The Jezebel's Daughter (8 page)

“May I serve you, sir?” I picked up a plate and angled it towards the pork and root vegetables, looking for the finest cut for him. My hands were shaking and the edge of the plate rattled against the soup tureen. Graves ignored it.

“Call me Gideon,” he said and nodded. “Yes, please do. I'm famished.” I filled his plate, ladled him a bowl of soup, poured him another glass of wine, and then served myself a significantly smaller amount of food. I managed not to spill anything, despite my nerves. We shared a silent meal, only the sounds of the streets below my window and the occasional pop and crackle of the fire in the hearth as accompaniment. I ate slowly, watching the captain out of the corner of my eyes. He plowed through his meal with gusto, displaying remarkably good table manners to my surprise. But it was as if it had been days or even weeks since he'd had a decent meal. Remembering some of the food we'd consumed on our voyage from London, I thought that was entirely within the realm of possibility. Salted pork and ship's biscuits with only a once-a-week bit of lemon for variety certainly got tiring after six weeks.

Dessert was some sort of fresh fruit pastry and it was heavenly. I allowed myself to linger over it, taking small, delicate bites and savoring each taste. It was sweet and tart and tasted like the rare summer sunshine in England. I was suddenly, profoundly homesick and blinked back tears, hoping Graves wouldn't notice them.

Whenever his wine glass was empty, I refilled it promptly. Flora, one of the other girls on my floor, told me that if a man was drunk enough, he couldn't...
perform
... and on the off chance that was correct, I was determined to get him as drunk as I possibly could. I didn't shy away from the wine either. I was at last feeling warm, and my head was cotton-filled, my movements and thoughts slow and languid, sure indications that I was well on my way to being very drunk. We went through three bottles by the time we began the dessert course and I left the table briefly to send Amos—who was standing outside my door—down to the tavern to bring up three more.

We finished dessert and Graves called Tansy to whisk away the plates and the detritus of our meal. When she left, I was alone with Graves and knew that I was out of distractions. The moment I had been dreading since I first saw the
Jezebel
at anchor that morning had arrived and I could do nothing to postpone it any longer.

I sat at the table, waiting Graves's command while I stared down at my hands. I could feel his attention, could feel his whole being intensely concentrated upon me from just a foot or so away. It made me itchy all over, and my heart pounded in my chest. The tension in my shoulders was building to painful levels and I know he could tell that I was out of sorts. He was clearly showing me that he was in control of the situation, that I was there merely to amuse him, to serve him, that I had no say whatsoever in what happened to me. I dare say he enjoyed my discomfort.

“Has Ben been treating you well?” he asked, his voice causing me to jump in fright. I darted a look at his face and found him staring at me levelly as he sipped his wine.

“Yes, sir. Gideon,” I corrected. “He's been very kind.”

“Good. And Madame and the other girls? Not too much resentment from them?”

“No. They've been kind, too.” Was he happy that everyone was treating me well? Did he want them to treat me badly? I was confused by his solicitous questions and concerns. It did not fit the picture I had formed of him.

“And Tansy? How is she working out as your maid?”

“Tansy is wonderful.” I paused and darted another look at him. His face as an emotionless mask and nothing was in his eyes—no anger, no happiness, no curiosity. Nothing. They were as empty as the place in his chest where his heart should be.

A sudden thought struck me. Perhaps he merely wanted to talk with me tonight. Perhaps he missed the company of a woman, the idle chitchat of partners, like that which my parents had shared. I remembered listening to them discuss all sorts of things—their daily activities, politics, music, books, my brothers and I. Maybe that was what Graves desired. If he hadn't spent time with his wife in two years, it seemed possible that it was what he wanted from me tonight.

He nodded at length, satisfied with my answer, and stood up from the table. I watched him, dread filling my breast. He held his hand out to me and I took it gingerly, feeling the strength in his fingers as he drew me to my feet and into an allemande spin. He gathered me in against his body, holding me tightly, and lowered his mouth to mine. He tasted of the wine we'd had during dinner as he kissed me, delicately tracing my lips with the tip of his tongue before thrusting it into my mouth to twine with my own.

