Captives' Charade (28 page)

It amazed her that the reality of the situation was practically meaningless to her. Here she was, a crazed pirate’s captive, her life in danger. She had loved ones who may never see or hear from her again. Her maid was dead, brutally murdered. Not only that, but she was pretending to be married, enjoined in an illicit affair with a man who never even professed to love her, flirting with the possibility of producing a child and all its disastrous consequences, and yet, she had never felt so alive or happy.

“Well Father,” she whispered, poignantly recalling the day he announced his plans to send her to America, “you wanted me to be available to the workings of fate, to see what was beyond my own doorstep. But somehow I cannot believe you had all this in mind.”
CHAPTER 27

More than six weeks had gone by since Simon d’Alava had confiscated Stewart and Jeremiah’s ship, and despite the ever-present sense that events were coming to a head, nothing seemed to change.

It had been two weeks since Tegan’s death and still there was no indication that the pirates had discovered anything amiss, even though the meals had become decidedly mediocre and tasteless. Often Sarah pushed away her barelytouched plate, nauseated by the undercooked meats and overdone vegetables, not to mention d’Alava’s grating good nature. It was obvious he was aware of much more than he divulged, enjoying to the fullest his power over his statured guests.

The interminable waiting was taking its toll, heightened by the blind chess game being played out by victim and captor alike. Jeremiah, ever pleasant and receptive, had acquired the steely gaze of a man about to lose his patience, though his voice never betrayed the tension that etched deeper lines into his craggy features. Stewart was more transparent, occasionally letting slip a barbed comment that might have done harm if only d’Alava had chosen to take it as an insult, and not a jest. When such a lapse in Stewart’s ironclad control occurred, Sarah would catch his hard gaze, holding it warmly and reassuringly in her own, until she saw the muscles of his jaw relaxing.

She knew there was more than impatience at work here. Stewart and Jeremiah were exhausted. For the past four nights, Sarah had awakened to find herself alone in the huge bed, Stewart having gone on some mission of which he dared not speak. She would doze fitfully until it was near daylight when he would fall heavily into bed beside her, wrapping his tired limbs about her as he fell asleep almost instantly. Several times she had almost blurted one of the many questions wracking her brain, but she sensed that her mute trust meant a great deal more to him than any curiosity or offer of assistance. So she chose to hold her silence.

Her new lack of contrariness surprised her. Gone was the need to assert herself in the face of Stewart’s powerful presence. Instead she exuded an air of calm strength and quiet affection, a part of her nature only her family had known intimately.

And if this change bemused her, then Stewart was completely bewildered. More than once she noticed his demeanor prepare for battle, only to relax in stunned disbelief when she cheerfully acquiesced. He never commented on this change, but she could not help but notice that he watched her more carefully, as if struggling to match the complacent woman before him with the mutinous girl he had come to know so well, one whose return he expected at any moment.

In a way, she was comforted by his skepticism, even though there was no longer any need of it. She had become addicted to his lovemaking and his tenderness toward her, but thankfully he did not seem to take this for granted. Her pride had been so totally banished that she knew she would give herself to him under any circumstances, but he continued to woo her in a way that made her feel unique and special. Even though she had now joined the ranks of the many comely wenches who had passed beneath him.

That was the dark side of this a ffair, she admitted reluctantly. No matter what he said about his own complicity, or responsibility, with the last vestiges of her self-respect, she knew she could never hold him to her. She could not deny finding solace for her conscience in the marriage they acted out under d’Alava’s watchful eye, but its duration was temporary, even if its consequences were permanent. Stewart’s freedom, his independence, was something she vowed never to be liable for taking away. She renewed this daily pledge in the tearful aftermath of their passion as she lay nestled in Stewart’s arms while he caught precious minutes of sleep before setting about his nocturnal business.

In these moments, she would hungrily fill her memory with the handsome, almost boyish innocence of his face in repose, the feel of his chest against her soft cheek, the way strong legs and arms possessively surrounded her, and the uneven thumping of blood through her veins as her body slowly recovered from his complete mastery of it.

