Trade Winds Page 22

  “Now.” The henchman shoved the mound of red satin at her. “Put it on.”

  Golden looked at her hand as she accepted the gown. But it wasn’t her hand anymore. The same way her legs were controlled by another as she turned to lay the gown out on the bed. The same way she heard the guard hum in approval, but her eyes looked up and saw a faraway face with a disgusting smirk she didn’t care about anymore. The same way all the pain in this nightmare had violated her to the point of numbness. That was what it had to be—a hideous, unreal nightmare.

  She only prayed, as she pulled the cheap-smelling satin over her head, that consciousness would rescue her soon.

  Nightmares ever ended when one wanted them to. They only clamored louder and pounded harder, just like the throng Golden could hear in the building below her room. Ale mugs slammed. Men shouted greetings, profanities, and blatantly sexual jibes. A fiddle struck up a lively tune until a bottle crashed and halted it; a round of bawdy singing accompanied the mild skirmish that ensued.

  Golden wished the fighters would punch it out for a really long time. Maybe the gods would really favor her, and the brutes would all kill each other.

  The gods were occupied tonight.

  Braziliano’s voice broke into the din. Snatches of his speech escaped through the ever-increasing hoots and whistles. “…in the most excellent Braziliano tradition…finest wenches from the world over…a final sale that will render you speechless!”

  The crowd was frenzied by the time he finished. A cheer went up that shook even the second-floor window across from Golden.

  Claws of terror sank their last inch into her nerves.

  “Oh, God,” she whispered. She fastened her gaze to the white-knuckled wad of her hands in her lap. Lilly still stood behind her, smoothing sturdy hands over the stiff twists that had once been her hair, but Golden knew better than to expect a word of encouragement from the staunch woman.

  She was truly alone.

  Even the creature she raised her eyes to in the dirty mirror was a stranger. Lilly had rice-powdered her face until she couldn’t stop sneezing, then hurrumphed in disgust and powdered her all over again. Next came the deep-red cheek rouge, which also got smeared into her lips, worsening her nauseated state. Then the patch box emerged. Lilly placed a small black dot strategically at the top left corner of her lips then a heart-shaped patch below her right eye. When Golden thought the woman was finally done, Lilly gave her well-exposed breasts the same treatment. Her nipples ached now from the woman’s relentless pushing and poufing. The rest of her body remained numb, frozen, disconnected.

  In the hall downstairs, the bride auction commenced. The bids rang out higher and higher with each wench brought to the auction block. “One hundred guineas!” “Three hundred creoles!” “Five hundred dubloons!” Soon, the hall outside the door echoed with breathless giggles and lusty grunts. From the rooms around her, Golden heard furniture banging on walls, fabric being ripped, and long, happy female screams.

  The sounds didn’t reassure her.

  Her body coiled as hard and painfully as her hands. Her chest wrung a knot around her heart. Her head pounded and her throat dropped leaden drops of fear to her stomach.

  The dread alone was going to kill her.

  With her nerves imploding, she jumped up from the chair. Lilly gaped at her, confirming the woman wasn’t a voodoo zombie, after all. Golden began pacing the room, wondering if she could make a run at the window she hadn’t yet broken. The gashes in her face and shoulders would be flimsy price to pay for freedom.

  Her chance never came. The door opened. She was pinned by Braziliano’s black stare. The monster was dressed in a brilliant gold coat and matching breeches. A black velvet waistcoat gleamed underneath.

  He had the audacity to smile at her as he were only collecting her for a state dinner. He walked across the room with the same courtly manner.

  He made her even sicker to her stomach.

  “Querida,” he crooned. “You are a lovely flower tonight. And look; I dressed in honor of your splendorous name.”

  “How fortuitous. I dressed in honor of yours, as well. Satan’s diarrhea is always red, aye?”

  Though Roche returned a smooth grin, he gripped her chin in a punishing squeeze. “Perhaps I’ll think of asking your new husband to let me share in your wedding night, darling. What man doesn’t want to watch his bride kneel and suck another while he’s tearing her cunt open?”

