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.Christophe gave a bellow of laughter.'One hour, Dick,' he shouted.'One hour.You will need all of it.'Dick had himself pushed through the women, saw the girl entering a chamber farther along the corridor.Before he could reach it, the door had slammed shut, the lock had turned.But the timbers were old.He struck it with his shoulder, and the whole wall seemed to creak.He withdrew against the balustrade, hurled himself forward again.The lock burst with a crack, the tongue tearing its socket right out of the wood, and he fell into the room.The girl was at the window.She had picked up a chair, and was hammering at the bars, which only caused the chair itself to shatter.At the sound of his entry, she turned, back against the wall, bodice of the undressing robe heaving as she panted.The colour was slowly fading from her face, and she was endeavouring to control her breathing, closing her mouth and then having to open it again to allow the air to escape.With her left hand she pulled hair from her face, an instinctively feminine and yet utterly entrancing gesture.But she was an utterly entrancing sight.He had never in his life looked at any woman, even Ellen at their earliest acquaintance, without some reservations.Until now.Slowly she slid down the wall, until she was kneeling, and resting on her haunches at the same time.'Please,' she said, in French.'As you are a man, monsieur, kill me, I beg of you.'He pushed the shattered door to behind him.It would be easy to do, to draw his sword and run through that slender body.Nor would Christophe give him more than a slight reproof.And he would be able to look himself in the mirror once again.But he wanted her.God, how he wanted her.And it was over two years since he had dared look in a mirror, in any event.‘I came to save your life, not take it,' he said.'Save it?' she demanded.‘Is it worth saving, monsieur? Will it be worth saving, when you are done with it?' Her head half turned at the sound which seeped through the window, the first crack of a whip.'Oh, God,' she whispered.'Oh, God.' Her head sank to her breast, her hair trailed on either side of her cheeks.He stood above her.Do this, and you are damned forever, he thought.But are you not already damned forever? Did this crime count, with executing the two French soldiers, in that first battle? With slaughtering how many men since? With commanding the slaughter of how many thousands more? Did this girl's body count, beside that?Afterwards perhaps.There was a compromise.Afterwards he might be able to kill them both, send her to heaven and himself to that hell he so richly deserved.But only afterwards.He stooped, held her shoulders.She remained limp, and he had to drive his fingers into her armpits to raise her to her feet.Her head flopped back, and she stared at him.She could hear the sound of the whip, slowly, regularly, destroying her father.He could hear nothing save his own panting, save the blood drumming in his ears.He half carried, half dragged, her across the room, to the bed.When he released her she fell, on her back, still staring at him, but making no effort to resist.Not even taking her gaze from his face or closing her eyes.But what she thought, what she felt, what she hoped or what she feared, meant nothing now.He was as much beyond his own control as when he had been falling through space, the last memory of Richard Hilton, of Hilltop in Jamaica, before he became Matthew Warner, of La Ferriere, in Haiti.He put his fingers into the neck of her robe, closed his fist, tore it down.The material offered no opposition to the strength in that right arm, the force in that shoulder, the power in that mind.Pink-white flesh sprang at him; she was again panting.Her breasts were large, and soft; he knew that before touching them.She was a woman of fascinating contrasts, for the huge breasts gave way to the narrowest of waists and slender hips; yet her pubic hair was thick and bushed at him, dominating the thin legs below.But these glories were discovered with nothing more than a glance.He was preoccupied, his sword belt clattering to the floor, his body crashing onto hers, sending breath once again gasping from her opened mouth.He could not make himself kiss her, lay instead with his mouth against her ear, his breath inhaling wisps of red-gold hair.Now, he thought.Now.As some men have no more fields to conquer, you have no more crimes to commit.Now the devil can die.'Now,' a voice said, whispering into his ear.'Now, monsieur, are you sated, kill me.' The whisper became a wail.'Kill me.'He rolled his weight away from her, lay on his side, gazing at her.He waited, for the guilt, for the horror of what he had done, to overwhelm him.Instead he merely wanted to touch her again, to feel the strands of that splendid hair, to stroke the contour of that face, to caress the softness of those breasts, to search the dampness of that groin.She sat up.There was so much noise from beyond the window now, so much screaming and yelling, so many explosions, so many clatters of falling timbers, it was impossible to tell any one sound, such as the crack of a whip.The entire village might have been on fire, so much smoke swept past the window.Yet he was not afraid of burning.He was not interested in the possibility of burning.His attention was taken by the woman, by the silky splendour of her movements.Even by the tears on her face.But there were few tears.He held her wrist, attempted to pull her back to him.But this time she exerted her strength to resist him, and he would not use force.'I wanted you,' he said.'I want you now.I shall want you forever.I do not apologize for what I have done.I wish only to make you understand my want.And perhaps feel it as well.'Her head started to turn, and then looked away again.'You?' She asked.'Want you?''Because I fight for Christophe? Because your father was expected? In Christophe's judgement he was a criminal.''Then am I not also a criminal?' She still spoke softly, tugged at her wrist, gently.'Who has been reprieved.Tell me your name.'She hesitated, gave another gentle tug.'Cartarette,' she said at last.'Cartarette.Cartarette d'Estaing.' It sounded marvellous.'Yours is a famous name.''You are thinking of papa's cousin, monsieur.A distant cousin.Papa was no more than a planter.Who became a soldier of fortune.Who became a criminal.As you say [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.Christophe gave a bellow of laughter.'One hour, Dick,' he shouted.'One hour.You will need all of it.'Dick had himself pushed through the women, saw the girl entering a chamber farther along the corridor.Before he could reach it, the door had slammed shut, the lock had turned.But the timbers were old.He struck it with his shoulder, and the whole wall seemed to creak.He withdrew against the balustrade, hurled himself forward again.The lock burst with a crack, the tongue tearing its socket right out of the wood, and he fell into the room.The girl was at the window.She had picked up a chair, and was hammering at the bars, which only caused the chair itself to shatter.At the sound of his entry, she turned, back against the wall, bodice of the undressing robe heaving as she panted.The colour was slowly fading from her face, and she was endeavouring to control her breathing, closing her mouth and then having to open it again to allow the air to escape.With her left hand she pulled hair from her face, an instinctively feminine and yet utterly entrancing gesture.But she was an utterly entrancing sight.He had never in his life looked at any woman, even Ellen at their earliest acquaintance, without some reservations.Until now.Slowly she slid down the wall, until she was kneeling, and resting on her haunches at the same time.'Please,' she said, in French.'As you are a man, monsieur, kill me, I beg of you.'He pushed the shattered door to behind him.It would be easy to do, to draw his sword and run through that slender body.Nor would Christophe give him more than a slight reproof.And he would be able to look himself in the mirror once again.But he wanted her.God, how he wanted her.And it was over two years since he had dared look in a mirror, in any event.‘I came to save your life, not take it,' he said.'Save it?' she demanded.‘Is it worth saving, monsieur? Will it be worth saving, when you are done with it?' Her head half turned at the sound which seeped through the window, the first crack of a whip.'Oh, God,' she whispered.'Oh, God.' Her head sank to her breast, her hair trailed on either side of her cheeks.He stood above her.Do this, and you are damned forever, he thought.But are you not already damned forever? Did this crime count, with executing the two French soldiers, in that first battle? With slaughtering how many men since? With commanding the slaughter of how many thousands more? Did this girl's body count, beside that?Afterwards perhaps.There was a compromise.Afterwards he might be able to kill them both, send her to heaven and himself to that hell he so richly deserved.But only afterwards.He stooped, held her shoulders.She remained limp, and he had to drive his fingers into her armpits to raise her to her feet.Her head flopped back, and she stared at him.She could hear the sound of the whip, slowly, regularly, destroying her father.He could hear nothing save his own panting, save the blood drumming in his ears.He half carried, half dragged, her across the room, to the bed.When he released her she fell, on her back, still staring at him, but making no effort to resist.Not even taking her gaze from his face or closing her eyes.But what she thought, what she felt, what she hoped or what she feared, meant nothing now.He was as much beyond his own control as when he had been falling through space, the last memory of Richard Hilton, of Hilltop in Jamaica, before he became Matthew Warner, of La Ferriere, in Haiti.He put his fingers into the neck of her robe, closed his fist, tore it down.The material offered no opposition to the strength in that right arm, the force in that shoulder, the power in that mind.Pink-white flesh sprang at him; she was again panting.Her breasts were large, and soft; he knew that before touching them.She was a woman of fascinating contrasts, for the huge breasts gave way to the narrowest of waists and slender hips; yet her pubic hair was thick and bushed at him, dominating the thin legs below.But these glories were discovered with nothing more than a glance.He was preoccupied, his sword belt clattering to the floor, his body crashing onto hers, sending breath once again gasping from her opened mouth.He could not make himself kiss her, lay instead with his mouth against her ear, his breath inhaling wisps of red-gold hair.Now, he thought.Now.As some men have no more fields to conquer, you have no more crimes to commit.Now the devil can die.'Now,' a voice said, whispering into his ear.'Now, monsieur, are you sated, kill me.' The whisper became a wail.'Kill me.'He rolled his weight away from her, lay on his side, gazing at her.He waited, for the guilt, for the horror of what he had done, to overwhelm him.Instead he merely wanted to touch her again, to feel the strands of that splendid hair, to stroke the contour of that face, to caress the softness of those breasts, to search the dampness of that groin.She sat up.There was so much noise from beyond the window now, so much screaming and yelling, so many explosions, so many clatters of falling timbers, it was impossible to tell any one sound, such as the crack of a whip.The entire village might have been on fire, so much smoke swept past the window.Yet he was not afraid of burning.He was not interested in the possibility of burning.His attention was taken by the woman, by the silky splendour of her movements.Even by the tears on her face.But there were few tears.He held her wrist, attempted to pull her back to him.But this time she exerted her strength to resist him, and he would not use force.'I wanted you,' he said.'I want you now.I shall want you forever.I do not apologize for what I have done.I wish only to make you understand my want.And perhaps feel it as well.'Her head started to turn, and then looked away again.'You?' She asked.'Want you?''Because I fight for Christophe? Because your father was expected? In Christophe's judgement he was a criminal.''Then am I not also a criminal?' She still spoke softly, tugged at her wrist, gently.'Who has been reprieved.Tell me your name.'She hesitated, gave another gentle tug.'Cartarette,' she said at last.'Cartarette.Cartarette d'Estaing.' It sounded marvellous.'Yours is a famous name.''You are thinking of papa's cousin, monsieur.A distant cousin.Papa was no more than a planter.Who became a soldier of fortune.Who became a criminal.As you say [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]