Devi's Paradise (19 page)

‘It will open your eyes to how some of us live,’ he stated over the breakfast table that morning. ‘Have you any idea how to run a business? No? I thought not. You may as well continue your education while you’re here,’ he added in that sardonic way of his. ‘I have already dispatched a letter and there is another ship sailing for Port Royal next week, and Captain Willard will be aboard. Lord and Lady Fenby are expecting you, I understand, and must have been mightily worried as the
May Belle
is overdue. Meanwhile, enjoy Tortuga.’

Enjoy it? Romilly hadn’t seen much of him since the night of their arrival. He was capable of taking her, showing her passion that she had never known existed, and then withdrawing completely. Under armed escort she and Alvina had visited the market, been measured for gowns in the workroom of an exiled Parisian tailor, and entertained like royalty at Armand’s house, known as Bella Vista.

Now it was the morning of the auction, and a carriage had borne them there. The sale room was already full, with tiered seats for women on one side and men on the other. Alvina was scathing as she looked across at the female buyers.

‘I’ve never seen such a motley collection,’ she announced, when they had been taken to a separate area reserved for friends of important clients. ‘Heavens, will you look at them! Brothel keepers, I shouldn’t wonder.’

Jamie fidgeted. It riled him to have his life arranged by Armand. He sat with George, a supercilious expression on his face and Romilly thought how much more attractive they were without wigs, their own hair growing again. Tom and Gaston danced attendance. They did their best to supply their masters with clean linen under difficult circumstances, as meticulous as they had been in London. Alvina seemed to have accepted her lot better than anyone, waited on by a round-eyed, overexcited Kitty. The maid had been in her element since being captured, surrounded on all sides by admiring men.

‘It could be a hundred times worse,’ Alvina always said, whenever Romilly started to complain.

Now she flicked open her fan, waving it to cool the air but well versed in that language known to most fashionable ladies, using it as a means of communication and flirtation. She eyed the crowd over the top of it, causing a stir among the ranks. A white woman of her quality was rare indeed, in this hotbed of trade frequented by retired buccaneers turned planters, shady ladies who employed girls to whore for them, pimps who did the same, landlords of taverns and owners of gambling dens.

Armand, who was behind the scenes organising the sale of his wares, had ordered lemonade. It was brought by a pretty mulattress in a print cotton frock and matching turban. Romilly sipped it gratefully, disappointed to find it tepid.

‘I’d like a coloured maidservant,’ Alvina pronounced languidly. ‘Perhaps I’ll take one back to England with me.’

‘If we ever get there,’ Romilly responded gloomily.

There was a platform at one end of the room and a short, stout man with spiky ginger hair and rimless spectacles stood behind a rostrum. ‘He’s acting as if he’s king of the dung heap. Must be the auctioneer,’ Alvina remarked, attracting his attention with her fan. He stared across at her bosom and smiled, displaying crooked teeth. She nodded to him, smiling faintly and flustering him even more.

His assistants carried in the items to be sold, holding them aloft for all to see. There were bales of silk, silverware, canes, clothing, books and maps, anything and everything that could be turned into hard cash. Romilly spotted Armand lounging close to the auctioneer. His aristocratic bearing singled him out, though he was casually dressed in linen breeches and a plain shirt with the sleeves rolled back.

The lots were dealt with speedily, customers bidding against one another. Money changed hands and the buyers collected their goods. Romilly was fascinated, and aware of a change in the atmosphere when it came to the traffic in human beings. The women ceased chattering and leaned forward as a strapping Negro wearing nothing but a loincloth was led to the platform. His hands were manacled. Some of the men were interested too, for he was strong and healthy and would have made a useful field hand. Bidding was brisk but the one who outdid everyone else was Cat. She had swept in late, dressed to kill with an enormous feather-trimmed hat set at a jaunty angle on her flaxen locks.

She handed over her money and one of her minions led the new slave away. Then all eyes returned to the platform when a young black woman took his place. ‘Strip her! We don’t intend to buy a pig in a poke! Let’s have a look at her!’ demanded members of the audience, both male and female.

