Caribbean Reign Ch. 07-08

Thank you so much for all the support for far!

For those of you just joining us, I recommend reading from the beginning. The full novel is already published but will be posted here in installments. Copyright © 2021 Emma Xin

Quick recap: Spoiled heiress gets herself arrested on the wrong side of the island and sent to the rival plantation as a penal slave. The future viscount doesn't know that he has his family's greatest enemy in the palm of his hand, but he's decided that his new toy is better as a house slave.

Whatever could go wrong?

Chapter 7: Parley-Voo - Rafael's Perspective

"Is there nothing you can do for him?" I ask.

Doctor Guevara struggles to keep pace as we move swiftly through the corridor. He is an excellent physician. I only wish he would adopt my pace of life.

"We can try everything modern medicine has to offer. For an illness like your father's, that isn't not much."

My father is quickly deteriorating. Soon, even more responsibilities will fall to me. As confident as I am in my plan to reclaim this island, it requires twice the overhead. The old way of doing things is simple, yet ineffective. Instead of frivolous romps with the maids, luncheons with incredibly dull people occupy my afternoons. My wrists are sore from signing off on so many documents. I thank God that I have señor Velasquez to manage the details.

A double door at the end of the hallway has been cracked open. I pity the fool who finds himself in my way today.

"If you'll excuse me, doctor."

I put my hand on the old man's shoulder. This barrage of bad news will have to wait for some other time.

He nods.

I approach the familiar corner, rooms built for the pleasure of swordplay.

When I was young, I used to train with private tutors for hours on end. Village boys from San Miguel even came indoors for matches. Truly, great fun. I occasionally got the snot kicked out of me. It only grew my love for victory. That singular moment of fear as you commit to a target, the warm taste of forcing a surrender from a worthy opponent. As I got older and better, fewer boys came around to challenge me. Even when they did, they weren't always incentivized to win. The viscounty is no game. Women prove a more interesting sport, anyway.

That does not explain why someone is in my armory. If Isabel has sent one of her minions to turn the place upside down, I'll have them whipped for listening to her.

***

Upon entering the armory, I am stricken by the sight of a certain wild-haired penal slave. She has already torn many of my weapons from their carefully organized holsters.

"I'll assume that my sister is to blame for this."

The girl is tucked in the corner of the armory. The vast space required for proper dueling swallows her whole.

"Yes, Your Excellency," she says. "How the two of you are related, I'll never know."

My title still seems to be a great source of contention for her. I move closer to the workbench. Though disrupted, nothing appears to be broken.

"Is she not as devilishly handsome?"

"On the contrary. She is an improvement in all ways and a much gentler spirit."

She examines one of the masks, squinting into the metal mesh. I notice that she has not refuted my claim of dashing looks.

"Oh, I can be very gentle. Do you see how you're not being beaten for disturbing my property?"

"You needn't be so dramatic. It isn't as if I'm going to break anything. Despite your low opinion of me, I am quite knowledgeable about these instruments."

"And why do you have this knowledge, slave?"

Thick leg irons still confine her ankles. If she aims to fight her way out of my estate, she won't get very far.

She bites her lip. "Before this life of crime, I was the lady's maid for a respectable woman."

"Unlikely."

I drop the subject without further discussion. A lie if I've ever heard one, but it will keep her on her toes to keep a story going. The truth will come out soon enough.

Absentmindedly, I start pulling weapons off the rack and setting them aside to be polished. The armory is dustier than I remember it. Over the years, I've amassed quite a collection of small swords and rapiers, even newfangled épées. Each artifact holds a vibrant memory. My father used to bring them home for me on his travels. Occasionally, we would acquire them together, never bothering to haggle too much for the price.

To hold a freshly forged blade in your hand is a thing of wonderment, truly worth its weight in gold. I would even enter competitions on the other islands. Traveling to places where my family was less known was my only way to find true challengers. I haven't had time for that in years.

It wouldn't be so bad if everything gets a cleaning. That is what she's here for, after all.

I catch myself glancing over at my prideful attendant from time to time. She thoughtfully considers each piece before persuading the dust off in beleaguered streaks. While she is as piss-poor at cleaning as one might expect, she does seem to be comfortable handling the equipment and gripping the weapons appropriately. I'll have to teach her proper maintenance.