At such times, she prayed for the strength of character to demand nothing more of him, and hoped that these sensory remembrances would be enough to see her through the years of impending spinsterhood, for despite her innocence, something told her that it would be a fruitless search if she hoped to find another with whom she could achieve such blinding rapture.

And there was more. This was the love of her life, she had finally admitted, and though their time together was fleeting, at least she had been spared the emptiness of going through life without ever knowing such rapture.

But more often, the future was a reality that Sarah kept naively at bay. Held in the warmth of Stewart’s approval and his physical need of her, it was hardly a chore to push the pain and uncertainly aside. She had finally accepted what he had known all along: that she was a woman capable of great passion, and he was the tinder that set her aflame. The fact that he did not love her generally seemed of little consequence, for when caught in the throes of his all-consuming desire, it was easy to believe that her love for him was enough. It was the only secret she had left, and she guarded it with fierce possessiveness.
CHAPTER 28

“Señor wishes to see you.” Galena was nervous. Her huge brown eyes and fidgeting fingers made it obvious. Sarah returned a calm but frowning look as she absent-mindedly returned the book she was reading to the table beside her.

“Mmm,Iwonderwhy,”sherepliedcasually, hoping that her wish for a clue was not too apparent. She strode to the dressing table, patting her hair in feigned interest.

But Galena, usually happy to talk to her new mistress, was uncharacteristically elusive. “I tell him you resting, maybe?”

Sarah returned a quick, studied look, though her voice gave away none of her sudden apprehension. “Don’t be silly, Galena. I’m not resting. Tell Señor d’Alava that I will be there presently.”

For an instant, Galena stood riveted to the spot, struggling, it seemed, to speak. But when Sarah turned to give Galena her full attention, the wiry girl abruptly nodded and whirled around to leave.

AwaveoffearbrokeoverSarah’scalm demeanor and she had a strong urge to press the puzzling maid for some clue as to why she was so upset about making this summons. But she had never allowed herself to compromise the maid’s loyalty in the past, and she would not now, despite a clear foreboding that something was amiss, something that Galena very much wanted to help her avoid.

D’Alava’s request in itself was unusual, Sarah reflected, watching the small girl hastily leave the room. He had never intruded on her privacy in the many weeks of their captivity, even though it would have been easily within his ability to single her out for his company, since Stewart and Jeremiah spent long hours with their crew restoring the pirate’s dilapidated kingdom.

Rarely had she ever been alone with him, and never for more than a short time. Some evenings, while she and the pirate were engaged in a friendly game of chess or backgammon in the parlor, Stewart and Jeremiah would retire to the adjoining promenade, smoking expensive cheroots and talking casually, though never loud enough to be heard clearly. D’Alava was outrageously flirtatious at these times but never seriously threatening. But now Sarah wondered if that were only a ruse to gain her confidence.

An involuntary shudder passed through her as she smoothed the skirt of her bright blue lawn dress, chosen for its cool sleeves and light fabric. With a steadying breath, she pulled open the bedroom door and walked determinedly through the sparsely furnished sitting room to the wide hallway.

As she entered the parlor, d’Alava turned from the promenade doorway, smiling eagerly at the sight of the young woman whose presence enhanced any space she happened to occupy. The stout pirate was dressed casually in a loose muslin shirt, dark trousers and boots that did much to hide the faults of excess that his leisurely life on the island perpetrated. His crackling black eyes and debonair moustache furthered his image as a swashbuckler, and were it not for the ominouslooking pistol and dagger hooked to his wide leather belt, Sarah might have found it easy to smile at his imposing character. As it was, she matched his gaze with a benign expression. “You wished to see me, Señor?”

“Not a moment has passed since we met that I do not wish to see you, Señora,” d’Alava replied dramatically in his heavily-accented voice, reaching for her hand and kissing it warmly. She winced at the contact but steeled herself against revealing her discomfort at his noxious caress. “Would you favor me with a game of chess this afternoon, querida?” he inquired smoothly as he reluctantly took leave of her slim fingers.

