Captive Innocence (4 page)

Royall was still unsure, her own guilt riding her shoulders like a devil imp. He was a doctor. After all, he must know what he was talking about, and Mrs. Quince did look peaceful. “Very well, doctor, I think I will take your advice and do as you suggest. Thank you for taking such good and prompt care of my ... of my friend.”

“My reward will be that you enjoy yourself. That's what Mardi Gras is all about. I've had my day of revelry, as has the lady inside. It's your turn this year. Enjoy yourself, and store away your memories of this season.”

Royall stared at the man. His face was bony, almost craggy, and his eyes were too deep set, as though he didn't get enough sleep. It was hard to believe that he had ever participated in Mardi Gras, or that he was ever young, for that matter. A pity, she thought. Now all he had was his memories. But he was right: revelry was for the young, and she was young. She deserved this brief respite from the pressures of her marriage and her sudden bereavement. A new land, new people to contend with, the plantation in the middle of the jungle, would soon enough occupy her mind and thoughts for the rest of her life. This was her day, doctor's orders, and she was going to enjoy it to the fullest. After all, Manaus was thousands of miles away and she was here. She nodded her head in the doctor's direction and then entered her own cabin.

Royall's cabin looked as though a disaster had struck by the time she decided she was ready to leave the confining quarters. Ribbons, shoes of all colors and shapes, along with a multitude of petticoats, were draped everywhere. Bangles and beads sparkled from a half-open chest on the bunk, winking and blinking in the filtered sunlight that came in through the porthole window. She was ready. At the moment she would have cheerfully parted with one of her back teeth to have a long looking glass. She knew she looked ravishing in the sapphire silk with the low-cut bodice. Perhaps
ravishing
was the wrong word;
daring
was more like it. Daring and regal. It was the sapphire necklace MacDavis had given her on their wedding day that lent queenly bearing. And the matching gems that dangled from her tiny earlobes. Her golden hair piled high on her head emphasized her long, graceful neck and accentuated the deep, revealing cut of her bodice.

Her mask was clutched tightly in her hand as she made her way down the dim corridor to the outer deck. She would put it on when she reached the street where the parade was to begin. The captain had made it clear that the sailing time of one hour after dawn was firm, and passengers who were not aboard would be left behind. All new passengers would board at the same time, providing their baggage and passage had been cleared beforehand.

Admiring looks and low-voiced murmurs greeted her as she made her way down the rickety wooden gangplank. A heavy sigh of relief escaped her as she picked her way through trash and debris that seemed to litter every wharf in the world. Casually, from time to time, she looked over her shoulder as she made her way to Odelony Street, where the parade was to start. Just the day before she had paid close attention as she and Mrs. Quince had taken their stroll. Remembered landmarks greeted her, making her feel confident that she knew exactly where she was going. The music seemed to be get ting louder and louder. She must be close to Odelony Street. She stopped a moment to affix her mask, being careful that the tiny wires were securely fastened beneath her curls. She was ready.

Her heart thumped wildly as she was pushed and jostled by the masked participants of the parade. A peal of laughter to her left made her smile. A young woman dressed as a shepherdess was busy poking her feathered staff into a harlequin's ribs. From all appearances the harlequin was enjoying himself. He picked up the girl and whirled her through the air, her ruffled pantaloons showing for all the world to see. Crimson devils with long, swishing tails trailed behind their black-clad counterparts. Pitchforks waved in the air with gay abandonment. All manner of members of royalty were represented, with colorful brocade and satin. Crowns perched precariously on the revelers' heads were objects of much laughter. Royall edged her way between two devils and patiently waited for her turn to move up to the beginning formations.

Mandolins strummed continuously, making Royall's pulses throb with excitement. As she advanced a step, she became aware of the man standing beside her. Her breath caught in her throat. A buccaneer was staring down into her eyes. Without a doubt, even in his half mask, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was tall, towering over the other contestants by a good head. Raven black hair fell low over a sharply defined brow. His teeth, when he smiled, were as white as the shirt he wore, open to the waist, revealing a massive, sun-bronzed chest. Tight, black trousers and rich, gleaming, leather boots finished him off to perfection. Again, Royall's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes fell to the man's hands. Strong hands with short clipped nails that were clean and well-manicured. Hands, she knew, that could caress a woman with sensitivity; hands that knew work and had worked. Strong, capable hands. She swallowed hard as she saw the amused look in the man's eyes. What must he think of her staring at him like this? God almighty, he probably thought she was bold or, worse yet, a lady of the evening. Well, this was midday with the sun shining brightly. Evening was a long way off.

