had always lapsed into unconsciousness before she had slipped off her petticoat, yet this one remained awake, and was clearly waiting for the disrobing to be complete. She looked anxiously into his eyes for the dilation and cloudiness that would indicate the potion was about to take effect. The eyes remained fixed upon her; clearly she had no choice. Her hands moved to slide the opened smock off her shoulders.

Nick found himself slightly breathless as she slipped slowly
out of the thin garment to stand naked in the cold, dirty chamber. The contrast between their surroundings and that flawless body, glowing opalescent in the flickering light from the oil lamp, was beyond contemplation.

“Come over here.” The soft command seemed to shriek in the silence. Polly swallowed, taking a tentative step toward the bed. The room spun suddenly around Nicholas; with a dreadful flash of apprehension he realized that things were not as they should be. Even as she drew close, this amazing creature seemed to flicker and fade before his eyes. “In the name of God!” he exploded, rubbing his eyes in the vain hope that his vision would clear. “What have you done to me?”

To Polly’s mingled relief and dismay, he tumbled onto the bedstead. She stepped cautiously over to the bed, looking down at the inert figure. Her task as lure was completed; she should now dress and go back to the taproom, leaving the rest to Josh. What would they do to him? They would not kill him, surely? But she knew that they would. Left alive, he would bring the Watch down on them, and they would all end up at the end of a rope—herself included.

She bit her lip, thinking of the wise man’s prayer: Give me not poverty, lest I steal. But she had been dealt poverty in this world of scant justice, and permitting regrets or the voice of conscience was a luxury she did not have. A roar of laughter from the taproom below set the oak boards shivering beneath her feet. It was a timely reminder. Josh would be waiting for her, and if she didn’t reappear, he would come in search. Her eyes drifted to the bulge in the gentleman’s doublet where he kept his purse. Josh would not miss a guinea. He could not know how much the purse had contained.

Stealthily, she bent over the still figure, her fingers sliding inside the pocket of the velvet doublet.

“So that’s your game!
Thieving doxy!”

The world seemed to tilt; then Polly found herself flat on her back on the bed, staring wide-eyed with shock into a pair of dazed but unmistakably livid emerald eyes.

“You take your payment before rendering the service, is
that it?” His body was heavy on hers, one hand holding her wrists above her head, the other gripping her jaw with a determined force that was not consonant with the drinking of one of Prue’s specials.

“You are supposed to be asleep,” she gasped with mistaken, ingenuous candor.

“And God help me, I deserve to be!” he muttered. “Of all the dupes! To be taken in by such a trick in a place like this.” Nicholas did not know why the feel of those probing fingers had penetrated his torpor, but he did know that he must fight the continuing creeping insensibility with his last ounce of strength—both mental and physical. Anger was a powerful aid as he examined that beautiful, deceitful countenance, the enormous glowing eyes leading him into a green-brown land of promise, the sensual mouth slightly parted over perfect white teeth. The soft body moved beneath him, bringing the image of her nakedness to vibrant life. Lust was also a powerful force, particularly when combined with fury. “This time you provide the service
before
payment,” he said, bringing his mouth to hers.

Polly writhed and twisted beneath a ravaging assault; the buttons of his coat bit into her softness; the velvet seemed to rasp against her skin. And threading through her panic was the infinitely terrifying thought that Josh and his cronies would arrive at any minute, would find her naked … would find their victim in possession of his senses … She did not know which thought was the more hideous. She had not waited for the gentleman to finish his mulled wine, and to that extent she was responsible for the failure of the plan. But Prue must have miscalculated, also.

“Please!” She fought free of his mouth. “You do not understand.”

“Understand!” Laughter cracked in sharp derision. “I understand that I am buying what you promised to sell.”

“But I did not promise …” Polly’s voice faded as she realized how pointless and unconvincing was her defense. She had always known that one day her luck would run out; one day she would not be able to protect herself; one day
would come the unvanquishable assault on a maidenhead that she had so far managed to preserve against all the odds, knowing that its possession was the only thing that set her apart from the ranks of dull-eyed slatterns who peopled her world. Lost virginity led to a swollen belly, to the pox, to the hopeless, self-perpetuating cycle of rape and childbirth, broken only by the grave. Once she had started upon that road, there would be no turning back, no possibility of theatres and stages and applauding audiences—no possibility of a future.

But if the time had come, then perhaps it was better at the hands of this man, who might have some delicacy, than for a few pennies with one of the hardhanded, foul-mouthed customers belowstairs. Her struggles ceased. “Do not hurt me,” she whispered.

Nicholas stared down at her. “Hurt you! Why should you imagine I would do such a thing?”

Two large tears rolled hotly down her cheeks. “It hurts to breach the maidenhead, does it not?” Her voice was small, her face set.

Nicholas took a deep breath, struggling with the sense of unreality that seemed to have transcended the physical confusion brought about by whatever had been slipped into his drink. Since when was a tavern whore in possession of her maidenhead? “You would have me believe you are a maid?” he demanded incredulously, releasing his hold. He got off the bed and stood looking down at her as she lay sprawled on the coverlet. She seemed to be quite unconcerned at her nakedness, almost as if she had forgotten it, he thought, trying to shake his head clear of bewilderment.

Polly nodded, sitting up. “I am only supposed to bring the gentlemen up here,” she explained. “They always fall asleep before they can—”

“And then you rob them?” he interrupted harshly, seeing nothing to contradict in her statement. It was extraordinary to think that she had preserved her innocence throughout this fraud, but not an impossible feat in the circumstances she had described and he had experienced.