Captive Embraces Page 14

  Tomorrow, as soon as she awakened and dressed, she would go to St. Dunstan Hill and seek him out in his offices. Street ruffians be damned. She would make him tell her face to face that he no longer wanted her, no longer loved her. She had to hear it from Regan himself. Then and only then would she believe it. Until that time she could dream and she could hope that it was all some macabre misunderstanding.

  Sirena was weary, yet she could not close her eyes and rest. Her mind whirled and her stomach churned at the prospect of seeing Regan shortly. As soon as she had seen where his offices were, she knew she would go to him. She had known it when she was still in Cádiz. She had felt the need to see him as long ago as when she had seen the tip of his tops’l skim over the horizon in Port Batavia.

  Sirena leaned her head back against the settee, her thoughts swimming with Regan. And when sleep did come, it was to dream of a tall, muscular man with hair the color of ripe wheat.

  Within a matter of hours Frau Holtz had her domain under control. She issued orders in a firm voice and waved her arms imperiously for all to know that she meant business. Within moments she had the cook in tears, the footman stammering, and the downstairs maid in a state of utter confusion. She swept through the downstairs like a Dowager Queen. She informed the staff she wouldn’t tolerate sloppiness, wastefulness, laziness, or slapdash cleaning methods. She also declared she was in the habit of making a daily inspection to see that her orders were carried out and woe be to those who fell short of their mark.

  Her tirade over, she demanded a light tray for Sirena and carried it upstairs to her quarters. When she saw her mistress napping, she tiptoed from the room and sat down at the top of the stairs. Listlessly she ate the food, then carried the tray back to the kitchen. She decided she didn’t like this place or the people in it. Where in blazes was Jacobus? When the baggage had arrived from the Sea Spirit, she was surprised to see that Jacobus was in tow. When she questioned him as to how he had pried himself away from his precious galley, he had answered perfunctorily that he didn’t trust the Capitana’s luggage to anyone and that he had come along to be certain it was delivered in one piece.

  Although the Frau grumbled and complained that she didn’t need Jacobus hanging about the house and getting underfoot, she was nevertheless glad to see a friend. Now, she was in search of him. Where could he be? Perhaps she could devil him into a game of checkers. But Jacobus was wise to the way she cheated and he wouldn’t make any bones about telling her subordinates about it. She shook her iron-gray head and decided she would make it cards.

  She found him in the greenhouse, which was an extension of the kitchens. He was puttering around with a small trowel, a look of confusion on his wizened features. “Madame Holtz,” he said sternly, “there is nothing I don’t know about my ship’s galley and the sea. However, I don’t know anything about flowers except that I like the way they look and smell. Here,” he said extending a delicate bloom for her inspection, “I thought of you when I cut it. I believe it’s an English rose.”

  Frau Holtz let out a small yelp as she fingered the thorny stern. “You old sea salt,” she sputtered.

  “I warned you that the bloom reminded me of you. It’s as sharp and thorny as your tongue,” he grinned toothlessly, “yet it is as beautiful as you are.”

  Frau Holtz flushed a bright crimson. “Oh scat! You old fool,” she exclaimed as she fluttered her apron as though shooing away a pesky fly. “There’s nothing you can do out here; can’t your old blind eyes see it’s getting dark? I thought we might have a game of cards. Or perhaps just keep each other company. I’m afraid I don’t like it here,” she said forlornly.

  Jacobus felt drawn to the dour-faced woman. “You’ve got me to talk with anytime you feel the need for it. While we’re out here, tell me what I’m supposed to do in this glass cage.”

  Frau Holtz glanced around with a practiced eye and placed her hands on her hips, a look of concentration pulling the corners of her mouth. “Jacobus, I don’t care what you do with the flowers. The Mevrouw won’t care what you do with them and neither will anyone else. My advice is do whatever you want. No one will know the difference. Why should you care?”

  Jacobus shrugged. “I only meant to make myself useful and I really like flowers. I’d like to try my hand at them.”

  “Suit yourself,” said the Frau. “Come inside for that game of cards and perhaps another piece of pie?”

