Sweet Savage Eden Page 4

His face lifted to hers. No kind, light eyes with a gentleman’s civility surveyed her. Dark eyes stared down at her. Dark, cynical eyes that matched the tension of his whisper. Eyes like Satan’s own. Sharp and piercing, tearing into her with a scalding contempt. They were not even black or brown, as she had imagined. They were indigo and gray. Surely the devil’s own. Oh, surely … ’twas not Robert at all, she realized in awful horror, but the rude and arrogant Jamie who held her—naked—in his grasp!

  “You!”

  She forgot that she had actually toyed with the idea that to gain the money she had needed, she’d have even bedded Master John. Or perhaps it seemed that this was worse—this bronzed, indigo-eyed stranger who had already treated her with such scorn. Perhaps it was his hated body upon her; his breath still scalding the dampness he had left upon her breast, his hand upon her hip.

  “You!” she gasped out again in awful horror, and he smiled, a mocking curl of the lip, tight-lipped and grim, and he gazed upon her from narrowed eyes.

  “Aye, yes, me. You thought to snare Robert in your little trap, eh, love? Why, you mewling little petty thief. It’s a pretty game, I must say. Come like a seductress, pick a man’s pocket, then cry innocence!” He made a ticking sound of disgust. “Curious. I had thought there was something special about you. I’m disappointed. You’re nothing but a common whore and a thief.”

  “I am no thief!” she said, refuting him desperately. Dear God, she wanted to die.

  “Not a thief?” His arrogant head tilted to one side.

  “Get off me!” she cried. She tried to twist but found that his leg was cast over her own. She tried to strike him, but her hands were too quickly caught. She could not dislodge him from her naked body. “I’m not a thief—”

  “The money, mistress, in your palm. I saw you delve your dainty little hands into my pocket. Alas! And you haven’t earned it yet! Of course, I will give you that opportunity.”

  “No! No!”

  Madly, with a strength and energy born of fury and desperation, she fought him. She struggled, swearing, to free her wrists. She arched but managed only to come closer, more surely against him. She kicked and flailed and managed to draw more than a grunt from him, but nothing else. His fingers were like steel bands, his body was immovable. It was hard as rock but hot, like the summer sun, and she could feel all his strength too keenly as she lay there naked. Vulnerable. And caught in the act of robbery. She could not win. She could only touch him more and more. Know more and more about him, as a man.

  In the end she lay panting, vowing not to cry, deadly still beneath him, her wrists secured by his left hand, his right leg cast over her thigh, pinning her beside him.

  She did not look at him. This was not the kind, gentle, shining, golden man of her dream. This was the other, hard and ruthless, and she would give him nothing. She would not plead. She would not tell him that she was desperate. She could not act out any charade, for he had already called her bluff. There was nothing to do but lie there and withdraw, despise him, and think herself far, far away—and pray that he did choose to call the magistrate.

  He stared at her. She could not withdraw so completely that she could escape the fact that he stared at her. She was too aware of his muscular body, clad yet somehow savage to her, and her own nudity. If one could die of humiliation, she thought, she would surely perish then. Yet hatred, she had heard, was a sustaining reason to live. Perhaps she did not die because she hated him so. More determined, she stared straight into the night and waited, quivering despite herself.

  He moved suddenly and she cried out, but he ignored her, securing her wrists with one of his own. He leaned over her and with his free hand opened up her palm.

  And found his money within it.

  She did not respond but stared straight ahead.

  “Have you no excuse?”

  She did not reply, and he laughed harshly.

  “Ah, if I were but Robert! You would turn to me with tears in those lovely eyes and swear out your innocence. Or perhaps I should hear some story about a child needing a meal, or some other such rot! But I’m not Robert—and you did seem wise enough to know that.”

  “You are a despicable, ruthless bastard,” she said smoothly, still addressing the ceiling. Oh, God. She had nothing, and she was in his power. If he called the hangman, she didn’t think that she would give a damn. She had failed miserably.

  “Ah, my love, I do protest! I tend to be fond of your fair kind, ladies and whores. ’Tis thieves alone I abhor!”