  She spat at him, knowing he’d do little to tarnish her cosmetics now—or perhaps to convince herself that this really wasn’t happening. That the bad dream would end any moment.

  But Braziliano wiped her spittle off with his kerchief, and waved in two guards in to grab her.

  “N-No,” she gasped. “P-Please. No!”

  Paralyzing terror claimed a new part of her body with every step they took downstairs. She tried to kick her legs; they were wrapped in fat arms. She tried to wrench her arms; they were pulled and locked behind her back. She tried to scream, but all that came out was something like the wail of a seagull after its wings had been shot off.

  She was carried over carpeted stairs, then wooden ones. They passed open doorways filled with laughter, music, and the sounds of hard sex. There was more singing. It got louder and louder as she was brought into a huge room that smelled like sweat, rum, smoke, and desperation.

  “Ohhh, what shall we do with the drunken sailor, what shall we do with the drunken sailor, what shall we do—”

  “Gentlemen!”

  Braziliano’s bellow was a thunderclap over her ear. Past the cacophony in her head, Golden noted the abrupt fall of silence—and the two hundred pairs of eyes that followed. Staring straight at her.

  “Gentleman.” Braziliano lowered his voice, caressing the moment for all it was worth. “I now present my prize filly.”

  A breeze sneaked in and brushed the room. No one said a word until a single yowl pierced the air, long and loud and lusty. The rest of the mob followed in an enthusiastic din. If silence was the dam then pandemonium was the flood, each drop of the downpour a shout, a catcall or a curse—and for Golden, a pinch or a grab or a pair of lips trying to get at her.

  She was almost thankful for the armory of Braziliano’s men who closed in around her, beating off the ruffians as she was carried to the raised platform along the far wall. Roche appeared again next to her, gazing with the calm of an executioner at the block. Indeed, at that moment, Golden understood the last burst of energy a dying person had, for she jerked and clawed as the stage loomed larger and larger before her.

  “Someone help me!” she screamed. “Don’t let him do this!”

  “Oh, little chick,” came an ale-slurred repartee, “That ain’t half what I’ll do to ya!”

  She snarled in answer at the voice. Wild laughter slapped her back before she was lifted and turned toward the crowd. She saw nothing but a sea of leering faces. She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed against the clamoring sobs in her throat. She had danced naked with her tribal brothers and sisters and not felt as ashamed as she did in her half-clothed state now.

  “A fine señorita indeed, sí, my friends?” Braziliano snaked a hand around her waist and hauled her next to him. The barrel of his pistol ground painfully against her hip. “Nearly wild, just as I promised. Behold such hair, and the spirit in those eyes!”

  “But has she been broken to the whip yet?” somebody asked. A round of chortles followed as Golden snarled her answer to that.

  “As you can see, I’ve left that enviable task to her new master.” Braziliano’s voice was mild; his grasp on her the exact opposite. “What do I hear for this little firebrand? We will start the bidding at five hundred creoles. What man dares to take the challenge of this wench for five hundred creoles?”

  The bidding went loud and long after that, the numbers doubling then tripling what Golden remembered any of her predecessors garnering that evening. One thousand creoles. Two thousand. Three. The calls went back and forth,
higher and higher. Braziliano’s hand sweat wetter and wetter into her side. Her dignity sank lower and lower.

  Finally, the bidding eliminated all but two contenders.

  An anticipatory hush settled in the hall. Golden dragged her gaze up for the standoff that would seal her fate.

  Her eyes befell the first rival. She recoiled just as quickly. The giant of a man hid nothing and wanted everything. He downed a stein of ale gripped in a hand that looked more like a bear paw. Golden gasped when the Neanderthal tossed away the empty mug and grinned. His teeth were shark-like triangles.

  “Blood an’ ’ouns!” he howled. “She’s the most gorgeous thing I ever laid eyes on.” He waved wildly at her. “I’ll be wi’ ye soon, my love!”

  Golden whipped her face away. Mighty Puntan, surely she shouldn’t could be worse off with the other bidder.

  Her knees went limp and her mouth went dry when she discovered how horrifically wrong she was with that assumption.

