- -
- 100%
- +
Just when she felt that she was about to faint, he lifted his head slightly, and Marisa saw that his eyes looked like silver now, like polished mirrors in which she could see her own flushed, terrified reflection. Remembering old stories about the devil coming to earth in human disguise in order to seduce women, she felt an overwhelming desire to cross herself.
She half gasped and half moaned and saw the cynical, almost sneering smile that flickered across his cleanshaven face.
“Be assured, little picarona, that you need not play the innocent virgin for my benefit. Tonight I do not feel inclined for the usual tussle—nor for the usual preliminaries. Come along now, and let’s have no more games, eh?” Her knees were so weak with shock and terror that she would have fallen if he had not seized her by the wrist. He was taking her back to his friends, and she would never escape if she did not use her wits as she had meant to do in the beginning.
“No!” She pulled back, not having to feign the breathlessness of her tone. “Please, señor, not back to those friends of yours who laugh and make fun of me because I’m only a poor gypsy girl. My wagon is not far away, and it is empty—”
“What a changeable, surprising creature you are,” he said softly, slipping his arm about her waist again. “One moment you act as if my kisses disgust you, and the next—you are as hot as fire!”
She said quickly, “Gypsy women are very independent. We like to choose our own lovers.” She prayed that her voice sounded flirtatious enough as she allowed herself to sway against him. “At least, you are not a brightly dressed parrot like the other men in your party.”
She dared not look into his eyes again as they strolled towards the outskirts of the crowd and now pressed more and more closely about the whirling dancers.
“Please—act casual. I do not want my novio to notice,” she murmured. The conceited boor! He actually believed himself irresistible. How easy it had been to trick him after all! Viciously, Marisa hoped that Mario and his friends would teach this particular caballero a lesson he would never forget.
They were being jostled by people who were eager to see what was going on. The rumors had already begun to fly around that the queen herself was here in disguise, along with the notorious duchess of Alba, who was fond of masquerading as a maja in order to pick up commoner-lovers.
Marisa’s lips felt bruised and swollen, and her breasts seemed to burn from the casual, all-too-knowing caresses she had been forced to endure. It was all she could do to lean docilely in this man’s hard embrace and pretend that he had subdued her spirit. Angry thoughts whirled around in her brain. Where was Mario? Pray God he’d rescue her soon.
No one took any notice of them, not even when Mario himself, as if conjured up by her thoughts, appeared suddenly to bar their way. His dark features were suffused with fury, and his hand lay threateningly on the dagger in his waistband. Behind him, Marisa noticed two of his cronies, carrying heavy cudgels.
“So! This is what you’ve been doing behind my back! I should not have expected a woman like you to be satisfied with just one lover. Or was it his money and fine clothes that attracted you? Bitch. I saw you kissing him as if you could not bear to tear yourself away. And as for you, señor, I think that after tonight you’ll think twice before you attempt to meddle with one of our gypsy women….”
His tirade and his rage seemed all too real, and Marisa could not help shrinking involuntarily. Through widening eyes she saw the other two men move silently to either side of Mario as he drew his dagger.
“I think I will mark up your face first,” he snarled, “before I allow my friends to beat you within an inch of your life. You aristocrats should learn to stick to your own kind!”
“I wondered when you would appear on the scene.” Marisa heard the drawling, drily sarcastic voice and tried to tear herself away, but with a quick jerk of his arm he held her before him, and she felt something cold against her side. She thought she heard a clicking sound. She saw the gypsies freeze as the drawling voice continued in a conversational manner, “This pistol is made to fire two shots without reloading—which one of you wants to get it first? And of course there’s always the chance that your little friend here might get nicked in the process. Well?”
Marisa felt the hair at the back of her neck prickle, and she stood rigidly, hardly daring to breathe. He meant it! There had been a steely undertone to his voice that made her certain he would have no compunction about shooting, as he had promised.
“You had no right to walk off with my woman,” Mario blustered uneasily, his eyes darting this way and that; and at almost the same moment a voice behind them made him jump.