“Allow me,” said a deep voice beside her. It was the buccaneer. “We both seem to be without a partner, and everyone must have a partner.” He gallantly cupped her elbow in the palm of his hand, escorting her to a place in line. A man with an orange wig and dressed as a court jester handed them each a numbered card, which they hung around their necks.

Nervously, Royall glanced about her, and she could feel the buccaneer's insolent gaze upon her. He'd spoken in Portuguese; Royall wanted to say something to relieve the tension, but she knew her Portuguese was stiff and hesitantly awkward. A feeling of dismay settled itself between her shoulder blades. This was foolhardy. She knew nothing about this man who was pressing closer to her, except that his dark eyes flashed when he smiled and his touch made her tingle. Turning back toward her, he smiled again, tilting his magnificent dark head to the side.

“Even behind the mask it is evident you are a beautiful woman.” His words were soft, his tone hushed; unexpectedly, shock waves quivered up and down Royall's spine.

Even after she cleared her throat, her voice was something akin to a squeak. “Thank you. You're rather dashing yourself.” Gaining confidence with her words, she continued, “You seem to be the only buccaneer among kings and princes.” She suddenly realized she had spoken in English and hadn't expected him to understand. His eyes widened momentarily and then he threw back his head and laughed, a deep, melodious sound.

“Tell me, beautiful lady,” he answered in her own language, “do you see anyone but myself who would dare to wear this costume?”

“Certainly none with your arrogance. You chose wisely. I suppose you had childhood dreams of riding the seas to pillage and plunder the Spanish galleons.”

“Of course,” he agreed, leaning closer, bending to place his lips near her ear. “But now that I'm a man, Spanish galleons hold little allure. Beautiful women are my targets now.”

Something in his voice, perhaps the bold expression in his eyes, made Royall's breath catch in her throat. She stepped backward and felt his hand close over her arm.

“Did you have fantasies of being a queen or perhaps a fairy princess? If so, you have outdone yourself for the role.”

“Of course, every girl sees herself wearing a crown and long, flowing gowns of silk and ermine. Alas, you see, I am but a handmaiden,” she quipped, offering a deep curtsy.

The buccaneer moved a step away, his piercing, jet black eyes holding hers. “You would never be a handmaiden. Only a queen would do. There is a certain bearing ...” He stopped in midsentence and then continued his close scrutiny. “Yes, it is there ... a royal bearing.”

Royall burst out laughing, continuing with the charade. “Tell me, kind sir, are you spelling royal with one L or two?” Her tone was mocking, matching his own for insolence.

The buccaneer scowled, giving him a dark, forbidding look. His tone, however, was light when he spoke, “As every school child knows, with one L.”

A river of alarm swept through Royall. She had gone too far, as his dark look was telling her. This man did not like insolent women who could turn his own game onto him. This was no fop who could be twirled around a woman's finger. This buccaneer was a man with no trace of the boy left in him. The thought excited her yet frightened her. She raised her head slightly, tilting her chin, putting her gaze on a level with his. “You shouldn't scowl so. It makes you appear ferocious.”

His lips tightened into a thin line. He didn't care for women who teased and mocked. It was not something women usually practiced on him, and he didn't like those who enjoyed themselves at his own expense. The thought infuriated him. Through slitted eyes he watched her as they gradually moved with the crowds of revelers for their place at the start of the parade. He wished he could see behind the mask she was wearing, and was tempted to snatch it from her face. That she was lovely, there was no doubt. He looked down at her hand that was placed so casually on his arm. The skin was white, delicate, and the nails long and perfectly shaped. This was not a hand used to labor. Her golden hair shone with silver highlights, and the jewels in her ears were remarkably good reproductions of the real thing. Even her gown, pure silk, light and rustling, told him something about her. Again, his ebony eyes narrowed. She wasn't the ordinary
dama de noche.
There was a certain quality about her, but he couldn't quite place it. She made a wonderful masquerade of being well placed and well bred. Her voice was soft, naturally so, and her mouth, made for kissing, pouted prettily, invitingly. Behind the mask he could see that her eyes were amber, flecked with gold, with long, velvety lashes remarkably black for a woman with hair so light.

Boldly, his speculative glance settled on her deep cleavage, revealing full, round breasts that invited a man's hands or lips. He was eager to touch them, to experience their softness. It never occurred to -him that she might not be willing to bestow her favors on him. When he wanted a woman, she was his for the taking. This one, with her bold, insolent tongue, would be no different. By midnight he would have her in his bed in his townhouse or his name wasn't Sebastian Rivera. A night of full, rich pleasure before he boarded the steamer that would take him to Belém and then on to his plantation near Manaus.

