Читать книгу The Blonde Samurai - Jina Bacarr, Jina Bacarr - Страница 11

Cliff House, San Francisco, California

Six weeks later…

We made the journey from London to New York, then across the continent by railway, and I must say I was flattered by the endearing personal service afforded to me as Lady Carlton. It mattered not that I was Thomas O’Roarke’s daughter, more that I commandeered the title of aristocrat with a handsome husband at my side. James cajoled the wives of business associates we met along the way, impressing their husbands with my father’s money, paying for lavish parties and handing out Cuban cigars. He was on his best behavior.

Until tonight.

We were dining in a private room at Cliff House, marveling at its lofty view overlooking the coast and the bellowing seals romping about on the rocks below, when James made an off-putting remark about the fashionably low décolleté of my gown. In a not-too-subtle manner, he insinuated I was intent on seducing every man I came in contact with, including our sober-faced waiter.

Me? A seductress? The idea amused me since the art was unknown to me, though I had travailed in my reading about infamous mistresses, their style, repartee, even the popularity of their scent. (The next time you smell a musky odor upon his lordship’s handkerchief, be advised it could be the natural perfume of a certain courtesan residing on Lupus Street known for imparting her body aroma on a gentleman’s handkerchief.)

I knew the daring gown was stunning, too dazzling for an early dinner, but I ventured to wear it anyway. Shoulders straight, bosom high, hips buoying the twenty or more flounces on my overskirt, I walked with a sensual flair to make every man dream about what was underneath. (I learned to affect a certain disinterest in what I wore from watching ladies of the British aristocracy, as if the nature of wearing garments was a plebian aptitude one merely adopted on a divine whim.)

Aside, I must tell you I loved the feel of the satin swishing between my legs, the velvet caressing my breasts, the lace pricking my nipples and making them taut. I wore such frilly, pretty clothes to evoke a mood and create a world of my own, a world where I played the role of a woman beautiful and mythical, a woman desirous to men, a woman so legendary no man could resist her. I cared not if that world collapsed when I stood nude before a full-length oval mirror and examined my features, plain as they were. When I swathed myself in glittering finery, I embarked on a deep and satisfying adventure that allowed me to indulge in my romantic wanderings, to race forward into the mirage I had created and walk through the fire of criticism unscathed.

Which was why I chose the color red. A defiant color, bold and perfect. I relished how the velvet gown in crushed strawberry hugged my body, the small cap sleeves sliding down my bare shoulders while the tiered soft bustle swayed behind me, the long train sweeping over the muted Oriental carpets. A long row of pearl buttons gave off an opaline luster, racing down my back like a game of dominoes.

I also enjoyed the effect this gown had on the ladies who gossiped about me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree when I returned to London. (You remember what I wore that night, of course you do.) I also relished the attention of the gentlemen who couldn’t take their eyes off me. Especially my husband. He hated the idea of another man looking at me, even a servant, when he couldn’t bed me.

“What do you think about my husband’s remark?” I asked the black-tailed server as he poured me another glass of claret. My fourth. I needed no excuse to indulge in spirits. My nerves were frayed from fatigue, my mind listless. I admit the wine as well as his comment brought up my Irish dander, knowing as I do my susceptibility to lose my tongue when imbibing spirits, so I tossed aside any reserve I held in abeyance.

“I beg your pardon, your ladyship?” the server answered quickly.

“Am I trying to seduce you?” I drank the wine quickly lest I spill it on my gown and sour the rich red color with a dark stain. The wine teased my tongue with its tartness as I swallowed it, the choker of diamonds around my neck bouncing up and down when I tightened my throat muscles. I held my glass up and the waiter poured me another with hesitation.

“Whatever your ladyship wishes,” he answered automatically, without moving a muscle in his drawn face, then realized too late the consequences of maintaining his cool exterior.

I smiled at my husband, showing my teeth as I answered him. “You see, my dear husband, you’re not the only man I’ve charmed with my…wit.”

James threw his head back and laughed. “I may have agreed to your terms, my dear wife, but the game between us isn’t finished.” He glared at my cleavage, smacked his lips, then took another bite of his half-eaten salmon, pink and moist. He rolled his tongue over his lips, teasing me. “Seeing how I’ve yet to taste your American…wit.”

I ignored his sexual innuendo, preferring instead to stir up naughty mischief of my own, something, anything to assuage the emptiness in my soul. I refused to allow his remarks to hurt me, though I suffered from an illness of the mind brought on by the infusion of indulgence when a loving touch would have meant so much.

