Devi's Paradise (16 page)

‘Believe me, I haven’t even started yet.’ She was determined to make him suffer, though doubted that anything would penetrate his thick hide.

Having seen the cart and slaves on their way under Johnson’s eagle eye, he now guided the rest of them down a side street where the crowd was thinner and the quality of the houses better. He stopped at a tavern where flares cast a lurid glow on the sign swinging overhead depicting a donkey with its hind-legs raised in a savage kick. Light streamed through the leaded glass windows for it was almost dark. Inside someone was scrapping a tune on a fiddle. Men were singing, laughing, talking, but this ceased momentarily when he walked in through the open door.

Then uproar followed. ‘It’s Captain Tertius! Well met, cap’n! How fare you, sir?’

It was noisy and boisterous, voices clamouring on all sides in a mixture of French, English, Dutch, Portuguese and Spanish, all of which Armand appeared to understand. Romilly was glad she was wedged firmly between Alvina and Jessica, with a couple of Armand’s stalwarts bringing up the rear. Dozens of eyes were going over her, appraising, curious or downright lustful.

Armand returned this noisy greeting and ordered drinks all round. ‘Where’s Cat?’ he asked the pot-man, an ugly hunchback who gave a toothless grin, bobbing and ducking as he filled glasses and tankards.

‘She’s in the parlour. Hi, you, go and tell her the captain’s here,’ he answered, administering a swift kick at the ragged black boy assisting him.

A table was cleared, chairs too, and Armand and his party were soon ensconced at its knife-scarred surface. Wine was served to the ladies, but Romilly sat like a frightened kitten, glancing round at the faces, some ferocious, others friendly, all villainous. Smoky lanterns dimly lit the room, the furniture consisting of battered trestles and benches, the floor strewn with sawdust. A few women hung around, casting predatory glances at the finely dressed ladies who had just invaded their territory.

‘Who is Cat?’ Romilly asked Armand, wondering what further shocks were in store for her.

‘The landlady,’ he replied, and then looked up as a tall, wiry man came across to their table.

‘Good evening, Tertius,’ he said, his upper lip curled into a sneer. His eyes were like those of a bird of prey. His face, too, resembled that of a predator; untamed, cruel and very handsome.

‘Ah, Lafette.’ Armand did not invite him to join them. ‘And how are you?’

‘I’m well and prospering.’ Without waiting to be asked Lafette straddled a stool, never taking his wild eyes from Romilly. It was disconcerting and she felt as if he was stripping her. He raised his glass, toasting her over the rim. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your companions, Tertius?’

‘If you insist. This is Lady Romilly and Lady Alvina, with Viscount James and Lord George, and Captain Willard, master of the ship on which they were travelling before being cast ashore during a storm.’

‘On Devil’s Paradise?’

‘The same.’

‘How fortunate… for you if not for them. What d’you intend to do with them?’ As he spoke, Lafette continued scrutinising Romilly and the expression on his face made the lustful glances of the other men seem innocent by comparison.

‘You ask too many questions,
monsieur
.’

It would have been possible to cut the air with a knife, and the rest of the taproom became quiet, transformed into one large listening ear. Both men were armed, both powerful and dangerous, guarding their turf jealously.

‘Braggarts,’ Romilly whispered scornfully to Alvina. ‘Awan was a better man than either of them, and he was a savage. Armand thinks himself an aristocrat, and Lafette’s clothing is splendid but soiled and he flaunts a ruby as big as an egg on the dirty hand resting on his sword.’

‘But my dear, look at the gold rings in his ears and his raven curls,’ Alvina murmured. ‘Oh, my goodness, you must admit that he
is
a handsome brute.’

Sometimes Romilly despaired of her friend, who seemed obsessed by men and that which lay in their breeches. Now she seemed to be relishing this new adventure, drinking in the admiration of every man there, showing off her beauty, the green gown a perfect foil for her titian hair. It appeared that she relished her role as captured lady and would be happy to stay there as queen of the islands.

‘Lady Romilly belongs to you now, Tertius, but I want her. Why don’t be play cards with her as the stake?’ Lafette suggested recklessly, raising an interested murmur from those watching the interplay between these leaders.

