'I am not jealous, if that is your inference,' Pietre replied. 'But you know I prefer my pleasures buffered. I found that,' he indicated the closed door with a tilt of his head, 'too intense to be savoured.'
Armande raised a questioning eyebrow. 'More intense than your conception of a child?'
Pietre felt himself go still inside. He must be careful with Armande. He did not yet have Wendee in his possession.
'That was not a pleasure, brother,' he said, letting the tremor of real fear enter his voice. 'It was a duty. I know you understand the difference.'
'Yes. I do understand.' For the first time in Pietre’s memory, Armande looked on him with respect. 'I know I couldn't…'
Pietre nodded. He wasn't sure he could himself. But he had to get Wendee before he could try.
'I will bring her to you,' Armande said and Pietre felt the tension flow out of him. He would not need to kill his brother after all.
'Thank you.' He nodded stiffly. 'I trust the replacement will be suitable.'
Armande paused, frowned. 'The blonde. Yes, a generous gift, but I fear the chest will be too distracting.'
Pietre dismissed this with a wave of his hand. 'Your men will appreciate her abundance and I'm sure you will find her well trained.'
'Perhaps.' Armande wasn't convinced. 'Is she obedient?'
'My observations tell me so. Keep her on the drug and she will be docile.'
'Very well. And Xavion stays with us,' Armande said, a testing quality to his voice.
Their gazes locked. 'I will not go back on my word, brother,' Pietre said, although he wished he could. Had he known Xavion was his brother's captive he might have mounted a rescue bid, as Armande well knew. Unfortunately, there was also no question of his 'gift' — the damaged mermaid — being exchanged for Xavion.
Armande had made it clear that he wanted Pietre to lose something he valued greatly. Such was the price of Wendee's return.
That something was Xavion.
'I've made my choice,' Pietre said, 'Xavion understands the necessity. The child's life is paramount.'
'Quite,' Armande agreed. 'If there's anything I can do…'
'I will tell you.' Pietre was tired of the conversation. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts. 'Come, Mr Black.' They turned to leave. 'The launch, brother.'
'I will bring her,' Armande assured him. 'And I will await the birth of my niece with much pleasure.'
'You will be informed,' Pietre said coldly, then he retreated to the privacy of his launch where he sat huddled in his cabin, wrapped in a heavy cloak.
Wendee was brought aboard an hour later and again, as he gazed at the limp body wrapped in a thick blanket, he felt the drawing sensation, the need to be near her, to touch her.
Gingerly, he parted the blanket for a closer look and noticed for the first time something colourful around her throat. The thin strip of beading appeared Native American by design, and old. Pietre immediately thought of Long Shadow and his suspicions about the Indian's involvement with Wendee.
Had he given it to her? And if he had, why was she still wearing it? Had she simply taken a liking to it or was there an emotional connection involved? Pietre frowned. He needed to investigate this at his earliest opportunity. They would soon be back on his island and he would let nothing distract her from their new relationship. Nothing -
Relationship.
Pietre took a shallow breath and reached down experimentally to touch the band, tracing the pattern — nearly but not quite able to touch the tender skin of the throat exposed above it.
'Mother of my child,' he mouthed, trying out the phrase.
At that moment Mr Black gunned the engine, and as the launch sped off towards his home, Pietre felt a surge of power within himself. He would do this thing.
Withdrawing his hand, he looked down on the body he would soon know intimately — the body that would welcome him and give him a return far greater than his puny offering deserved. No matter the personal sacrifice — he knew the reward would be worthy of it.
Belle's defection had shaken his confidence, but with Wendee, his instincts had served him well. Consciously, he might have thought she was merely a diversion — a Wendee to mother his 'Lost Boys', but subconsciously, just as the real Peter Pan had realised, Pietre had known he was looking for a mother for himself. And now he had her.
This time he was determined to prove that 'the boy' had grown up. This time he would not fail.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dee sat in a comfortable arm chair trying out different combinations of letters on the keyboard in front of her. Pietre had shown her how to call up the file tapes and had encouraged her to view them on her own, 'To alleviate her boredom in the hours he could not be with her'. Unfortunately, she'd forgotten the code.
A prisoner again, although Pietre preferred the term 'temporarily quarantined guest', she was confined to a private suite of rooms with no visitors save Pietre himself.
She had no freedom and no lovers, yet surprisingly, felt no desperation — no withdrawal. Pietre had circumvented that by offering her something more satisfying than the crude huddlings of sex.
Admiration.
With his courtly manners and genteel wooing, he had uncovered subtle facets of her personality — coquetries and nuances of seduction she'd forgotten in her rush for experience.
Her naked body was often on display, but Pietre appeared intent on appreciating her 'uniqueness', as he called it, looking beyond her genitals to search for who she could be. Who she would be.
But it wasn't only his interest in her character that drew her in. It was everything about him. With his narrow, aristocratic face — pale and fine boned, topped by raven's-wing hair falling from a widow-peak to brush the shoulders of his customary black suit, he carried an air of isolation that stirred her imagination as well as her sympathy.
And yet counterpoised against that romantic image was the realisation that he was the master of his domain, an autocrat accustomed to complete obedience.
Pietre DeMartande was her beau-ideal.
And he was also a puzzle, a riddle to be solved, for each time he called on her she was fascinated anew — as though he were a series of Chinese boxes, one opening to reveal another, each with a different pattern, each more interesting than the last.
On her second day back with Pietre, he'd surprised her with a present. She'd awoken to find a small velvet box on the pillow beside her. Inside had been a key crafted of delicate gold which at first glance had appeared to be a piece of jewellery, but this was not the case.
An enclosed card had led her to a scented camphorwood wardrobe newly installed in her dressing room and after some experimentation, she discovered the key opened one side of it. Feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she'd half expected to find a man inside with an instruction on his penis to 'eat me'.
There had been no man, but Dee had been far from disappointed, for inside the wardrobe she'd found an array of costumes — all in her size — whose collective colourful beauty had been surpassed only by the intricacy of each individual item. Even the arrangement of the clothes had been such that she'd felt sure an artist must have been employed to place each piece.
Here, a peacock-blue satin sleeve encrusted with silver. There, the verdant plush of an emerald velvet cloak trimmed in crisp black lace. Elsewhere and of every hue, diaphanous chiffons, liquid silks, stiff denims and sumptuous furs.
On the shelf below stood the accompanying footwear, reflecting every facet of their costume's colour and style. All in her size. Above, boxes containing jewellery, hats, accessories.
'Dressing-up' clothes for an adult.
