Master of Paradise (2 page)

Yet, her loins screamed out for him. His fist
in her hair, tugging back her head, made her pant. It thrilled her
so, she couldn’t wait to meet the ravages of his desires. She
wanted him now, in their final rendezvous, more than she ever
had.

Tightening his grip on her hair, he put his
mouth to her ear, whispering feverishly to her in Portuguese.

“What are you saying?” she panted. “Tell me
so I’ll understand.”

He’d taught her Portuguese as a child, of
course. She knew exactly what he was saying. But she wanted to hear
it again. It was one of the games they played—her making believe
she understood less than she did.

She heard his playful laugh, so deep in his
throat that it came out in a sexual growl. “You vixen, you know
damned well what I said.”

“Tell me again,” she teased, “so I can be
sure.”

“What is it you want to hear?” he said
against her ear. “That I’ve never wanted any woman the way I’ve
wanted you? That when I’m with you, I wonder that I can long for
anything else? That I’m a fool to leave you? Fool I may be,
carícia
. Yet leave, I must.”

She turned and wound her arms around his
neck, playfully nipping at the column of his throat. “You could
always fulfill your promise to me and spirit me away. I should
fancy playing stowaway, with no one but you knowing I’m
aboard.”

She heard the sadness in his voice as he
said, “Would that I could.”

Trying not to think of the endless nights
without him, trying only to envision their happiness on his return,
she hugged him close. “Never mind, darling. It will only be for two
years. We must remember that and be brave. And when you
return...when we’re married...”

She felt him stiffen, felt the emotional
withdrawal she hadn’t felt since he’d first arrived. With resolute
hands, he loosened her arms from his neck and, his ardor cooled,
got to his feet, then stepped aside.

The silence between them was tense, strained.
She felt as if he’d thrown ice water in her face. Since he said
nothing, refusing to break the stillness, she took the
initiative.

“Rodrigo, what is it? What have I said?”

“I’m not coming back.” He bent and reached
for his pants.

She was silent for a moment, watching him
dress. “Don’t say that. Not even in jest.”

He turned his head halfway so it was
silhouetted by the moon, his features austere and suddenly cruel.
“I assure you it’s no jest.”

Gabrielle sat up, alarmed. “What do you
mean?”

He said nothing, methodically donning one
piece of clothing after the other. The quiet clung to the willows,
distancing her from him as effectively as a wall of glass. “Answer
me!”

Slowly, he came to her and gently ran the
back of his finger along her cheek. “I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t—or won’t?”

“As you wish.”

It took tremendous effort to swallow the hurt
that was threatening to choke her. “But you
are
coming
back—”

He froze, his hand dropping abruptly from her
face.

“Rodrigo?” she said, trying to squelch the
panic.

He didn’t respond.

She raised herself to her feet. “Then take me
with you. Now. We can leave tonight—”

“Ah, Gabé. You don’t understand. You just
don’t fit in with my plans.”

She was truly shocked. “How can I
not?
We have the same dreams!”

He turned from her. “You’re mistaken. Our
dreams aren’t the same at all.”

“But Rodrigo, how—”

“Please, don’t ask me any more. Don’t make me
hurt you more than I have to.”

A chill of foreboding settled in her. “My
God, Rodrigo! What are you going to do?”

He gave her a look she hadn’t seen for
years—the cold, empty glare of the boy he’d been. “I’m finally
going to get my revenge.”

London, 1832

EIGHT YEARS LATER

The pirate kicked in the door and stalked
across the lady’s cabin. He surveyed the scene of huddled,
frightened women, and jerking his head to the ladies-in-waiting,
barked out his command. “Out!”

Casting helpless looks at their mistress, the
servants scrambled out the door, leaving her alone with the
infamous brigand—Rodrigo Soro, the scourge of the Indian Ocean.

With arrogant grace, he stepped to where she
lay trembling on her bunk, crammed against the wall in a futile
attempt to back away. Leaning, he jerked her to him and overpowered
her with a kiss.