‘Not so fast. I hold her hostage. There’s no way I’d involve my business with you.’

‘Are you suggesting that your doxy is too good for me?’ Lafette half rose, his face that of a snarling panther, hand flying to sword hilt.

Armand was on his feet in one lithe movement, kicking the table over with a crash, bottles and glasses splintering on the dirty floor. Lafette pulled out his sword with a singing scrape of steel, but Armand was even quicker. With a movement too swift for the eye to see he whipped out his blade, the deadly point pressing against Lafette’s chest. Silence reigned in the tavern now, all eyes on the protagonists. Duels were two a penny, life cheap, but these men had reputations as the finest swordsmen in the Indies. To see them fight to the death would be something to talk about for years to come.

Trestles were dragged back and space made. Armand and Lafette circled each other in a fencing stance with swords outstretched. Then Lafette lunged, his blade glittering. Armand stood erect and met the attack. Their swords kissed, light like liquid fire running down the steel from blade to blade, from tip to hilt. Lunge. Parry. Riposte. Lafette slipped but recovered himself. The men roared and women shrieked.

‘What fools men be.’ Alvina wasn’t impressed. Several of her acquaintances had died at dawn in Hyde Park over some real or imagined insult, despite the fact that there was an edict against duelling.

‘But what will become of us if Armand is slain?’ Romilly had gone cold all over. She told herself that she didn’t care what happened to him but feared the worst if she should fall into Lafette’s hands. And yet the thought of Armand lying dead on the ground filled her with dismay. The strong body that had possessed her, those shoulders rippling with muscle, the sinews and tightly packed armour of his stomach and the mighty phallus that had robbed her of her virginity – all lifeless! She couldn’t bear to think of it.

‘Stay close to me, Lady Romilly,’ Joshua said, his arm round her offering protection, and she leaned against him gratefully.

‘No need for your help, I can take care of my betrothed,’ Jamie interrupted, bristling like a turkey cock.

‘And I can look to myself,’ stated Alvina, leaping to her feet, ready to hit anyone with her furled parasol. ‘George, a broken bottle is a handy weapon. See to it.’

The blades flashed and Armand was the better duellist, his feet in constant motion like a dancer, standing back then charging forward, sidestepping Lafette’s wild swipes, bending gracefully in a sudden feint. Lafette’s swordsmanship was crude by comparison.

A riot was taking place in the room, knives out and cutlasses too, men hacking and snarling, old enmities coming to the fore. The women’s screams were hysterical, but the hardened harpies threw themselves into the fray, clawing with their nails, attacking with the jagged edges of broken glass. Then like a thunderclap a shot reverberated beneath the roof.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ A woman stood in the doorway like an avenging angel, a smoking pistol in her hand.

She was the most ferocious female Romilly had ever clapped eyes on. Tall, almost alarming of aspect, she gave her a feeling of awe, coupled with envy that someone so beautiful could also be so commanding.

The effect on the crowd was astounding. The duellists lowered their rapiers. Men slunk against the walls, nursing injuries, while the women, eyeing her warily, kept their mouths shut for once. She cast a fierce eye around her property, noting damage and rounding on the hunchback.

‘I told you to keep order and look after the bar, Starling. What the hell’s been going on?’ She lashed out at him with her open palm while he ducked and cringed.

‘Captain Tertius is here,’ he whimpered, as if this explained everything.

‘I can see that, you dolt.’ She swung round on Lafette. ‘As for you, I warned you about making trouble. Any more of it and you’re banned!’

He looked as if he longed to run Armand through the back but was prevented by the rough code of honour to which they all adhered, no matter how reluctantly. He sheathed his weapon and went to sit with his confederates, grabbing a tankard and downing the contents.

‘How is it with you, Cat?’ Armand said, and after slipping his sword back in its scabbard walked towards her, took her in his arms and hugged her.

Romilly was startled by the pang in her heart. Surely she didn’t give a fig if he embraced another woman? But this one was unusual, a bossy madam who acted with the freedom and independence of a man.

