HF - 03 - The Devil's Own (23 page)

'They also, if you would be so kind.'

She came back across the room, slowly. Her fingers played with the bow of her sash. 'Tell me about this girl, Lilian.'

'You are mistaken there, madam,' Kit said. 'She is only a girl, and she is also, as you keep reminding me, a Quaker. She knows naught of the feelings that can be created between a man and a woman, nor does she seek to learn, before her marriage. She regards me as a lost soul.'

'My question concerned your regard for her.'

'She is one of the few people who have shown me kindness, if that is what you mean.'

She stood by the bed, sucking her upper lip under her teeth in a peculiarly thoughtful gesture, a mixture of decision and apprehension, he thought. 'I shall tell her you are here, and close to regaining your health,' she said. 'I shall invite her to visit you, so that you may compare between us.'

'Your boast of straightness does you little credit, madam,' Kit said. 'By many that act would be considered treacherous.' Now why, he wondered, was he quarrelling with her? He worshipped the ground on which she walked, and she had saved his life, at the very least. But still her arrogance, her total assumption that what she desired would necessarily happen, was impossible to bear.

Her mouth relaxed, and she smiled. 'What is the business of living and loving, and dying, but inexpressibly treacherous?' She sat beside him again, seized his hands. 'I told you, I had forgotten your existence, until you reappeared. Until you became the talk of St John's. Kit Hilton, the buccaneer, the murderer and rapist and robber and pirate, the man who sailed with Morgan. Oh, you have set our delicate ears in a tizzy, Kit. I avoided you because I wanted you to come to me. I knew you would. And so I waited. For three long weeks. I would not see you when you came, and I would have made you wait even longer, but for your visit to Goodwood. I was there. Did you know that, Kit? I was visiting Aunt Celestine, when you came storming in. I watched you, from the upstairs window. And you never thought to look. Oh, you were splendid, in your anger, in your defiance of Papa. I had thought there was only one person in the whole world would ever do that: me. I knew then that you were what I wanted. That you were what I would have. I watched you being beaten insensible by those black bastards. There was naught I could do, then. I did not wish to reveal my intention, for fear that Papa would have you murdered before I could protect you. For he is that ruthless a man, you know, Kit. He is nearly as ruthless as I. But yet he is not, quite. And so I stood at the window, and exchanged pleasantries with my aunt, while you were savaged, and then stayed a while
longer and took a cup of sangare
e with Papa, while your battered body was removed and thrown into a ditch, and only after a reasonable time did I leave, and pick you up, and bring you here.'

There were pink spots in her cheeks, and her whole personality glowed. A thought crossed his mind, that if, in possessing her love, he was experiencing the most tremendous emotion he had ever known, what must it be like to know her hate? 'And do you not fear his anger now?'

'On Green Grove?' She smiled, and he knew, what it would be like to feel her hate. Hell would be pleasant in comparison. 'On Green Grove, I fear nobody on the face of this earth, Kit. With you at my side, restored to health, I should fear nobody off Green Grove, either.' Her fingers tugged at the bow, and her robe fell apart. She wore noth
ing underneath. Once he had
supposed she might possess the body of an athlete. Once he had done no more than dream.

But here was no dream. She possessed the body of an athlete, but of a woman athlete, not a girl; she had been brought to womanhood by a man old enough to be her grandfather, who had done no more than make her bloom, and then left her, in full flower. Waiting to be plucked. When she was ready. When he had the strength.

Dawn on Green Grove brought the sun flooding through the open french windows, picking out flashes of light from the crystal drops of the chandelier. Dawn was at once lazy and active, a time for reflection and a moment for testing a growing strength.