She shoved him away, her anger making her
strong. But it didn’t faze him. He pulled her back and with a
savage yank, ripped her dress, exposing a bare shoulder. A gasp of
voices was heard all around.

“You’ll have to kill me,” she cried, her
breasts heaving. “I shall never submit to your mad desires!”

With a confident smile, he sneered, “You used
to feel differently about me.”

“That was before you became a vile
rogue.”

“You liked me being a vile rogue when we were
children,” he reminded her.

“But that was just pretend. That was before
you began destroying my country’s ships for your own foul
greed.”

“And what has your country done for me,” he
cried in outrage, “but hang my father and steal my name? I care
nothing for England,
carícia
. I care only for you.”

She turned away. “You had your chance,
Rodrigo. You loved me, then left me to pursue your evil designs.
Fiend from hell! I shall never believe another word you say. I
shall never trust you again.”

The pirate stepped away from her and struck a
melodramatic pose as the lights around him dimmed. With a heavy
sigh, he raised his voice with his hand on his heart. “My name is
feared all across the Indian Ocean, from the Horn of Africa to the
Celebes Sea. I’ve looted ships and collected bounty worth a king’s
ransom. But without the woman I love, I’m only half a man!”

From the distance, a voice cried out, “Ahoy,
Captain. English frigates on the horizon.”

The pirate looked back toward the spot where
he’d left his lady love in the dark. “I never wanted a woman the
way I’ve wanted you. I’m a fool to leave. Yet leave I must, if only
for a time. But mark me well, my only love. This is not finished
between us!”

The curtain fell. There was a moment of
silence. Then, a thunder of applause. The lights went up, the lady
stood, and walked offstage. The pirate moved to follow, but the
applause swelled to a deafening pitch. To acknowledge it, the
curtain rose again. Frozen in transit, the pirate stepped to center
stage to take a deep bow. As the audience stomped their feet, the
brigand swept the plumed hat from his head, put a hand to the
golden hair, and tugged. Off came a wig, displaying a netting of
bound hair underneath. The net was tossed aside and a tumble of
rich chocolate curls dropped about the shoulders of the pirate. And
in his place stood Gabrielle Ashton-Cross, the toast of the London
stage.

Slowly, she extended a trim leg clad in
thigh-high boots and bowed with a masculine flourish so her nose
nearly touched the floor. It was a maneuver that never failed to
elicit an astonished gasp—so piratical and sensational was it
coming from one who was so obviously a woman, yet who, for a few
hours in the dark, had fooled them all.

Gabrielle stood with the footlights as a
barrier, taking her bows, feeling little relation to the hordes
she’d conquered so completely with her performance. They were but a
means to an end. She smiled perfunctorily and looked toward the
wings, where she would have a brief respite before the final
act.

There, she caught sight of her younger
brother, Cullen, who wore a look on his face she’d never seen
before.

He was a boyishly handsome young man of
twenty, five years her junior, with sandy hair and sad blue eyes.
The bastard children of the duke of Westbury and his mistress,
they’d clung together since early childhood, when their mother had
died and they’d been foisted on the duke.

It wasn’t unusual for Cullen to be there,
watching and hanging around backstage. Some weeks he came every
night, he was so lost without her. As she rose and smiled at him,
he waved his hand, prompting her offstage. This was so unusual, it
pricked her curiosity.

With a final bow, Gabrielle left the stage to
a chorus of disappointed groans, and went to see what the
excitement was about. Nodding distractedly at the congratulations
of her fellow actors, she brushed through them like an arrow toward
her goal.

“I must speak with you at once,” her brother
told her above the din.

Before he could say more, the stage manager,
Humphrey Hollingstead, stormed through the assemblage. One glance
told Gabrielle he was fuming. “Miss Ashton-Cross, you’ve altered
your lines once again.”

“Why, yes, Mr. Hollingstead. I believe I
have.”

He clutched his thickly curling hair and made
dramatic gestures as if ripping it out by the roots. “You’re
driving me to distraction! Always tampering with the lines. I never
know what you’re going to say. Every night it’s a new play.”

“It felt right to do so,” she explained with
a dismissive shrug. “I did, after all, write the play. Isn’t that
so, Cullen?”