What strange worlds my pretty shrew has inhabited. She's much more comfortable with swords than any lady's maid ought to be. Women aren't usually taught swordsmanship, however, a wealthy family does as they please. Was she a rich gentleman's mistress? All that pride has to come from somewhere. Even Helen of Troy had to offer something to launch Greece's ships.

The thought of Ana in another man's bed boils my blood. It will be disappointing if she must first unlearn another man's tricks. I should be the one to coax those lips open for the first time.

We lock eyes, a moment too long.

"Why is your uniform wrinkled?" I say, scrambling for an appropriate complaint.

Ana slams my rapier down on the table.

She pulls her skirt taut, and a parade of holes dance down the hem of the fabric. "You give me rags and then lament their condition."

"So ungrateful. Have you truly not learned your lesson?"

"You have already mutilated me with your family's disgusting crest. What worse can you do to me?"

"Trust me, Ana, that is not a conversation you wish to begin."

Sensing a protracted battle, she turns her angry gaze back to her work, scrubbing with vigor and without an ounce of concern. Under her grip, the bell guard slams repeatedly on the table. I could wring her neck for being so careless with my property. Though quality weapons should not snap from the wrath of a tiny hellcat.

If I didn't have so many meetings to attend, I would stay longer to puzzle. When not so enraged, Ana trains her eyes on the equipment with feverish intent. As she pours oil across the rusty blades, she looks at my father's weapons with something other than hatred. Her hazel eyes sparkle. She happens to be quite fetching when not arguing about how the Earth, in fact, circles the sun.

"You can stay," I declare.

I stride out without waiting for her response. It seems the longer I spend with Ana, the greater the chance that she'll say something she'll regret.

***

At night, the corridors glow with the amber pulse of the sconces. I wander aimlessly through the West Wing.

As usual, sleep evades me, and I am left to drown in discouraging thoughts. There's no use in requesting a woman to join me at this hour. I'd rather not contemplate the ramifications of my father's death lying next to an opportunistic housemaid.

I find the halls to be a small source of comfort. The long carpets hold memories of roughhousing and tumbling and shredded knees. Isabel chasing me from room to room, nearly tripping over her skirts. The both of us racing to greet our father returning from his business trips. They are a reminder of a time when my world could be managed without an army of advisers.

The light snaking out from under the armory door puts a weary smile on my face.

There is no command too simple for that girl to follow. In a matter of days, she's managed to ascend from field slave to armory attendant, and yet, I fail to recall a single time when she's done as she's told. If I tell her to get up, she'll refuse to move. If I tell her to stay put, she'll spend her sleeping hours rummaging where she doesn't belong.

As wicked-tempered as she is, I rather like the idea of sequestering Ana in my private rooms. Somewhere she can protest without causing too much trouble.

All imagined pleasantry is undone by a loud clatter of masks. I hear them rolling across the floor, followed by a cacophony of French swears. I suppose that I shall have to say something against it. I can't let her think that I've gone soft for her. I approach the door.

"It seems that my slave needs to be taught a lesson about respecting my things."

Ana turns around angrily. Strands of her hair radiate in the candlelight.

"Your slave works from sunup to sundown without proper bedding or food or clothing. Excuse me if my fingers falter while cleaning up your mess."

She kicks a mask across the room. "The least you could do is speak to me and not at me."

I step toward her. This rage is inappropriate for a woman of her station.

"You are my property. All of this is my property. Everything in this room would sell for ten times what you are worth. You are not to decide what I do with my property." I pause, "Perhaps you belong in the fields after all. Shall I send you back?"

I wait for her to cower. To submit with her head down and her tail between her legs.

"Isabel would never allow it," she says with that annoying, nasal accent. "Well met, Rafael."

My first name is not permitted on the slaves' lips.

"Come here, Ana."

I've been too gentle with her. The girl needs to be put in her place before she becomes a menace to us all. I pull out one of the stools from under the bench and wait.

She approaches me with caution and a tremoring lip. The stupid girl can sense that a line has been crossed.

"Remove your dress and lay yourself across my lap."