This was almost too much for Romilly who was already on edge due to Cat’s arrival. Armand was deep in conversation with her and she was smiling and vivacious, leaning into him and holding his arm. Hatred was like a burning brand in Romilly’s breast, yet she told herself that she didn’t care. They were well suited, a pair of unscrupulous, shameless villains. Hanging was too good for them! She would like to see them suffer a lingering death, perhaps marooned on some deserted island, separately, of course.

‘Will you look at her?’ she couldn’t help remarking to Alvina. ‘Not satisfied with purchasing a new slave to take to her bed, she is angling to get her hands on Armand, too.’

‘He was rather stunning, wasn’t he? The slave, I mean. A magnificent specimen of manhood, and did you note the size of his package? I’m enjoying this. It’s better than a play at Drury Lane Theatre.’ Alvina was teasing her, hazel eyes sparkling.

‘You never take anything seriously,’ Romilly returned crossly. ‘That woman is a coarse strumpet and Armand seems to dote on her!’

‘And you are jealous, dear heart.’

‘I’m nothing of the sort. Be quiet, they’re putting the girl up for sale.’

The Negress hesitated, hanging back, but a sharp slap on the rump propelled her up the step. Her handler followed her, stripping off the single white garment she wore. A murmur rose from the spectators, especially the men. Her skin was nut-brown, her hair the colour of ebony and she held herself like a queen, even though her rounded belly and heavy breasts betrayed her pregnancy.

‘Here you are, ladies and gentlemen,’ said the auctioneer in a hectoring voice, sneering at the girl. ‘Two slaves for the price of one for she’s near her time, and will provide you with a wet nurse, too, feeding her own brat and any baby you may have. And what about you, gentlemen? Haven’t you ever wanted to suckle at a warm teat and be treated like an infant? She’ll provide you with all manner of delights. What am I bid?’

The men sniggered and the bidding came thick and fast. The pregnant girl stood impassive and Romilly admired her dignity. ‘Oh for some money,’ she hissed at Alvina. ‘I’d buy her myself and look after her and her child. This is monstrously cruel!’

The women were bidding as well as the men, especially those who were flashily dressed and looking for fresh blood for their bordellos. Then she noticed that Cat was in the lead, matching every sum with a higher one. Was there a streak of compassion in her after all? Romilly wondered, disliking the way in which Armand was nodding encouragingly. What were they up to? But a fat man in an elaborate periwig and brocaded jacket was hell-bent on having her, spurred by the auctioneer’s artful words, and eventually Cat shook her head and bowed out. The hammer fell and the girl was hauled off to satisfy the desires of her new owner, no matter how perverted.

Romilly had seen enough, but there was no respite until all Armand’s goods, including half a dozen prisoners, had been sold. She had a job to stay awake, head drooping as lot followed lot, but at last Armand came to sweep her up and install her in the coach.

‘Aren’t you glad you’re not for sale?’ he murmured in her ear.

‘I am indeed. Have you any idea how much I despise you for being associated with the slave market?’ she retorted, standing outside the building in the hot sun of late afternoon. She directed her comment to include Cat, who was still hanging around him.

‘Best be civil, my lady,’ Cat returned crisply. ‘Or you might find yourself on the block.’

‘You wouldn’t sell me, would you?’ Romilly addressed Armand, but wasn’t surprised when he answered.

‘I would, if you proved too much of a nuisance.’

She gave them both a withering stare and climbed into the carriage, her annoyance increased when he disappeared from view, arm in arm with Cat.

‘Shall we walk in the garden, my lady?’ Joshua said to Romilly after supper.

‘Thank you, Captain Willard, I’d like that.’

Armand had not returned and her anger was like a burning brand inside her. He was with Cat, she was certain of it, and could imagine them laughing at her, and then copulating. He was a traitor and she would do almost anything to rile him, even though she risked his wrath.

It was dark, a full moon rising in an indigo sky, accompanied by a host of stars. Never had they appeared so bright, even when she was in residence at Harding Hall in the heart of the English countryside. A warm breeze touched her cheek and lifted a strand of her hair. Sabrina had given her citrus oil to stem off the attacks of mosquitoes and, so far, she had remained untroubled by the ubiquitous little pests.