“Then I shall order dessert to tempt your palate.” I waved at the waiter who hadn’t moved a muscle, though I detected a persistent twitch under his right eye. “Bring us a tart.”

He cleared his throat. “What kind, milady?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Blond or brunette will do.”

“Your ladyship, what you ask for is…indecent,” the waiter sputtered. “We are a reputable establishment.”

I pushed my empty plate away from me. “The man refuses to serve me, James. What are you going to do about it?”

“Shall I shoot him?” he asked, the intent in his voice not serious, but the waiter didn’t know that. The poor man’s shoulders slumped and his eyebrows flew upward. He bowed and excused himself without delay, leaving us alone to play out our depraved game in private.

“I’m surprised you didn’t flog him,” I mocked, picking up my napkin and twisting it around my fingers. “Isn’t that more your style?”

James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table in a laissez-faire attitude. “I prefer a plump, feminine bottom to satisfy my need.”

“Any female, James?” I probed, pricking his mind with my verbal needle. “Or must they be young and saucy?”

“I prefer virgins.” He pulled the cork from the wine bottle the server had left on the tray and stuck his forefinger inside. “They’re tight and so willing.”

I ignored his blatant exhibition of erotic double entendre and drove home my point. “Like the poor girl you ruined in London?”

“Which one?” he dared to ask, making a popping sound as he withdrew his finger from the bottle. He licked his finger clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of him probing inside me with his fingers, then licking my juices. I preferred my dildo.

“The girl’s name was Lucie,” I said. “I stopped her from jumping out of the library window on the top floor.”

I remember that afternoon before tea, scrambling as I was to procure a new story to titillate me, when I heard sobbing coming from the library. I opened the door to see the young maid teetering on the window ledge, her cap missing, her apron and shoes tossed onto the floor, her body poised and ready to jump. Only by the grace of God and a quick Hail Mary—and with my promise to find her another position in a Mayfair residence was I able to talk her out of jumping.

“The poor girl was desperate,” I continued, “when Lord Penmore’s housekeeper found out she fell victim to your charms and sacked her.”

“Lucie fancied herself in love with me.” James ran his finger up and down my cheek in an intimate manner, making me squirm. I hated him for it. “It happens with women, you know. I’m powerless to stop it.”

“You can’t have every woman you wish, James.”

“Can’t I?”

“No.”

“You won’t admit it, my dear wife, but you want me to flog you. Yet you’re afraid of what you’ll feel when I do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I insisted.

He leaned in closer to me, his voice heavy with anticipation as he whispered, “The ecstasy, the thrill, the joy when my whip finds the curve of your lovely arse, that curious romantic dichotomy of pain and pleasure, the inescapable emotional confusion racing through you that seems at once both wicked and frightening. I guarantee, you’ll beg me for more.”

I tried to turn away but he grabbed my wrist and squeezed it hard, hurting me. “Let me go, James.”

“No, I want to see your legs spread, your buttocks up in the air,” he continued, “your lower lips opening and closing, aching for my cock while I strike your arse with my flogger—”

“You’ll never touch me,” I said, pulling away from him and bolting from the table to rid myself of his reckless threat. Throwing on my wrap, I raced out of the restaurant, not looking, not seeing, my emotions overtaking my reason until I heard the barking of the seals on the rocks below. I stood on the edge of the cliff, my blinding anger making me oblivious to the wet, violent winds tearing at my marron-colored satin cloak, the deep red silk lining becoming soaked and making it difficult for me to walk along the soggy earth on the edge.

As I put one foot in front of the other, I became aware of a simmering fear of this man. It was a revelation that came from my deepest inner self, a cry from my unconscious not to be seduced by his words and threats, to retreat, though I wondered if there was any possibility of escape from my husband’s arrogance and hunger for debauchery.

Fearing he’d find me, I searched the shadows for his distinctive figure, his body sloped to one side, but I saw nothing. Instead, a cold, callous wind slapped me in the face, making its presence known to me. I shivered then turned back toward the sea, dragging the train of my opulent gown in the soggy dirt behind me. Where had the sudden storm come from? The carriage ride along the Point Lomas toll road had been pleasant enough, followed by an early dinner at Cliff House. No clouds in sight. I pulled my cloak around me. The oncoming storm didn’t bode well for our journey to Yokohama. What would happen to me when we arrived? I had been briefed by the Viscount Aubrey and the Foreign Office to be prepared for a society where no one said what they meant, to do anything required of me by the mikado’s government, to keep my opinions to myself (in Japan, James was quick to tell me, a wife could be divorced for talking too much) and not to ask about geisha.