Her cheeks flush red. "My apologies, Your Excellency. I went too far. It won't happen again."

"Now."

I hate to break her so soon, but she cannot be allowed to carry on like this. Ana searches my face for mercy as she undoes her laces. Her apron falls to the floor.

Not fast enough.

I pull her into my arms and tug firmly on the remaining layer. The skirt and petticoat go the way of the apron. They have attired her in cheap garments, whatever scraps they could find at a moment's notice.

Ana shivers as I strip her down to the bare essentials. I don't bother bringing the shift over her head. The thin, cotton fabric tears with a satisfying rip. I send the blade currently resting on the table through the other garments for good measure.

Nudity certainly suits her. Ana has been kept out of the sun; her breasts are pale and smooth, unmarred by her station. Her lean form is toned but holds enough flesh that it retains its softness. She casts her gaze to the floor. A dark mound hides the last of her innocence. If she wasn't so recalcitrant, she would make a wonderful pleasure slave.

For now, I'll have to contain my desire.

Though I own her body, she needs to be tamed. I guide her to my lap. She falls my legs across like a beaten dog, ankles shaking with the resonance of a death march. I slide my finger down each divot of her trembling spine and pause at the last vertebrae. An angry mark defines the top of her lifted buttocks. The burn is swollen, like two puckered lips spoiled by the heat. My family's lions blur into each other; any applied salve has long been absorbed.

I've ordered more than few brandings, but I've rarely returned early enough to see the healing process. In an act of mercy, I confine my punishment to the other cheek.

"You will thank me for each stroke. Is that clear?"

She is silent. I reach underneath her chest and twist one of her nipples sharply.

"Yes," she replies, missing her cue once again.

Without further warning, I bring my palm down on her flesh.

A whimper escapes her lips but not a mention of gratitude. Just when I thought we were getting somewhere.

I strike her again, this time with a force that demands response, and follow it with a chorus of resounding smacks. Before long, red streaks scatter across her right cheek.

"Thank you."

Her voice finally comes, weakly. I can feel the inception of an apology. It is my duty to bring forth another.

Smack. Smack. Smack.

Once more, I rain down fury and two extra strokes for disobedience.

"Thank you, Your Excellency," she says, her voice almost hoarse.

Her cheeks are beginning to clench under me. Sweat clings to my hand. Three more sharp, rapid strokes. She mumbles her thanks after each one. Is the great tide finally receding? An odd fancy strikes me and draws my hand to her slit.

It's sopping wet.

Her tight, virginal entrance is lubricated with fluids beyond mere sweat. She thrashes in response to my probing, but I silence her with a firm hand on the base of her neck. While spankings are known to be gratifying to the master, young virgins are not usually so accepting. Ana quivers, her face likely beet-red under the table, but now, there is no denying her interest. Whether harsh or gentle, her body begs for my touch.

I whisper in her ear. "I can't punish you this way if you like it this much."

Before I can present her with the evidence, she utters, "Nique ta mère. Fuck your mother."

I shove her off my lap.

Ana falls to the floor in a ceremonious tumble. A look of confusion and terror passes across her face. An insult against my mother carries great significance. If she would have mumbled her insult in damn parley-voo, I could have played it off like I never heard. Mais non, she had to translate it for me. She wanted to ensure that her distaste was heard. This I cannot tolerate.

"Clean up the masks. Tomorrow, you will report to the scullery. You are banned from this room." I turn to leave.

She frantically looks about the armory. "What am I to wear?"

Her dark eyes flash equal parts anger and fear. A small piece of me wants nothing more than to take her into my arms and bring her to bed. But the haughty thing needs to learn her place, and I cannot allow myself to become attached to a slave girl.

I stand, towering over her. "Why should you need clothes? Remain nude. You are already wet like a common whore."

I wipe my hand on my trousers and depart for my chambers.

Chapter 8: Godiva's Child - Catherine's Perspective

The mustard-colored gown was an atrocity in itself, and yet, I could find refuge in its lonely scraps. Those two layers pressed pinned to my stays kept my raft from crashing on the rocks. Now, I find myself slipping further and further under the muddied water. A small part of me desires to waltz out of the training room, torn petticoat wrapped around my hips, and act as if nothing has happened at all. I would be no less naked. Still, his force has so recently been upon me that my pounding heart resists rebellion.