“What is going on there?” Two uniformed guardsmen had come up, their sternly frowning faces taking in the whole picture. “Were these gypsy devils attempting to rob you, señor? A good thing Don Manuel ordered us to keep an eye on this little wench here. It’s a favorite trick among these people—”
“But one I had half-expected already. No, I don’t think there’s any need to arrest them. I don’t think they’ll be in a hurry to pull this kind of stunt again.”
“Get going, you three! And if you’re still around when the sun comes up, we’ll find a nice cold cell to throw you in!”
Mario’s friends had already taken to their heels, and now, with a last, frustrated backward glance, the young man himself disappeared into the crowd.
With a desperation born of sheer terror, Marisa tried to twist away.
“Let me go! You have no right to keep me here!” She raised imploring eyes to the suddenly impassive faces of the two guardsmen. “Please, señores! They were only trying to save me from the unwelcome advances of this—this lecher! And he threatened to shoot me with his pistol if I did not go with him!”
“What an accomplished little liar she is! Listen, young woman, picking pockets could get you in a lot of trouble! A public flogging, and all your pretty long hair cut off. We’ve been watching you.”
“Here—and you’d better keep a closer eye on her this time. I’ve no mind to spend the rest of the evening dodging her jealous lovers—and her nimble fingers.” Marisa felt herself shoved forward, only to have her arms grasped roughly and twisted behind her.
“Better search her for a knife, too—she threatened once to stick me with it.”
“Shall we bring her along to the boat?”
Straightening out his clothes, the gentleman shrugged, but his silver-grey eyes had gone narrow.
“Why not? I hate being made to pay in advance for favors I haven’t received yet. Maybe she’ll be more tractable in a few hours’ time.”
With a dazed feeling of disbelief, Marisa watched him walk away leaving her to these rough men, to be treated like a common prisoner. No, it could not be happening, not to her! Perhaps if she closed her eyes she would wake to find herself in her little grey cell in the convent, safe behind its strong, wide walls.
As she felt one of the men adroitly tie her wrists behind her, she began to sob helplessly.
The voice that spoke to her wasn’t too unkind. “Now, now! There’s no point in shedding tears at this point, you know! Count yourself lucky you aren’t to be marched right off to jail. You might spend the next few years of your life picking hemp, and what a waste that would be! A pity you weren’t given a different sort of upbringing—all you gypsies are thieves and sluts. I suppose it’s in your blood and you can’t help it! But if you behave yourself and do as you’re told, you might come out the richer for this evening. Now—where’s that knife hidden? Better tell us, or we’ll have to strip you.”
She had to bite her lip to keep from crying out with revulsion when a rough hand groped up her thigh.
“What a dangerous little weapon! You could kill someone with this, and then you’d hang. You ever seen a hanging? Come along now. A good thing you have enough sense not to scream, or we’d have to gag you. That’s right. And just think, you’ll have a nice boat ride—it’s a perfect night for it, too.”
The lopsided moon dropped lower and lower and the rocking motion of the pleasure barge made her feel sick. Almost as sick as the conversation of her captors, as they discussed the rest of the night that lay ahead.
“They’re really having fun this evening. It was all the duchess’s idea, you know. A pity we’re on duty, eh, Jorge?”
“Ah well, you know they’re generous with the spoils after they’ve tired of their sport. We’ll get our share later.” One of the men gave a ribald chuckle and when Marisa shuddered, he flung a blanket over her shoulders. “Here. It wouldn’t do to have you catch a chill. And you might as well stretch out against those cushions and get comfortable while you’re at it. You’ll have plenty of exercise later on.”
She closed her eyes against the cold silver stars. Their brilliance reminded her of cruel, mocking eyes. ‘Delphine!’ she thought suddenly. But Delphine was gone a long time ago, offering herself to that pack of raving beasts to save her—and for what? ‘I’ve sinned,’ she thought dully. ‘I’ve sinned, and this is my punishment. Mother Angelina was right. She used to tell me I was wayward and headstrong and that I lacked the proper humility to become a nun. If only I’d paid attention, if only…’
She had found her own personal hell—flickering torchlights and gay, wine-slurred voices, the sound of oars swishing through moving water, the sour-sweet taste of wine forced between her lips, and the devil’s eyes which were not as red as coals after all but like silvered glass.