Royall could feel the buccaneer's eyes devouring her, and she became totally aware of him as she walked beside him, oblivious to the noise and music surrounding her. She could imagine what he was thinking: that she was a lonely, unattached woman eager for a night of revelry. A slow flush crept up her neck and stained her cheeks. No doubt he was contemplating how and where he could get her alone, take advantage of her. The look in his eyes promised more than just a daring kiss in the bushes. This man would demand much, much more. The flush was burning her cheeks, spreading to her throat; she could feel the heat in her breasts. Dread lowered like a pall; she should have stayed with Mrs. Quince; she wasn't so certain that she could handle this dangerously dark man whose choice of costume hinted at his reckless nature.

A sense of panic gripped Royall, blinding her to the bright, colorful costumes, muting the blaring trumpets and strumming music until it became one note, high and shrill, reverberating in her ears, rushing through her veins. The ground seemed to be coming up to meet her when strong arms gathered her close, holding her, steadying her. Swallowing hard, she gently extricated herself from his embrace. She was trembling, knew the buccaneer was aware of it. Her body felt scorched where his hands had touched her.

Ripe.
That was the word that came to Sebastian's mind.
Ready
was another. And he was just the man to turn opportunity his way. Yet, there was something about this woman that told him she was not a garden variety streetwalker. There was an air of fine breeding about her. Nor would a whore become so shaken and quake or tremble just because he had had his arms around her. Where did she come from? Who was she? A woman too long starved for love, he told himself, hungry for the pleasures of bed. She moved like a sleek, jungle cat, waiting, watching.... Moisture beaded on his brow. He had known more than one jungle cat who would kill a man for intruding into her domain. Cats were graceful and wild, ferocious in their stalk of prey. The jet black eyes took on a speculative look as he watched her. He would never become a woman's prey, never be devoured. He was his own man and always would be. Yet, it would be amusing to see how close he could get to those claws without getting scratched. After all, he had lived in the jungles and he knew a trick or two himself. Males were dominant; they always won. Still, he found himself thinking that he should never turn his back on this hungry creature beside him.

Evenings in Brazil descended with suddenness, the sun dipping low over distant hills, not to rise again until the following day. This evening was no different, but Royall was having such a wonderful, exciting time that she failed to notice the darkness until lanterns in windows were lit and blazing torches lined the streets.

She had supposed that once the parade was over the buccaneer would gallantly take his leave of her, but that was not the case. Instead, he had led her through the narrow, winding streets of the seaport city, following one gay party after another. There was always another delicacy to be tasted, another wine to be sipped.

Streets and byways were filled with people, most of them natives, dressed in wild colors and garish headdresses. Some of them had even painted their bodies and faces in pagan ritual. Musicians seemed to be on every street corner, beating drums and playing flutes, creating strange melodies that stirred the blood and dulled the senses. Any fears she had entertained concerning the buccaneer were abated, replaced with an easy camaraderie they both enjoyed. He graciously pointed out unusual sights, told her of the myths and legends behind some of the songs and dances, and patiently explained the traditions of Mardi Gras.

It was with some alarm that Royall noticed that their path had led them to a distant part of the city where there were no shops and only occasional pubs. It was difficult to find a white face among the hordes of people, save for her own and the buccaneer's, but the wine she had consumed was too heady, quelling her fears.

“Soon it will be midnight,” her buccaneer told her, his mouth close to her ear to be heard over the din. “All celebration will cease; everything will be quiet, marking the onset of Lent. Come with me, I know a place where we can have a late dinner. You must be hungry.”

Royall nodded, agreeing, averting her gaze from him. She should go back to the ship, back to the protection of her cabin, away from this handsome rogue whose eyes told her he too was hungry, but for something else besides food. As the night had worn on, she had become increasingly aware of his hand on her arm, of his arms around her waist as he had led her through a dance ... aware of the man himself, of his height, his warm, deep voice. But mostly, aware of his eyes always on her, searching her face behind the mask, dipping lower to where fair skin was revealed by her gown's wide-cut bodice. She should go back to the ship, but some inner urge, some drive and need of her own, compelled her to agree, to go with him, to follow her adventure through to the end.

Like two children, they ran through the streets, dodging people, scurrying through alleyways and shortcuts that would take them to where he was leading. The buccaneer was obviously familiar with the city, just as he was familiar with the language and even the native dialects. Either he was a seaman who visited Rio often, or he himself was a native of the city. When he spoke English, there was an accent in his voice, making it slightly exotic and pleasant to her ears.

Royall was breathless by the time he stopped, pulling her into a doorway and into his arms. She could feel his breath upon her cheek as he looked down at her.

