Devi's Paradise (18 page)

‘That’s as may be,’ Romilly answered tersely, seated at the dressing table while Jessica brushed her hair. ‘But he’s a filibuster, a rogue, a vagabond of the sea, nonetheless. If I show you my spanked backside will you still think kindly of him?’

‘Your father used to spank you,’ Jessica reminded, smiling at her in the cheval mirror.

‘That is an entirely different matter. Armand Tertius is perverse. He enjoys inflicting punishment. It arouses his base desires.’

‘Come, come, cheer up, milady. Look what I found in the trunk of clothing he provided,’ and she held up a cream silk negligee, lavishly trimmed with lace and almost transparent. ‘Do you think he ordered it to be provided for you?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ Romilly clung to the thought of Armand as a vile seducer, determined to lock her bedroom door that night. Jessica had ordered water be delivered and soon a trail of servants came in, filling the wooden tub that stood in a little antechamber. Pails of hot and cold were tipped in and Jessica tested the temperature and, when it suited her fussy requirements, she dismissed them and encouraged Romilly to undress and immerse herself.

‘It’s nothing like as grand as the pool on the island,’ she said, holding up a towel to shield her mistress as she stripped and dipped a toe into the bathtub. ‘But at least we’re private here, without that saucy jade Sabrina, looking on and blatantly taking her pleasure with Marcus and the like.’ She suddenly saw the imprints of Armand’s palm and exclaimed, ‘Oh, my dear mistress! I see what you mean by his brutality! What ails the man that he needs to master you thus? I’ll rub in soothing balm when you’ve washed.’

‘No need for you to bother,’ said Armand, as a panel in the wall slid back and he appeared in the opening. ‘I’ll do what is necessary. Now get out.’

‘I need her services,’ Romilly protested, holding a sponge in front of her breasts for she was only half submerged.

‘Tomorrow,’ he said with that sardonic smile. ‘I’ll look after you tonight.’

‘Milady?’ Jessica looked at her, hovering uncertainly.

‘That’s all right. Goodnight, Wade,’ Romilly said, terrified that Armand might have her duenna sent to the slave auction.

With a backward glance Jessica scurried away, and when the door closed behind her Armand came closer, staring down at Romilly. ‘You are beautiful enough to inspire any artist,’ he said, a musing smile playing round his lips. ‘I have a friend who would paint you, if I so desired. What do you say? Will you pose for him?’

‘You’ll give me no option, beating me if I refuse,’ she said haughtily. As if he was of little consequence she soaped her shoulders and arms, then lifted her legs from the water one at a time and applied the sponge to them, paying careful attention to her toes.

Armand feasted his eyes on her. ‘I’m going to wash your back,’ he said, took off his jacket and rolled up the full sleeves of his shirt.

‘If you insist.’ She handed him the sponge in an offhand manner. Water dribbled from it onto his breeches.

He took it, his face darkening. ‘What an ungrateful bitch you are. One spanking isn’t enough, or so it seems. Do you want another?’

‘What I want or don’t want has nothing to do with it. As you have so rightly said, you’re the master.’

‘You do well to remember. Stand up.’

She did so, water running down her body in rivulets. There was little use trying to conceal herself. She had nowhere to hide and maidenly modesty did not become her any more. Armand had put paid to that. She out-stared him, her eyes reflecting the chill in his. ‘Is this what you want,
master
?’

He ignored her sarcasm, squeezed the sponge and applied it to her pubis. ‘Open your legs.’ She parted her thighs a little. ‘More,’ he demanded, and when she slid her feet further on the tub’s base he thrust the sponge between, the slippery soap-filled object caressed her crack, and she started at the rush of pleasure it produced.

He moved firmly and her needy clit responded, seeming to have a mind of its own. The rapidly cooling water sloshed round her calves but the rest of her was burning. She put her hand flat against his chest and pushed him away. Then she stepped out, water puddling the carpet beneath her feet. She reached for the towel but he was there first, wrapping her in it and then propelling her towards the bed. She was pushed down on the embroidered quilt and, looking up, saw the astonishing spectacle of her and him reflected in mirrors set in the tester. Her hair was in wild disarray and, as he ripped away the towel, her body was exposed, pink-skinned with heat and shame. Shapely limbs and flat belly, dimpled navel, full breasts with the brownish red nipples standing like the hopeful noses of household pets. Longing for what? His kisses and caresses?

