He gripped her shoulders and shook her, his face inches away from hers.
'Don't you speak like that to me, you whorel' He slapped her with his free hand, again and again, and then dragged her upright and flung her on to the bed.
Her head was reeling; there was no pain, only a numbness, a sense of complete helplessness. She felt the bed beneath her, and tasted blood where he had cut her lip. She tried again, a physical striving to hold on to her wits, her understanding. I must not lose consciousness.
She felt the mattress yield as he sat heavily near her. She could hear the painful breathing again, and when she opened her eyes she saw him crouched on the edge of the bed, his hands thrust into his groin, moving his head from side to side, speaking to himself.
He turned, and looked at her. 'I lost my ship because of a whore. Then I saw another chance taken away, because of an act of favour.' He gripped her shoulder, the fingers bruising her skin. 'For another Bolitho! Because of another bloody whore!'
She cringed, waiting for another blow.
She whispered, 'It's not true. They know nothing about it.'
He was not listening. 'I was to be his flag captain. I suppose you knew that too?'
She shook her head.
What was the matter with him? Was he ill or insane? Nothing made sense.
He lurched up, and she heard him moving about the room, as if driven by something beyond his control.
Then he came back and raised her head and shoulders and wedged a cushion beneath them.
She wanted to shake her head to clear her mind, but some warning sense made her remain quite still. Perhaps he would leave. It was unlikely, but someone might call, even at this hour. She glanced at the window, the rain sheeting down it. She had been standing there, holding the curtain, and he had been here. Watching, waiting.
His shadow fell over her, and she felt him holding the pendant again.
He said. They take everything. They lie and deceive. They ruin you.'
'Please leave now, before it's too late.'
He began to drag the gown from her shoulders, unhurriedly and deftly.
She tried to pull away and felt the cord around her wrists tearing at the skin. In a sudden silence, she heard a clasp fall to the floor, and the more insistent tearing of silk.
She said, 'Don't! Please don't!'
But he rolled her on her side so that she could not see him, his fingers in her hair, twisting it, making her gasp aloud with pain. She felt him kneeling, pressing against her while he tore at her clothing. He was violently aroused; she felt the warm night air across her legs, his hands on her garters, her stockings, and then hard against her skin.
She knew she must hold on, even as she knew what was happening, and that it was hopeless.
She had never been afraid of any man, except her father, but this was different.
She could feel it like a sickness in her stomach, rising up as if to choke her. Not fear; it was sheer terror. It was rape.
His hands were everywhere, exploring her, then dragging her round to rid her of the last of her clothing.
She screamed, and felt her head jar back again to the force of the blow.
He was holding her, his fingers insistent, probing, final.
There was a great clap of thunder, a single crack which seemed inside the very room.
She attempted to open her eyes, to move her aching body, but nothing happened. Tiny pictures flashed through her brain, like fragments in a nightmare. The shadow rising over her, the pain, and the sense of choking. Perhaps he had killed her after raping her.
A voice said, 'I have her. Cut the cord, man!'
Another hand holding hers, rough but steady, the blade barely touching her skin as the cord was pulled away.
She groped, and tried to cover her nakedness, but there was a sheet over her body, and no hands explored her thighs, her hair. A damp cloth dabbed at her mouth and cheek; somewhere, miles away, booted feet thudded on the stairs.
She opened her eyes, and realised that his arm was round her naked shoulders, holding her, while he cleaned her torn mouth. Sillitoe did not allow himself to relax even when the life returned to her eyes, and she reached up to touch the cloth.
Over his shoulder, he said, 'Deal with it. You know what to do.'
She struggled, but he held her. A man used to women, she thought, who knew how to restrain them… He said quietly, 'I know a good doctor nearby.'
She put her hands under the sheet, shaking her head. 'He did not… I fought him, but I couldn't……'
They must have used the same stealthy manner of entry. Taking advantage of the thunder, they had come straight to this room. Otherwise…… She retched, and he held her until the spasm passed.
She wanted to ask so much, to discover how he had known what had happened, but all she could say was, 'Why?'
Sillitoe took a silver flask from his pocket and unscrewed it with his teeth.
This will burn, but it will do you good. Don't touch any of the other bottles and glasses in here, in case he used them.'
She choked. It was cognac, but the shock of the raw spirit on her cut mouth had the desired effect.
He said, 'His name is Charles Oliphant, former captain of what is now Sir Richard's flagship, Frobisher.'I The hooded eyes were expressionless. 'Are you certain there was no congress?'
'Yes…… But for you……'
He said harshly, 'He is diseased, the last stages of syphilis. He is dying from it, God damn his rotten soul!'
She thought of the spasms of apparent pain, the wildness and desperation. He had wanted revenge, but against what? She had heard of men who had been so badly infected that they had gone insane before dying. Too late to spare those they had themselves defiled.
She did not realise she had spoken aloud. 'I would have killed myself if he had done that to me.'
Sillitoe held her, recalling those last tense seconds. The lightning holding her naked body like silver, her pinioned arms, the crouching figure forcing her legs apart, oblivious to everything else. A moment later? He pursed his lips. I would have killed him.
She was lying against him, in shock, exhaustion, disbelief. Like a very young girl, the self she had described to him when he had gone with her to Whitechapel, after her father had died.
As his men had kicked Oliphant to the floor he had held on to that picture. Her helplessness. And he had wanted her then.
'What will become of him?'
Sillitoe considered it, without anger, and without emotion. It was not his way.
'Lord Rhodes and his clique have gained too much power by rattling other people's skeletons in public. It will be interesting to see what happens when he has a live skeleton of his own in the closet.'
She could feel his breathing; the strength of the arm around her shoulders. She was safe, even with this man whom no one trusted.
Sillitoe heard his carriage returning. Did no one in this street ever question such nocturnal comings and goings?
He looked at her hair spilling across his arm.
The one woman he could never have. The only woman he would never give up.
12. Face to Face
Richard Bolitho awoke from the dream, and for a few lingering moments was confused by the sounds and movements around him. He lay on his back in the cot and stared up into the darkness and waited for the old familiarity to return. He had once believed that he could never forget the feel of a frigate.
Instinct and experience told him that Halcyon was changing tack yet again; the thud of bare feet on the damp
