Devi's Paradise (15 page)

Armand gave a signal and his gunners fired a convivial salute. It echoed round the wharves and reverberated among the wooded hills. Gulls rose, circling and screaming over the forest of masts as several ships, riding easily at their moorings, gave answer in a noisy volley. Roused from the siesta that was the only way to pass the scorching heat of the afternoon, some of the inhabitants ambled out to welcome the newcomers.

One who heard but did not go was Catherine MacGowan, known as the Cat. She was landlady of the
Kicking Donkey
, one of the most notorious taverns in the whole of that lawless island. She went to her window, took up a telescope, pointed it towards the quay and squinted through it. A smile lit her sun-browned face, blue eyes sparkling as she recognised the ship. Armand was back! Tough though she was, donning breeches and fighting alongside the men sometimes, she had a weakness for him and was fiercely jealous. She hoped that one day,
one happy day
, he would make her his bride and take her away from the dangerous hurly-burly of everyday life in the port. She didn’t go to meet him, however. She had her pride, and although her breasts tingled to feel his hands and her sex ached to have him inside her once again, she spruced herself up and sauntered down to the bar to wait his arrival.

Cat was bold, beautiful and took her pleasures with either sex. Once she had been a footpad, a pickpocket and thief and had narrowly escaped the hangman, convicted at London’s Old Bailey. She had pleaded her belly and was locked up in the notorious Newgate Jail where her child was born. Destitute, she was indentured as a servant to a family who were seeking their fortunes in the West Indies. They were pious Puritans and never let her forget that she was a sinner. She endured it because of her son, Paul, but eventually ran off with a dashing rascal who took her to Tortuga. He bought the
Kicking Donkey
, was surrogate father to her bastard, but was eventually slain in a brawl.

Impatience ran like liquid fire through her blood, but she gave no indication. Love was for weaklings, and she had no intention of walking that road again. She poured a tot of brandy and stalked into the taproom, greeted by her regulars. They were full of the news, chorusing in several different languages, ‘The
Scorpion
has just dropped anchor. Tertius will be here at any moment. Watch your backs, boys.’

‘He’d never stab anyone in the back,’ Cat shouted, glaring threateningly, arms akimbo, a tall woman who could stand her ground. They quietened and she sat at one of the tables, greeted by a youngster who she was considering taking as her latest lover. Going by the name of Phil, he was all of nineteen to her twenty-eight years.

‘You’re soft on Tertius,’ jeered a man, speaking English with a foreign intonation. He was handsome, with a hawk-nose and black oily ringlets falling across the shoulders of a dandyish sky-blue silk coat.

He wore no shirt, but a lavishly embroidered waistcoat, tight breeches and boots made of supple deerskin. The sword with a Toledo blade and basket hilt that swung from a baldric over his right shoulder proclaimed him to be no fop, but a hardened fighter.

‘Shut up, Lafette,’ Cat said, her mane of curly flaxen hair giving her the aspect of a fallen angel. ‘No man gets to me. I don’t need the aggravation.’

‘You need a stiff cock though, I’ll warrant.’

‘And can get one anytime, anywhere.’ She held Lafette’s dark eyes – wolf’s eyes, gypsy eyes. He was angry because she had never yet taken him to her bed and made no secret of her dislike. He was a powerful leader, almost as powerful as Armand, and hated being thwarted.

Half a dozen of his men were with him, for he rarely travelled alone. He had too many enemies and was quite likely to end up with his throat cut in one of the sordid alleys that led from the waterfront. He was recklessly brave, owned two ships and scoured the seas relentlessly, seeking rich pickings. Were it not for the fact that he greased the Governor’s palm, he would have been handed over to the authorities long ago.

‘You’ll never find a man who will fuck you like I can,’ he boasted, and she could tell that he believed it. She glanced down to where his cock lay, and could see it was engorged beneath the breeches, stretching up almost to his waist. No empty boast, then? But there was something about him that repelled her. He was too smooth and snakelike.

