Chapter 9 #3
Or loses, he thought to himself. The winner was not going to endear himself to Portia St. Claire, who wouldn’t understand the true situation. She would never want to see her false lover again. That was good, he tried to tell himself. Portia was trouble, and had no place in his life.
Then why not let Fort have her? If he abided by the terms of the wager, she’d be safe enough.
Bryght realized that he didn’t want any other man touching Portia St. Claire. He knew then that he was in the mire deeper than he wished, and would be safer out of it. He looked at Fort. “Would you marry her?” he asked quietly.
Fort’s brows shot up. “After this? Are you mad?”
Bryght sighed and passed him a die. “One roll each. Highest wins.”
“Would you marry her?” Fort asked in seemingly genuine curiosity.
Bryght rolled the smooth die in his fingers. “Yes,” he said, and rolled.
A five.
Fort contemplated the white cube and then placed it down, one up. “The whim has passed. By all means pursue your wager, Lord Bryght. And,” he added with quiet malice, “I look forward to dancing at your wedding.” With that he strolled away, leaving Bryght the victor.
Like a victor who has won the right to be a human sacrifice.
“Congratulations, my lord,” called out Mirabelle gaily, “I’ll just have your vowel on it, and then you can show your mettle! And who is the other wagerer? We must have it all in the book.”
Bryght scrawled the IOU. “A fat sugar-planter called Prestonly. He’s doubtless wheezing his way down here. You’d better save him a view.” He looked at the madam. “I need a few minutes. Delay things.”
Mirabelle’s brows shot up, but she nodded.
Bryght swept Portia off the dais into his arms. Cheers resounded. She stared up at him. “No!”
He pushed her head against his shoulder before she said something stupid. “Hush, it won’t be too bad.”
She was trembling, though.
Bryght was suddenly sickened by the world he inhabited. This tiny woman in his arms could be a frightened child, sold by a broken father, and going to a man blighted by disease. These spectators would still be cheering and scrambling for a pair of peepholes.
Bryght carried Portia into Mirabelle’s Rotunda wanting to give her a stern lecture on prudence.
Anyone with sense would have abandoned her fool brother to his fate weeks ago.
The fact that she could never do that, and that she had the courage to come here today and stand unflinching on the auction block, made him want to wring her neck. It also made her precious to him.
The Rotunda was a perfect circle and the only furniture was a circular bed—a platform, really, padded but covered only with a tight, white sheet. Covers would definitely spoil the fun.
On the ceiling, gods and goddesses lewdly frolicked and the painted walls showed twenty mortals imitating the deities. The difference was that the various pieces of equipment they used—from whips to scented oils—were real and could be appropriated by the users of the room.
The eyes of each abandoned figure were strangely blank, but that was because the observers had not yet taken their places.
There was an eerie effect of movement from the figures on the wall, made greater by the flickering candles in colored glass lamps and the faint haze of burning incense.
The dimness lent mystery to the scene for the observers, but Bryght could use it to carry off this event.
Had Portia understood anything about the wager? He put her down cautiously and she immediately straightened her garments with a flustered manner that made him want to grin. As if she’d just tumbled on some steps and been helped to her feet.
“Where are we?” she asked, looking around. Then she gaped. “Lud! That’s—”
He put a hand to her head to draw her attention to him. “Hush, don’t look at the pictures. Listen to me. How good an actress are you?”
Even through the mask he could see her eyes widen. “I’ve never tried to act in my life.”
“Then tonight is your debut. You have to act the part of a frightened girl wooed by a skillful lover—myself—into wanting to surrender entirely to his passionate demands.”
“Surrender entirely,” she echoed, and he could tell that shock and bewilderment had dulled her sharp wits. She might even be drugged. There was no time for subtlety for Mirabelle could only delay the voyeurs a little.
“It’s act or do it in reality, Hippolyta.”
She jerked under his sharp tone. “You’re not going to…?”
“No. I promise I won’t harm you. I’ve made a wager I can make you willing, and without removing a stitch of clothing.”
He should have known that the word wager was like a red rag to a bull. “You could always lose your ridiculous wager,” she snapped, much more like his .
“Twelve hundred guineas?”
She gaped again. “What? How could you…?”
“Isn’t that sum worth a little acting?” He saw a powerful weapon. “You can have it if we win.”
“Twelve hundred guineas?” she whispered.