Joshua extended his arm courteously, and she slipped her hand into the bend of his elbow. They strolled on the terrace and then went down the steps to the gravelled path that surrounded the flower-filled parterre. Candlelit lanterns hung from the trees, but as they walked further away from the house, moonlight was the only illumination.

They stopped, hidden from view by a tree. ‘I hate to see you upset,’ Joshua burst out, driving his fist against the bark.

‘How kind, but you mustn’t worry about me,’ Romilly ventured, alarmed by the change in him. He was no longer the controlled master mariner. Now it seemed as if there was something eating away at his very soul. ‘This should be Jamie’s problem.’

‘Tsh! He’s more concerned about the cut of his waistcoat! Of course I worry. I’m not made of stone,’ he vowed and, somehow, she found herself in his arms. It was like going home, so safe and comfortable, yet dangerous too. If Armand was to find them it might mean death.

‘Captain Willard… Joshua,’ she said, struggling to free herself, though not very hard.

‘I’m sorry, my lady, but this situation is enough to drive me mad. The way that rogue treats you.’ In his anguish he was holding her ever more tightly, straining her slim body against his. She could feel the thudding of his heart and was aware of his penis, a bulge beneath his breeches. An imp of perversity made her press her pubis against it, wriggling up and down. Joshua groaned, a man in torment, and cupped her buttocks in his hands, pressing her ever closer, then he covered her mouth with kisses. She leaned against the tree and surrendered to his insistent lovemaking. Such enthusiasm was flattering and he was like a spring suddenly released, his feelings bottled up too long. He kissed her throat and the naked rise of her breasts, then pushed her bodice down, freed her nipples and tongued them ardently. His fervour carried her away and she wanted to touch his cock, tugging at his breeches, releasing it in all its erect glory.

‘My lady… Romilly!’ he panted, and hoisted her skirts high, finding the way to her fork. She moaned and spread her legs, welcoming his touch. In the depth of her glowed a spark of revenge; if Armand knew about this he would be furious! Not only that, she was enjoying Joshua, her experience with men limited. How would it feel to have someone other than Armand penetrate her love-channel?

Joshua slipped a hand down between their bodies and found her wet cleft, then rubbed her clitoris. Romilly started that compulsive, blissful journey towards climax, almost forgetting where she was or with whom. Joshua smelt different, felt different, not in the least like Armand, apart from having a knowledge of how to pleasure her. But something was missing. Her master had trained her to expect pain as well as satisfaction. Joshua was too tender, almost worshipping her, whereas Armand demanded that it was he who received adulation.

The bark scratched her back and she welcomed the discomfort. The moon latticed the boughs overhead. Night creatures scurried about in their everlasting search for sustenance, but she wasn’t afraid, safe in Joshua’s arms. ‘Oh, my lady… you wonderful woman,’ he panted. ‘Am I doing this as you like it? I want to give you pleasure, to feel you spasm in delight.’

‘Oh yes, Joshua, that’s right. Do it, please do it!’ she moaned, totally possessed.

He dipped his finger into her juice, slicked it over her nubbin, increased the speed of his rubbing till she felt herself carried high among those twinkling tropical stars, reaching an ecstatic climax. He was aware of her convulsing round his finger and exclaimed, ‘That’s it, my dearest! Take your pleasure and then I’ll take mine.’

While she was still shaking with the force of orgasm he lifted her from her feet and she clasped her legs round his waist, and her arms round his torso under his jacket. She felt the hardness of his helm pressing into her slippery vagina, and then the full force of his prick as he thrust into her till it seemed to penetrate her womb. Her inner muscles clenched round it involuntarily, grabbing at his manhood. She threw back her head, eyes tight shut, reduced to nothing but sensation. Joshua’s control had gone and he worked himself in and out of her, bending at the knees and supporting her at each stroke. She could feel the sweat soaking through the back of his shirt, and the smell of it coupled with their mutual fluids was all part of that primitive mating.