  Jacobus eagerly followed at the mention of the pie. It was the best he’d ever had and that cook in the kitchen was no fool. It would take some doing to get her to show him how she had made it.

  As soon as Sirena got up in the morning, she had. the entire household in an uproar. She demanded pails and pails of steamy water for her bath. She had Peggy tending her as a personal maid and the poor girl was all a dither when Sirena insisted she press one gown and then another only to change her mind a third time. Finally, settled in the tub, she asked Peggy to bring her scents from the still unpacked baggage. Peggy handed her new mistress a slim bottle of amber liquid and thoughtlessly Sirena tipped it into her bath water. Recognizing the scent, Sirena slapped angrily at water sending out small showers in every direction.

  “Have I done something wrong, Mistress?” Peggy inquired fearfully.

  “No, how could you know? Go now, leave me to my bath, I’ll call you when I need you.” Sirena’s voice was stern and Peggy wasted no time in escaping her mistress’ wrath.

  Sirena slipped down in the tub, the hot water draining her tension. She was ashamed at having treated Peggy so harshly. The girl couldn’t have possibly known that Sirena. disliked the scent she had unwittingly poured into the bath. Civet musk, heady and sensual, wafted to her nostrils. She hadn’t worn this particular fragrance since her wedding night. Wedding night! Sirena scorned, reliving her own personal embarrassment. The day had been endless and exhausting. She had married Regan under duress, it had been part of her plan to avenge Isabella’s death. At the time she had still held Regan responsible for the treachery committed upon her and her family.

  Throughout her wedding day Regan had remained attentively at Sirena’s side. Considerate of her needs, introducing her to the guests she had not met before, he was the picture of a delighted groom.

  Sirena’s nerves had been strung as tautly as the violin strings on which the musicians played. She had passed through the celebration as if in a dream. Nothing had seemed real or to have substance. The food was tasteless, the wine flat, the conversation meaningless.

  Later, alone in her room, Sirena had prepared for bed. The windows overlooking the gardens were open, allowing the night breezes to carry the sweet aromatic scents of the flowers and spices inside. She had slipped away from the last of the lingering wedding guests to seek the peace of solitude. As she had climbed the stairs, she had looked back and her eyes had been drawn to Regan. As if her glance were a physical touch, he had turned from his conversation and looked at her and their eyes had locked. After a long moment, she had turned her head and proceeded up the stairs.

  By the time she had reached her room, her heart was beating wildly, her pulse throbbing savagely. His one, brief glance had desired her, coveted her, and she had seen that he regretted his promise to free her from sharing his bed. She had recalled the smile that had played about his lips when he made that promise. Could it be he had no intention of honoring it?

  In spite of herself, Sirena had taken elaborate pains with her toilette. For a final touch, she had placed a few precious drops of civet musk on her pulse spots; it had enveloped her in a cloud of heady sensuality.

  She had arranged a soft, loose knot atop her head with wispy ringlets feathering her brow and the nape of her neck. Satisfied that she created an alluring picture, she had waited ...

  Over and over she had rehearsed the scene in her mind. Regan would tap on the door seeking admittance. Hesitantly, shyly, she would admit him. His eyes would cover her hotly, their searing passion and need burnishing her soft flesh. She would stan
d with her back to the dim lamplight, allowing him to discern the voluptuous outline of her body through her thin lavender nightdress.

  He would stand close to her, the musk intoxicating him with desire. His hand would reach out and touch the soft ringlets falling against her cheek and then caress the silky skin of her neck. Roughly, desperately, he would pull her against his muscular body, his breath would come in a light, wine-scented panting. His mouth would seek hers in a long, enveloping kiss. Drawing away, his eyes would burn into hers, pleading, begging her to release him from his promise.

  Tormented, Sirena broke from her reverie. That had been her wedding night! Ashamed, she covered her face with her hands. Regan had never come to her room, had never pleaded for her caresses. He had left the house; she had heard his footsteps, had heard his horse’s hooves. He had gone to Gretchen Lindenreich’s. He had given the Teutonic bitch the satisfaction of knowing that Regan had left his nuptial bed to fly to his Valkyrie’s arms and die a little in the throes of passion as she transported him to Valhalla.