“Do you know how beautiful you are? It's almost midnight, time for unmasking.”

Before she could protest, he held her captive with one hand and with the other removed her mask. “I knew you were beautiful, and you are.” Slowly, deliberately, his mouth closed over hers, his hands cupping her face, fingers tracing gentle patterns where their lips met.

Setting her away from him, he removed his own mask with a brush of his hand. He laughed, showing perfect, gleaming white teeth. His face was square, his features chiseled, his laughing mouth sensual. There was a slightly exotic tilt to the corners of his dark, heavily lashed eyes which were margined by thick, unruly brows. “And what had you expected, lovely, a devil behind the mask?”

Royall laughed, throwing her head back, revealing the slim, long column of her neck. “A devil is a devil, mask or no. And you, sir, kiss like the devil himself.”

“And where did you come by this knowledge?” he challenged. “Or would that be revealing professional secrets?”

She felt her face flame, feeling as though it could light the darkness like a candle. He had practically accused her of being a streetwalker—a prostitute! Lowering her head in shame, she thought, what else
should
he think? Proper ladies did not attend celebrations like Mardi Gras alone and unescorted. Nor did they accept the company of a stranger and spend the entire day with him, drinking and eating and allowing his eyes to devour her. And proper ladies didn't thrill to that excitement they found in those stranger's eyes.

As soon as he had spoken the words, Sebastian could have cursed himself. He wasn't ordinarily the kind of man who reminded a woman, even if she was of dubious character, that her morals were less than acceptable. He wanted to apologize, say he was sorry, take back the words. She was insulted, as well she should be, and it showed by the way she lowered her head, hiding her face. This golden lioness was a sensitive woman, and he was a dolt.

Royall was at a loss for words. She
should
hate him, protest that she was indeed a respectable woman who was only seeking a small adventure, a lark, an afternoon of gaiety. But she found she couldn't hate him unreasonably, not after seeing his almost instant remorse. Besides, what did it matter who he thought she
really
was? This was someone who didn't even know her name, would never know it. Someone she would never see again in her lifetime. And it was exactly what she wanted. To deny it would be to lie to herself. To be truthful, she had even contemplated drugging Mrs. Quince to obtain these few hours of anonymity and freedom. Even before leaving the ship she had secretly hoped she would meet someone exactly like the buccaneer, someone who would find her attractive and whose eyes would tell her that he wanted to make love to her.

His arms reached out for her, bringing her close to him. No words were spoken; none were necessary. Gently, she felt his lips in her hair, on her cheek, in silent apology. Whoever this buccaneer was, he was no clod, no rakehell, riding roughshod over a woman's feelings. In fact, his behavior all day had been exemplary and above reproach. A gentleman. Something she had never expected from a rough seaman.

Tenderly, his fingers lifted her chin, raising her lips to his own. His arms tightened about her, pressing her closer to his chest, crushing her breasts against him. His body was hard and muscular. Royall's arms encircled his back. Without reason or logic, she felt safe and secure in his embrace, and she faced her tumultuous emotions with directness and truth. She wanted this man. Wanted him to make her the woman she knew she could be—the woman her husband had never known existed.

Looking into his eyes without a trace of coquettishness, she was aware that she could drown in that incredibly dark gaze and emerge again as the woman she wanted and needed to become.

Seeing her moist lips part and offer themselves to him, he lowered his mouth to hers, touching her lips, tasting their sweetness, drawing from them a kiss gentle, yet passionate. He robbed her of her senses, and searing flames licked her body, the pulsating beat of her heart thundered in her ears.

When he released her, his jet eyes searched hers for an instant, and time became eternal for Royall. From somewhere deep within her a desire to stay forever in his arms, to feel the touch of his mouth upon hers, began to build to crescendo, threatening to erupt like fireworks. Thick, dark lashes closed over her sparkling golden eyes, and she heard her own breath come in ragged little gasps as she boldly brought her mouth once more to his, offering herself, kissing him deeply, searchingly, searing this moment upon her memory.

She kissed him as she had never kissed another man—a kiss that made her knees weak and her head dizzy. She knew, in that endless moment, that this man, this buccaneer, belonged to her in a way no other man could ever belong to her, for however brief this time together would be. She had found him: a man who could make her senses reel, her passions explode, who could promise the fulfillment she had only dreamed could be hers.

The buccaneer's gentle fingers caressed her cheek softly and seemed to know what she was feeling. “There are needs of the soul that go beyond the hungers of the body, little cat.” His voice was deep, husky, little more than a whisper. “Will you come with me and be mine, if only for the night? Only you, my cat, can make it a night for all eternity.”