At her intimation that she might involve her
brother in this quarrel, Cullen paled.

“If you don’t desist,” Hollingstead warned,
“I shall take action and discharge you.”

Cullen opened his mouth to speak. Knowing her
brother’s propensity for capitulation, Gabrielle stepped in front
of him. “You need me, Mr. Hollingstead. It’s the air of scandal I
lend to this production that keeps the audience coming.”

“I’m warning you, Miss Ashton-Cross. I want
the lines performed as written in the final act.
As written
,
Miss Ashton-Cross. That’s an order.”

“An
order?
” She cast a sly glance at
Cullen, who diverted his embarrassed gaze. She didn’t take well to
orders, and they all knew it. Hollingstead certainly did. He’d
commanded Gabrielle into his bed and she’d refused.

Already, admirers were swarming backstage,
elbowing Hollingstead aside. They were mostly male, some with
gardenias in hand, all with the eager looks of suitors hopeful of a
kind word. Their ranks contained all manner of artists, dandies,
and swells from London’s fastest crowd. Baron Swalberg and his
expatriate circle, including his lecherous hunchback cousin just
over from Germany. The Earl of Lygate and his whoremongering
hangers-on. The novelist Bulwer-Lytton, with his subtly groping
hands. And a host of other upper-class rakes whose licentious
impulses seemed to have been liberated by the air of reform
sweeping England. All of them endlessly drawn to the shocking
sensuality of the play—and to her.

When they spotted Gabrielle, they rushed
forth in a mass, nearly crushing her with their enthusiasm.

“We can’t talk here,” she called to Cullen.
He began to coax a path through the swarm, and she followed in his
wake.

“I told you she wouldn’t stop,” one poet said
to another. “She never does.”

“Maybe they’re right,” surmised the other.
“Maybe she isn’t interested in men.”

“I hear she really knew the rogue when he
lived in England.
That’s
why she plays him so
convincingly.”

He turned and stared at the vision coming
toward them.

“
I hear—
” He put his mouth to the
other’s ear and whispered waspishly.

“No! It can’t be true!”

Ignoring the gossip, brother and sister made
their way through the crush and noise to her dressing room, where
already the tables were piled high with gardenias. The
Spectator
had reported once that the actress was known to be
fond of them, so ever since, she’d been deluged by the flowers to
the point that she could no longer bear their heavy scent. “Why the
urgency?” she asked, moving to gather the blossoms and take them
outside.

“Father’s sent for you.”

She took a moment to absorb the words, then
turned as if in a trance, dropping the forgotten flowers to the
table.

“Sent for me?”

“His note said you were to report to him at
once. He’s waiting for you at Westbury House.”

She looked up and met his gaze and saw that
he, too, realized the significance. Never once, in all the years
since she’d left his country estate in the middle of the night, had
Douglas Cross sent for her.

As Cullen left, Gabrielle turned to the
mirror and began to cream her face. She caught her hand trembling,
and chided herself for a fool. If the duke had sent for her, it
could only mean one thing: She’d won some kind of victory. All at
once, a great excitement bubbled inside her. What else could it
mean?

She could hear her brother outside
diplomatically explaining to her admirers that she’d been called
away and her understudy would take her place. In a rush, she left
her dressing room, still wearing her pirate costume with the
shockingly tight men’s pants, red shirt, yellow sash about her
waist, and peacock jacket that was folded back on the right side to
display her sword.

She was a beautiful woman by anyone’s
standards, with strong features that, with greasepaint and the
austerity of pulled-back hair, could pass for a man’s. Her voice
was deep, as resonant as that of many men, which aided the
illusion. But with her paint removed and her rich brown curls
framing her face, it was difficult to see how she accomplished the
feat. Her eyes were that of a woman, the distinctive cobalt blue of
her French grandmother, smoldering with suppressed passions so they
gave the impression she’d just stepped out of bed; but wary and
defensive as if daring any man to challenge the barriers she’d
erected. She wasn’t aware that they served as an invitation to men,
but the fact was widely remarked on in the backrooms of London.