Armand stripped to the waist, a tawny savage, all muscle and sinew and duel-scarred flesh with darkly furred arms and chest. His face was savage too, filled with lust and the arrogance of a conqueror. He forced her to look up, using her hair like a rein.

‘See, Lady Romilly. See your naked body so ready for mine. And look,’ he turned her over. ‘Look at the marks I left on your rump. They’ve not faded and will soon be joined by others. Doesn’t this excite you? Of course it does, but you’re too damned stubborn to admit it. I know better. I’ve had you in my arms, begging me to bring you off. You can’t deny it. You may have the soul of a saint but you’ve the body of a harlot.’

The mirror image seemed to mock her as he did. A beautiful wanton with her legs sprawling and her arms outstretched on the pillow. Her lips were moist and wet, her tongue circling them lasciviously, and breasts that inspired Romilly to touch them. She did so, seeing the woman in the mirror doing the same, pinching the nipples into hard, needy peaks. The man reflected there was handsome, his black hair falling across his face and halfway down his back, and his eyes held all the passion in the world in their depths. His hands hovered over the mirror woman like the talons of an eagle and the figure on the bed lifted her body to meet them.

Romilly closed her eyes, wanting no sensation but that of feeling. To watch herself being made love to by her captor was nothing short of diabolical, but if she could pretend it wasn’t really taking place and that she was dreaming, using Nathan as her fictional lover, then it was the acme of pleasure.

Armand slapped her awake. ‘Look at me. This is real, Romilly, not some fantasy in your head. I won’t share you with anyone. Do you hear? Not even in your secret thoughts. You belong to me.’

He left her momentarily and then returned with manacles. He held her wrists and clapped the cuffs round them, fastening each by chains to the bed-head. She fought him but he was too strong for her, kneeling across her body. Next he put irons on her ankles, spread her legs wide and tethered them to the foot-posts. She was utterly helpless, spread out for him to do with as he willed. He had retained his breeches and top boots, which fitted equally closely. A leather belt spanned his slim waist and he unbuckled it and opened the flap fastening, revealing his eager cock. Romilly moaned and tugged at her bonds, wanting to touch it.

He saw her need and lowered himself so that the tip entered her mouth. She could smell his musky scent, the softness of fabric against her face, and her tongue roved round the ring in his helm. The gold was warm and smooth. So was his phallus. Wetted by her salvia and his jism it felt like silk, like satin, like the richest velvet, and she could not stop licking it. He pushed in harder and she could barely take it all, the end butting her throat till she choked.

‘You’ll learn how to do this, slave,’ he grunted, withdrawing. ‘I want to enjoy every part of you and feel you swallow my spunk.’

She followed him with her eyes, imprinting every facet of his face and body on her mind. The room was shadowy and the candles silhouetted him. It made him mysterious, an incubus, a revenant, a demon who stalked women in the dead of night. She waited breathlessly for his next move.

He took up a riding crop and trailed its tip slowly over her face and down the length of her body. Its touch was soft and gentle, a whisper, no more. Her nipples crimped as it circled them and flicked backwards and forwards over the aching peaks. She met and held his eyes, unable to hide her enjoyment of this pliable instrument designed to galvanise a horse into action.

Even the fact that she couldn’t move added to her arousal. There was simply nothing she could do but revel in her bondage. He had robbed her of her will. She was no longer answerable for her actions. Someone else was responsible, leaving her free as a bird, able to excuse herself by blaming him for her enslavement. The ferule moved sinuously, tickling her ribs and dipping into her navel. She could hardly breathe, anticipating its tender touch on her slit. Armand did not hurry, making every second tell, using the crop like an extension of his fingers.

‘You are learning,
ma belle
,’ he whispered. ‘Watch yourself, and watch us. It is like looking at another couple fornicating.’

