Shadow Play (7 page)

So why hadn't he taken her?

Because, bastard though he might be, he'd never taken a virgin in his life.

It was the innocence of that portrait that had befuddled him the first moment he saw it. It had haunted his dreams and driven him from his bed. He had never known naivete.

His first memories had been of his mother, a dark-haired Frenchwoman, turning tricks in a tar-paper shanty to earn enough money to purchase food for the only meal he would eat that day. Sometimes the finely dressed planters with diamonds on their fingers would pay her for her time and body, and sometimes they wouldn't. Sometimes they would beat her instead. And occasionally they would make her go to her knees and beg for her pennies—and perhaps make her do things while she was on her knees that made her throw up after they'd gone. Now and again more than one would show up, stinking of whiskey and flashing fists full of money to get her to accommodate them all at once.

He hadn't understood what was going on, but he hadn't liked it. He'd begged her not to do it. It hadn't ended until some drunken, ham-handed overseer of a cotton farm blundered in one evening when his mother was out, and found him alone...

Having forgotten the cigarette between his fingers, Morgan jumped and grimaced before flinging what was left of it to the ground. He lifted a hand and rubbed it across his forehead. Weakened and sweating, he swayed back against the cold, hard lamppost and closed his eyes.

"Mr. Kane?"

The feminine voice was caught by the wind and lost in an instant.

"Mr. Kane?" it called again, more urgently this time.

He opened his eyes. A drop of rain spattered the lapel of his fluttering coat as he turned to see a coach. A pale face appeared in the dark, glassless window. Lady Gastrop. He could smell the scent of violet water from where he stood.

"Thank God I found you," she said. "I've waited for nights..."

The coach door swung open as the lady's visage disappeared from sight. He gazed at the yawning entry before approaching and swinging aboard. The coach lurched into motion before he was settled into the velvet-covered seat across from his hostess.

They rode in silence down Water Street.

Finally he said, "I take it your husband is out of the country again, Lady Gastrop." He saw her head dip a little. Her hands clutched together in her lap.

"I've missed you these past weeks. I've thought of you often, Morgan."

"Really?" His mouth curled and he relaxed, his spine conforming to the plush contour of the seat, his body swaying in rhythm with the coach. He eased one leg between her knees before meeting her eyes directly. "You didn't seem eager to bid me hello two days ago when we bumped into each other on the dock, m'lady."

Her mouth pursed. "You aren't angry with me... you know it would be disastrous if we were seen together..."

"Because you're married? Or because of what and who I am?" When she didn't respond, he flipped his hand in dismissal and said, "Never mind."

"Don't be cruel to me tonight, dear Morgan. I've missed you too badly. I sent messages to your house—"

"I can't get away during the day. Some of us have to work for a living."

Cautiously, she touched his knee with her fingertips; they trailed teasingly up his thigh. "I hoped you would come to the house after dark." She leaned toward him and her per- fume washed over him in a sickening cloud. Her hand cupped the bulge in his pants and she lost her breath.

"Oh, God," she panted. "Morgan, we'll go back to the house—"

He closed his hand around her wrist and twisted, making her slump and gasp. "The children—" he whispered.

"Will be in bed asleep."

He tightened his grip, and she whimpered, slid off her seat so she lay half on and half off Morgan's lap, her face turned away from him in misery. He dragged up her skirt as he said in a low growl, "I don't screw women when there's children in the house, m'lady. Just what do you think discovering their mother in bed with someone who wasn't their father would do to them? Did you stop to think about that? How would it make them feel to learn that their mother is a slut and a whore? You don't do that to children, Lady Gastrop. Seeing that sort of ugliness does something to a child. It makes 'em feel dirty, and then you'll come to resent them for reminding you that you're a failure as a mother."

' 'I'm sorry.'' Her eyes closed, and as he pressed her back onto the seat and shoved open her legs with his knees, he said,

"Look at me."

Reluctantly, she did so. "You're cruel. So cruel."

"And you're a slut. Now open your legs. Wide. Wider."

He released himself from his breeches, and she groaned.

"Please. Please—"

"Please what?" he asked softly.