I had to smile at that last request. I already knew about these sensuous women from Lord Penmore’s letters and the floating world of sexual arts where they plied their trade. No, it was more than apprehension about my trip to Japan causing me discomfort. I rubbed my forehead, but to no avail. I couldn’t explain it, but a feeling of anxiety took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. My good humor and impish sense of play had dissipated, something I’d noticed happening more often. My mother would say it was because I was growing up and taking my place in society. I suppose that meant I would turn into a gossipy, sour-faced matron tugging at her corset garters and trying to hide her protruding stomach. Where was the excitement, the thrills, the adventure? Though I was barely twenty years, I had been bestowed the prestige and power of someone far older in experience, someone able to flow with the expansion of their world, knowing they were powerless to stop it but accepting it. I, on the other hand, was sorely lacking in confidence about representing western womanhood in the mikado’s court when I was yet a virgin.

I remained standing along the edge of the cliff, the incessant noise of the seals adding to my throbbing headache, the hinges holding my psyche together lopsided, threatening to come loose and reveal a different reality beneath the surface of my carefully costumed self. I took deep breaths as waves dashed against the rocks below, while howling seals rushed about in a maddening frenzy to escape the wild breakers covering them in spray and foam. I reveled in the rush and excitement, wanting to stay here, live only for this moment with the wind whipping my cloak around me. So intent was I in relishing the solitude, I didn’t hear the sound of familiar footsteps behind me.

“You can never escape me, my dear wife.” James.

“Can’t I?” I refused to turn around and face him, though I’d no doubt my dismissal of him fueled his passion.

“No. You denied me my spousal rights on our wedding night, but I promise you it shan’t happen again. You’re mine.” He enunciated each word, tightly controlling his voice so I could hear him against the pounding surf, his hot breath on my neck, burning my skin with his intent.

“We made a bargain, James, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I can make you change your mind,” he said.

“You can’t bend me to do your bidding.”

He laughed. “Your defiance amuses me since I alone can tame you, pleasure you,” he said, his voice low and hypnotic, believing it would have a charismatic effect on me.

It did not. In a firm voice, I said, “I wish to be left alone. Please.”

He shook his head. “What husband would leave his wife on the edge of a cliff with a storm coming?” He grabbed my arms, pinning them to the sides of my body.

“You’re hurting me.” I shuddered, his possessive grip setting off unwelcome sparks inside me. He hadn’t touched me since our wedding night.

He said, “I’m here to protect you.”

“I don’t need your protection,” I said, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. The wind ceased and all I could hear was the rapidly beating pulse in my ears. “Take your hands off me. I’m your wife and I wish to be treated with respect.”

“Respect?” he mocked. “I’m only taking what’s mine.” His lips brushed my cheek, then he slid his hands up and down my wet cloak, rubbing my shoulders, my arms, as if he engaged in the pleasant task of peeling off my clothes, intensifying his emotional contact with me to get what he wanted.

“I shall never belong to you or any man,” I dared to speak. Brave words. I meant them, but then I had no idea I would fall under the spell of a master with a mystical flair, a sword-wielding samurai who introduced me to the art of lovemaking with an unbearable expectation of pleasure at the sight of his sharp blade. It was I who impaled myself upon his cock, yet it possessed me, sending me into a deep thrusting ecstasy, losing myself in wild, burning sensations, my body closing tight around him, holding him inside me, squeezing him until his hot semen burst into me and he was spent. Then I closed my eyes and curled my nude body at his feet, satiated.

My husband, James, was not a man to bring me to such heights. He focused on sex as an obsession, on reducing a woman to a physical receptacle for his lust. Yet he surprised me on that night with a perception I didn’t see coming, though my state of mind was such I don’t recall his entire speech.

“You interest me, my dear wife, though your plain looks repelled me at first.” He continued his exploration of me, his words as well as his actions no doubt designed to make me uneasy. “I’ve since discovered your face reflects a distinct exterior which contradicts the passion and excitement raging inside you.”

“James, please—”

I tried to push him away, but he possessed a strength I never imagined, keeping me tight in his grip while he lifted my wet cloak and ran his hands up and down my midriff, then, with a boldness that surprised me, he cupped my breasts, lingering on the twin mounds outlined in red velvet. I cried out when he squeezed them before circling his hands around my small waist, setting off a rather unsettling contraction in my pubic region.

“And your figure is magnificent,” he said.

“Why waste your time trying to seduce me?” I asked, finding my courage. “I’m immune to your charms. Or lack of them.”

My words angered him. He pulled up my overskirt and pushed his hand into my crotch, squeezing it. Hard. I fought back a scream and tried to pull away from him. I couldn’t. “You had best watch your step, my dear wife,” he said, “or I shall bed what is mine without delay.”