“I’d be delighted, Señor,” Sarah replied coolly, though his simple request did nothing to quell her foreboding. The Señor bore the look of a cat contemplating the consumption of a defenseless canary. With resounding conviction, Sarah knew that chess was not the name of the game he had chosen to play this day.

“Mirabilis, perhaps?” he offered her the beverage politely after she had seated herself at the ornate marble chess table, its jewel-encrusted pieces standing up as a formidable-looking, though ineffectual, barrier between them. A clear head was essential, but to refuse would invite his scrutiny.

“Lovely,” she smiled pleasantly, examining the board in feigned interest. “Shall I begin, or is it your turn to open the match?”

He chuckled, his back to her, as he poured the golden liquid from a crystal decanter on the buffet. “Eager to conquer me again? Perhaps my playing will surprise you today,” he murmured potently.

No doubt, Sarah thought to herself as she felt her stomach muscles tightening with tension. “So you’ve been toying with me, Señor? And I thought you were not the kind to let others win.”

A leering smile creased his swarthy face as he set the flute before her and took his place across the board. “You know me well. But the war’s the thing, eh? Battles?” He gave a gesture that showed his unconcern for whether a little skirmish ended in his favor.

Willing her fingers to refrain from the barest hint of trembling, Sarah sent her first pawn on its course, knowing with deep-seated but inexplicable conviction that the end of the war was upon them and that the enemy had already begun to taste the fruits of victory.

A full half hour went by without a word passing between them, a most uncomfortable change of habit. But what was unsaid reverberated with fierce intensity through the expansively cluttered room. Anxious for the Señor to tip his hand, Sarah struggled to quell her desire to open the conversation, remembering her father’s advice that the party forced to break a pregnant silence lost his advantage. Never in her life had she needed the upper hand more desperately; stoically she held her tongue.

“Never have I seen you play with such intensity,” d’Alava said, his indolent voice at last breaking the oppressive silence.

Sarah raised her sooty lashes, her deep blue eyes betraying nothing of her inner turmoil. “I intend to win.”

His next words brought a wave of fear that prickled the smooth skin below her hairline. “I think perhaps that is out of your hands.” To emphasize his statement, d’Alava moved, trapping her king with consummate skill. “Check.”

Fury and terror mixed a potent brew within her that constricted her chest. It was all Sarah could do to mask her emotional upheaval with an inscrutable smile. How could he have done this to her when she’d been watching so carefully? But it wasn’t over yet. Please God, not yet!

So intent on the board, Sarah did not notice d’Alava rising and practically cried out when his thick hand rested on her arm. “More licor?”

He chuckled and walked to the bu ffet, lazily calling over his shoulder, “Are you ready to concede, querida?”

Exuding a powerful degree of selfconfidence, d’Alava leaned his bulk against the buffet, crossing his arms upon his wide chest and perusing her with studied pleasure. “You disappoint me, Señora Chamberlain. I have always considered you to be one of the few members of the fairer sex to be blessed with a clear sense of reality.” His hand reached up to lazily stroke his chin. “The game is terminado.”

He knows! There was no doubt of it for the truth that she was not Stewart’s bride and the pirate’s glee over discovering their captives’ charade was glimmering in his gaze of burning coal. And how he intended to proceed on this information was evident in his undisguised expression of lust. So that was the reason for Galena’s distress; she knew his summons would lead to malevolence.

“I beg your pardon?” The mock curiosity was proffered with the greatest effort as Sarah’s thoughts raced to plan a defense against horrors too hideous to contemplate.

“Wouldyoudenyyourfarceandinsultme further, mi dulce?” d’Alava asked nonchalantly.”My good friends were foolish to take advantage of my honorable nature. They know my plundering does not extend to another man’s wife.” His voice dropped seductively. “But you are the bride of no man, are you, Lady Sarah Tremont?”

Her breath paralyzed in her throat, Sarah rose stiffly, a haunting sense of doom threatening to destroy her composure. With a quiet control she did not feel, she replied, “I do not know why you feel you have reason to doubt my marital status, but I assure you, Señor d’Alava, Stewart Chamberlain and I are in every way husband and wife.”