  He spoke with a certain edge, and though she had just convinced herself that she did not care what came, be it death itself, she emitted a strangled gasp when she discovered him moving against her. Curtly, roughly, brusquely, rebalancing his weight—forcing her thighs apart with blunt and unyielding force.

  She had thought that nothing could humiliate her any further, yet this did. She strained against him in renewed fury, swearing out her hatred, as his hand touched her, as his fingers probed her with a ruthless intimacy. She twisted her head; color and a profusion of heat filled her; mortified, she longed for death.

  “I shall scream. I shall scream rape—”

  “A whore who knowingly came to me?” he inquired with a certain amusement.

  “Oh—God! Stop!”

  The plea came from her in a ragged gasp. She could not escape him, could not escape his touch. She tried to twist, to hide, yet he surveyed her mercilessly as he examined her so insolently, ignoring her protest. Had she only had a weapon, she’d have surely slain him. He gave her no quarter, no compassion. It was not that he hurt her; it was simply that he explored where he would, his touch entering even inside her.

  And then … his touch was gone. He still held her prisoner; still clamped her to the bed. But the terrible intimate exploration of his long bronze fingers was gone, and she was terrified to breathe.

  “A virgin?” he inquired. The sound of his voice was curiously polite and distant, as if they were discussing the weather.

  “Oh, for the love of God and all the saints—!”

  “Mistress, do cease,” he said, interrupting her. “You came to me, remember? I made my intent quite clear when I spoke to the other bar whore.”

  “I’m not a whore!”

  “So it seems. You are a thief.”

  “And you are a despicable, arrogant bastard, a vile defiler of women, a—”

  “Have you as yet been defiled, little thief?”

  “You’re touch has defiled me!”

  “Ah, mistress! There is so much more that can be shared between a man and a woman!” he assured her.

  “Shall we explore the possibilities?”

  “No!”

  “So you did come with the sole purpose to rob me blind. Ah, no. My mistake. You came to rob poor Robert blind.”

  “Yes, and I have failed. So let me go.”

  She lay there trembling in desperate fear. He was so casual, and so at ease! His hand rested very low upon her belly, his leg still blocking her escape. She might as well have been in chains beneath him. She should cry, she should act out some sweet penance. But she could not act before him. She had already discovered that. And any minute now he would take what he wanted from her. He surely would enjoy taking her brutally, for he truly seemed to hate her and he had already proven that he had no compassion.

  “You think that I should let you go?” he asked quietly. His knuckles grazed her belly and she bit hard into her lip, praying that he would not delve within her again. Her flesh burned anew. She swore against him and breathed a silent prayer.

  He laughed dryly, rolling from her, resting his weight upon an elbow to stare at her. For a moment she could not believe that she was really free. She returned his glare and saw fully his face. The bronzed, rugged planes, the indigo eyes—the long, arrogant nose. The lips, full and sensual, twisted into a mocking sneer. Dark hair, tumbling over his forehead. His throat, bronze against his shirt, his shirt caught tight against the corded muscles of his sho
ulders and chest. A medal, a golden St. George slaying the dragon, lay cast against the darkly haired section of his chest where his shirt lay open in a vee.

  “Are you reconsidering, wench? Shall you stay? Ah, I see, you are enamored of me, after all. You are free, and still you remain at my side!”

  Free … he had released her. What did she care if he stared at her so?

  “Oh!”

  She bolted from the bed like a hawk in flight, nearly tripping over herself to procure her clothing. She ignored her shift, petticoat, and stockings, stumbling into the harsh wool of her gown with nothing beneath, barely slipping into her shoes before she was grasping for the door. “Enamored of you! I shall hate and loathe and detest you until my dying day! Were I a man, I would slay you. Had I the chance and ability, I’d slay you, anyway, so beware, sir, lest we ever meet upon the road!” With that, she spun for the door. Hot tears were burning behind her lashes.

  “Girl!” he thundered suddenly, and despite herself, she stopped, her back to him. She obeyed the raw command in his voice, and she hated herself for doing so.

  Something struck the door. The coin she had taken.

  “You went through quite a bit for it. Take it.”

  She swallowed. Oh, how she wanted to refuse that coin! How she longed to spit in his face!