  Sirena pummeled the water with her fists. She had planned on humiliating Regan by her sweet rejection of him. Instead, he had never come to her. The sharp talons. of scorn raked her as though she were again reliving the night Regan had left her for the German whore, denying Sirena even the right of refusal.

  Frau Holtz entered Sirena’s room and waited on the settee for Sirena to complete her bath. All of this for that bull-headed Regan van der Rhys. And if she was any judge of men, he wouldn’t even notice. All these lavish preparations would be for naught and the Mevrouw would be devastated.

  “Have you decided which gown you wish to wear?”

  “The emerald silk.”

  Frau Holtz was laying the dress on the bed when Sirena changed her mind. “No, Frau Holtz, the scarlet I think.” The Frau pursed her mouth and replaced the green with the scarlet. “On second thought, it is such a depressing day, I think I’ll wear the yellow. Regan likes yellow.”

  Three hours, nine gowns, and four pairs of slippers later, Sirena was finally clothed. Frau Holtz heaved a sigh of relief as she watched the Mevrouw flick her cheeks with red Spanish paper and pat her hair. When she turned for inspection, the old housekeeper blanched slightly when she saw how low the neckline was cut.

  “What do you think?” Sirena questioned.

  “I knew you’d go back to the emerald silk. How else do you think you look? Beautiful, ja, beautiful. The Mynheer will be entranced.”

  Sirena clenched and unclenched her fists while Frau Holtz went to call the footman. What if Regan turned her away? What if he refused to even speak with her, saying the marriage was ended and there was nothing to discuss? What if! What if! There was no use speculating on it. She had to see him, it was as simple as that. She had to see for herself what his reaction was when he saw she was here in England.

  Frau Holtz watched Sirena climb into the carriage; Jacobus sat beside the driver. The Frau’s throat felt constricted and she found swallowing difficult. What would become of Sirena if Regan rejected her? Would she become withdrawn and hollow-eyed. the way she was in Batavia or would she revert to her former ways and fill herself with vengeance and hate? Whatever, Frau Holtz knew her life would be miserable and difficult if Regan turned Sirena away.

  Through the streets of London, Sirena rode. Several times throughout the trip she heard Jacobus and the footmen cursing and beating off the riff-raff and beggars who impeded their progress to Saint Dunstan’s Hill. The drive, which normally took less than an hour, was dragging into nearly two, and Sirena became fretful that Regan would leave the office for the day or that business would call him away. Why oh why had it taken her so long to decide on her gown? Regan never cared for women’s trappings. If he still loved her and was happy to see her, he wouldn’t care if she were dressed in sack cloth and ashes.

  The carriage stopped on the corner of Saint Dunstan’s Hill and Thames Street. Her head high, her back ramrod straight, Sirena raised her hand to knock on the door of Regan’s offices. All she had to do was turn the handle, the door would open, and she would see Regan. They would look at each other and ... and what? What would she say? How should she behave? She had to do the talking and the explaining before Regan could protest, or should she wait for Regan to explain why he had divorced her?

  Quickly, before she could change her mind, Sirena entered. Regan was standing beside a large wall map, his arm raised to place a marker on what looked like a navigation route.

  Just the sight of his broad back sent shivers up Sirena’s spine. She saw him tilt his head as though he pondered a different route from the one he originally intended. He moved slightly and then rocked back on his heels. He hadn’t changed. He still carried himself well, his hair was still tousled and pale. Her arms longed for him, her lips burned for his kiss. She felt herself being restored; just seeing him again did that for her. All this time, since they had been apart, she had only been half a person. Now, with Regan so close, she could be whole again. If only she could hear him say it had all been a mistake, that he still loved her.

  “Regan,” she said softly, from somewhere within her soul. His name was out and spoken before she even realized she’d uttered it. His name was a plea, a cry from the depths of her heart. She saw his muscular back tense. Slowly, as though caught in a void of time, Regan turned to face her. His eyes held an expression of incredulity. If he recognized the emotions behind the sound of his name, he gave no sign.

