Captive Innocence Page 3

  “Child, where could I go and what could I do?” Her tone was tart, and she immediately apologized to the young woman. “The thing that bothers me the most about all of this is I still don’t know if it was Sebastian or not that I saw down on the wharf. It must have been. There aren’t two such handsome devils in the world. I’m just a foolish old woman. I thought if it was Sebastian Rivera he could perhaps take you to Mardi Gras, as I know how badly you want to see the festivities. Sebastian would keep you safe.” Tears of self-pity gathered in Mrs. Quince’s eyes as she stared at Royall.

  A lump of something she had no name for settled in the pit of Royall’s stomach. And she had been about to administer a sleeping draught to this wonderful old woman. For shame, Royall Banner, she scolded herself on the way back to the cabin. God will punish you, she told herself as she hastily dressed. I deserve to be punished, she almost wept. The poor old lady was thinking of her all along, and here she was acting like some ... some ... some damn criminal. She dressed quickly in a light green morning gown, and after several quick swipes with her hairbrush, she was ready to return to Mrs. Quince’s cabin.

  Voices from within the adjoining cabin startled her. The physician must have arrived. Nervously, she paced the corridor for what seemed like hours. When the cabin door opened, Royall reached out to grasp the doctor’s hand. “Tell me, did Mrs. Quince break her foot? You must tell me so I will know what to do. I want to take care of her.”

  “My dear young lady, please calm yourself,” the tall, thin man said in a quiet voice. “The lady did indeed break her ankle. I’ve set the bone, and she’ll mend when God is willing that she should walk again. There is nothing you can do for the lady now. I’ve administered a sleeping draught that will take effect soon. She’ll sleep off and on for the rest of the day and into the night. When she wakes, she’ll have some mild discomfort, but that’s about all. I’ve seen to it that there are biscuits and tea next to her bed. The captain will have one of the stewards bring it along any second now. If the lady awakens, they will be within her reach. She’s not to have any heavy food for the rest of the day. So, you see, there is nothing for you to do or for you to concern yourself with. Go to Mardi Gras with all the other young people, and enjoy yourself.”

  Royall wanted to throw her arms around the doctor. He was giving her an order and at the same time absolving her of her guilt. She was used to obeying orders, and obey this one she would.

  “If you’re sure, doctor.” Her voice was hesitant, almost pleading.

  “Open the door and see for yourself,” the doctor said jovially.

  Moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, Royall opened the cabin door a bit and peered into the dimness. Rosalie Quince lay on the bunk with her hands folded over her ample chest. There was a peaceful half smile on her face as strange sounds erupted from her throat.

  “You see, the lady is sleeping quite peacefully. There’s nothing you can do. If only all my cases were so simple. Close the door now and prepare yourself for the grand parade. I’ve told the captain I’m sending a woman to stay with her until the boat departs.”

  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 s
aw 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.

  Chapter Two

  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.