Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers

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СКАЧАТЬ and harsh sounds of arguing had roused Marisa out of an uneasy doze, but she was afraid to open her eyes until she heard the door slam behind him. Then, cautiously, she peeked from behind her long eyelashes, trying not to blink at the harsh sunlight that filtered through. She was lying in an enormous canopied bed, the curtains drawn back far enough to let her catch a glimpse of a large and luxuriously furnished room, its walls hung with tapestries and paintings that made her want to blush. There was a fireplace in one corner; coals still smoldered hotly in spite of the heat of the day. Beyond the widely opened windows she caught a glimpse of a stone terrace and a fountain that cast a shower of silvery droplets into the sunlit air.

      She stirred uneasily, suddenly becoming aware of her nakedness under a thin sheet that felt like silk against her tingling flesh. And with that first tentative movement all the horrifying memories she had been trying to hold away rushed back. She sat up abruptly, gave a smothered gasp, and then snatched the sheet up to cover her naked breasts as the man who had been standing in the middle of the room turned to gaze at her with a worried, frowning look.

      He spoke English, but with a strange, burring accent that made his words difficult to understand.

      “So you’re awake, puir lassie! Now, now, there’s no need to look at me like that, I’m not out to harm you, you know. And if I’d had a true understanding of how it was, I’d not have permitted what took place. But I suppose ye don’t even understand what I’m saying, poor child, do you?”

      The kind, even pitying, note in his voice, coupled with what she had overheard earlier, made Marisa want to trust him, this stocky man with short-cropped reddish-grey hair, and brown eyes that reminded her of a spaniel’s.

      Mother Angelina had personally seen to her education—and the reverend mother had, at one time, been a noblewoman. “You have to know of the world, my dear child, before you can truly renounce it,” she had told Marisa, so the young woman’s knowledge of languages included English and German, as well as Spanish, Italian, and French.

      She began to talk haltingly in English to this man with the kind eyes. While she was talking, she felt something hardening inside her, just like the little boy in a fairy story whose heart had turned to ice. Why, a few days before she would have been terrified at the sight of her own blood sticking to her thighs and staining these fine sheets. But last night had taught her something: she had survived the very fate she had been running away from, and she had learned to hate—both at the same time, it seemed.

      Donald McGuire made clicking noises with his tongue and shook his head. Yes, he at least was sympathetic. He sounded almost like a father as he turned his head away after pointing to a door which disclosed a luxurious bathroom, the first that Marisa had ever seen.

      “It’s a heathenish invention,” he warned in a grumbling voice. “Sunken tub made out of marble—just like the old Romans used to have, the captain says. But there. Ye’ll want to soak your poor bruised body in hot water, and there’s plenty of that, at least. Warmed by the sun in a cistern on the roof so they tell me. And while you’re in there, I’ll see what I can do about finding you some garments to cover yourself with. Don’t you worry now, little girl. You won’t be molested again—I’ll see to that meself.”

      Once the door had closed behind him, Marisa cast aside the sheet with which she had covered herself and gazed curiously about her, managing, for a few moments at least, to forget her unpleasant predicament. She was in a blue-tiled, Moorish-style room, which was lit from above by a skylight set in the roof. Varying shades of tile, ranging from deep blue to turquoise, gave the impression that she was underwater. Steps led down into the sunken bath that Donald had talked of, and there was the golden pump-handle he had described, which would bring heated water pouring into the tub. All the appointments were made of gold, and in shelves set into the wall there were crystal bottles, stoppered with gold, which held an assortment of oils and perfumes. A wet towel, flung carelessly to one side gave mute evidence that someone else had used this chamber a short time before. Had it been Donald’s mysterious captain—the same man who had captured her last night and had, just as heartlessly, deprived her of her virtue this morning?

      She remembered his irritable, brutal words before he had left. Her face flushed, and her whole body became hot with humiliation and anger. How lightly he took what he had done! He had actually blamed her for everything—and now he was only anxious to be rid of her.

      Marisa became conscious for the first time of the gold-streaked mirrors that reflected her body from all angles. Averting her eyes, she began frantically to pump the gold lever and watched the streaming water gushing into the bath. As it filled, she wondered with a kind of detachment whether she would have the courage to drown herself. That was what she should do—she did not want to go back to the gypsies, to face Blanca’s knowing, malicious grin or Mario’s jealous rage. And now she could not possibly go back to the convent. No, she was cut off from everything and everyone familiar, and all because of her own foolishness.

      Steam filled the room, clouding the mirrors, and with a sigh Marisa let herself sink into the water. Almost immediately, her tense muscles began to relax, freeing her mind; opening it to all kinds of thoughts that began to weave in and out of her consciousness. She was her practical father’s daughter, and her sensuous mother’s child. What was there left to lose that she had not lost already?

      But Marisa didn’t drown herself, and three days later she had her first view of the ancient port of Cadiz.

      Whitewashed houses and old fortresses, meant to keep off pirate attacks, leaned towards the sea. A sharp breeze had come up, and the ships lying anchored in the great harbor seemed to dance in a stately fashion over the heaving swell of the waves.

      A tiny cockleshell of a boat took them to a long, sleek-hulled schooner that lay close to the harbor entrance.

      “She’s sharp-ended, instead of square,” Donald explained proudly. “Baltimore Clipper type. Takes very little rigging and a small crew, but she’s fast!”

      Looking up curiously, Marisa almost expected to see the vessel flying the skull and crossbones flag of a pirate, but the flag that fluttered from one mast was one she had never seen before—bold red stripes against a white background, and in one corner a blue square, clustered with silver stars. The flag of the young Republic of the United States of America.

      “Captain’s not back on board yet.” There was a relieved note in Donald’s voice as he hustled her up the rope ladder that someone slung over the side. “Now, mind you lie low like I told you; and try to remember you’re a young lad now—I’ll tell the boys you don’t speak nothing but Spanish, so you’ll be spared the questions they’d ask otherwise.”

      He hurried her below to a tiny cabin containing only two bunks and a tiny porthole. He told her, in a harassed tone, to stay there until he sent for her. He was obviously having second thoughts about bringing her aboard, the poor man, and Marisa told herself penitently that she should be ashamed of herself for taking advantage of his kindness to her. She had practically blackmailed him into it, ever since he had mentioned that they would be sailing for France.

      To France! But she had relatives there—she had run away from the convent with the gypsies only because she wanted to get to France. Oh, if she could only go there, she wouldn’t be a trouble to anyone….

      The gypsies had already left Seville, and in any case Donald had had reservations about delivering her back to them. Unlike his captain, he was a man possessed of a conscience. He couldn’t very well abandon her—the “puir lassie” needed protection. And when, in a fit of temper and contrition, Marisa had sheared off her long hair, he had reluctantly given in. Very well then. Since she was small enough and slim enough to pass off as a youth, he’d smuggle her on board the Challenger as the new cabin boy. СКАЧАТЬ