“You have nothing to gain by such a foolish move,” I said, composing myself, the realization that the more he taunted me to feel the kiss of fire from his whip, the more compelling my disdain for him became. Which made him desire me more. “You need my fortune to maintain the habits of your bachelorhood.”

“You leave me no choice but to seek other women since you see fit to deny me my marital rights.”

“Why should I allow you into my bed when you resort to debauched games to stimulate and tease poor defenseless girls and paid whores?” I challenged him with a directness he’d never faced before, though a chill of fear made my shoulders shake, my fingers stiff, my limbs waver.

“Man is a hunter,” he said casually, “and I find the pursuit of my prey most enjoyable, whether it be a pretty maid bending over and pulling down her drawers for a caning or the saucy young wife of Sir—exposing her breasts for my pleasure.” (I leave it to you to speculate the identity of the gentlewoman I’ve left unnamed. It will make a delightful afternoon parlor game before tea.)

“You can’t fool me, James. You fuel your physical needs by unholy acts because you see yourself as only half a man,” I shouted back at him, so angry I was I abandoned the sensitivity I was careful to maintain around him, creating drama where I shouldn’t have, the question of his manhood never before uttered under my breath.

“Don’t you ever say that to me again. Ever.” His mocking tone was gone, his anger fueled by my rash statement.

Before I could stop him, he grabbed me by the throat, choking me so I could do nothing but sputter guttural sounds. I panicked, flailing my arms about, light-headedness taking over my power of reasoning. I had touched on something peculiarly vulnerable in him that made him even more dangerous, as if I’d wakened something hostile and vicious in him and intent on hurting me.

“How I’ve longed to put my hands on you, my dear wife,” he continued, his eyes glowing with a purpose I didn’t understand, “Stroke you, touch you, tease you with maddening caresses until you begged me to strip you naked, then lay the whip upon your quivering buttocks before I fucked you.” He paused, his breathing hard and fast. “Yet I never dreamed how much more I would enjoy holding your life in my hands—”

He made the statement with an undeniable confidence aligning itself with his malignant behavior. I realized then I was experiencing an intimate moment with my husband, more intimate than the coupling of our nude flesh, his cock probing me, thrusting into me, filling me. He had put away his mask and transformed into a madman in front of me. A frightening, dangerous, pathological man obsessed with controlling me.

Why, why?

Would I ever know?

“You’re…a…fool, James,” I sputtered, knowing I had to make him stop. I choked, spit up phlegm, my chest heaving. To my surprise, he released the pressure on my throat enough for me to gasp a breath.

“I, a fool?” he said.

“Yes. If you kill me, you’ll lose everything.”

“Who said anything about killing you?” he scoffed, his tone arrogant and manipulative. “The night is dark, the winds fierce. My distraught young wife drinks too much wine, loses her footing on the crumbling cliff, crashes below on the jagged rocks.” I looked hard into the night, trying to see his face, but the blackness of his words hid it from me. “Who will dispute the word of Lord Carlton?”

“You wouldn’t dare…”

He didn’t answer me, but instead grabbed me again around the neck, his fingers tightening around my throat, then he laughed, a cruel, echoing laugh. Before I could resist, he swept me up into his strong arms, his footing steady, firm. I pummeled his chest with my fists, fearful and scared but not giving in to him.

“Put me down, James. Now.”

“Why should I?”

“You can’t fulfill your lust if I’m dead.”

He hesitated, then to my relief he set me down, but he continued to hold me tightly around the waist, crushing my face, my breasts against his hard chest. I could smell the sea spray wetting the fine wool of his lapels and hear the beating of his heart. I couldn’t stop a perverse rush of fear taking hold of me when I heard him say, “Our bargain holds, but I promise you this, my dear wife, before this journey concludes, I will bed you.”

On the carriage ride back to San Francisco, James prattled on about the upcoming sea voyage and how he resolved to ease the boredom by gambling and drinking with his fellow passengers, no doubt losing a goodly sum since he was a poor cardplayer. This time I made no wry comment about his remissness with my father’s money and remained silent, my Irish wit abandoning me as fear gripped me as surely as if I faced the devil himself, so absorbed was I in assimilating his threat into my psyche. I had never been so frightened as when he threatened to throw me over the cliff and onto the rocks below.

Get ahold of yourself, Katie, me girl, I need you, I could hear Da saying to me as surely as if he rode next to me in the grand carriage, giving me renewed confidence in myself. I vowed I would protect my family’s interests in a strange Oriental culture, but I would never let my guard down around James again. Never. My life depended on it.