His strong fingers exploring my spine. A firm grip across my buttocks. He commanded me to lay across his lap, and I obeyed. Though my protests failed to be realized, what collateral could I have offered in return for mercy? He stripped me of my clothes, and I reacted accordingly.

Slave or free, he had no right to touch me in that manner. My backside stings from two separate offenses. That of pride and that of principle. The warmth that remains is borne not only from pain but from touch. I am an ocean apart from the duke of limbs.

Oh, Benjamin.

Not even the creature from his saccharine poems would be able to overcome the stigma of a slave brand.

I must never forget that Don Navarro is the enemy. The cool air may have performed witchcraft on my skin, but I will not be fooled. For demanding the tiniest consideration of humanity, he burned his mark into me. For using his God-given name, he battered and violated me. What else can one expect from the man who promises to whore out his enemy's innocent daughter?

The remains of my costume lie in a cursed tornado beside me. If I am to be forbidden from covering my body, at least I shall hold my head high. As I stand, the chain wobbles between my ankles. My bare feet have surely found company in their indignity.

Rage will not help me survive this place. One day, Don Navarro shall pay for all his offenses. Even if I have to set fire to the Navarro estate myself.

***

The next morning, I wake to a kick in the side.

Alma towers over me, hands on her skinny hips. "What is wrong with you, girl? Do the French not wear clothes on that side of the island?"

"We do, señora."

Alma brushes off her starched skirts. I would settle for any bit of cover from her incredulous glare.

She raises her palms to the heavens. "That's what I thought. Get dressed before you make a further mockery of your station."

"Señora, I am not permitted." I slip my hands over my uncovered breasts. Heat quickly rises to the surface.

Alma huffs, "And just who is telling me how to run my household?"

"His Excellency."

"I see."

"He also remanded me to the scullery. I will try my best not to get in their way."

I pull my knees into my chest. The floorboards tear at the raw skin covering my brand. I can tell by her silence that Alma is almost equally horrified by this situation. From what I gather, little goes on in this household without her tacit approval.

"Girl, you only get yourself into trouble."

She inhales sharply, "Take my advice, I would not go to the kitchen dressed - or rather undressed as you are."

"Thank you, señora," I say, though such wisdom makes my stomach churn. Working in the scullery on an empty stomach is a horrifying proposition. It has been a while since I've eaten my fill.

The other women begin to stir from their beds. Last night, the servants were too tired to notice a naked thing sneaking in between cots. Now, their claws wait to descend upon me. My only hope for compassion is the remote chance that another, more sympathetic housemaid once shared my punishment.

I hasten towards the exit, hoping the flutter of sheets will deflect their attention.

***

Proceeding into the main corridor, I dodge a few uncomfortable looks. The disgust of my fellow slaves can be ignored. I keep my head down, and my gaze focused on the ground. Unfortunately, His Excellency seems to be an early riser.

"Buenos días, Ana," he says loudly. He makes no effort to hide his roving eyes. He delights at his unconventional punishment, visually consuming me like a ripe piece of fruit. To him, I am no more than a decadent rug. Or a breeding mare.

I pin my hands to my sides, resisting the urge to shrink, and make every effort to remove the acid from my voice.

"Buenos días," I say sweetly.

"You look particularly ravishing this morning. Perhaps I have revealed a new side of you."

The sly grin never leaves his face.

"As you wish, Your Excellency."

Even in my current predicament, I cannot bring myself to use the word "master" without provocation. His minor title of nobility, on the other hand, is the business of the Spanish government.

I hurry past him, hoping to avoid another altercation. I'm sure the clinking of my ankles rouses the entire first floor. My pride is consoled only by the knowledge that this man, in all of his wealth and power, finds himself unable to take the high road.

A dog in tailored silks cannot help but be a dog.

***

I reach the scullery through a side entrance near the kitchen. Wet heat fills the room like a kind of smoke. The cook is a heavyset woman. She supervises the girls who have already checked into work. I'm less familiar with their faces. Both she and her lackeys give me a crooked look.