But today, there was no pleasure. He released her, violently, threw her away from him, watched her scatter across the bed, got up himself, with equal violence, went to the dresser, poured himself a glass of rum.
Judith Gale lay on her side, her head on her arm, and watched him. He had not climaxed, was in fact, still totally aroused, his naked body a quiver of blood-filled veins and arteries. Therefore he was still dangerous. Only she knew how dangerous. On the rare occasions he would play the master and not the victim, his whole being seemed consumed with hate, because it was hate which inspired the passion in the first place.
And she could only wait, for the pain in her back to subside for a new pain to start. When he was ready.
Waves of apprehension drifted up her legs, into her belly. They were thin legs, as it was a thin belly. As they were narrow shoulders and small breasts. She worried about her thinness, but Tony told her it was what he liked about her. When he was in a good mood. He liked to trace the lines of muscle beneath the skin, and he liked to trace the arteries on her neck, and he liked to be able to take an entire breast in his hand, just as he would never permit her to wear her long dark hair other than loose on her back. Whatever her age, she must remain always the child he had first known, and wanted.
A child to be beaten, when he so desired. And what did the child feel about her tormentor, she wondered? It was not a luxury she usually permitted herself, to wonder about her situation, about her love, about her future. Her present was secure, in a purely material sense. Tony Hilton had paid for this house, and he had bought her slaves, and he paid for her clothes and her food. All he wanted in return was her utter obedience to his whims. So sometimes she thought other men would pay as much for Judith Gale. And demand much less. But would other men arouse
her
passion? Because in a strange, perhaps a horrible, way, this man did.
He turned, his cup in his hand. 'Did I hurt you?' He was beginning to subside.
'Yes,' she said.
'So have a drink.' He held out the cup, and she hesitated, because if he was in one of his moods he would just as readily empty the liquid over her and the bed. Then she sat up, slowly, took the cup, sipped, felt her chest burn, some of the
fear leave her mind. 'Why are you angry?'
He took back the cup, sat on the bed. 'I am angry. There is all that need concern you.'
She lay down again, rolling on her belly, propped her chin on her hands, allowed her eyes to gloom at him. She knew her assets. Her eyes counted higher than her hair. 'I thought, if I knew the reason, I could help you.'
'Aye,' he said. 'You will have to. Just now.'
'But what has so upset you?' she asked.
'I am a married man,' he said.
'Ah,' she said. 'Was your entertainment not a success?'
'It was a great success. Too successful, perhaps. She wants a child. Does she want a child? Or does she merely seek to humiliate me?'
'Why do you put up with her at all?'
His head turned, and she realized she had made a mistake. His eyes could also gloom, and when his eyes gloomed, it meant pain. But not for him.
'Would you replace her?'
'No, I . . .'
He turned, quickly and violently, seized her hair as she attempted to roll off the bed. He brought her back, while her eyes seemed to be forced from their sockets, rolled on top of her, bit her shoulder and tore at her flesh, and collapsed in a flood of sudden tears.
Judith lay still, afraid to move. She had known his moods before, but this was more than she remembered.
'You would replace her,' he whispered. 'You would be a superb mistress of Hilltop, Judith. You would be a superb wife to me. Wouldn't you, Judith?'
She gazed at the ceiling, felt his teeth on her ear. If only she could tell when he was baiting her, and when he was serious. She had never been able to tell that.
He raised his head. Tears still stained his cheeks. 'Well?'
She licked her lips. 'I
...
I would try, Tony. Would you let go of my hair?'
His fingers relaxed, slowly. 'And you would give me a child.' His frown returned, gathering that high forehead, that slightly receding hairline. 'You have not given me a child.'
She breathed, cautiously, inflating her chest against his. 'I did now know you wished any. I had supposed it would make you angry.'
The frown deepened. 'You can choose, whether or not you have a child?'
'I can make it likely or unlikely.'
'By using a douche? By counting days? None of those are certain.'
‘I
did not claim they were. I cannot breathe.'
'So, you could have become pregnant. Were I able.'
'I do not know, Tony. Please.'
For reply he gripped the bed and pressed his body even harder on hers. She gasped, and tried to push against him. 'Ellen has never taken any precautions.'
She gasped again. 'You do not sleep with her very often.'
His weight was gone. Cautiously she opened her eyes. He had rolled away, was sitting up.
'Ellen,' he said. 'If I could treat her as I treat you, just once.'
Judith drew up her knees, slowly and cautiously. 'Is she stronger than you?'
His head turned.
'It is just a matter of will,' she said. 'If it is that important to you.'
'But after,' he said. 'Would she love me, or hate me?'
'I do not know.'
'Do you love me, Judith?'
It was the first time he had ever asked her that question.
‘I
. . .' 'The truth.'
'I desire you. Even when you hurt me.'
He stared at her for some seconds, then turned away, got up, went back to the table.
'But you love her,' Judith said. 'After all this time, you love her, and you fear her.'
'How perceptive you are,' Tony remarked. 'She regards me with contempt. She regards you with contempt also.' 'She is entitled to do that.'
He drank, facing the wall. 'To hurt her,' he said. 'To make her beg . . . what the devil is that?' Feet, clattering on the steps. Fingers, rattling on the door. 'Mis' Judith. Mis' Judith.'
