The Price of Hannah Blake (29 page)

“I’m starving, Maria.”

“I can tell them you must eat to be ready, to look your best. They don’t care.” Maria bent toward Hannah, lowering her voice. “But, Hannah, it will very bad. You are not to be returned to the troupe; what happens to you no longer matters to them. It is not that the duke cannot do whatever he fancies, with members of the troupe, but usually he has limits. But with you…”

Hannah felt ice in her belly and something in her chest seemed to cave in, crushing her heart; it was hard to breathe. She whispered, “Maria, jut cover me again, a little while?” Tied, naked, she felt helpless, now, already. Maria raised the sheet and draped it over her.

“I am afraid, so afraid, for you,” said Maria in a low voice, bending close again. “I prayed to die, when they had me. I screamed and pleaded with them only to end it. I became nothing, hanging there. No pride, no hope except to die. It will be the same for you. You will feel what you cannot bear but cannot escape.”

She straightened up and slipped a hand inside her clothes. She drew out a cord with a loop at both ends. She held it up, stretched between her strong hands, and looked down at Hannah. “Do you want this, now?”

Hannah frowned up, bewildered. “What is it.”

“It will be quick. It will not hurt much and you will have escaped them.” It was a garrote.

Realizing, Hannah said, “No! No! Don’t do that!”

Maria was silent for a long moment, and then said, sadly, voice soft, “Think, Hannah! Think not of now, but later. And after.”

Hannah was shaking her head. And then, with a thought, said, “If you did they would kill you. They would do to you what they would have done to me.”

Maria shook her head. “I would have enough time before they found you.” Hannah was staring up. Maria said, “There is no more for me, here.” She shook her head. “I thought that there was—some life, the students, what I could do for them. But you are the bravest. A young woman like you, to struggle for love, here...” She nodded, “Yes, I know. I have seen, guessed.

“And then to dare the sea at night, the cold, a lonely and awful death, and to fight. And now you are here, still strong. And to you we will do our worst, the very worst. No, there is nothing for me.”

She held Hannah’s gaze. “We have to be quick. Decide—and be sure.”

Hannah shook her head. “No. Can I get breakfast,’ Maria?”

Maria lowered her gaze, sighed; she slipped the garrote beneath her clothes. “Yes,” she said. “I will untie you. I have clothes for you. But don’t try to escape. This building is locked and guarded.” She stepped behind Hannah and Hannah felt the knots on her wrists being tugged. Behind her, Maria murmured. “Tonight. I will kneel beside my bed. All night. I will not sleep. I will pray for you, Hannah.”

Hannah had not imagined such rooms existed, not anywhere. She had read of castles and palaces of sultans, daydreamed what they must be like. Rooms bigger than the pub’s great room, or maybe the church, with gold everywhere, walls glittering, shooting rays of light everywhere—but then the details became fuzzy.

But this room! Yes, gold—the doorknobs, wash basin, chandelier, lamps, even part of the bed frame. But the long walls were scarlet and of a texture so sensuous that in the soft lighting the whole room seemed some embracing royal cloak around her. On the floor was a carpet larger than seemed possible, all in yellows, blues, blacks that were intense—scenes of horsemen, women in gowns, buildings that seemed made of gold and inlaid with rubies. She could look at this room, its vast four-poster bed, its chairs and tables and bureaus for a week and not notice everything.

No, she could not keep herself from looking, even as the long, shuddering quivers of fear ran from her belly and up her stretched torso to leave the sick feeling inside her chest—could not but look although her eyes kept darting in panic to the closed door. She, too, was an ornament of this room. She hung by her arms from a bar, attached, in turn, to ropes that ran to hooks in the great ceiling beams. Her toes, only her bent toes, reached the glorious carpet and took a little of her weight. With her arms apart, pulled toward either end of the three-foot bar, the strain hit her shoulders. The skin of over her ribs was made taut by the weight and the skin of her armpits and underarms were stretched and pale in the room’s light.