Her limbs were numb and aching and her wrists and arms had no more feeling than her horror-soaked mind.
‘If I stood up now and shouted who I was, they wouldn’t believe me,’ she thought, ‘or they’d think it was very funny. Oh God, help me!’
Marisa hardly heard the voices that continued to discuss her as if she weren’t present.
“The foolish little creature! What did she hope to gain?”
The sulky voice that she now knew belonged to the queen of Spain said sharply, “I can’t understand why you bothered with her! After all, one gypsy wench is very much like another, and if this little wretch is a thief into the bargain—”
“Ah, but she isn’t quite like the others. Her father must have been a Castilian—look at that hair! And she’s obviously still quite young.”
“What difference does that make? Her kind are all quite hardened by the time they are fourteen or so!”
“At any rate, our guest seems to find her intriguing, and something of a challenge, is not that so, señor? Since we’re all paired off, it’s only fair to provide him with a wench of his own choosing.”
“I would think you’d have had your fill of her kind in the New World,” Maria Luisa snapped. “Or is it the pirate in you that always looks for a capture instead of a prize that’s willingly given?”
“Alas, I’m nothing so romantic as a pirate! Merely an honest privateer—and I know better than to sail too close to an impregnable, jeweled citadel. No, I’ve learned to be satisfied with more modest prizes.”
“Like that English ship you took on your way here? I declare, captain, it is you who are too modest!” But the queen had begun to smile again. Marisa wondered dazedly what they were talking about and whether that man was really some kind of pirate.
She could believe it. He had cast aside his heavy dark cloak and unbuttoned his jacket to reveal a ruffled white shirt front. More plainly dressed than the rest of the men present, his clothes were nevertheless well-cut and form fitting. When he crossed his long legs, Marisa could see the shine of Hessian boots.
He hadn’t touched her since he had climbed easily into the boat to sit beside her, but she was all too aware of his closeness and the warmth of his body. What did he intend to do with her? No, she mustn’t think about it—not yet. She found herself wishing that the boat would somehow spring a leak and sink, drowning them all. Such an end would be infinitely preferable to what might lie ahead.
More wine was being passed around, this time in jewel-encrusted glasses, each one tinted a different color. Rather than have it forced down her throat, Marisa sipped obediently, sitting huddled in her corner. The wine made her dizzy at first and then tremendously drowsy. Her hands had been untied, and she kept chafing her sore wrists with icy-cold fingers. She had the feeling that something terrible was about to happen, but at the moment she was too tired and too overwrought to think. Like a child worn out by tears and emotion, she curled her bare feet under her and fell asleep, only half-waking when a warm cloak was wrapped around her and she was lifted up in strong arms that held her far too closely in spite of her drowsy protests.
4
Ridiculous! She was dreaming that she had been carried off by a dangerous-looking pirate, a scarf tied over his head and a black patch covering one eye. He was going to make her walk the plank, but instead of the icy shock of sea-water closing over her head she fell onto something soft. So comfortable, and she was so sleepy! She thought she could hear voices somewhere over her head, but the words slid across the fringes of her mind without really registering.
“And what is the meaning of this, if I may ask?”
“What the hell does it look like? She ran right into my arms tonight, and quite providentially as it turned out. I’ve no desire to make an enemy of the prime minister. Look after her for me, would you? They’ve got the gaming tables set up downstairs, and I don’t want her jumping out of the window before I get back.”
“So now ye’ve taken to drugging your females before ye take them?”
“Don’t come all Calvinist over me, Donald! And she’s drunk, not drugged. Give her something to eat if she wakes up, will you? And help me off with this damned coat!”
“Royalty or not, it’s no decent company that you’ve taken to keeping since we’ve been in this godforsaken, hot country. And that’s no more than a wee bit of a girl you’ve brought to your bed. What’s wrong with all those other fast females who’ve been makin’ eyes at you?”
“For God’s sake, stop your preaching and leave me to my own kind of damnation!”