To rile him she turned her smile on the lad at her table. He was staring at her, obviously besotted. She ran her fingers through his brown hair, causing mayhem in his groin area. He gasped and seized her hand. She chuckled and pressed her breasts against his shoulder. Her bodice was low-cut, her cleavage pronounced and he blushed fiery red. She guessed he was on the point of spilling in his underwear and felt motherly, as she did towards her son. One day perhaps an experienced woman would take pity on him too, and relieve him of his spunk.

Lafette was watching her through lowered lids and she didn’t relish having an audience. She stood up, held out her hand to the boy, and said, ‘Come, Phil, let’s go out back to my private rooms.’ Her scornful stare defied Lafette to comment, or anyone else for that matter, and leaving the pot-man in charge she took the youth into her parlour.

Fired by Dutch courage he tried to kiss her, but was too clumsy. She enjoyed being in charge and drew him down on the couch of her well-furnished room. She had filled it with gifts from her customers and spoils of piratical adventures in which she had taken part. Cat was rich enough to retire, but would have been bored to death.

To stop her heart from beating madly in anticipation of seeing Armand, she lifted her skirt, giving Phil a full view of her sparse pubic hair. He goggled, moaned and clasped himself between the legs, almost beyond control.

She reached down and stopped him, withdrawing his grasp on his cock and saying, ‘No, not yet. Don’t lose it till I say you can.’ She unbuttoned him and drew out that long, pink, fresh young prick, but was careful not to caress it, thus precipitating a premature explosion.

‘You’re wonderful… wonderful…’ Phil spluttered, hardly daring to move lest the pressure prove too much.

‘And I’m going to show you how to pleasure me,’ she promised, then lay back and lifted one leg, resting it against the couch. Her skirt fell back, revealing her shapely thighs and tempting cleft. She wore no stockings, only high-heeled mules with metal buckles. ‘Come closer and take a good look. Have you seen a woman’s cunt before?’

He went even redder. ‘No, I’ve not.’

‘Don’t be shy. You’re a virgin, aren’t you?’ This was even more exciting.

‘Yes, but don’t tell my mates. They’re always talking about the women they’ve had.’

‘Pay them no heed. They’re probably lying anyway. This is my pleasure spot, and I’m going to show you how to stroke it.’ She lifted a finger to her mouth and licked it, then applied the moisture to her labia, parting the swollen folds and anointing her love-bud. A moan escaped her as she gently massaged it, lifting her hips so that the little organ poked from its hood, rosy-pink and hard. Phil stared, riveted to the spot.

‘What are you doing?’ he breathed jerkily.

‘This is my treasure, my little nubbin of delight.’ Cat was roused even further by his innocence.

‘But I thought women needed a man’s prick inside them.’

She gurgled with laughter that ended in a gasp as the pleasure began to course through her, every nerve responding to the steady friction of her fingertip flying over her clit. ‘This is a story put about by men. A lusty cock feels good, but not unless my bud is rubbed. I can get my pleasure with women, too. They know where and how to caress it. I am about to teach you a valuable lesson that will stand you in good stead for the rest of your life. Women will adore you for it, if you treat their nubbins as I’m doing now. Watch.’

Her hand moved faster and she arched her back, chasing the pleasure. Now she was beyond the point of no return, vaguely aware that Phil was holding his cock and rubbing it in unison with her rapid movements. Who would come first? She had a notion it would be her. She was rising to that plateau where all she needed was concentration to lift her even higher and tip her over the edge. Her nipples tingled, her clit was fiery hot, the need within her growing to immense proportions till she was overwhelmed with a rush of intense pleasure. As she came she saw one face before her. Not Phil’s, but the swarthy, arrogant features of Armand.

Romilly was excited, yet annoyed. She couldn’t wait to leave the ship and step on to the wharf, but her attire infuriated her. She wore a big, shady hat, elbow-length gloves, high heels, silk stockings and lace-edged lawn petticoats, but the gown allotted her did not meet with her approval. She was still grumbling about it to Alvina as they waited to be escorted ashore.