His answer was in her kiss, in the sweet pressure of her body. His hand cupped her throat, feeling the abandoned rhythm of her pulse, sending a scorching streak of fire through her, and she knew that this night was decreed by the fates that had sent him to her. He took her hand in his and led her from the doorway out into the streets that were quieter now. Only scattered little bands of people were still singing and dancing; the sounds they made seemed to come from so far away. Her senses were filled with him, and while they walked they were silent, each feeling the presence of the other and the effect this nearness had on their rioting emotions.

She had no idea where he was taking her, didn't care. She knew that tonight she would go to the ends of the earth with this man whose lips worshipped her own and whose hands were gentle, so gentle.

As he measured his steps with hers, he found himself studying her profile and appreciating the finely molded nose that was only slightly upturned, and in perfect balance with her high, intelligent brow. Her golden wealth of hair was piled atop her head, giving her added height, but he saw that she was a petite woman, just barely grazing his shoulder, and he knew that beneath her voluminous skirts he would find that she was perfectly proportioned, full and womanly, neither too plump nor too thin. Her proud breasts strained against the bodice of her gown and promised to be round and high, fitting nicely into the palm of a man's hand. He found he was eager to take the pins from her hair, to see it flowing down her back, to run his hands through the strands of luminous gold. But it was to her mouth that his eyes always returned, full, ripe, mobile. A mouth that clung in a kiss, a mouth made for kissing; the touch of it upon his was soft and cool, and he knew he could lose himself in that tempting confection.

Royall walked beside him, knowing he was looking at her, appraising her, liking what he saw. And she bloomed beneath his gaze, held herself proudly and erect. With this man there would be no pretending, no false modesty; she knew he would not allow it.

Unlike MacDavis with his still Puritan morals, this man would expect her to yield to her passions, demand that she delight in the pleasure he gave her. She knew that this night would not end with her wanting and needing something that had no name, something that could leave her crying with frustration and loneliness.

The buccaneer's pace slowed, and he led her into a dimly lit hostelry that she guessed was patronized by travelers. Beyond the anteroom she could hear the muffled sounds of drinking and eating and the melodious strumming of a guitar. Before the innkeeper could greet them and survey them with a curious eye, the buccaneer turned and replaced the mask that he had removed from her face an eternity ago in the darkened doorway. She fumbled with the side wires, attaching it firmly to her hair, grateful for the return to anonymity.

The next few moments passed like a blur. She was vaguely aware of the innkeeper's curious glances and of the buccaneer's quiet authority that tolerated no questions. In every way he was protective of her, his very demeanor forbidding any casual, offhanded remarks the innkeeper might have been prompted to make.

Securing the key to a room above, the buccaneer led her up the stairs, keeping a steady hand on her elbow, shielding her from the prying glances of anyone passing through the anteroom.

Behind the closed door of their rented room, he took her in his arms, hungry for the touch of her, the feel of her. Hidden from curious eyes, his lips claimed hers and worlds collided.

His mouth became a part of her own, and she heard her heart beat in wild and rapid rhythms. They strained toward each other, imprisoned by the designs of yearning, caught in an embrace that ascended the obstacles of the flesh and strove to join breath and blood, body and spirit.

Forcing a restraint, he led her over to the bed, sitting her down and removing her shoes. Quick and capable fingers reached beneath her gown, pulling at her garters, slipping the silky stocking down her smooth legs and off her feet. She allowed him to unbutton the back of her gown, helped him remove it from her shoulders, and stepped out of it, glad to be free of its confines and thrilled to expose more of her flesh to his touch. Petticoats and chemise followed, along with restricting stays and undergarments. And each item of clothing he took from her he replaced with a kiss, a long, teasing kiss, on parts of her body that had never known a man's hands, much less his lips.

Gently, in the darkened room, he lay her back against the pillows, leaning over her, nuzzling her neck, inhaling the heady fragrance that was hers alone. Blazing a hot trail from her throat, his lips covered her unguarded breast, and she shivered with exquisite anticipation. She became unaware of her surroundings, oblivious to time or place; she only knew that her body was reacting to this man, pleasure radiating outward from some hidden depths within herself. She allowed herself to be transported by it, incapable of stopping the forward thrust of her desires, spinning out of time and space into the soft consuming vapors of her sensuality.

Her emotions careened and clashed, grew confused and wild, her perceptions thrumming and beating wherever he touched her. And when he moved away from her, leaving her, she felt alone, bereft and grieving. When he returned, she was whole again, wanting and needing, wanting to be needed. He had stripped his clothes; the feverish heat of his skin seemed to singe her fingers as she traced inquisitive patterns over his arms and back and down over his sleek muscular haunches.