'I shall certainly beat
her.''
Tony reached for his pants.
'It must be important.' Judith got up, pulled on her undressing robe, turned the key. 'What is it, Melinda? You know I'm not to be disturbed when Mr Hilton is here.'
'Is Mr Hilton he does want, Mis' Judith.'
‘
He?
!
'Who wants me?' Tony went to the door, fastening his belt.
'Is a man from the lawyer, sir. He saying it is very urgent.'
Tony pushed Judith to one side, went down the stairs. He glared at the clerk. 'Hanson? What the devil do you want?'
'There's a ship in, Mr Hilton,' Hanson panted, and had lost his hat. 'The passengers came ashore an hour gone. And two of them went straight to Lawyer Reynolds.'
'Eh? What has that got to do with me?'
Hanson licked his lips, ran his fingers through his hair. ' 'Tis the name he claims, Mr Hilton. He says he is Richard Hilton, sir. Come home.'
14
The Claimant
'Way for the general. Way for the general.' The dragoons rode their horses wide, on either side of the dusty street, scattering
passers-by
. 'Way for the general.'
Dick came next, sword slapping his thigh, pistols clinging to his horse's neck. Behind him was another file of dragoons. The general, returning from his tour of inspection.
To his city. There was a remarkable thought. Cap Haitien had scarcely changed in appearance in the ten years since Christophe had taken his own life; the country was poor, and money was endlessly needed for the war against those black men who continued to resist the unification of the nation, deep in the mountains of the interior. But the people had changed. No doubt they were even more poor than under their legendary emperor. But they were also more happy. President Boyer might lack the personality of his predecessor, but he was a sensible man who understood the strengths
as well as the weaknesses of hi
s people. The strengths he had used to conquer the island, to create a nation. The weaknesses he had indulged to the extent of letting them starve in their own way, if they chose. Which left the armed forces the more attractive to any young man with a belly to fill.
The gates of the barracks swung open, the blue-coated guards presented arms. There were no smarter soldiers in the entire army, and they were General Warner's. Another stroke of Boyer's genius for common sense. He had amnestied all of Christophe's generals, providing they brought their men with them. And in Matt Warner's dragoons he had found an elite.
They had been the van of the 1822 campaign which had finally conquered the old Spanish half of the island.
He returned the salute, and his groom held his bridle. He dismounted, strode up the steps to the commandant's quarters, and again the guards presented arms.
La Chat waited in the doorway. 'There are cases, sir.' For Cap Haitien, as indeed all of Haiti, remained under martial law.
Dick nodded.
‘I
will be with you in a moment, La Chat.' The door was being opened by one of the housemaids, and he went inside, and was surrounded by shouting children. Richard was eight, Anne was six, Thomas was four. Perfectly spaced. All healthy, bubbling Hiltons, except where they possessed the softer contours of their mother. He stooped to hug them each, looking all the while to the inner door, where Cartarette waited.
He sometimes supposed he lived his life in a long dream, firstly that the Dick Hilton he had been, and remembered, and still was deep in his heart, should have turned into this big, gaunt, ruthless soldier of fortune, and secondly that he should continue to share his bed with so gorgeous a creature. She had been seventeen years old that terrible day in 1817 when her father had been flogged to death. Now she was thirty, and four times a mother; her first daughter had died within two months of her birth. Yet was she hardly changed. She greeted him with a smile, put up her face to be kissed. She stood by his shoulder now, as she had stood by his shoulder for most of those thirteen years. Gislane's magic had made her his, physically. It had not been able to do more, to his knowledge. She stayed by his side because she had no choice. Her mother had died when she was a girl, her father had died beneath Christophe's whip. Her cousins had returned to France since the Restoration, but she was a poor relation, and she would rather be a general's woman than a case for charity.
Besides, he thought, she would not know how to live without him now—he had offered her freedom more than once. So they worked together, and talked together, and on occasion even laughed together.
But was she happy? He thought of her as he remembered thinking of his mother, years ago. She was his woman—they had never even been legally married—and so she was his support. She slept with her head on his shoulder, when he was in Cap Haitien. And did she weep herself to sleep when he was gone? He had stopped asking. It was a stupid, immature question. She was his. She could belong to no one else, now. Their lives were inextricably bound.
But she had never said that she loved him.
She held him close for a moment. 'Every time you leave,' she whispered, 'I suppose you will not come back.'
He kissed her forehead. 'There is no guerilla left within fifty miles of Cap Haitien.'
At last she released him. 'You have killed them all.'
'Aye.' He rubbed Richard's head; the boy still clung to his left arm. 'And what have you been up to?'
'I have built a fort, Papa. Well, Anne helped me. You must see it.'
'I shall, in a moment. La Chat has some villains for me to judge.'
'And hang?' Cartarette asked.
He sighed. 'If they require hanging, my sweet. I'll not be long. And then, this afternoon, I shall holiday. And look at your fort, Richie.'
He walked along the corridor, boots dull on the wood. Guards presented arms, and he was in his office. General Matthew Warner, military governor of Cap Haitien, taking court. It was the aspect of his life he liked least. But then, he was growing increasingly restless, year by year. There were no more fields to conquer, here in Haiti, and he was forty-five years old. Would he spend the rest of his life being nothing more than a policeman? 'Yes?'