Authors: Susannah Merrill
The acknowledgement was frightening at first, for passion was not an enviable trait in a gently-bred young woman. But admitting she possessed this shameful flaw, Sarah found, did make it somewhat easier to overcome. And now that Stewart had dismissed her, her pride kept her longings at bay.
Of course Sarah had no way of knowing that Stewart’s desire for her had, if anything, heightened in the time since he last held her. He was possessed of much experience when it came to hiding his feelings and now he drew heavily on this talent. She could never know that his uncharacteristic pang of conscience barred him from breaking down her defenses, making her prove that she was every bit the sensuous woman he thought she could be. And it was not his loyalty to Felicia, as he had once told himself, that held him in check. It was Sarah, and something she had reminded him of on that night she had been close to being taken.
Stewart Chamberlain, the man who was so sure of everything, was for once not so sure how he would feel after Sarah had become his lover. He had become fond enough of her to know that he did not wish to hurt her. What if she were right? What if he grew tired of her after the game was won? Experience dictated that a strong possibility. Hadn’t it always been that way? And though Lady Sarah Tremont was as intelligent as she was beautiful, her innocence made her too vulnerable. She would never marry without her virginity, of that he was nearly sure. And he did not want to be responsible for forcing her into spinsterhood. Let that crime be on her own head!
And so, he thought ruefully, stretched out comfortably on the bed while Galena expertly dressed Sarah’s shimmering tresses, the monk and the virgin shared a name, a room, a bed, and a companionable, if not honest, relationship, while all the time his body was tormented by the irony of it all.
“IfGalenafinishessoon,darling,wouldyou care for a stroll by the lagoon?” His gentle voice wafted toward Sarah and she smiled at his handsome reflection in the dressing table looking glass.
“Oh, I would. I’ve not been outside all day. Hurry Galena, or we won’t have time.” Sarah loved the serenity of the hidden lagoon where Stewart bathed. But on his orders, she never dared go there by herself. Some of the pirates, including d’Alava himself, frequented the lush haven, making it unsafe for a lone female.
dressing Sarah’s hair please her mistress. perfect. Tonight Galena had created a sleek coiffure, with Sarah’s dark hair secured firmly at the base of her neck in a stylish chignon. It suited the black low-cut gown perfectly, making Sarah look and feel much older and more worldly than her 20 years.
“I done. See? So pretty, yes?” Galena adored
A hot flicker of approval momentarily lit Stewart’s brown eyes when she turned for his inspections, but he masked it quickly, rising from the bed and pulling on his well-fitted black cutaway coat. “You rival any Spanish princess this evening, my dear,” he offered with more politeness than warmth. “Galena, a splendid job, as usual.” The dark-skinned maid embarrassed pleasure Sarah’s combs and brushes. lowered her eyes in as she quickly put away
They reached the lagoon by way of a narrow path that began directly beneath their balcony. The early evening sun cast long shadows across the wide, azure pool, an oasis in the dense tropical flora surrounding it. Picking their way across some flat rocks on the leeward side, they came to an area where fallen palms had created a natural bench on which Sarah settled herself. She breathed deeply of the heavily perfumed air, and was about to comment on the beauty on the spot when something unusual caught her eye.
“Stewart? What is that over there?” She pointed to an area on the windward side still dappled by the fading sun. “It looks like someone forgot to retrieve his clothes.” With an impish smile, she raised her eyes upward to where he stood in front of her, adding, “Perhaps we’ve frightened off a bashful pirate.”
Stewart winked. “I assure you, my dear, there is no such thing. But let me take a look.” He passed in front of her, but instead of remaining, she rose to follow.
“I’ll come with you,” she murmured, concentrating on holding up her full skirts and following his long-legged stride. So intent was she on picking her way between the mossy bank and the tangled foliage that when suddenly only a few feet from mound, she bumped full force into his broad back. Clutching his arms to steady herself, she giggled a pardon, peaking around his shoulder to see the reason for his abrupt halt.
