a foot in the middle of the Roman’s stomach. With an “Ummph!” the senator or emperor, or whomever he portrayed, dropped the struggling bundle on the floor. Though the stage was cushioned in white velvet, the girl hit with a solid thump, but made no complaint. A cheer went up from the crowd.
The senator stood over her, a whip in readiness in case the slave tried anything more. The girl scooted toward the rear edge of the stage, her head shifting back and forth as if she swept the rowdy patrons with her gaze. Her full-face mask, however, stopped anyone from seeing her features. Another bold move on Amorina’s part. The mystery behind the mask was intriguing, but asking men to bid on a bit of fluff, sight unseen, could backfire on Madam Vestry.
The slave was dressed in an almost transparent white gown, in flowing Grecian style, its folds torn in places and streaked with dirt. A daringly low bodice displayed full, enticing breasts, with a hint of dark nipples showing through the gauzy fabric. When she’d been flung to the floor, the straight tunic had revealed generous curves at her hips and buttocks.
Duncan’s labored breathing sounded harsh in his ears, drowning out the rest of the clamoring patrons. When he tried to swallow, he found his mouth so dry he had to peel his tongue from the roof.
The scenario itself did not appeal to him, but that girl...that girl with the incredible hair. The mass flowed shiny clean, obviously well tended; it would fall well below her waist. But the most enticing attribute by far was its fiery, bright auburn color. The long tresses, like molten flame, spilled down the slave girl’s back and around her breasts. Temptation incarnate.
Duncan’s arousal turned rock hard beneath his breeches, a reaction so immediate and insistent, he bent forward slightly to help stifle the hiss of his indrawn breath. He closed his eyes and willed his flesh to obey before his eagerness became embarrassing. By the time he was under control again, the auctioneer was calling for last bids on the girl. If he was going to make an offer on her–as his body well nigh demanded–he had better do it now.
“I’m offered six hundred pounds for this worthless Christian slave,” the auctioneer intoned, from in front of the stage. “The man who masters her will have his work cut out for him. She’s a feisty one, she is. Who’s up to the challenge?” he goaded the crowd.
Indeed, the girl looked less and less like a slave. She sat stock still in an attitude of defiance at the senator who drew the whip back for a blow. The man flicked the lashes forward, though without any force. Amorina would not want her girls marked. But the little imp on the floor grabbed the leather straps as they fell, twisted them around her hand and pulled sharply downward. The senator, caught off guard, tumbled onto the stage. The girl jumped to her feet, trying to free the whip from beneath the body of her fallen master. As she tugged, her hair rippled around her in the lamplight, a sensual river of burnished copper swirling like a bright mantle.
“Aren’t you even going to bid?” Tommy taunted him.
“One thousand pounds!” Duncan surprised himself–he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
“Sold!” The auctioneer beamed at the crowed. “Sold to the man in the black domino.” He continued sotto voce to Duncan. “You can settle your account with Madam Vestry right through there, my lord. Her servants will take you to your room.”
Still struggling, acting her part to the very end, the girl was plucked up like a sack of wheat between two men who took her away. A hand pounded his back and he turned to find Tommy grinning broadly.
“Knew you’d do it, Duncan. I can hardly wait to get all the details tomorrow. Suppose you’ll cry off the aunt’s masquerade after this?”
In a daze, he nodded.
Tommy shoved off, found other friends and disappeared into the throng as it swept toward the harem scene. After a moment he recalled he must go sign his vowels, and closed his eyes. The ordeal was not yet over. He still had to face Amorina.
Ridiculous, to be fretting over his ex-mistress. He strode boldly through the curtained doorway, only to be brought up short at the sight of Amorina sitting behind her neat desk. Like a lioness watching her prey advance. Undeniable beauty, unparalleled hauteur, uninhibited passion. He would give anything to feel that exquisitely talented body beneath his once more. Except the risk of scandal.
Duncan sauntered forward, signed the IOU with a flourish, then stood back and braced for the recriminations. Following two years of almost constant, close companionship, he’d cut her from his life overnight. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to send her the customary parting gift. Of course she’d reproach him.
Madame Vestry glanced at the scrawl, then back at his cloaked figure and said crisply, “Your purchase has been placed in the blue room, Lord Dalbury. You have the entire night, of course, if you wish.”
Duncan nodded, stunned. To expect anger and accusations, only to be met with detached civility, seemed somehow more insulting. More dangerous. Amorina was not one who forgot or forgave easily. She gestured toward the dim corridor to her right and he left without a word, swirling the folds of his black cape in his haste.
Unfortunately, that little transaction left him feeling out of sorts. Should he simply leave and go home? No. Not only had he paid a fortune for this fantasy, but he was painfully aware of a gnawing ache in his groin. It had definitely been too long. He recalled the slave girl’s brilliant, cascading hair, and his enthusiasm returned.
Duncan stopped before the specified door. One of the servants who’d carried his slave inside rose to open it. “’Ope you gets yer money’s worth, m’lord. Nasty lil’ bit o’ goods, that ’un. Actress, y’know. Don’t like the part she ’ad to play.”
Adjusting the domino and mask, Duncan motioned for the door to be unlocked. He smiled. This night would be memorable, he’d make sure of that.
* * * *
Katarina stood in the center of the room, searching for escape routes or weapons to hand. Her mouth ached from the gag and her body had begun to feel the bruises from her ordeal, but she forced physical discomforts to retreat. Jack had drummed logic and strategy into her at an early age. She would reason her way out of this situation despite the recent indignities.
A short time before, kicking and squirming with all her might, she had been carried into this small room lighted by a candelabrum, and tossed onto a canopied bed. The hated mask and gag ripped from her face, she’d gasped in great gulps of air, coughing and retching, uncaring about anything except the luxury of taking a deep breath.
With a chuckle, Nigel had scooped up the discarded gag and tossed the plaster mask onto the bed. “A little memento of your evening with us,” he’d growled and left. The door had closed and the key turned in the lock.
She’d sat up, her racing heart subsiding to its normal beat. The white face lay beside her, dark eyeholes staring at her, coldly mocking. She’d seized it and heaved the wretched thing at the door. The plaster had shattered, a triumphal chord of sound. Tears of outrage had welled as she’d drawn in a deep breath and screamed for the first time since she’d been taken.
Several minutes later Katarina had calmed herself, banked her anger and compelled herself to think rationally about escape. The door was obvious, but she’d heard the key scrape in the lock, so did not spare it a glance. A tall window overlooking the alley promised greater potential, but thick bars crossed the panes. There were no other options. On to weapons.
The small, round bedside table held the candelabrum. Kat hefted