It was Maria, no longer speaking, who had dressed Hannah in the black brassiere, lacy and slight, that lifted her breasts and pushed them together. Around her loins was something like underwear, but preposterously tiny, of black satin and lacy. Her belly was stretched so long that the patch of shiny black did not even cover her whole bush. In some other place, other time, Hannah would have gazed at herself in a mirror, fascinated such things existed. Paris! But she thought only that families in her village dressed their dead in their best clothes, however shabby, to meet their God.

Then, she almost cried out, biting her lip, because the door began to open. She hung, staring, as though at the mouth of a black cave from which might step a beast. But it was little Miranda, followed by a guard. Like all of them, Miranda had changed; she entered and her eyes went to Hannah. Her chest rose in a sudden gasp, but she did not cry out, bend over as though punched. Her head remained up, her eyes moved from Hannah around the room.

Miranda was not tied. She was dressed as someone’s vision of a gypsy girl, a bright blue fabric wrapped around her big hips into a skirt and pinned at her waist, and a dazzlingly white sash tied around her huge breasts, which bulged over the top. Her dark skin seemed to have been oiled, so her bare midriff glistened, the deep naval a black eye. Her hair, so dark it was blue-black, had grown longer; it flowed over her shoulders and down her back, with white highlights like tiny diamonds that glittered as she moved. Hannah stared in disbelief.

“Sit,” said the guard, indicating a low chair whose huge seat was upholstered in a cream-colored fabric. Miranda lowered herself into the seat with a studied grace Hannah had not seen before; she immediately crossed her ankles. Hannah noticed that on her feet seemed to be soft slippers of light blue. “Do not move,” said the guard. “It does not matter how long you must wait. Do not move.”

Miranda looked up at him, her beautiful girlish face attentive, and nodded. “I won’t.”

The man cast one long glance at Hannah, turned, and left, softly closing the door behind him, and Hannah and Miranda were alone, looking at each other. After a moment, Miranda’s gentle brown eyes began to blink rapidly, and she murmured, “It is terrible, terrible.” She said still more softly, in a whisper, “Oh, I am sorry.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” said Hannah evenly. She shifted a little on her toes, seeking a more comfortable position; there was none.

“I can do nothing,” Miranda whispered urgently. “No one can.”

“I know. But still…”

“You tried to protect me, suffered for me, that night.”

Hannah wondered: How can I go on talking? Why doesn’t the terror take over, now? What is wrong with me? As though we were two girls sharing confidences before their big evening began. Well, they were.

Suddenly, from the hall, resounded a gruff voice talking much too loudly, laughing, as though revelers outside a pub were shattering the silence of a night street. Again, it came, louder—a bark of hilarity, then something was shouted. As though in counterpoint, a high, musical voice interjected, and the two voices laughed. “No disturbance! None! Do you hear?” And the doorknob turned.

The duke first, his frame filling the doorway, lips half-parted, eyes brash, demanding. Around him swirled a scarlet cape and down his front all Hannah could see were red and white ruffles and gold buttons. Below, his dark trousers were tight like riding breeches. The massive face with its bristling goatee grinned hugely, looking at Hannah, and he roared: “So! The girl from the Devon market with the insolent eyes!”

Now, the countess appeared behind him, waiting for him to make room for her to enter. A gown of yellow satin, fitted around her waist and bust, billowed out below atop fanning layers of petticoats. Hannah stared at the countess’s face, her lips pressed together against a cry of fear. Framed by the purest blond hair that Hannah ever saw, the hair strangely short for the style of the day, the countess’s face had precise and perfect lines; the chin, lips, nose, the curves of the cheeks and forehead were as though drawn with a stylus. It was not a young face, Hannah saw, but her flesh was tight, almost drawn, and the lips, too, were etched. It was the perfect cold, expressionless, pale face out of which gazed light-blue eyes that fastened on Hannah.

The duke strode into the room in a swirl of finery, his eyes on Hannah. But he paused and glanced down at Miranda and again Hannah saw the ready, delighted grin. “The funny little one,” he remarked, and walked over to Hannah. She couldn’t help it; she closed her eyes. Just a few moments, just because of the dizzy swirling in her head. She heard him ask, voice loud and demanding, but still jolly, “Do you remember my face, Devon market girl?”