“Isaidgoback!”Shakingo ffherhands, Stewart strode over to the spot and Sarah watched as he knelt and parted the leaves around the object. Inching forward, she peered until she realized that he was handling not a bundle of clothes but a lifeless body. Even as the shock nearly paralyzed her lungs and heart, her mouth suddenly dry, Sarah was mesmerized by the sight and continued forward. “Sarah!” Stewart’s head snapped up and angry eyes shot sparks into her horrified blue ones. “Not one step further, do you hear?”
With a leap, Stewart was on his feet and rushed to hold her back. Still staring beyond his arm, she struggled fiercely, knowing yet not knowing what he was keeping her from. “Stewart, tell me! Who is it?” Her words spilled out in a horrified gasp brought on by shock and the effort made to cut loose from Stewart’s firm grip. Finally, he managed to wrap both arms securely around her, forcing her to look up into his face as she pleaded, “I want to know, Stewart. You must tell me.”
Looking into her wide, frightened eyes begging for yet repelling the truth, Stewart knew a moment of utterly devastating remorse. She had been so young and so well shielded from the harshness of life. And then he entered into her safe, secure world and nothing but misery had been her lot since. He had never meant to cause her so much pain. “Sarah,” he whispered, holding her so close she almost lost her breath, “It’s Tegan. She’s dead.”
She stared at him as if she were still waiting for him to speak. And then, the tautness left her body and she slumped against him, so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance holding her up. Pressing her head against his shoulder, he gently caressed her slender neck, murmuring, “I’m sorry, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
She rested against him for what seemed like an eternity, her mind a complete blank, her body as rigid as a stone carving. Then in a quiet, tearless voice, she spoke, “I want to see her, Stewart. Take me to her.”
“I want to see her.” The voice, though faint, was charged with a fierceness that brooked no denial. Reluctantly he took her by the waist and led her to the spot where Tegan lay.
Thatimpishface,alwayssopleasantandfull of life, was pale and marred. Tegan had been strangled by strong, bare hands, and by the look of her disheveled boy’s clothing, Stewart guessed other atrocities had been committed as well. He wondered if Sarah were concluding as much. Slowly, mechanically, Sarah sank to her knees beside her trusted maid and friend and began gently brushing the shaggy auburn hair from the tiny face. Stroking the cool cheek, she whispered, “No one had a more loyal servant or friend than I, dear Teeg. You cared for me, expecting nothing in return. How I will miss you ....”
Moments passed until finally Sarah raised her head, looking up at Stewart with dry, serious eyes. “We must bury her before anyone can find her body. Will you help me, please?”
For a second, Stewart hesitated, left speechless by her calm, rational mien. But he recovered quickly, saying, “Sarah, I can take care of this. Let me take you back to the house.”
Her brow creased impatiently and she shook her head, not meeting his eyes. “No, there isn’t time. I will see this through, so you needn’t try to stop me.”
They worked quickly. Stewart found a spot in the jungle where the sandy soil was loose, but with only shells and flat stones with which to dig, it was impossible to clear more than a shallow grave. Meanwhile, Sarah lovingly straightened Tegan’s tattered clothes, silently decrying the fact that the plain girl must go to her final resting place in breeches rather than a dress. With her handkerchief, she washed the smudges from Tegan’s face and arms, a burning lump rising in her throat as she touched the ugly bruises on the maid’s neck. But she willed herself not to dwell on anything but the task at hand.
With infinite care, Stewart laid the small form in the pit he had dug and Sarah turned away while he completed his task. When he was finished, she helped him camouflage the grave with sand and fallen palm leaves so that the area might have resembled an animal’s lair if one ever came upon it. In wordless agreement, they bowed their heads in silent prayer and then Sarah placed a kiss on the matted leaves.
“Wemusthurry,”sheordered,picking Stewart’s coat from a branch where he’d hung it before beginning to dig. “You’ll have to change your shirt and breeches before we go to dinner.”
They raced back to the haven of their chambers, mercifully unseen, and while Stewart removed and hid his soiled clothes, Sarah took his high top boots out on the balcony and brushed them till they shone again. She returned just as he was tying his stock.