  Unblinking black eyes probed into her from the opposite wall—the same eyes she’d seen just twenty-four hours ago, staring out over the rail of a pirate’s frigate.

  The eyes of El Culebra.

  Her limbs sagged and her lips trembled when the Spaniard broke a calm, haughty smile. He snaked lean-muscled arms across his finely-dressed torso, clearly anticipating his victory over the Neanderthal.

  “Goddamn it, Braz!” bellowed Sharkmouth. His friends pounded their ale steins on the bar. “Let’s get on wi’ it afore Mister Tom here splits outta my britches!”

  Braziliano licked his lips and recommenced the auction. The giant and El Culebra countered each other into the six then seven thousands. The bids stretched into a harrowing, degrading, petrifying eternity. Golden’s body grew so taut, surely she’d break apart from the strain before anyone had the chance to claim her.

  “We have seven thousand, nine hundred, gentleman,” Braziliano yelled. His hands were trembling with greedy exhilaration. “Seven thousand, nine hundred. Do I hear—”

  “All right, all right!” the Neanderthal yelled angrily. “Eight thousand!”

  For the first time in the evening, there was no reply. Breaths caught audibly across the room. Golden looked up to the corner where the finely-dressed pirate assessed his rival then her. Her heartbeat doubled. Was that the blackness of pure lust or pure vengeance fastened so intently upon her? Or, she thought with a dry gulp, both?

  Her question was lost to shock when someone else appeared in the corner with El Culebra. The interloper was a woman, who smashed her lips to the pirate’s mouth before them all. Loud hoots spurred her on as she jammed her hand down the man’s velvet breeches, showing him, and the entire room, exactly what she wanted. As El Culebra hiked the woman’s legs around his waist and disappeared down a hall with her, it was clear who’d just won the auction for Golden by default.

  The giant and his friends roared in victory.

  “We have a lucky gringo at last!” Braziliano proclaimed.

  Golden swallowed. Her conscience seized in terror as the leering giant lumbered up toward her. She closed her eyes, searching within for some source of calm, but she knew all too well what was to come now. Envisioning herself naked below this grunting drunk only made her knees grow weaker, her chest heave harder, and her mind stab more painfully with memories. Laying with this brute would be nothing like Mast’s kisses, caresses, and dark, magical passion. This wouldn’t be joyful. Or even pleasurable.

  A pistol shot suddenly blasted into the air. Once more, the room fell into silence. The pictures in her head froze to a startled stop.

  Wait. The remembrances hadn’t stopped at all. They’d come to life. They moved before her eyes, pushing through the crowd…

  She bit down on the smile yearning for release at her lips. She wouldn’t set it free until she was certain this was truly happening, that the terror of her mind hadn’t just made her swoon into this fantasy and some grimy henchman wasn’t going to jostle her awake any moment.

  “Roche. It’s been a long time.”

  The familiar deep tone flowed over her charred senses. For this one shining moment, it didn’t matter why he’d come back, just that he had.

  He robbed her breath, too. His spotless black jacket, silver-embroidered waistcoat, and perfectly tied stock rivaled Braziliano’s finery. His hand rested on a pistol handle of similar opulence. He was larger than life, her beautiful black panther in the flesh.

  “Captain Stafford.” Like the greeting Mast had issued, Braziliano’s manner was so composed, it mocked the apprehension in the room. “You are right, amigo. It has been a while. Barbados, was it not? Sí, I remember. The Sea Siren’s Tavern. That little tussle about your “missing” cargo. Sorry about that ruby-handled dagger of yours.”

  “Sorry about the gash I left in your leg before you broke it. Hope the scar wasn’t that bad.”

  A hearty eruption of chuckles followed Mast as he stepped forward. Braziliano’s incensed flush was spectacular, but he showed no other emotions.

  Instead, the beast worked his fury into her. He screwed his grip so tight, she winced. A nerve punched in Mast’s jaw; besides that, everyone only saw was his unyielding stare and his unbending stance. Everyone, Golden was certain, but her. The fatigued shadows behind his eyes, the weariness camped out along his shoulders and the fist of agony that screwed harder on his pistol handle were all as clear to her as the aching emotion in her heart.

