CHAPTER FOURTEEN
M
r. Stoker nursed his resentment for the better part of that day, for I did not see him again until it was time for us to perform.
That is not to say that I did not hear him.
Shortly before we were to begin the act, I made my way to the tent, slipping through the shadowy areas behind, where few of the paying customers ventured.
One had to be quite careful here, as the ropes and tent pegs were difficult to see, so I was picking my way slowly when I heard my name in conversation.
It was Salome speaking, and I soon realized to whom.
“Why did you marry Veronica?
Is she with child?”
The voice was teasing, and the reply was brutal and swift.
“God, no!”
Too late, he must have remembered that we were supposed to be devotedly in love, for he hastened to repair the damage.
“That is to say, it is far too soon for that sort of thing.
I would like some time with my bride all to myself before I have to share her with a child.”
Salome laughed, a velvety, seductive sound, and I knew instinctively that she would be standing quite close to him in the darkness.
“Oh, Stoker, why do you think you can deceive me?
After what we have been together?
Tell me the truth now.
Do you really prefer her to me?”
I heard the rustle of fabric and a decidedly masculine gasp.
“That’s really quite an inappropriate question under the circumstances, don’t you think?
You oughtn’t—that is, I am a married man, Salome.”
“Are you?
You don’t seem married to me.”
After this came more rustling and another groan.
“Leave me be, Salome.
I am quite devoted to Veronica,” he said, his voice strangled.
“I don’t believe that,” she murmured.
“Tell me why you like her.
Tell me why you married her.”
There was a moment of imperfect silence between them, for I heard still more rustling and then, quite abruptly, a ragged growl and another laugh from Salome, this one sharp and unpleasant.
“You think you can push me aside?
You think you can forget me?
For her?”
Salome caught her breath suddenly.
“Let go of my arm.
You’re hurting me.”
“And I will do a good deal more if you try any more of your sly tricks, either on me or on Veronica.
You’re not to go near her, do you understand me?”
“A little late for you to suddenly play the protective husband, don’t you think?
Why did you do it?
Tell me why you married her.”
“I mean it, Salome, and if you think I don’t, I beg you to give me the chance to prove it.
Leave her be.
And me as well.”
He must have stalked off then, for she cursed as she came around the corner.
She brought herself up with an exaggerated start when she saw me.
“Oh, Veronica!
I did not know you were there.”
“Really, somehow I think otherwise.”
She gave me an appraising look followed by a shrug.
“I was the first woman to know him.
You will understand why I am curious about you.
We are very different.”
She stepped nearer.
“How did you meet him?
What do you speak of together?”
I tipped my head.
“Such interesting questions.
But really, you ought to ask Stoker if you want them answered.
Oh, but I am forgetting.
You already did.”
With that she flicked her hair and walked away, swinging her hips as she moved.
Out of the shadows I saw a figure sidle up to her, and I was interested to recognize the form of the flirtatious groom, Mornaday.
Having halfheartedly tried his luck with me and found it wanting, he had no doubt decided to cast his line in likelier waters, I reflected.
I wished him joy of her, but it did seem a trifle much that we should now share two men.
I proceeded on to the tent and found Mr. Stoker pacing by the back flap.
“Finally!
Where in the name of hell have you been?”
“Eavesdropping,” I said with deliberate sweetness.
He stopped and stared at me.
“What—”
I reached up and applied my handkerchief to his face, scrubbing vigorously.
“You have lip rouge on your mouth.”
He had the grace to blush.
“Yes, well, that was—”
“That was none of my business, but you look quite ludicrous.
Quite
ludicrous indeed.
If you mean to exchange favors with Salome, I would only ask that you attempt a little discretion.
We must give the appearance of content married life if the masquerade is to be credible, must we not?”
He snatched the handkerchief out of my hand.
“Give me that!
You’ve rubbed my skin raw.”
I gave him a look of mock contrition.
“Oh, I do apologize.
It is such a garish shade, it is quite difficult to remove.”
He scrubbed at his own face.
“Better?”
“Yes, although there is some on your collar.
And you might want to attend to the top button on your trousers.”
He muttered a curse, but I gave him a brilliant smile.
“It sounds like a very full house tonight.”
“Veronica, about Salome—”
I placed a hand on his sleeve.
“Really, Mr. Stoker, you needn’t bother.