He turned from the looking glass as she came toward him. Her face was a determined mask. “Sarah, you needn’t join us for dinner. I’ll have Galena bring something up if you’re hungry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said abruptly, refusing to meet his gaze, “I must go or d’Alava may suspect something is wrong. And have you considered that he may know something of this? It behooves us to show him that we’ve made no discovery.”
“I have considered these possibilities, Sarah. That is why I think it’s best that you avoid his company. It may be very difficult for you ....” His concern for her threatened her composure; she made an angry gesture of dismissal.
Dinner was a truly unique affair from Stewart’s point of view. In awe he watched Sarah, as gay, witty and charming as ever. Never did she miss a beat of the conversation while he, amazed by her remarkable performance, lost track of the banter not once, but twice during the course of the evening. D’Alava appeared not to notice, but Jeremiah, attuned to his best friend’s ways, sensed that there was much more going on than met the eye.
At one point, d’Alava commented that the meal was less tasty than usual. Stewart stiffened at this reference to Tegan’s cooking, forgetting all else but that it was a clue to how long ago she had been murdered. But Sarah immediately cajoled their host, offering that in three weeks, this was the first poor meal, and that every cook has a bad day. She then proceeded to change the subject to her regular reminder to d’Alava of how overlong their captivity was lasting. He took great delight in offering excuses to her, which she, in turn, charmingly refuted.
The evening continued as usual until it was time to repair to the parlor for an after-dinner aperitif. This night Sarah begged fatigue and asked to be excused. D’Alava countered that if her predinner promenades were so exhausting, perhaps she should forego them in order that he might enjoy her company longer.
She smiled bewitchingly, despite the painful reminder. “Even in the Tower of London, Señor, prisoners are allowed their daily exercise. Would you be so cruel as to deny us that small taste of freedom?”
“You wound me to the quick, mi dulce,” d’Alava lamented. “Have I not been the most benevolent of jailers?” He stroked her hand lovingly while Stewart inwardly seethed.
“But of course, Señor. And that is why I begged to take my leave, without fear of reprisal.” She gazed at him demurely, waiting for his permission.
With a hearty laugh, he caved in, giving her hand an intimate squeeze and kissing it soundly. “Fare thee well, enchantress, while I piece together the bits of my rapiered heart.” Sarah nodded to Jeremiah, reached up to give her unsmiling husband a quick kiss and left hastily.
She was met by Galena in the adjoining sitting room, but after the maid helped her unlace her evening gown and corset, she dismissed her, looking back only to add a kind word when she noticed the fearful disappointment on the young girl’s face.
At last Sarah was alone. Stepping slowly out of the beautiful black gown in the candlelit bedroom, she considered how appropriate the color for the task she had earlier performed. She waited for the tears, but none came.
With a sigh, she removed her undergarments and foregoing a nightgown, slipped into a light wrapper which she belted loosely. Any other night she might have found the garment too thin for modesty, but tonight she did not care.
Sarah sat in front of the dressing table mirror, mechanically removing pins until her dark brown locks fell free. She brushed and brushed, staring at her haunting reflection, waiting for the tears. But none came.
Why? Tegan had been brutally murdered and all she could do was ask herself why she could not cry? She felt empty; there was no pain. She was numb and nothing seemed worthy of her attention. Only that fact: She was too cold, too dead, to cry. The idea should frighten her ... anger her ... something. But there was no feeling at all.
She thought about her performance at dinner. It should have been difficult, even impossible. But it was easy because it did not matter. She had had nothing to lose. She could have continued on; she wasn’t really tired as she had told d’Alava. Simply weary of their numbing charade.
Carelessly she dropped the brush and it clattered noisily on the vanity. Rising, Sarah strolled to the balcony, staring aimlessly until she spotted the bright moon peaking between the palm fronds overhead. Resting her head against the doorframe, she hugged herself tightly, trying to capture her body’s own warmth. But she felt cool, detached from herself. With her blue eyes locked on the bright ball in the sky, she tried to conjure up thoughts of Tegan and all that the young woman had meant to her these many years. When that failed to evoke a reaction, she tried to picture the abused, lifeless body. But her mind would not rally to the task, as if it had nothing to recall. And still she could not cry.