offered six hundred pounds for this worthless Christian slave,” the auctioneer intoned, from in front of the stage. “The man who masters her will have his work cut out for him. She’s a feisty one, she is. Who’s up to the challenge?” he goaded the crowd.
Indeed, the girl looked less and less like a slave. She sat stock still in an attitude of defiance at the senator who drew the whip back for a blow. The man flicked the lashes forward, though without any force. Amorina would not want her girls marked. But the little imp on the floor grabbed the leather straps as they fell, twisted them around her hand and pulled sharply downward. The senator, caught off guard, tumbled onto the stage. The girl jumped to her feet, trying to free the whip from beneath the body of her fallen master. As she tugged, her hair rippled around her in the lamplight, a sensual river of burnished copper swirling like a bright mantle.
“Aren’t you even going to bid?” Tommy taunted him.
“One thousand pounds!” Duncan surprised himself–he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.
“Sold!” The auctioneer beamed at the crowed. “Sold to the man in the black domino.” He continued sotto voce to Duncan. “You can settle your account with Madam Vestry right through there, my lord. Her servants will take you to your room.”
Still struggling, acting her part to the very end, the girl was plucked up like a sack of wheat between two men who took her away. A hand pounded his back and he turned to find Tommy grinning broadly.
“Knew you’d do it, Duncan. I can hardly wait to get all the details tomorrow. Suppose you’ll cry off the aunt’s masquerade after this?”
In a daze, he nodded.
Tommy shoved off, found other friends and disappeared into the throng as it swept toward the harem scene. After a moment he recalled he must go sign his vowels, and closed his eyes. The ordeal was not yet over. He still had to face Amorina.
Ridiculous, to be fretting over his ex-mistress. He strode boldly through the curtained doorway, only to be brought up short at the sight of Amorina sitting behind her neat desk. Like a lioness watching her prey advance. Undeniable beauty, unparalleled hauteur, uninhibited passion. He would give anything to feel that exquisitely talented body beneath his once more. Except the risk of scandal.
Duncan sauntered forward, signed the IOU with a flourish, then stood back and braced for the recriminations. Following two years of almost constant, close companionship, he’d cut her from his life overnight. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to send her the customary parting gift. Of course she’d reproach him.
Madame Vestry glanced at the scrawl, then back at his cloaked figure and said crisply, “Your purchase has been placed in the blue room, Lord Dalbury. You have the entire night, of course, if you wish.”
Duncan nodded, stunned. To expect anger and accusations, only to be met with detached civility, seemed somehow more insulting. More dangerous. Amorina was not one who forgot or forgave easily. She gestured toward the dim corridor to her right and he left without a word, swirling the folds of his black cape in his haste.
Unfortunately, that little transaction left him feeling out of sorts. Should he simply leave and go home? No. Not only had he paid a fortune for this fantasy, but he was painfully aware of a gnawing ache in his groin. It had definitely been too long. He recalled the slave girl’s brilliant, cascading hair, and his enthusiasm returned.
Duncan stopped before the specified door. One of the servants who’d carried his slave inside rose to open it. “’Ope you gets yer money’s worth, m’lord. Nasty lil’ bit o’ goods, that ’un. Actress, y’know. Don’t like the part she ’ad to play.”
Adjusting the domino and mask, Duncan motioned for the door to be unlocked. He smiled. This night would be memorable, he’d make sure of that.
* * * *
Katarina stood in the center of the room, searching for escape routes or weapons to hand. Her mouth ached from the gag and her body had begun to feel the bruises from her ordeal, but she forced physical discomforts to retreat. Jack had drummed logic and strategy into her at an early age. She would reason her way out of this situation despite the recent indignities.
A short time before, kicking and squirming with all her might, she had been carried into this small room lighted by a candelabrum, and tossed onto a canopied bed. The hated mask and gag ripped from her face, she’d gasped in great gulps of air, coughing and retching, uncaring about anything except the luxury of taking a deep breath.
With a chuckle, Nigel had scooped up the discarded gag and tossed the plaster mask onto the bed. “A little memento of your evening with us,” he’d growled and left. The door had closed and the key turned in the lock.
She’d sat up, her racing heart subsiding to its normal beat. The white face lay beside her, dark eyeholes staring at her, coldly mocking. She’d seized it and heaved the wretched thing at the door. The plaster had shattered, a triumphal chord of sound. Tears of outrage had welled as she’d drawn in a deep breath and screamed for the first time since she’d been taken.
Several minutes later Katarina had calmed herself, banked her anger and compelled herself to think rationally about escape. The door was obvious, but she’d heard the key scrape in the lock, so did not spare it a glance. A tall window overlooking the alley promised greater potential, but thick bars crossed the panes. There were no other options. On to weapons.
The small, round bedside table held the candelabrum. Kat hefted the brass weight. Sufficiently heavy, but unwieldy. A pale gold wingback chair beneath the window offered no possibilities, leaving a washstand in the corner with pitcher and basin. That was the extent of the weaponry available.
“Damnation.” Other than setting the place on fire–a thought she dismissed as too risky–or smashing her purchaser over the head with the pitcher, she was left with her wits and sharp tongue as weapons.
Someone fumbled with the door. She recognized the scratchy voice of the shorter kidnapper even through the wood, and darted toward the washstand.
The door opened as Kat skidded to a halt in front of a tall, cloaked and masked form.
One glimpse of the monstrous figure sent her scream echoing in the small room. She fled backward until she was splayed against the wall, trapped. The dark shape advanced with frightening speed, cape billowing, the golden mask of a lion’s head glinting in the candlelight.
Flattened against the cold plaster as the towering apparition rushed toward her, she willed herself to vanish through the wall like a ghost. It reached a finger out and stroked her hair. A normal hand, thank God. The arm that disappeared into the black folds was clothed in dark red fabric of excellent quality. He was just a man. She lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his.
“Who are you, sir?”
“Your master, slave.”
Harsh words cloaked in a voice of deep velvet. A shiver of dread raced down Katarina’s body, as much from the words as from his tone. She gathered her courage and replied, “I am nobody’s slave. There has been a dreadful mistake.”
“I think not, my lovely. I paid a small fortune for your ownership this evening. Make no mistake about that.” He continued to stroke her hair and she twisted her head to the side. His mouth below the half mask twitched into an insolent smile. “I am pleased, however, that you possess courage as well as beauty.” His fingers touched her cheek. “The mask hid the slave’s wealth well.”
She jerked away. “You may have paid for a slave, sir, but what you find in this room is a lady in distress. Will you prove a gentleman or a rogue?”
“A lady in distress?” He laughed and straightened. “How did a lady come to find herself on display at an auction, scandalously clad in a transparent Greek costume, in Madame Vestry’s House of Pleasure?”
“House of Pleasure?” she squeaked.
“Where else