in exasperation.
“What the hell!…”
Choking and gasping, she was dragged roughly to the comparative shelter of a bulkhead on the lee side of the still-pitching vessel and shoved roughly against the wet wooden planking.
“I thought I gave orders—” a voice she recognized only too well began, and then, still holding her pinned against the wall, he lowered his head, peering furiously into her averted face. “Who in hell are you? A stowaway?”
Her wits coming at long last to her rescue, Marisa tried to wriggle away. “The cabin boy, señor. I—I was afraid—” After the quantities of seawater she had swallowed, her voice came out as a choked whisper.
“Goddammit! Don’t you have sense enough to follow orders? You were to stay below because you were too sick to perform your duties!” He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Well, now that you’re recovered enough to be up and about, you can get below to the galley and fetch up some hot grog. And look lively, muchacho, or I’ll throw you overboard myself!”
He was capable of it. Oh, he mustn’t recognize her!
“Get going,” he said grimly, and Marisa ducked under his arm, not knowing in what direction she should flee. The deck tilted alarmingly again at that moment, and once more he grabbed at her, to keep her from sliding against the rail. This time, though, his arm caught her under her breasts, their slight curve unmistakable through her sopping wet shirt.
“Diablos!” He swore furiously in Spanish, and the next moment she felt herself dragged backwards, struggling helplessly against his strength until he kicked open a door and flung her bodily through it.
“You’ll stay here until I have the time to get to the bottom of this whole affair,” he snarled ominously. “Fortunately for you, I have other things to see to right now!”
The heavy door thudded shut, leaving her sprawled ignominiously on a luxurious rug. Marisa realized that she was locked in the captain’s own cabin.
She lay there for a long time, wet and trembling, partly with cold and partly from sheer terror which seemed to numb all of her senses. Finally the sound of her own teeth chattering aroused her somewhat, and she lifted her head to discover she was lying in a puddle of water, which had soaked through the rug. A furiously swaying lantern overhead cast a dim orange light that flickered like the fires of hell, casting long, leaping shadows into the corners of the room.
What would he do with her? Marisa glanced fearfully at the door, expecting him to burst through it at any moment. A pirate, a deserter from the English Navy who had used a stolen ship to turn robber, a man without scruple or conscience—a completely amoral rogue!
The abuse she heaped on him mentally gave Marisa the strength to sit up. She moaned. She must be bruised all over, after being flung this way and that. And he would probably kill her for ruining his fine Persian carpet, if she didn’t save him the trouble by perishing with a chill. Some kind of practicality oozed back into her mind, giving her the strength she needed to pull herself slowly and painfully to her feet. Turning her head, she saw a pale, frightening face staring at her. She let out a small shriek, which was fortunately drowned out by the sounds of the storm that still raged outside.
It was hard to keep her balance, as weak and unnerved as she was, but she realized it was her own face that had scared her so! Reflected in a small mirror hung on one of the walls she could hardly recognize herself. Short, straggly hair turned dark by seawater hung about a small, gaunt face that was pinched and blue with cold. She looked like a half-drowned rat—hardly the kind of appealing prey that a pirate captain might wish to gobble up! And in any case, she had never possessed any vanity about her appearance—her nose was too short, her eyes too large for her small, high-cheekboned face, and her forehead not high enough. She had always been thin, and now after a week or more of virtual starvation, she was skinnier than ever.
“Perhaps he won’t want to—to do that with me again after all!” Marisa reflected hopefully. “After all, it was only because he was drunk and angry and wanted to punish me in some way.” But in spite of all her brave efforts to comfort herself she could not escape the unpleasant thought that she was at the mercy of a man who had thought it a joke to carry off a gypsy wench for his use for the night and had taken her without a thought for her feelings or for anything but the sating of his own lust. He had wanted to be rid of her soon after—what would his reactions be now?
At that moment there was a crashing noise overhead, and the ship tossed more violently than before, pitching Marisa against a bed that was anchored to the floor.
It was just as well she had not become a nun, for she had no moral fiber at all. She had been raped and had not had the courage to kill herself afterwards. Instead, she had taken a bath! And now, almost petrified by fear, she found herself thinking that perhaps rape was preferable to death by drowning after all.
Clutching a trailing blanket around her shivering, icy body, Marisa stayed crouched where she was, one arm wrapped around a bedpost. She tried to pray, but the humble, gentle prayers of praise and invocation she had recited so glibly in the convent chapel became all garbled in her mind. She had sinned deliberately, she had no right to ask for mercy. Instead of the vision of the Virgin’s gentle face bringing her comfort, she saw another face bending over her, dark and angry looking, with a white scar and eyes like daggers, cutting her to pieces, impaling her body and battering it helplessly while she lacked even the strength to cry out.
6
Strangely enough, it was the sudden cessation of noise that woke her. That, and the pleasant feeling of warmth penetrating her chilled flesh. She must have lost consciousness during the worst of the storm, Marisa thought dazedly. At least she was still alive.
As circulation crept back into her cramped and aching limbs, the pain was almost unbearable, making her afraid to move.
Her eyes opened a fraction, and she realized that she was lying in bed, the covers drawn over her. In front of a glowing brazier which had been set in the center of the floor, a man stood stripping off his sopping wet clothing, flinging everything aside in an untidy, dripping heap. The ruddy light played over his tall, lean body and the movement of muscles beneath the skin of his shoulders and narrow flanks. His back was to her, its symmetry broken by a crisscrossed pattern of scars. Only a criminal would carry the marks of the lash. Marisa’s golden eyes widened and then squeezed shut quickly as he reached for a bottle that stood on the desk and raised it to his lips.
A few moments later she could not help cringing as the covers were rudely snatched off her cowering form.
“Whose wench are you? Donald’s? Isaac Benson’s? I can hardly believe it of the old hypocrite!” She felt his body drop over hers, taking her breath away, and then he had rolled to the other side of the bed.
“Don’t get your hopes up, scrawny one. I’m too damned tired to find out tonight. And if you want to stay in this bed you had better shed those wet clothes; you’re as clammy as a corpse!”
Numb with fear, she had obeyed him, reacting like a puppet. She fell asleep and when she next awoke, the events of the previous night seemed all jumbled up. She had half-expected to wake up in the same narrow bunk she had occupied for the last week or so, and when her senses swam back to dull awareness of the present, she felt a heavy weight over the lower half of her body and found her face pressed against a masculine shoulder smelling faintly of sweat and tasting like salt. She tried to move away but an arm scooped her closer.
“No,