He broke the kiss, and whispered, “Take your hair down,” before releasing me and going to close the shutters over the windows. I obeyed, carefully pulling the flowers and baubles out of my braid and setting them down on the table. Once the braid was loose, I combed my fingers through it and let it hang over my shoulders. He came back to stand in front of me and took a tendril of my hair between his fingers, just as he had the night we met. He pulled me in close again and smoothed his hand down the back of my head, raking his fingers gently through my hair and seeming to savor the texture and the color in the firelight.

He let me go and stepped back, his eyes moving over me hungrily. “Undress. Slowly.”

I drew a deep breath, steeling myself, and then began peeling away the layers of my clothing. Luckily he would not have to destroy the lacing on my stays; the one I was wearing tonight laced up the front. I was impatient and more than a little embarrassed by his demands to go slowly. I wanted to get this whole affair over with as quickly as possible. I wanted him to go about his business and then leave immediately afterward. I wanted him out of my bedroom.

As soon as I was standing naked in front of him, he moved closer to me, standing within arm's reach and began touching me with both hands. He began at my hairline and traced the curve of my face and along my jaw to my chin and then down my throat. His fingers stroked out along the wings of my collarbones and down my arms to my fingers, where he interlaced our hands together for a moment and drew me against him to kiss me. I stood still and compliant, allowing him to do anything he wanted to me but not reacting to his touches or his kisses.

His hands let go of mine and slid back up my arms, over my chest, and down between my breasts. He took them into his hands and massaged them gently, his fingers tweaking my nipples, rolling them delicately. His mouth closed over one even as his hand kept busy with the other. I drew in a sharp breath and arched my back, pushing my breasts more firmly against him. A shock wave of pleasure coursed down my spine and I reached up to plunge my fingers into his hair and pull him even harder against me.

“Careful, girl,” Graves's voice intoned and my eyes sprang open. His voice—harsh and too deep—had broken through the haze in my mind and I was horrified to find that I was drawing pleasure from this devil.

I pulled away and Graves straightened, grabbed a fistful of my hair at the back of my head and turned me around. He shoved me forward, bending me over the table, squashing my face and my breasts against the rough grain of the wood. I felt his fingers poking and prodding at me, opening my delicate folds and thrusting rudely inside me.

I squealed and tried to fight him off, but he merely used his grip on my hair to hold me fast. I heard the thud of his boots being kicked off and the sound of his breeches coming down. Then something cold dripped down the crack of my bottom and over the very center of me. It was the wine; I could smell it, sweet and astringent. He used his fingers again, rubbing and stroking and spreading the wine all over me.

His fingers were replaced by his manhood, which he shoved into me with a mighty thrust. He leaned forward, covering me with his upper body, and nuzzled the side of my face with his unshaven cheek. His whiskers were rough and burned me, just as the table was scraping my breasts and stomach as he thrust in and out of me.

The room was filled with the sound of his body slapping against mine, his panting and grunting, the table scraping across the floor with each of his thrusts. I tried to turn my face away from his, tried to bury it in my hands, but his grip on my hair was too tight; I was pinned beneath him, a butterfly on a card.

Hot tears leaked from my eyes and I prayed for it to be over soon, but he showed no sign of flagging. If anything, his pace quickened and his hips slammed into me over and over. Finally, with a loud groan that I felt vibrating through my back, he buried himself into me and stilled, except for tiny twitches and jerks of his hips. He lay atop me, his breathing slowing, his free hand stroking up and down my side, from my armpit over the swell of my hip to my flank and back. It was a gentle touch and I hated it; I hated it even more than his roughness, his humiliation and degradations.