The door slammed, and Marisa shivered in her sleep, murmuring incoherently. Everything that had happened during the past few weeks to change her whole life had caught up with her like a cloudburst, and now, limp with exhaustion and the effects of wine, she was dead to the world.
The pale dawn light was filtering through the windows when she woke up, feeling the chilly air on her body as the covers were pulled aside. Her eyelids were still so heavy they seemed stuck together, and her limbs felt cramped. But when she tried to move, a heavy weight pressed her down.
“So you’re still here, after all. You might at least have undressed while you were waiting. Damn. I’m too drunk and too tired to have patience with clothes, little golden butterfly.”
She heard a tearing sound, and was too paralyzed to either move or cry out. Far easier to pretend that she was still asleep, that this was not happening to her. A hand passed over her shrinking bare flesh, and she heard him say in a husky voice, “At least your skin is soft, and you’re yielding for a change.”
Her dazed, half-open eyes stared into desire-narrowed, flinty grey ones without any real comprehension of what was happening, until with a feeling of shock she found her thighs nudged apart. She writhed, gasping, as his fingers touched her intimately, exploringly; and for a moment, as his body was poised over hers, she thought he would let her go. Her lips parted, only to be covered by his hard, demanding mouth, tasting of wine and tobacco. And at the same moment there was a stabbing shaft of agony between her thighs that seemed to tear all the way into her belly, causing her body to arch up against his with shocked surprise.
She came close to fainting, feeling sure that he was killing her, that like Delphine, she was about to be ripped to pieces.
Marisa heard a whimpering, moaning sound, like that of an animal in pain, and it took her some time to realize that the sounds she heard were coming from her own throat. She fought to be free, but her movements only seemed to incite him to a further attack on her helpless flesh; he drove himself deeper and deeper inside her, holding her wrists over her head when she attempted to push him away.
It was no use. She was helpless—in the grip of a madman bent on hurting her, an animal.
And at last, surprisingly, the stabbing pain gave way to mild discomfort, and then to a kind of lethargy as she lay with her limbs sprawled out and let him have his way.
Her last thought, as she slipped into a state halfway between sleep and unconsciousness was, “And I don’t even know his name—nor he mine…how strange…” And further than that, she did not care to think just yet, for her head ached as badly as her bruised and violated body; closing her eyes against reality was much easier than being forced to face it.
“So now ye’ve taken to raping helpless virgins, have ye? And handing them over to your fine aristocratic friends after, for their sport. Well, it may be that ye’re my captain, when we’re at sea, that is, but I’ve known you too many years to keep silent, and I’ll be speaking my mind, whether ye’d be liking it or not!”
“I don’t recall that you’ve ever hesitated before, you old croaker! And as for the wench turning out to be a maid—how in hell was I to know? She played the tease very well, and there was talk of a lover. Curse your long face, anyhow, and her, too! Do you think I’ve a taste for virgins? If I had not been drunk, and in a bad mood into the bargain…”
“They want her downstairs. You heard them. And the poor wee creature still in a faint, or maybe bleeding to death from the way you used her. It’s wondering, I am, what you intend to do now. And I might add—”
The harsh voice of the younger man turned into a snarl. “Spare me, Donald! I’m in no mood to listen to more! I’ll leave it to your ingenuity to get rid of the gypsy wench. You can take her back to their encampment outside Seville and give her as much money as you think it would take to soothe her wounded sensibilities. The stupid slut! All she had to do was to tell me she hadn’t been with a man before, and I’d have let her run away. But she seemed anxious to find the kind of fate she met with. Well—get her away. I’ll tell my friends she escaped out of the window. And mind you—” still adjusting his hastily tied cravat, the captain paused to let his grey eyes bore into his manservant’s doleful brown ones “—I expect to see you aboard ship and ready to sail when I reach Cadiz three days from now. Better not let those damned gypsies spirit you away—or let her lead you into a clever little ambush!”