I assure you she does not trouble me in the least.
If you decide to pay a call upon her, I shan’t wait up.
I will just leave the bolt on the caravan door undone.
You can let yourself in—only do be quiet getting into bed, won’t you?
I am quite tired this evening and would so hate to be awakened.”
He stared at me openmouthed, then snapped his jaw shut and took me hard by the wrist, half dragging me to the flap.
I smiled to myself that I had provoked him to such a fine display of temper, but I was by no means finished.
I had not even begun.
We stood outside the tent, listening to the incoming crowd, a thin layer of canvas providing us with a modest bit of privacy.
“They sound keen,” I remarked.
“Almost as keen as you in the arms of the delicious Salome.”
He whirled on me.
“That is enough,” he growled.
“I swear to the devil, Veronica, if you vex me further, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Stoker.
You will have to do better than that if you mean to make me afraid of you.
I have been menaced more effectively by poodles.”
“God, you have a vicious tongue,” he retorted.
“But I am no more afraid of you than you are of me.
I have little doubt your bark is worse than your bite.”
“How do you know, Mr. Stoker?
I haven’t bitten you yet.”
I leaned close and snapped my teeth, a whisper away from his nose.
He bent to me and my lips parted of their own volition.
My fingers crept to his shirtfront and I could feel the pounding of his heart under my palms.
His hands were curled into fists, and he held them at his sides, as if fighting the urge to touch me with every particle of his being.
His mouth was a breath away from mine, and yet he did not move closer.
He did not
finish it.
He simply stood, as perfectly still as one of the mounts in his own workshop, captured in a moment that stretched tautly into an eternity.
I was conscious of a curious buzzing in my ears and realized it was my own excitement fizzing in my blood.
I understood then what a significant miscalculation I had made.
I had thought to toy with him and instead had managed to rouse myself to a fever pitch.
Whatever pleasant dalliances I had enjoyed in the past, those interludes would be drops in the ocean compared to the tidal wave of this man.
And the knowledge of that shook my composure to the core—a composure I would not,
could not, afford to lose.
Worse still, I had used my trick of prodding his temper to provoke something entirely different, and it felt suddenly shabby and mean to have done so.
I stepped sharply backward, letting my hands fall, empty, to my sides.
“How uncivil of me,” I told him, forcing my tone to lightness.
“I do apologize.”
He ignored the apology.
“We are on,” he told me, turning to enter the tent.
He did not look back to see if I would follow.
For the whole of the act, something was off about Mr. Stoker.
His patter was forced, his conjuring sloppy, and the crowd was restless.
Without the dulling effects of the aguardiente, I noticed the pungent smell of the tent, the mingled aromas of sweat and sawdust, and the sharp odor of excitement.
I noticed the faces with their avid eyes and ruddy cheeks, countryfolk bent on a little harmless entertainment.
I heard their murmurs and whispers, the titters of anticipation as he moved to the knives.
He buckled the restraints, his hands tight upon my limbs, his movements ungentle.
He was clearly still disturbed by the scenes behind the tents, and I could not imagine why.
I had given him carte blanche to visit Salome and he had responded with irritation and a fine display of temper.
I should never understand men, I reflected, even if I devoted myself to the study of them as I had lepidoptery.
To begin with, I should need a considerably larger net, I decided with a private smile.
But if he was not himself, I must in fairness own that neither was I. I had been aware of a dullness settling upon me, an ache in the bones that usually presaged fever.
I shook it off, forcing myself to smile at the crowd and play the devoted assistant, all the while longing for my bed and the sweet release of sleep.
He finished his work at the restraints and invited a local fellow, this time the dispensing chemist, to test them.
He did so, and Mr. Stoker took up the first blade.
He held it a bit longer than was his custom, and when it flew through the air, I felt it divide the hair at the top of my head.
The crowd gasped.
Mr. Stoker went rather pale, but the second blade was true, striking precisely where it ought.
I gave him a brief nod of encouragement, and with the slight movement, pain shot through my head like a bolt of lightning.
“Not now,” I muttered through gritted teeth.
But the body is a treacherous thing, and I felt the swoon coming upon me as a creeping blackness advancing from the edges of my vision.
My knees gave way and my body sagged against the leather restraints just as the knife left his hand.
I opened my mouth to cry a warning, but of course it was too late.