“A good start on your debts, isn’t it? And all from a man who can afford it and deserves to lose more. Agreed?”
She looked around dazedly, her puffed-up face and long dark hair making of her a changeling, but Portia all the same. Then her back stiffened, and her chin went up. “Agreed. But I haven’t the slightest idea what to do.”
“I’ll guide you. But don’t be too willing too soon. To begin with, be frightened.”
She was frightened, he knew, but she met his eyes. “I’d rather fight!”
“Excellent.” He picked her up and threw her on the bed.
She landed in a sprawl of skirts then scrambled to her knees in outrage.
Before she recovered, he launched himself at her and pinned her down.
“Did I tell you we have an audience?” he whispered.
“There’s twenty peep-holes in the wall and the man I made the wager with is behind one. We’d better do this well.”
She went limp with shock. “Watching?”
“And listening if we speak loudly, so be careful. Isn’t that terrible? Aren’t you angry about it? Now, try to hurt me. Come on. I know you’d like to hurt someone.”
Fire flashed in her eyes then and she did fight, not holding back at all.
He goaded her so she did her damndest to get her nails at his skin, at his eyes even, spilling out all her fear and rage on him.
He lost some skin and gained some bruises, but wasn’t in real danger until he grew careless and she almost got his balls with her knee.
He twisted quickly, laughing. “Someone’s taught you something, sweetheart.”
“Fort. Who would have found a better way than this?”
He hadn’t tried to use his strength before, but now he pinned her down ruthlessly. “Such sweet faith you show in him,” he hissed. “Your lover is he?”
She bared her teeth, fighting every ounce of his weight. “You…you…toad!”
He almost laughed that all her rage had resulted in such a mild epithet.
“Toad or not, it’s me you have to deal with.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t. You hate my world.” He brought his mouth close to hers as if to kiss. “A side wager, Hippolyta.”
Confusion turned her limp and she stared into his eyes. “What? You know I don’t gamble. I hate gaming!”
“You dice with the devil all the time, sweet . What we do here is going to be for show, but if I can truly make you want me, you are not allowed to hate me.”
She struggled again. “Want you? You must be mad!”
“The whole world seems to think so. Do you agree?”
“How can I not hate you?”
“That’s so unchristian,” he chided. “And you are a good Christian, aren’t you? Pray about it. I’m sure you can overcome the sin.”
She was still now—stiff with resentment, but still. “And when I thwart you, what do I win?”
“The freedom to hate?”
“I have that now.”
Her words hurt him, but he hoped they were mainly the product of fear. He loosed his hold on her and traced the distorted line of her cheek. “What do you want then, little warrior?”
She twitched away from his hand. “Freedom from you. Forever. Never to see you again. Never to hear your voice. Never to have you touch me in any way.”
Despite the hurt, he kept his voice calm. “High stakes indeed. I think I must raise mine. If I win, you must not refuse to see me, or hear me, or to let me touch you as a gentleman may touch a lady. So, on those terms, do we have a wager?”
She stared at him for a moment, weighing it. Then turned her head away. “Why not? Do your worst.”
He did not make the obvious comment, but said instead, “A word of advice. The greatest folly in gaming is to be sure you hold the winning cards. Especially when you don’t even know the rules of the game.”
She struggled then, more furious than afraid.
He laughed just to goad her but he wasn’t amused.
He wanted her. In this situation it seemed obscene to desire Portia, but her lithe strength, her flashing eyes behind the gilded mask, her raging spirit, had him painfully hard already.
He concentrated on the long dark wig, the plump cheeks, and the bold face-paint, trying to see her as just a body.
She was still Portia through and through.
Her eyes shot fury at him, her red mouth was parted by angry gasps, and her small breasts pushed against the soft bodice, begging to be touched.
Gods.
Playing to the audience, he forced a kiss on her. She kept her mouth hard against his but he murmured, “Remember the twelve hundred guineas. Now we’ve struggled, it’s time for me to start seducing you.”
She twitched with alarm, fear and doubt in her eyes. He knew she was still not sure of her safety. “Trust me,” he said.
It was too much to expect, of course. Her expression told him that she was wishing for a weapon.
With another laugh, he rolled off the bed and began a new play for the audience. They’d be happier to see a bit of skin, and it could have a desirable effect on Portia. He took off his coat, cravat, and shirt. He pulled the ribbon out of his hair to increase the wild effect.