The voices and harsh sounds of arguing had roused Marisa out of an uneasy doze, but she was afraid to open her eyes until she heard the door slam behind him. Then, cautiously, she peeked from behind her long eyelashes, trying not to blink at the harsh sunlight that filtered through. She was lying in an enormous canopied bed, the curtains drawn back far enough to let her catch a glimpse of a large and luxuriously furnished room, its walls hung with tapestries and paintings that made her want to blush. There was a fireplace in one corner; coals still smoldered hotly in spite of the heat of the day. Beyond the widely opened windows she caught a glimpse of a stone terrace and a fountain that cast a shower of silvery droplets into the sunlit air.
She stirred uneasily, suddenly becoming aware of her nakedness under a thin sheet that felt like silk against her tingling flesh. And with that first tentative movement all the horrifying memories she had been trying to hold away rushed back. She sat up abruptly, gave a smothered gasp, and then snatched the sheet up to cover her naked breasts as the man who had been standing in the middle of the room turned to gaze at her with a worried, frowning look.
He spoke English, but with a strange, burring accent that made his words difficult to understand.
“So you’re awake, puir lassie! Now, now, there’s no need to look at me like that, I’m not out to harm you, you know. And if I’d had a true understanding of how it was, I’d not have permitted what took place. But I suppose ye don’t even understand what I’m saying, poor child, do you?”
The kind, even pitying, note in his voice, coupled with what she had overheard earlier, made Marisa want to trust him, this stocky man with short-cropped reddish-grey hair, and brown eyes that reminded her of a spaniel’s.
Mother Angelina had personally seen to her education—and the reverend mother had, at one time, been a noblewoman. “You have to know of the world, my dear child, before you can truly renounce it,” she had told Marisa, so the young woman’s knowledge of languages included English and German, as well as Spanish, Italian, and French.
She began to talk haltingly in English to this man with the kind eyes. While she was talking, she felt something hardening inside her, just like the little boy in a fairy story whose heart had turned to ice. Why, a few days before she would have been terrified at the sight of her own blood sticking to her thighs and staining these fine sheets. But last night had taught her something: she had survived the very fate she had been running away from, and she had learned to hate—both at the same time, it seemed.
Donald McGuire made clicking noises with his tongue and shook his head. Yes, he at least was sympathetic. He sounded almost like a father as he turned his head away after pointing to a door which disclosed a luxurious bathroom, the first that Marisa had ever seen.
“It’s a heathenish invention,” he warned in a grumbling voice. “Sunken tub made out of marble—just like the old Romans used to have, the captain says. But there. Ye’ll want to soak your poor bruised body in hot water, and there’s plenty of that, at least. Warmed by the sun in a cistern on the roof so they tell me. And while you’re in there, I’ll see what I can do about finding you some garments to cover yourself with. Don’t you worry now, little girl. You won’t be molested again—I’ll see to that meself.”
Once the door had closed behind him, Marisa cast aside the sheet with which she had covered herself and gazed curiously about her, managing, for a few moments at least, to forget her unpleasant predicament. She was in a blue-tiled, Moorish-style room, which was lit from above by a skylight set in the roof. Varying shades of tile, ranging from deep blue to turquoise, gave the impression that she was underwater. Steps led down into the sunken bath that Donald had talked of, and there was the golden pump-handle he had described, which would bring heated water pouring into the tub. All the appointments were made of gold, and in shelves set into the wall there were crystal bottles, stoppered with gold, which held an assortment of oils and perfumes. A wet towel, flung carelessly to one side gave mute evidence that someone else had used this chamber a short time before. Had it been Donald’s mysterious captain—the same man who had captured her last night and had, just as heartlessly, deprived her of her virtue this morning?
She remembered his irritable, brutal words before he had left. Her face flushed, and her whole body became hot with humiliation and anger. How lightly he took what he had done! He had actually blamed her for everything—and now he was only anxious to be rid of her.
Marisa became conscious for the first time of the gold-streaked mirrors that reflected her body from all angles. Averting her eyes, she began frantically to pump the gold lever and watched the streaming water gushing into the bath. As it filled, she wondered with a kind of detachment whether she would have the courage to drown herself. That was what she should do—she did not want to go back to the gypsies, to face Blanca’s knowing, malicious grin or Mario’s jealous rage. And now she could not possibly go back to the convent. No, she was cut off from everything and everyone familiar, and all because of her own foolishness.