Virgin Star (8 page)

"We know you speak English."

One of the Chinese tongues too, but she did not feel inclined to tell him that, tell him anything for that matter. Yet somehow she knew Malacca too, a province on Malay. She remembered the letter, the words about his brother's wife being threatened. Had she lived there in Malacca? With whom? When? Why did she feel she had to return to Malacca?

Because she would be safe there. Safe from what? From whom?

"How old you are? Do you know that?"

She looked up to see his interested stare. He watched her closely, his hands clasped around a knee as he leaned back guessing. He'd never had a talent for guessing a woman's age with any degree of accuracy. He could only call the parameters; she did not look much past ten and six, if that. Yet the question seemed to surprise her, and she appeared to think of it. Not a good sign.

The most basic of all personal questions. At least she knew that! "One and twenty, but—"

"One and twenty?" He shook his head, buttoning his shirt, then standing to tuck this beneath his trousers. "As likely as a dry Irish wake—"

A knock sounded at the door. "Yes?" Seanessy asked.

Charles swept in and announced breakfast in the garden room. The older man showed absolutely no surprise that somehow, some time in the dark middle of the night, the beaten and unconscious girl had made her way to this room. Most women did, it seemed. "The morning post has arrived—"

"Bring it into the breakfast room, Charles."

"Your secretary is here as well. He's waiting downstairs."

"Barton? What does he want?"

'Tm sure T have no idea."

"Well, not today. If there's anything pressing, tell him to write it down and leave it with the post. Jackson and Cherry Joe?"

"Not yet, sir."

"Let me know the moment—"

"Yes, of course. Also a Madam, ah, Molly," The older man’s raised brow revealed his discomfort. "Has made an appearance, but finding you presently or otherwise engaged, she too has withdrawn—"

"When?"

"Just now, sir."

"Catch her. Send her up—" "Up; sir?"

Charles looked pointedly at the young woman, and Seanessy was surprised by his meaning, more surprised that Charles would condescend to concern himself over the girl. Charles though, was full of surprises. "Well, send her somewhere for now. I don't care where. Tell Molly it could be a broom closet this morning—she'll catch my meaning. And where the devil is Tilly? No, please spare me your speculations. Just find her. And send up a breakfast tray for our young lady--she is half-starved.”

"At once, sir." Charles withdrew.

Seanessy returned his attention to her. "Here, what about this?" The question was asked as his finger gently; teased the spot above her breast marked by the strange form. "Do you know how or why you got this?"

The look in his eyes made her breath stop, and for an interminable race of seconds, she stared questioningly into the compelling gaze. The burning memory of his hard masculine torso pressed so intimately against hers flooded into her mind. She forced herself to look down where his finger gently rested. Confusion joined in a rush of heady sensations brought by his nearness: fear and something else she could not name. A slight shake of her head told him she did not know what he meant.

Seanessy stood up and withdrew, and she watched with keen interest as he retrieved a hand glass from the dressing table. Returning to the bed, he held it up and very gently drew the shirt from the spot. "That, child. Do you not remember that?"

In the mirror's reflection, she saw the thin pink and blue lines on her skin. A mark. Like a scar. The lines formed a diamond, a point, and a face.

She was tattooed. Someone had marked her like a beast.

A trembling hand reached to the spot, brushing over and over the queer lines. She tried to wipe them from her skin, but to no avail. An ink mark done with needles and conscious purpose; she would wear it to the grave.

She drew her shirt over the mark with a tightly clenched fist and raised her searching eyes to his.

"So what I have is a battered young girl dropped on my doorstep whose memory was stolen by a hard blow to her head. Toothless saw you last night—"

“
Toothless?"

"My ship's surgeon. But he's only a bones man. I'll have Tilly send for a neurologist at the academy. She'll watch over you until—"

"Do you have a seaworthy ship?"

"Any number of them, child."

She suddenly reached for his arm, needing more of his attention. "This must be why I sought you. I need passage on a ship! I must escape—"

"Escape what?"

The question came in the demanding lilt of English aristocracy, yet the intimidating tone did not in the least threaten her as she braved the confession, "I don't know, but I am in danger. I must get away as far as possible before it is too late."

Seanessy stood over her, hands on hips, staring down. He wondered if on top of everything else she might be quite mad. Where did one send mad people these days? Wasn't there a proper Quaker institution in Yorkshire?

He did not hide his suspicions as he asked, "And just what is this danger, child?"

Her gaze swept the room as she cried, "I don't know! I mean, I can't remember. Yet I know I am in danger." She lifted up to her knees, pleading, "Please! If I could just have passage on your ship before 'tis too late. Passage to Malacca or even India—"

"My ships are not passenger ships."

"I could work. I am strong—"

"Strong? Are you daft, girl? Think you strong enough to fight off the determined advances of seventy-five hardened seamen bent on a little female raping? Pretty as your tricks are, they are no match for a man with loaded guns and a living target. And while you might not be particularly appealing to my tastes, I daresay on an empty blue sea, they'd have to shoot you to stave off the riot you'd cause."

Fury and indignation flashed in her eyes. She decided she hated him and all his haughty posturing. He was so maddening and arrogant, as if he ruled the world with the gods. Pretty tricks indeed! She could have killed him had she wanted to.