Kit rolled on his side, and the woman's head slipped from his shoulder. Her brown hair, so rich and so thick, was damp with sweat, and clung to her temples and her back. Her body was concealed beneath the sheets but was there for his hands, a treasure house of magnificent joy compared with which Panama City had been a hovel. He could caress her breasts; they were large, surprisingly so for so young a body, overflowing from his hands, soft and yet firm, with nipples which flared into life at his touch, even while she slept. He could search her waist, and count her ribs, for never was flesh so slenderly fine. He could spread over her thighs, and cup her glorious buttocks, more firm yet than her breasts, or slide round to explore the tropical forest which matted her groin with amazing luxuriance. And beyond, the ultimate paradise sought by man. As yet explored only by his fingers, although she had slept here for four nights. But each day, and each night, had seen an increase of strength, and soon ... as her own fingers were now establishing. Her eyes were open, and her breath rushed against his face as she smiled.

'I must make haste,' she said. 'For I am determined you shall have no entry until we are wed. Am I not a prude?'

She laughed, as he would have searched further, and rolled away from him, and out of the bed, to stand for a moment, a glistening drop of marvellous womanhood that quite put the sun-gleaming chandelier to shame, while she listened to the bell tolling, bringing the slaves from their quarters,
the overseers from their beds.

‘I
shall return early this day,' she said. 'And meanwhile, the girls will dress you in your best.' She had sent to town for his clothes.

He frowned at her. 'You mean to marry me today?'

Again she laughed, a peal which echoed through the room. 'When I marry you, Christopher Hilton, it shall be an occasion not readily forgotten by Antigua. But today I shall declare my purpose. I have invited Papa for lunch, and if you can mount so hard and firm an assault at my gate you can certainly sit yourself for a meal. You are well again, Kit. Today we are betrothed.'

He raised himself on his elbow. Certainly this was easy enough. 'Philip Warner comes here, today?'

'I saw no alternative. It is near a week since Spalding will have carried him the news that you are here. And throughout that time he has ignored me. He considers that I am a lonely widow whose bed needs warming, and that I have chosen you to honour a passing fancy. We will surprise him, Kit.' She pulled on her undressing-robe as she went to the door, and there checked. 'But you will be polite. You are not yet strong enough to sustain the burden of a duel, nor would I have one between my father and my future husband. Leave the extravagant gestures to me, if you will. I request this especially of you, in case he arrives before I return from aback.'

'Then why go at all?'

'Because I am the mistress of Green Grove, darling Kit. I must be seen in the fields at least once in every day, as I must sit in judgement over my slaves at least once in every day, lest they forget that I am here, and that they fear me.' She smiled. 'Soon enough the responsibility will be yours, and be sure that I shall welcome the rest.'

The door closed, and he was left to wonder at just what the day would bring, although without apprehension. Apprehension was not a practicable emotion when in the dazzling company of Marguerite Templeton. And even wonder was clouded by memory, as he lay on the pillows and beneath the sheets still warm from the contact of her body, and still overhung with her scent.

And soon enough there was n
o time even for that, as the
maidservants came to bathe him and help him dress, in his best blue coat, giggling and chattering amongst themselves, and all the while insisting that he make haste, for there were gentlemen waiting to see him.

'Already?' he demanded, and discovered he was sweating. But at last they pronounced him fit to be seen in public, and so for the first time he left the bedroom. And entered a world he had not supposed to exist. First of all he found himself on a wide, deep gallery, which circled the upper storey, allowing the stairwell in the centre to descend to the lower floor. Off the gallery opened the doors of at least five bedchambers, all ajar, at the moment, while from the sound
of cleaning and beating and rustl
ing which emanated from every doorway he could not doubt that apart from his own four attendants there was an army of maids in each room, engaged upon putting it to rights, even if, so far as he knew, Marguerite and he alone slept in the house.

The gallery itself was floored with polished wood, and the walls were lined with paintings, of some quality, he estimated, mostly depicting scenes in and around Antigua. Most surprising of all, there was no ceiling to this centre of the house, but merely the rafters, beyond which the timbers of the roof could be seen, and above them the shingles, with four skylights controlled by great ropes on pulleys from the gallery itself. Certainly the amount of air made for coolness.