  “It is an honor to have you with us this evening, my friend.” Braziliano’s voice was low with implied threat. “But I am afraid you’ve missed the most thrilling part of our festivities. We have just concluded our final transaction.”

  “I’m afraid not, Roche.”

  Braziliano started sliding his fingers into her low neckline. For the first time tonight, Golden’s mouth watered with the ache to bite a few of his fingers off. She contained herself because Mast was, too. The Latino leech was baiting him, but he was actually able to grin at Roche, shaking his head like he’d been told a very awful joke.

  “My apologies again, Captain Stafford, but I am afraid so. This lovely lady was my prize sale of the evening—”

  “This lovely lady was my property first.”

  He cracked the announcement into the crowd like a harsh, thick whip. Their combined huff of astonishment billowed through the air. Golden didn’t utter a sound. Aside from a few fast glances, Mast didn’t look at her. That was all right. She locked her stare hard enough on him to compensate.

  “You have papers to support this allegation, amigo?”

  “I don’t need papers and you know it, Roche. This room will stand testimony to my word. The wench is mine and I want her back.”

  Again, the man who held her issued no reply but a lazy, lurid grin. “Prove it,” Braziliano finally drawled.

  Mast purposely took his time about the breath he released at Roche in return. He had anticipated this from the cockroach—and had also dreaded it, knowing the proof Braziliano would require.

  He took another breath, for his own benefit this time. It didn’t help the clench in his chest as he began to raise his arm. But he didn’t stop until his hand could be seen by the entire mob.

  Into their collective silence, he snapped his fingers loudly. From the corner of his eye, he caught Golden’s jump of surprise.

  “Come here.”

  His stare was still imbedded into Braziliano, but he directed the command to her. Do it, Golden. You’ll understand later, if you must—but right now, I’m getting you out of here. And that means obeying me to the syllable. Now.

  Golden moved to his side without a sound.

  Tension clung to the thick air, making him all the more aware of her next to him again. Thank God. He longed to slam her back against into his skin and into his senses. Not yet. Braziliano would demand more.

  “Kneel,” he ordered.

  He could hear the gulp thud down Golden’s throat. He knew that asking—demanding—this of her was horrendous after what sh
e’d endured already. Worse, he knew her obedience commanded her trust, that she openly do this to acknowledge her belief in him. Him. The man with the Moonstormer’s flag in his hold.

  Something soft brushed the knuckles he had clenched around his pistol. He looked down and endured his chest being pulled inside out. It was Golden’s forehead—as she knelt before him.

  He hoisted his gaze like a victorious battle sword at Braziliano.

  “This is horse piss!”

  The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Along with the hands that snatched Golden away with it.

  “That’s right, Stafford! Did ya hear me? Horse piss!”

  Mast spun in the direction of the ale-slurred insult. A sheer wall of sweating pirate filled his vision. Pointed shark’s teeth threatened from a mouth at least a head over his. A neck with the radius of a mizzenmast erupted from a chest the width of a mainsail. Burrowed in the middle of that chest, nearly swallowed by one timber log of an arm, was Golden. Her face was an amazing picture of calm even under the face paint they’d forced on her. She was the most heart-wrenching sight he’d ever seen.

  She was beautiful.

  “Get your hands off her,” Mast gritted.

  “Bugger off, Captain Fancy Britches! You lost ’er, I bought ’er. The wench is mine!”

  “Get your hands off her.”

  “Gentlemen! Ay yi yi. Are we all not friends here?” Braziliano’s patronizing grated on Mast’s nerves like glass against a grindstone, but he forced himself to stop and take a calming breath for Golden’s sake.

  “Fine,” the giant growled. “Tell yer friend about the way we do things ’ere, Braz. Tell ’im I bargained for my bride in a fair and legal auction.”

  “Aye!” a voice in the crowd piped. “That he did!”

  “Wait a bloody minute,” someone else interjected. “Mast Stafford’s always done right by me. If he lays claim to the chit first, I believe him.”