"Come inside me. Now. Please, now!"

He did, slowly, sliding and withdrawing little by little until she was twisting and whimpering and begging for surcease.

Morgan reached for the drape on the window, hesitating as the lights of the Governor's mansion shone out in the darkness. Then he eased the curtain down and got on with his business.

Chapter Four

Sarah peered through her veil at the stalls running the length of the wharf. At half past ten in the morning the docks were congested with people, natives and British alike, searching the contents of the crates newly arrived from ports throughout the world. The stall-keepers sold an extraordinary assortment of goods, from dried fish to Bibles to ice skates, which made Sarah smile. Ice skates in British Guiana made as much sense as the wool clothing some of the shoppers were purchasing in abundance. There was also furniture, like the oval-backed sofas and gilded mirrors designed to grace stately

European drawing rooms. In the heart of the bazaar was Little China, where Chinese merchants sold silks, carved ivory, and painted porcelains. It was whispered that there was an opium den there as well.

Although the market was cheerful during the morning and afternoon, no sane person would venture there after night- fall. Robbery and throat-cutting were rampant. Even during the heat of midday pickpockets were as numerous as flies preying upon the unwary shoppers who were at their most lethargic. Therefore, Sarah, with Kan at her side, clutched her reticule in her hands and moved cautiously through the market in search of the American.

The decision to confront Morgan Kane one last time had not been an easy one. Desperation was new to her. Somehow she had to convince him to go to Japuri, even if it meant giving him more money. She would find the resources some- where, even sell the extravagant emerald engagement ring Norman had given her if she must. It was a trifle on the gaudy side anyway, although she would never have hurt Norman's feelings by telling him so. She simply wore the ornament in his presence and tucked it away at all other times.

The air felt heavy and hot to her. It reeked with the odor of unwashed bodies and burning tobacco, and the pungent smell of essence of turtle perfume. The shoppers pressed close to the stalls, haggling over less-than-perfect merchandise, their voices rising and falling and occasionally bursting out in ribald laughter. Gradually, as Sarah moved further into the hub where the stalls were packed closer together, allowing little sun to enter, the wares were displayed in eerie dimness. The dried boa skins and tapir skulls draping the stalls were ghostly in the smoky air. Here and there bedraggled men or women without stalls had spread blankets over the ground and strewn trinkets upon mem, mostly jewelry which had been carved from many of the native trees. Others displayed more elaborate pieces, no doubt stolen from the wealthy residents of the city. Sarah pressed closer to Kan as he shoved the loitering Indians aside. Finding the American in these surroundings might be impossible. There were so many merchants and shoppers and—

She stopped.

The tobacco smoke drifted just above her head in a fog, burning her eyes and nose, so that she was forced to blink and gasp for breath. Removing her hat, she strained to see through the acrid cloud, every nerve alert as the American's image appeared and then vanished behind masses of people. Forgetting Kan, she barreled her way around and through the crowd, stumbling on bits of splintered crates and slipping on the remains of a disemboweled fish before stopping in front of his stall.

His head was down, spilling damp black hair to the bridge of his nose as he counted his money. His once white shirt, unbuttoned completely, showed stains of dirt and sweat, and the sleeves had been rolled back, exposing his forearms nearly to his elbows. He clamped a burning cigarette between his teeth.

She cleared her throat.

Without moving his head, he looked up through his fringe of hair. She felt herself blanch and become light-headed. As he contemplated her, neither moving nor blinking, some- thing came into his face, a strange, unexpected vulnerability that left her disarmed and, for a moment, hopeful that he would at least hear her out. But in a flicker of an instant the old arrogance returned. She saw it in the pressed line of his mouth, the narrowing of his eyes.

As silence stretched out between them, she struggled with the overwhelming need to turn and flee. Riveted, she steadied her breathing and said, "I must speak with you, Mr. Kane."

A long moment passed.

"Don't tell me you're in the market for a little snake oil."

She shook her head, and his grin became indolent.

"The snout of a white-lipped peccary, perhaps?"

"Mr. Kane."

"The beak of a toucan, or maybe a bottle of essence of hoatzin for that special someone you hate... hmm?"