Then there was the staircase, circular as it rounded the gallery, down which he made his uncertain way, a girl supporting each arm and two more hovering beyond them, for his legs were still weak. At the bottom he faced the main door, which stood open to admit a view of the verandah and the drive beyond. Here the floor was parquet, and a similar surface stretched all around him. And here there waited Barnee the tailor and Agrippa. 'Kit,' said the black man, coming forward. 'By God, man, but it is good to see you. I thought you were dead.'

Kit took his hand. 'On the contrary, dear friend. And it is even better to see you, looking as well and as strong as ever. But I have been here so long, and you ...'

'I have been well cared for, by the Christianssens, Kit.'

'And they too are in good health? Lilian?'

'They send you the
ir best wishes.' 'But they have
not come to see me?'

Agrippa looked embarrassed. 'Well, man, they think it is best not to. This Mistress Templeton, well, she is a strange woman. So it is said.'

'A strange woman?' Kit frowned, and then smiled. 'Why, I suppose she is. A most remarkable woman. Wait until you meet her. Barnee, what brings you here?'

Barnee cleared his throat. 'Mistress Templeton commanded my presence, Captain. I am to make you some clothes.'

'The devil you are. But first, a glass of sangaree.' He turned to the maids. 'Do you know, this is the first time I have been downstairs in this house. Where should I take my guests? That way?'

He looked beyond the stairs to the left, at the enormous mahogany dining table with its twenty-four chairs, with its sideboard gleaming with silver decanters, with its chandelier hanging from the high ceiling.

'No, suh, Captin,' said one of the girls; her name was Martha Louise. 'You got for come this way.' She glanced at Agrippa. 'But the mistress ain't going want no black fellow in die drawing-room.'

'What nonsense,' Kit said. 'You'll bring us sangaree. Come with me, Agrippa. And you, Barnee.' He held his friend's arm as he turned to the right, to pause once again in astonishment. The parquet flooring seemed to stretch forever, but here there were chairs, and low tables, once again smothered with silver, ornaments rather than cutlery, and beyond, close by the wall, a spinet. 'Have you ever seen such splendour?'

'Now that I haven't,' Agrippa said. 'I was never allowed inside the Great House in Barbados.'

The girls were back, bearing the tray with its jug and the glasses. Kit sank into one of the chairs with a sigh; his head was swinging.

'Drink up,' he said. 'To our mutual healths. I'm assuming you do not have to take my measurements all over again, Barnee? I haven't changed that much.'

The men hesitated, their glasses in their hands. Boots were clumping on the verandah outside, and the girls were gathered in an a
nxious huddle by the stairs.

Kit forced himself to his feet again. 'Marguerite,' he said. 'You have not yet met my friend Agrippa, although you have heard me speak of him, often enough. Barnee you obviously know.'

Marguerite Templeton took off her tricorne as she entered the room; this day her hair was gathered in a single loose swathe. As usual her coat was open, and her shirt was wet with sweat. She carried a whip with which she flicked her boots. Philip Warner was at her shoulder, frowning at the men in front of him.

Marguerite came across the room, smiling. But she kept her hands at her sides. 'It is my pleasure, Agrippa,' she said. 'Any friend of Kit's is a friend of mine. But I should take it very kindly if you would finish your drink in the kitchen. The girls will show you. And Barnee. You understand, I am sure. I know Barnee does. The withdrawing-room is for my guests.'

'But ...' Kit felt the blood rushing into his face.

'Agrippa understands my meaning, Kit,' Marguerite said, giving the black man her most dazzling smile. 'You told me that he has worked on a sugar plantation himself, and thus he understands more of the situation than you do, perhaps. I have five hundred slaves here, Kit, and I employ thirty white people. That is in fact below the legal requirement. My slaves have to be kept at my arm's length, and made to understand their place. This would be difficult were I to start entertaining black men in my withdrawing-room.'