She stared at the mirror overhead, seeing the crop’s progress as it moved towards her mound, inch by slow inch. Armand lay by her side, propped up on one elbow as he too witnessed the leather approaching her cleft and tangling with the fair fluff, now darkened by her juices. Then, as delicate as a butterfly’s wing, it landed on her rosy, swollen love-bud, which strained from between her labia. Romilly gasped.

‘It’s that good, eh?’ Armand said huskily. He leaned closer, his breath whispering over her sensitive clit. He replaced the crop momentarily with his tongue, teasing the little organ, nibbling it gently till Romilly was almost beside herself with need.

The mirror woman returned her stare, and she too seemed possessed. ‘Can that really be me?’ Romilly whispered.

Armand straightened, his lips glistening with her dew, and turned the crop, pushing the silver-mounted handle into her fork. She bore down on it, hips angled so it would contact her nubbin. The silver warmed, became a pleasure object, and Armand manipulated it just as he controlled her, lowering it and driving it into her vagina. She was soaking wet and this invasion by an inanimate thing felt strange but not unpleasant. Armand partly withdrew it, and then inserted it again. In and out, like an alien penis. She was ready, clenching her internal muscles round this leather-covered lover, but she needed contact with her clit to make her erupt.

Armand stopped, pulling the handle from her abruptly. ‘You’re being unfaithful, slut! How dare you climax with anything or anybody except me, your lord and master?’

The air moved as the crop passed through it and landed across the tops of her thighs. She yelled and it fell again, catching her belly this time. Blow after blow landed on her exposed flesh and she saw her mirror image writhing on the bed, tugging at the chains, begging for mercy. The master stood there, dark and menacing, gripping the crop, a cruel snake that dispensed pain as a priest dispenses pardons.

Then his fingers replaced the whip and she was writhing on his fingers… coming… coming in one glorious rush. He loosened her wrists and unfastened her ankles, then turned her over, holding her from behind as he thrust his prick into her cunt and then her arse. He fucked her hard, ending up in her nether hole. A few strokes and he had finished, leaving her as bruised and battered as if she’d been caught in a tornado. It was as if he sucked out her very life, leaving her an empty shell.

He wiped his cock and left the bed, she hoped forever, turning on her side and attempting to pull the covers over her tired body. He returned out of the darkness, dragged the quilt back and proceeded to anoint her bruises with a white, scented balm. It took the sting away and she relaxed against the pillows. His sudden concern touched her, and she enjoyed the feel of his hands, now gentle as a woman’s, on her damaged skin.

When he had finished he replaced the lid on the phial and began to dress. Romilly was dozing but his movements roused her. Somehow she had expected him to climb into bed with her and sleep there till morning. She had been looking forward to this closeness and it was a blow to see him fully dressed and buckling on his sword.

‘You’re leaving?’ she said, half sitting up, though every movement cost her dear.

‘Business,’ he said brusquely.

‘At this time of night?’ She didn’t believe it.

He tapped the side of his nose mysteriously, smiling as he replied, ‘A pirate’s work is never done.’

‘You’re going to another woman,’ she accused, tears stinging her eyes.

‘Am I?’ He was maddeningly cool. He paused at the door, looking back with a partly amused, partly annoyed expression. ‘And if I am, it has nothing to do with you. Goodnight, Lady Romilly.’

‘Oh, you! You!’ She hurled a pillow across the room but he had already gone and she was alone and raging in the master chamber, no nearer knowing his heart and mind than when they met at Awan’s altar. ‘Bastard!’ she cursed. ‘Bastard! Bastard! If I never clap eyes on you again it will be too soon! And I can’t wait to go to Port Royal and escape your odious presence!’

Every time a ship put into Cayona merchandise was brought ashore to be sold. The quickest, most profitable and all round satisfying way to do this was to employ the services of an auctioneer who knew his job. Thus the loot of many nations was distributed throughout the Indies.

Romilly walked up two shallow steps and entered the long, low-ceilinged warehouse where almost anything could be acquired. She hadn’t wanted to come, but Armand was insistent that she and her friends did so.