Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary RogersЧитать онлайн книгу.
decided on discretion instead of valor and fled, hearing the door kicked shut behind him.
Marisa could hear her own heart thudding, and the next moment the covers were yanked off her curled-up body, and, crying in pain, she found herself dragged upright by her hair.
“What the hell do you think you’re hiding from? And just a moment ago, you were so brave!”
In spite of the tears that sprang to her eyes she noticed with relief that he had pulled on a pair of closely fitting breeches, with a wide belt that snugged his flat stomach.
“Here. You might as well put this on.” A ruffled linen shirt hit her in the face. “I’ll have some answers to my questions now,” Captain Challenger’s voice continued harshly.
She blushed all over under the cold scrutiny of his eyes as she forced herself to pull on the garment he had thrown at her; but for once he seemed not so much interested in the sight of her body as in studying her face.
“I’ve told you everything—”
“Only that you’re not a gypsy and not a whore. You’ll excuse me if I reserve judgment on the last! But I must admit it’s not usual to come across a gypsy wench who speaks Castilian Spanish and English as well! Who are you?”
Marisa tried not to shrink under his look, gathering her confused, scattered thoughts together. She told him the same story she had told Donald—which was not too far from the whole truth, after all!
“My father was Spanish and my mother French. They put me in a school and forgot about me. And when I learned that they were both—gone—I ran off with the gypsies, Blanca told me they would take me to France. My mother’s sister used to live there—”
“Where?”
“In Paris. She married, and I don’t remember her last name, but she used to enjoy going to the theater, and I know that if I saw her again I would recognize her. And I’d heard that Paris is gay, and all the ladies wear pretty clothes, and I had no one in Spain—”
“I see.” His voice had become dry. “So you thought you’d sell your virginity to the highest bidder—or maybe your gypsy friends had such a plan. A pity I had to arrive on the scene and spoil everything! But then, you should not have been running off alone on a dark night unless you were hoping that young man would come after you!” His tone turned harsh. “All women are whores at heart, and for all your look of childish innocence, I’m sure you’re no different. It’s a pity you went so far as to cut off your hair. It was quite pretty as I recall.”
“I don’t care what you think about me, I could never become a whore. I’d rather be dead!”
“Spare me your theatrics, wench!” he sneered. “Once you’ve filled out a little and let your hair grow back, you might be passable—and in a better position to bargain. For now, like it or not, you’ve thrown yourself on my hands, and as little as I like it I suppose I’m stuck with you until we reach France. You could cause trouble, if the crew knew there was a female on board. I’d hate to have to hand you over to them to keep them mollified! So—” he rose, stretching “—if you know what’s good for you you’ll keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told. Who knows? You might learn a few things to prepare you for your future profession in case you don’t happen to run into this pleasure-loving aunt of yours!”
He seemed to have accepted her story, at least; but obviously her defiance had put him in a black mood again, prompting him to insult and vilify her.
When he left the cabin, he locked the door behind him, and Marisa found herself a prisoner. She did not know what passed between Donald and his captain, but when the Scotsman brought her food and dry clothing he seemed ill at ease and almost afraid to talk to her, except to warn her not to cross the captain when he was in a temper. He shook his head and murmured “Puir lassie—puir little creature,” until she thought she would go mad and was almost glad when he left her alone with her thoughts.
The rest of the voyage lasted five days, with the weather perfect, but during that time Marisa was never permitted to leave the cabin. She was more than just a prisoner—she was the helpless, unwilling captive of a pirate captain who treated her like a prize of war.
When she refused to undress for him he took her clothes away and kept her naked. When she attempted to claw at him he tied her wrists to the bedposts. Once, she tried to brain him with the heavy, double-branched candelabra that stood on his desk; he snatched it easily out of her grasp and turned her, squirming and whimpering, over his knee smacking her bare rump until all her pride and defiance left her and she screamed for mercy.
After that, she was tame—in a fashion. When he felt inclined to take her she submitted limply, without showing any reaction, keeping her eyes tightly closed and her teeth clenched against his kisses. And in this way, by her very passivity, she defeated him and gained her own small victory when, swearing, he rolled off her body.
She resisted him by not resisting, and Dominic found himself staying away from his own cabin, scowling and watching the cloudless blue skies while his crew kept their distance, eying him and shaking their heads. Even Donald had nothing to say out loud, although his reproachful eyes spoke volumes. Mr. Benson muttered under his breath and quoted passages from the Bible. ‘Damn her!’ Dominic mused. A cold, unresponsive child-woman—he must have been out of his mind or blind drunk to have felt himself attracted by her in the first place.
If he’d had any sense he would have allowed her to continue her masquerade as a cabin boy, made her work until she dropped from weariness, and let her bunk with Mr. Benson and listen to his Bible-reading all night. That would have taught her a lesson!
She was the first woman he’d had to rape—and she’d been a virgin. She had seemed acquiescent enough, curse her! And then she’d turned up again, after he’d put her out of his mind as an unpleasant memory. What a bedraggled little scarecrow she’d looked that first night when he’d discovered her stumbling across the deck, all wet and sticky with salt water. But since then he’d made her wash her hair, and, although it was still far too short, it had begun to curl in ringlets all over her head in a style that ladies of fashion were beginning to emulate all over Europe. She was a mixture of defiance and surrender, naivete and cynicism. And someone, somewhere, had given her an education, so that she spoke like a lady. No doubt that would prove useful to her later, when they got to France. She was hardly inexperienced any longer—he had seen to that; and with the right clothes she should have no difficulty finding herself a rich lover—or more than one. The best whores were women who didn’t permit themselves to feel….
And he must be out of his mind to wonder what her future might be once he was rid of her. He had never given any woman a second thought, nor exerted himself to conquer one, since Lizette. Lovely, false Lizette, who had betrayed not only him but also his friends to the cursed British one long-ago night in Ireland.
“I’ll be glad when we sail into Nantes harbor,” Donald McGuire muttered from the side of his mouth to the long-faced Isaac Benson. “Captain’s not been hisself since—”
He did not have to complete his sentence. Mr. Benson, who had thought the same, merely grunted.
“Women!” he said succinctly. Then hastily drew himself up and began bellowing unnecessary orders as their captain strode by, his face like a thundercloud.
“He’ll be wanting his dinner, I don’t doubt,” Donald muttered hastily. “I’d best see to it, or he’ll be in a worse mood than this.”
When the cabin door banged open, Marisa was sitting up in his chair, reading a battered volume of Shakespeare he’d picked up somewhere on one of his voyages. Fascinated, she hardly looked up, and her voice held more animation than he’d heard in it for a long time.
“I had no idea you would be interested in reading. And you know, I wasn’t allowed to read anything but religious literature—or geography, which I hated!”
“Get up!”
She looked up then, sighed, and rose obediently to her feet,