He pulled himself out of me and let go of my hair. “Clean yourself up and get into bed,” he growled in my ear before getting off me. I carefully stood up, keeping my back to him as I went to the ewer and poured out some of the water into the basin and used the cloth there to clean between my legs. There was no blood this time, only the wine and something thick and viscous that smelled of the sea.

When I finally had to turn around and face him, I found him in my bed, lying atop the quilt, naked and staring at me. Each muscle in his body was clearly defined and looked as hard as marble, like the sculptures I'd seen in Italy when I was younger. His expression was as warm and welcoming as those aloof stone creations, too.

I gingerly crawled between the sheets and laid down on my side, facing away from him. I wished he had left the windows open. It was stuffy in the room and the air stank of his sweat. I could feel him moving around behind me. His arm snaked around my waist and drew me backwards, my back against his chest, his breath hot in my ear, his arm like a steel bar holding me. I closed my eyes and held myself stiffly, not wanting to relax into him.

“It doesn't have to be like that all the time,” he said. “I can be gentle, Loreley. I can give you pleasure. You just have to let me.” The only response I had to that was a very adamant negative, but I didn't think that was the answer he was looking for, so I kept quiet. “I know you hate me,” he continued after a moment or two. “I understand that feeling. But you belong to me, and I will have you whenever I want, however I want. You would be best served by accepting that fact. I can make you feel good, or I can hurt you. It's your choice.”

I had absolutely no answer to that statement that wouldn't get me beaten or perhaps worse. So I remained silent and still, my eyes open and fixed on the shutters over the window. I would not fall asleep in this man's arms, like some happy lover. I would do what I could to endure his abuse and perhaps mitigate it, but I would never, ever enjoy it.

He fell silent soon after, his breathing evening out into the cadence of sleep. His grip on me loosened and I carefully pulled away from him to slip out of the bed. I found a clean shift and a robe and went to lie down in Ben's bed. There was no way on Earth that I would sleep in the same bed with that devil man.

I curled up under Ben's linens. They smelled of him and I felt somewhat safer, though I knew it was just an illusion. Ben was elsewhere, probably sharing Tansy's bed tonight, if she let him. But the truth of the situation was if Graves wanted to hurt me, Ben could not help me, even if he was here. No one could help me. Tears slipped down my cheeks and I curled up even tighter, a miserable ball in the tiny bed. I prayed for deliverance that night and in the darkest depths, I didn't care in what form it came.

When I woke the next morning, Graves was gone, but there was a small stack of books on the table where we had dined the night before. I rose, stiff from sleeping in Ben's uncomfortable bed, and my head ached something fierce. There was a note atop the books, written in the same lovely hand as the first note. It contained essentially the same message as the previous note, too. I set it aside and looked through the stack. There were three volumes of something called
Les Mille et une nuits, contes arabes traduits en français. “
One thousand and one nights,” I said as I opened the first book. “Arab stories translated into French.” The book was beautiful, richly illustrated and filled with many tales of far-away, romantic Arabia. If Graves was trying to buy my affections and not just my attention, then these books were a good attempt.

Ben and Tansy returned, bringing with them breakfast and tea, to find me curled up in a chair I'd drug over in front of the open windows, consumed by the first volume. They exchanged a look that I barely saw and did not care to interpret before setting out the food and things. Ben poured a cup of tea and set it on the floor next to me before they left.

* * *

I spent most of Christmas day reading the first volume of the Arab stories, losing myself in daydreams of far-off exotic places, where genies gave wishes to simple merchants and parrots told only the truth to their owners. I tried not to think of my life in London just the year before. We had attended services at St James-in-the-Fields, and after a lavish meal and gift giving, we went to the Frost Fair on the Thames. Father gave Mattie, Gunnar, and I some spending money and we treated ourselves to small trinkets. I bought a small, gold-foil cross from a peddler who claimed he brought it all the way from Constantinople. I'd been wearing it when the
Resolution
sunk. I supposed that it was at the bottom of the sea now.