Cat smiled delightedly, her arms linked round Armand’s neck as she looked into his face. ‘All the better for seeing you, darling.’ Her voice rang with sincerity. ‘It’s been too long.’

‘And how is Paul?’ Armand accepted the warm salute from her crimson mouth.

‘He’s living at the mission outside town, being educated by the priests. I see him every few weeks. He’s growing so tall now, you’d never believe it.’ Her expression softened, then sharpened again as she looked over his shoulder to where Romilly and Alvina stood, their gowns splashed with liquor from the overthrown table.

‘And who are these flash bunters?’ Cat asked from the haven of his arms, their intimacy plain for all to see.

‘Prisoners. Lords and ladies washed up on my shore when their ship sank. The captain is with them and their servants.’

‘You want these women? Fancy something more refined than me?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s a matter of money. I’m holding them hostage and expect a large sum for their return. Captain Willard, master of their wrecked ship, will carry my demand to Lady Romilly’s relatives who are planters in Jamaica.’

‘You’ve fucked the golden-haired one.’ Cat brought this out as a statement of fact, not a question. ‘I can see it in her eyes when she looks at you. Not the redhead, she’s a hard-faced bitch who knows her way around.’

Armand gave a lopsided smile. ‘Sometimes you are just too perceptive.’

‘But you’ll stay with me tonight? She’s only a simpering chit. You need a real woman.’

Romilly listened to this conversation and became more and more disgusted, with herself as much as him. How could he have treated her so, knowing he had other women eager for his body?

He did not agree to Cat’s blatant request. Instead he said, ‘Come and meet them.’

Cat ordered slaves to clear up the mess, sweep aside broken glass and mop spilled liquid. The tables and benches were put back in place and Cat invited Armand’s enforced guests to sit with her. She ordered whatever they wanted to drink and was friendly on the surface, but Romilly knew she was assessing her every movement and watching Armand’s reaction.

Alvina was angry. ‘I know it was only borrowed plumage but this dress is stained with rum, wine and ale, when the table was turned over by that pair of imbeciles.’

‘Don’t fret, dear, I’m sure some man will fix you up with another,’ rejoined Cat, sitting with her arm linked through Armand’s.

‘You come from London, don’t you? I can tell by your Cockney twang. Whitechapel, was it?’ Alvina asked.

Cat registered surprise. ‘How come a fine trollop like you knows the slums?’

‘I was engaged on ‘good works’, taking food and clothing round to the poor and needy,’ Alvina said with a grin. ‘That was the excuse, anyway. In reality I was rogering an exceedingly handsome highwayman with a twelve inch prick.’

‘Alvina! You never told me about that!’ Romilly sat up, shocked.

‘I don’t tell you everything, dearest. A girl has to have some secrets. Don’t you agree, Cat?’

‘Absolutely,’ and Cat slipped a hand into the opened front of Armand’s shirt and toyed with his nipples, then felt the bulge in his breeches.

Romilly couldn’t help watching and was certain it grew larger under Cat’s experienced fingers. She felt quite sick. Involuntarily she moved closer to Joshua. He offered more solace and strength than Jamie or George who were subdued, as was Kitty and the valets. Jessica was flushed and seemed as if she was enjoying every moment, but then, Dr Quidley was looking after her. That grave, considerate man was on friendly terms with Cat. It seemed by their conversation that she was his sometime patient, as was her son, Paul.

These almost domestic details put the pirates into perspective. They were human beings after all, not ravaging demons. Too human by far, when it came to sex, and she tried not to look as Cat fondled Armand’s private parts. Memories were hard to control, flooding in, making her hot inside. She leaned closer to Joshua, needing another man to come between her and lustful thoughts about Armand. She should be cuddling up to Jamie, but Joshua was much more to her liking.

‘Lady Romilly, can we meet later, if at all possible?’ He gripped one of her hands under the table, keeping his voice low as he said earnestly. ‘I’ve been told that we are to be conveyed to Armand’s house on the outskirts. I don’t know what can be done, but I’m willing to risk all if I can help you escape his clutches.’