Slowly, with venom, she repeated, "I must escape. I must do it now! If you are such a weak-handed captain that you could not assure me safe passage from the lawlessness of your crew, then I would ask you make arrangements on a worthier ship."

"Why, you ill-mannered, impudent little brat! You are more irritating than a rock in a boot. Anyone with half a simpleton's wit would know—"

Listening outside, Tilly chose that moment to interrupt the arresting exchange of opinions before Seanessy resorted to throttling the girl. She opened the door, only to watch the young lady roll off the bed and stand with hands raised and feet spread, ready to fight.

Seanessy took one look and laughed.

Seeing it was only a servant, relief, powerful and heady, washed over her where she stood. She almost collapsed. Dear Lord, she was so frightened!

Tilly looked surprised, no doubt owing to the fact that in all her forty-eight years this was the first time she had ever frightened anyone. "What’s wrong?"

"I trust you know the answer to that, Tilly," Seanessy said as he moved to the door.

Tilly rushed into an explanation. "Cap'n! Cap'n! I'm so sorry. I must have fallen asleep—"

Seanessy had never been in the habit of listening to excuses, and he interrupted to say, "Tilly dear, do you know what I woke to this morning?"

Tilly shook her head, bracing.

"I woke to find the brat straddled over me with my dagger at my throat.”

"Mercy!" Tilly took this in. "Wh't in 'eaven's name did ye do that for?"

"She's frightened. It's a long story that I hope I never have to hear. It appears that she's lost her memory. She can't even tell me her name. Do with her"—he waved his hand in dismissal, realizing he had no idea what to do with her—"whatever you think is best, Tilly. And oh," He stopped in front of the woman as he moved toward the door.

From the other side of the bed, she saw she had lost his attention and worse, his interest, and somehow it was so maddening. She might not be able to remember all the men she had met in her life, but she'd wager a roomful of tea he was worst of them!

"Send someone out for a neurologist at the academy to check her over. Not that irascible quack who tried to help me with my headaches." That doctor had told him his headaches were the result of "nerve irritation and acidic air," and he had prescribed a half-year in a Swiss sanitarium to relax his "humors." The mendacious man pretended to be outraged when he had demanded to know how much of a kickback he got from this Swiss sanitarium. "Get the best. I believe there is more than one thing wrong with that pretty head."

He chuckled when he saw her angry glare, chuckled because, happily, he could shut the door on it, her, the whole unpleasant incident. He had a killing to arrange. Right after Molly ...

*****

Chapter 3

Molly gasped as Seanessy's greedy hands deftly untied the laces of her new cherry-red corset, the color perfectly matching the lip paint she wore. Faint red smudges of it appeared around his handsome mouth. He let his lips tease the sensitive area just under her ear. She hoped he got a good whiff of the French perfume there—cost a whole friggin' pound, it did, and just to make sure, she asked, "Do you like my new perfume, Seanessy?"

Seanessy managed a husky aye, though his mind strayed far from any thought of perfume. Especially as he freed her heavy breasts and cupped their impressive weight in his hands. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, savoring the sweet mercy of her presence.

Thank heaven for Molly. Especially after what he had just been put through. No. Do not think of that.

Molly giggled girlishly, in a way only Seanessy inspired. She sometimes wondered if she might actually love him—a ridiculous thought for the most successful madam in London—but there it was nonetheless. As she'd told her girls: after three marriages and hundreds of men, Seanessy was the only man she'd bed for no better reason than the fun of it.

He lifted his head from her neck, and as he aligned her body tightly against his length, the image of bright amber eyes against dark gold hair rushed through his mind. His pulse leaped as he remembered the coral-pink tease of her breasts and the feel of her slim form beneath him-—

He was suddenly kissing Molly as if he were a man dying of thirst. It made Molly dizzy. When his lips finally left hers, she released a trembling sigh, almost embarrassed by how shaky she felt—like a schoolgirl again-—and with a nervous laugh, she said, "Well, aren't we all fired up ..."

He whispered sweet things about what was inspiring the fire, all of them lies. He only knew he needed a release—that was all he knew or cared about. He effortlessly lifted her impressive weight against the door. Neither the location nor the position had been randomly chosen. Very few people knocked in this house, and the lock on this door had long ago disappeared.

A rap sounded, affirming Sean's wisdom. Holding Molly's weight against him with one arm, he used his free hand to stifle her amusement. "Go away, Tilly—"

"I would, master, I truly would if I just knew what to do. Ye see, the young lady refuses to put on the proper dress—:”

"Tilly." He pronounced her name loudly and with a warning that sounded through the door. "What leap of imagination makes you think I am in any way interested in the young lady's state of dress?"

"Oh, but she insists on donnin' a pair of trousers, sir!"

"What?"

"Trousers, sir. She wants to wear trousers!"

He collapsed with a frustrated sigh. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" Molly used the distraction to drive him mad, with some degree of success. "Look, Tilly, I suggest you indulge the girl's fancies. I wouldn't want you to suffer her blows—they can be quite deadly." Returning to Molly's expert ministrations, he said, "Off with you, Tilly."

Tilly's hand grasped at her heart as she bobbed a curtsy to the closed door and left. She had never known of a woman wearing a man's clothes. Oh, the things that went on in this house! She'd have to go see her vicar again to get the assurance that being a good light in a house filled with sin, but charged with more charity and human goodness than Westminster Abbey, would not be a detriment on Judgment Day...