She opened her eyes; her lips were trembling. “Yes,” she said in a very low voice. “In the carriage window.”

“And you thought you saw a great man!” he boomed.

“A powerful man.”

The duke’s grin faded slightly. He frowned. “The insolent girl from Devon!”

“No. I just looked. I never saw a carriage like that. I wondered who.”

“Now, you know!” he said, with a bark of laughter. He said, “She is pretty thing, saucy, I think.” He bent and wrapped his arms around her; he was much taller; he lifted her. Then, his head tilted and the great bristling face came forward, his lips touched hers, softly at first, then pressing, crushing, and she felt the bristles stab her. His tongue was pushing at her teeth, filling her mouth with a wetness, but she did not open them. Her squeezed her until her mouth opened to grasp for breath and his tongue entered, exploring, tickling her tongue. Still she squirmed for breath, desperately pulling back her head. Finally, he stopped and she gasped for air. The bark of laughter came and he lifted her slender body higher, almost till her wrists touched the crossbar, and dropped her. Her body fell and jounced in the ropes, jerking her shoulders. She cried out in surprise.

He whirled, storming away, and roared, “I love the wench!”

Standing beside the huge bed, he removed his cape, his ruffled coat, and his cravat, tossing them on the bed. He turned, wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, the tight trousers, his boots. He gave a loud sigh.

Hannah watched the countess walk over to stand before Miranda. She stood, pale, golden, before the dark Spanish girl. “Stand up,” she said. It was an insinuating voice that coaxed and threatened. Miranda quickly rose. The countess reached behind the girl, fiddling for a moment, and the sash loosened and slipped, revealing Miranda’s astonishing breasts, pendulous almost to her waist but still full and bulbous at their bottom, on which rested the big, almost black aureoles. Miranda stood stock still, chin lifted, eyes forward.

“I wanted to see them,” said the countess offhandedly. “Astounding, aren’t they? What do you see in her, Love? She’s a cow. I’ve seen Holsteins with less hanging than she has.” Her slender hands ran over the bottom of the breasts, squeezed them, although her hands were too small to encircle them. Then she stepped back, stared down, and her left hand flashed swiftly and slapped the breast. Miranda gave a little cry, immediately suppressed, and almost as quickly the countess’s other hand delivered a loud slap on the other breast. She turned and walked away, “I just don’t see it, darling, but if that is what you like…”

She came over in front of Hannah. Hannah’s lips did not tremble only because she pressed them together, but she blinked rapidly. She felt sick at her stomach and her head still spun with uncontrollable images. “This one is pretty, though; she has that healthy peasant look, I think. A little stocky.”

She turned to the duke, who now stood behind her. “Who gave her these exquisite whore’s clothes from Paris? Even on her, they are delicious.” She turned and walked to a bureau, pulled opened the small top drawer, and reached in. When she turned, she held silver scissors. Hannah closed her eyes, fighting the terror. She heard the countess in front of her, the whisper of shoes on the carpet, and forced herself to look. The slightest smile made lines on both sides of the countess’s lips and she stared into Hannah’s eyes. Then, the scissors came up, Hannah felt metal touch her chest, slide, and the scissors snipped through the material between the cups of the brassiere. It parting and slipped down behind her, so her breasts were naked. The countess studied them, nodding slightly. “You picked a pretty one, darling.” Her fingernail came up and circled Hannah’s nipples one by one and they stiffened. Then the fingernail travelled around her lips so they tickled and twitched. Finally, the fingernails slid down to the base of her belly, inside the black panties, and run through the curly hair, grooming.

She again examined Hannah’s breasts and said, “Her nipples are odd, aren’t they?” She pursed her lips and added, “But somehow very exciting.”

“Yes,” the duke agreed heartily.

“It is too bad I can’t take them,” said the countess. She picked up the scissors again. With two fingers she squeezed the tip of Hannah’s nipple and stretched it far out. Then, she opened the blades and positioned them to cut along the base of Hannah’s aureole.”

Hannah closed her eyes and let her head drop.