A group of hagglers approached, and fearing she would lose him to the customers, she frantically searched the ram- shackle booth for something to buy. Spying a finely webbed butterfly net, she pointed to it and said, "I'll take that."

He laughed.

"I'm serious," she said. "Give me that net."

"To catch what?"

"Butterflies, of course. Norman, my fiance" owns an extensive collection of butterflies from around the world. I promised I would bring him several when I return home."

"Your fiance likes to pull wings off butterflies, does he?"

"No, he only—"

"Drives pins through their guts."

Frowning, Sarah lowered her voice as the crowd moved to the next stall. "Mr. Kane, I didn't come here to haggle over butterfly nets. I came to ask you one last time to help me. Have you given my proposition more thought?"

He nodded.

She waited, but got no further response. "Well?" she prompted.

"No chance," he replied with a finality that made her cringe.

Tossing her hat aside and placing her gloved hands on the stall counter, she leaned nearer, so that the ash of his cigarette was only inches from her nose. She noted the tiny lines of dissipation around his eyes and the faint scar cutting slightly into his lower lip. "Please," she said in a whisper. "Can we not discuss this like rational adults?"

He raised one eyebrow and a bead of sweat trickled down his unshaven cheek. He blew a stream of smoke through his lips, shook his head, and lifted a pair of hairy withered sacs of skin before her eyes.
"Chere,
do you see these?"

She glanced at them and shuddered.

"They're jaguar testicles. Mine will look just like that if King catches me in Japuri again."

"If it's more money you want, I'll get it somehow."

He looked at her mouth.

"A thousand? Is that what you want?" She dug inside her reticule and pulled out the ring. She slammed it onto the counter. "It must be worth five hundred. Take it. It's yours, along with the five hundred I've already offered, as well as the portrait.'' He started to swing away; she reached for his arm in desperation, her ringers sinking into his granite like muscle. It stopped him in his tracks.

"Damn you," she hissed. "I refuse to beg. If you'll not help me, I'll find someone who will. I'll go without a guide if I must. I'll boat up that river to King's front door and demand what he stole from my father!"

He yanked his arm away, the motion spilling ashes to the ground. "Who the devil said anything about
you
going to Japura?"

"Surely you didn't think I would meekly hand over my money and wait patiently in Georgetown. That is what got my father into this predicament in the first place."

"You? In Japura' He threw his head back and laughed. ' 'I can just imagine your reaction the first time you find a bat in your bedding. Or better yet, a Xavante headhunter."

"How dare you," she whispered in a voice tight with emotion. "How dare you laugh at me. I am just as capable of surviving the journey as you are, Mr. Kane."

His eyes mocked her. "Yeah. Right."

"Then I'll simply go without you." She turned away.

"Hey!" he shouted. When she looked at him again, he shook his head. "You little idiot.

You don't know what the hell you're saying."

"I am desperate, sir."

"And soon to be dead if you think you can deal with King on your own."

"What choice do you leave me?"

Kane raked one hand through his hair. His face looked whiter; his voice sounded deeper and more hoarse.' 'Darlin', you're dealin' with a madman. King's a devil. Worse'n a devil. You got no idea what he'd do to a woman like you— to any woman, but especially to one as beautiful as you."

"But you'll be there to protect me, Mr. Kane."

"You gotta be jokin'. Even if we survived the journey into Japura\ we'd never survive King."

"Rubbish. If we are adequately armed and prepared, I see no reason why we cannot succeed."

Closing his eyes, praying for patience, he replied as if reasoning with a belligerent child. "If we survived the jungle.
If.
Lady, you got any idea what's waitin' for you out there?" He jerked a strand of tiny fish teeth from a peg on the wall and threw them on the counter. "Piranhas. They eat the flesh off people in a matter of seconds." He grabbed a snake skin and tossed it at her, so she was forced to jump aside. "That one was only six feet long. Wait till one of those sons-a-bitches measuring thirty feet comes sailing at you out of a tree, intent on swallowing you whole. First he'll slam you in the head and knock you unconscious. Then he'll crush every bone in your body."