‘It’s so outmoded. Scarlet hasn’t been worn for ages. Everyone who is anyone wears pastel shades now. Look at the waist, so high it’s almost under my armpits, and the collar! Ye gods, the neckline is square. It must be all of ten years old. And as for this necklace and earrings, they’re nothing but paste.’

‘Would you expect him to provide you with real gems? No doubt those are in his strongbox. Stop complaining,’ Alvina said, cross at being interrupted when she was making eyes at a crewmember engaged in lowering the gangplank. She was attired in emerald green. ‘I think these strong colours are flattering. I may introduce them when we get home. And I like the cut of the sleeves.’

‘Come along, ladies,’ Armand said, finely dressed and wearing a broad-brimmed hat with an ostrich plume.

Goods for sale had already been taken ashore, including half a dozen slaves that were surplus to requirement. Romilly shuddered as she realised she could have been among their number. Jamie and George had been kitted out with fashionable suits, and their valets were neatly attired. Kitty wore a low-cut dress with a full shirt that finished at her ankles, and Jessica was more soberly clad, though she looked years younger now, flattered by the doctor’s attentions.

‘Love moves in mysterious ways,’ Alvina said, nodding towards her. ‘Who would have thought that your duenna would fall prey to Cupid’s arrows?’

’Who indeed?’ Romilly rested the tips of her fingers on Armand’s outstretched arm and permitted him to help her cross the swaying gangplank, with its dizzying drop to the water.

The goods were already being loaded on a cart, ready to be transported to the auction house, while the slaves, tethered by their wrists, walked along behind. They were well fed and in prime condition. A sick slave wasn’t worth much and it was up to those selling them to ensure they were healthy.

‘Where are we going?’ Romilly demanded, missing her mentor, Sabrina. She had been left in charge back at the island.

‘Firstly, I want to introduce you to an old friend of mine. Then we’ll stay in my house while Captain Willard makes the trip to Jamaica, to talk with your aunt and uncle.’

‘I could try to escape,’ she challenged, lifting her hem from the dusty, unpaved walkway.

‘You could, but I don’t advise it. You’re my hostage, remember, so it will be unwise to try any tricks.’

Despair swept over her. It was so hot there, although the sun was down. Her hat and the parasol she held aloft offered little protection. She shrank against Armand, afraid of the dregs of humanity that teemed on the quayside. Beggars, like those that haunted the London streets, held out crippled limbs or displayed empty eye sockets or unhealed sores. Mariners without ships tugged at Armand’s arm, seeking employment. There were women of every race and colour, some turning out to meet their men with babes in their arms and children clinging to their skirts. The rest comprised gaudily dressed whores bawling obscenities and touting for business. The buildings were mostly ramshackle, though there were some set back from the quay, white stone structures that housed the wealthy and a range of others that were brothels, gambling dens and taverns, mostly made of wood with straw roofs. An open-air market was in progress where everything could be bought, from a parrot to a sack of yams or a fresh chicken.

The place stank of rotting vegetables, dirt, corruption and human waste. Romilly and Alvina were not greatly inconvenienced by this; London was little better, though greater cleanliness had been introduced since the Great Plague struck in 1665. It was common practice to urinate in the streets, and chamber pots were emptied out of the top windows, with the warning cry of, ‘Gardeloo!’

It was the heat that was unbearable and Romilly could feel the sweat soaking into her tight bodice. Her skirts were hot and heavy, her gown made of substantial satin, and the parasol did little to shield her from the glare.

‘How can genteel white women survive in this dreadful climate?’ she said, removing her hand from Armand’s arm as they walked beside Alvina and George, Jamie and Joshua, with their servants bringing up the rear.

‘One can get accustomed to anything. “Needs must when the devil drives”,’ he answered philosophically.

‘Well I never shall. I’d rather freeze on the Arctic wastes than spend a moment longer here.’

In that fraught second he seemed no longer even remotely attractive. Neither did Jamie or Joshua or any man there. It was her father’s fault that she was in this sorry situation – another bothersome man! What use were they? And God had made them in His image! This didn’t commend the Almighty to her in the slightest.

‘I’ve never known a wench to grumble as much as you.’ He was part amused, part irritated.