  Sirena let herself drink in the sight of him. All her wants and needs were there to be read in her emerald eyes. She had to say something, make a move. She felt rooted to the floor, her tongue thick and swollen. “You ... you look well, Regan,” she finally managed. He hadn’t changed at all. His square, chiseled features were the same. The sheaf of light golden hair was rakish and falling low over his brow. His agate eyes were aloof, just as she remembered them.

  The muscles in his arms bunched as Regan clenched his fists at his side. His tone was cool and almost mocking as he looked at her. “And you look well, Sirena. I see you’ve managed to put your grieving behind you. And do my eyes deceive me, you’ve lost your rosary!”

  “Regan ... I—”

  “You just thought you would come to England and pay me a visit. Is that what you’re about to say? You’re too late, Sirena. Whatever you came for is not here.” His voice was harsh as he stared at her through narrowed eyes. “Look around you. What you see is what I am. A small, dingy office with room for only one person. I am a one-man company, but someday I’ll make the van der Rhys import-export a rival to the Dutch East India. I agreed to the terms your old Spaniard demanded. Your solicitor receives your payment on the first day of each quarter as I agreed.”

  “That’s not why I’m here, Regan. I wanted to see you and talk to you. I want to know; I want to hear from your own lips the reason you divorced me. I want to hear you say you no longer love me. Say the words and I’ll leave and never bother you again. Tell me why,” she cried brokenly, daring him to tell her, refusing to believe he would. “I loved you, Regan! I love you now! I gave you everything I had; my heart, my soul, my body. I gave you a son. I loved your son, Caleb, as though he were my own. I would have lain down my life for you. Why? Simply tell me why? I have nothing . . . you’ve taken everything. Even Caleb has turned away from me.” Great tears welled in the bottle-green eyes, but remained in check. “Why?” It was a cry birthed in her soul and erupting from her throat in an explosion of torment.

  Regan stiffened as he noticed her outstretched hand. “How prettily you beg, Sirena. I remember another time such as this when you pleaded. You said you needed more time to come to grips with losing Mikel. I didn’t believe you then and I don’t believe you now. You’ve led a life of lies and deceit. Trickery was your mainstay. You’ve spilled blood and laid with Chaezar, then told me it was because you were drugged. I forgave all these things when you gave birth to our son and I loved you as much as you now profess to love me. When Mikel died, there w
as no sorrow greater than mine save your own. You wouldn’t let me help you come to terms with this terrible happening in our life. I begged you then for days, for weeks, for months, and you scorned me. Again I asked you to come with me to this new land where we could make a fresh start for ourselves and you refused. You said you would never leave Mikel’s grave. Because I forgave you everything and because I loved you, I believed you. You left me no other choice. If we must place blame, Sirena, let us be certain to place it where it belongs.”

  “Yes, Regan, place the blame on me. I want it, I deserve it. I accept it.” The tears spilled over onto her smooth, ivory cheeks, running in rivulets, but her voice held firm and she controlled the quaking sobs she felt rising in her breast. “I accept the fact that I demanded more patience than you had to give. I was wrong when your body cried for mine and I turned away. I did deny you the comfort I should have given. I accept the truth that I would not be comforted. My shoulders are not as broad as yours, but lay the blame on them. I’m truly sorry for the way things worked out. I’m here now to make amends and I beg you to come back and begin again. Forgive me, Regan, it was my love and my anguish for our son that blinded me. Our son, Regan, not just mine or just yours. Can’t you forgive me?” Regan said nothing, his expression unreadable.

  An inner voice niggled at Sirena. Get down on your hands and knees and crawl to him if that’s what he wants. You already know how much it hurts to be without him. Beg! Isn’t that what you said you’d do? She waited, watched. The corners of Regan’s mouth pulled down and the familiar mocking look was there again. She squared her shoulders slightly. She must have been mad! Women didn’t have to grovel to men, at least not this woman to this man, she thought bitterly. “I see that you will not allow yourself to utter the words I want to hear. Why is that?” she asked in a dangerously low voice.