  She could not. Her mother was dying.

  She stooped, shoulders slumping wearily, to retrieve it. She vowed in wretched silence that someday, someday she would come into affluence, and so help her, she would find and repay this man for the awful humiliation he had heaped upon her.

  She jerked the door open and went stumbling out. For a moment she was totally disoriented. She stood there, desperate just to breathe, and then she rushed down the stairs mindless of the hussy Megan watching her, and of the ogling stare of the barkeep.

  She rushed out of the Towergate’s front door, then stopped, glad, oh so glad, of the snow that cast her into chills, of the cold breeze that seemed somehow to cleanse her.

  She walked a few steps, stumbling, then stopped to stare at the money in her hand. She need only get back to the attic. Blessed Tamsyn—he would find the chemist and buy her the quinine. Any humiliation would be worth the price, for Linnet would live, and she could quickly scorn that atrocious black-hearted man!

  She started to walk again.

  “Mistress! Mistress Dupré!”

  She stopped again, in awful pain. How had she missed the voice! Oh, how had she been such a fool? For she knew his voice now—gentle Robert’s voice—beckoning her to stop.

  She turned, and the red of a summer rose stained her cheeks. The gallant, handsome blond was rushing toward her, her cloak, petticoat, and stockings cast over his arm. He knew. He knew where she had been. She thought that she would die of the shame.

  “Mistress! Jamie bid me catch you, as you shall need these!”

  Nearly choking on the tears she tried desperately to swallow, she stared up into his sympathetic light eyes. She shook her head vehemently, unable to speak. He stuffed the things into her arms, and in horror she turned to run.

  “Mistress … Jassy! Please, wait! If there is some problem, I would help!”

  Help! Ah, too late! She could not bear to see him again. Not now, not ever.

  She kept running. Running, heedless of ice and snow and wetness and cold until she reached the kitchen entrance of Master John’s. Cook, by the fire, let her in, pressing a finger to her lips. Jassy gave her a grateful nod and went tearing up the servants’ stairway.

  She quickly went through the attic door and saw that Tamsyn was back in the room, by her mother’s bed.

  “I’ve got it, Tamsyn. Money. Please, will you get the quinine for me? I feel I must stay by her side.”

  “Jassy—”

  Molly caught her arm. She shrugged off her friend’s touch. Tamsyn stood quickly and caught her. “Jassy, lass. Your mum’s at peace now.” “Peace?”

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly. Then his words began to sink in to her mind, and she shook her head in fierce denial.

  “No. No! You must get the quinine, Tamsyn! Surely she just sleeps!”

  Neither Tamsyn nor Molly could stop her. She fell to her knees at her mother’s side, grasping the frail white hand. A hand as cold as the blustering wind outside. Stiff, lifeless.

  “Oh, no! Oh, God, please, no!” She screamed out her anguish, then she cried, and she tried to kiss her mother, to warm her with her body. She stared down at her beautiful face and saw that indeed the Master Johns of the world could touch her mother no more. Linnet was gone.

  Jassy laid her head upon the bunk and sobbed.

  Molly came to her and took her in her arms. And still Jassy sobbed, on and on, until there were no more tears to cry.

  “ ’Tis all right, luv, ’tis all right,” Molly said, soothingly.

  And at last Jassy looked at her, eyes glazed but wildly determined.

  “Molly! I shall not live like this, and so help me—I shall not die like this!”

  “There, there,” Molly said with a soft sigh of resignation.

  And Jassy discovered that after all, her tears were not all spent. Because she caught her mother’s cold, delicate hand once again and warmed it with a new flood of sobbing.

  III

  “I shall be going back,” Jamie Cameron said to Robert. “And you should be coming with me.”

  The stableboy had saddled his horse, a bay stallion called Windwalker, but Jamie felt compelled to check the girth himself.

  “I don’t know,” Robert said doubtfully, watching Jamie as he mounted the prancing stallion at last. They were both dressed elegantly for their travel, for by nightfall they would reach Jamie Cameron’s family home, Castle Carlyle, near Somerfield. Jamie was to meet with his father on business, and he was dressed today as his noble sire would wish him to, in a fine white shirt with Flemish lace at the collar and cuffs, slashed leather doublet, soft brocade breeches, a fur-lined cloak, high black leather riding boots, and a wide-brimmed, plumed hat. He was the perfect cavalier. Robert thought with a mild trace of bitterness that his friend could deck himself in any apparel and still appear negligent of it all, masculine and rugged.

  Though Jamie was not his father’s heir, but rather a third son, he admired his father greatly, and they were business partners, both greatly enthusiastic about their joint venture.

  “I’m starting to think that you are mad!” Robert said.

  “Oh? And why is that?”

  “Well, Jamie Cameron, perhaps you will not be the next Duke of Carlyle. But nevertheless, were you not the son of an extremely wealthy and powerful noble, you have used your own trust funds well. You have fought on the seas, and you have met with the savages in Virginia. Any one of them might well have skewered you through. And for what? A company that much more often fails than prospers, and a plot of land given you directly by the king. When you’ve so many acres here in England that I find it doubtful any of your family has ever ridden over them all!”

  Jamie laughed and stared westward, almost as if he could see the New World, where it seemed his heart so often lay, even when he was home. “I don’t know myself, Robert. But there is a draw. I feel it always. It is a passion that grows in my blood, in my heart. I love the land and the river and the endless forests. There are places of such beauty and quiet!”

  “I’ve seen the sketches brought back of the Indian attacks, and of the ‘starving time’ in 1609, my friend. The Indians are savage barbarians. It is a savage land, so they say. Bitterly cold, then humid and hot.”

  “The Indians are of a different culture,” Jamie mused. “But they are men and women, just as we.”

  Robert laughed out loud. Jamie cast him a quick glance and shrugged. He’d had the pleasure of meeting the colonizer John Rolfe and his wife, the Indian princess Pocahontas, both in Virginia, and at King James’s royal court. It was said that she had saved the life of John Smith when her father would have taken his head, and the lady did not deny th
e story. Jamie had been saddened to hear that she had died in England. And recently, her father, the great Powhatan, the big chief of many tribes, had died too. It was as if an era were already over, when so much had just begun.

  When the London Company had first sent its men sailing across the sea, and when they had first established their settlement at Jamestown on the James River in Virginia, the days had been dreary indeed. They had left England in 1606. King James had sat upon the throne then, but it was just three years after the death of Elizabeth, and three years after a tempestuous age. The age of explorers, of Sir Francis Drake, of Sir Walter Raleigh, of the Spanish Armada. Entering into Virginia, they were aware that there was a constant threat of invasion from the Spaniards, of attacks by the Indians. Many things had hindered the growth of the colony. Supplies hadn’t always arrived, as planned, from England. Men had looked for profits, and they had planted too much tobacco and not enough food. They had starved, they had clashed with the Indians, the Pamunkies, the Chickahominies, the Chesapeakes.

  But much had improved since then. Though Pocahontas and Powhatan were dead, the peace formed at the time of her marriage to John Rolfe seemed to have lasted. There had been few women in the colony; now married men brought their wives, and the Company had made arrangements for young ladies of good character to cross the ocean, and the colony and the various “hundreds” surrounding it were beginning to flourish and prosper. From the Old English hundred, established before the Norman Conquests. A great swath of land where a hundred families could live.

  On his last trip to Virginia, Jamie had staked out his own land. He and his father were heavy investors in the London Company, but Carlyle Hundred, as he was calling his land, came to him directly from the king in recognition of the services he had rendered there.

  His land was directly upon the James River, in a far more fortuitous spot than Jamestown, so he thought, for his land was higher and not so dank and infested as the Jamestown acreage. It was beautiful, high land, with a small natural harbor. The pines and grass grew richly, so profuse that the area seemed a blue-green. By the water there was a meadow, and as Jamie had stood there, alone with the sound of the sea and the very quiet of the earth, he had felt anew his passion for the land. It would be great. The country stretched forever. It was where he would dig his roots, and it was where his children would be born, where they would grow, where they would flourish. The Carlyle Hundred. “It seems to be a land of endless opportunity,” he said aloud.