Caribbean Reign Ch. 27-28

Chapter 27: Madame Dupré - Catherine's Perspective

"Do you want this, princesa? he demands. The bedroom candles are just enough to see the viscount hovering over me, moisture dripping from his torso.

I nod, biting into the fabric he's stuffed into my mouth. He tosses the rag on the floor.

"Say it. Say that you want your master's cock."

I ought to run or scream for help. How far would it be to the door or back to my family's estate? At this hour, I could make it to the bushes and wait for the dawn.

Instead, I use my moment of freedom for subservience.

"I want my master's cock."

His staff skims my pleasure spot before pulling away. "Then, you're going to have to earn it, slave girl."

Without further warning, he shoves two fingers into my tender opening. My shoulders slam back into the sheets. His burrowing fingers flutter my insides for only a few moments before pulling me to a kneeling position. Rafael guides my mouth towards his enormous member.

"Wet it," he commands.

His cock hardly requires my assistance. It is already drenched in its own anticipation. I stick out my tongue to lick pearls off its surface. A palm slaps across my face.

"Be quick about it," he says, his urgency starting to show. The master is in no mood to play games. I am lucky not to be punished further.

His thighs tense as I bob up and down. The hand in my hair tightens. When I slow to ease my aching jaw, he maintains the rhythm. A composer in 6/8 time. My throat is beginning to tire of the symphony. I try to conjure a gentler music into existence, but he smacks my hands away.

"Mine," he growls.

In one fluid motion, my wrists are plastered behind my head.

He throws me backward, catching my ankles and mounting them above his shoulders. With a quick pinch to each nipple, he enters me. My tight cavity initially struggles to accommodate him but soon envelopes his cock as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

And in some ways, it is. Tender kisses rain down the side of my neck. My collar bone is lined with the marks of previous nights. Our sweat gathers beneath us, soaking the sheets of the bed, our rocking vessel. Rafael finds the deepest part inside of me and hammers endlessly. The sensation brings my nails to my breast.

They claw furiously to soften the bite of his blows. I will have long lines to match the searing tension running up and down my legs.

Once again, he pins my hands above my head, not permitting me to escape even a moment of it. We must both be present for the burning. He continues faster and faster until his chest is a blur.

I scream and then fall silent.

"Thank you, master."

His body wraps around my muscles before collapsing, both of us lost in the shattering waves. My head swims as I make my way back to the surface.

***

This is not what a young lady is supposed to be dreaming about the night before her wedding. I should be dreaming about a happy home with Benjamin, about rosy-cheeked children running through the corridors. One of those children might be sired by the viscount. Even in domestic fantasy, I cannot remove him.

My damp sheets make a presumption that I would never act upon. My slickened hand is disappointing evidence of a primitive urge. Nothing more.

I leap out of bed to straighten myself out. The pitcher of water has been refilled overnight. I splash water down the front of my shift to cool off and ring the silver bell. I pray that Annalise wasn't there to witness anything too improper.

My lady's maid comes rushing in, layers of wedding dress splayed out in her arms and an army of assistants behind her.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle," she chirps, "What a wonderful day lies ahead!"

Before I can so much as nod, I'm adorned with petticoats and laces. White powder, released in a puff, is dumped over everything in such quantities that it stains the carpet. The gown is a cloyingly hopeful shade, a bright canary yellow. The tight laces shove my breath back into my throat. Ana manages to coerce my unruly hair into a towering creation. Dark tendrils drip off the heaping mound.

"D'accord!" Annalise steps back in awe of her handiwork.

I look into the mirror, and the costumed creature stares back at me. She is everything my mother always dreamed for me, save the taut fabric around my midsection. It will not be easy to pass the child off as Benjamin's, but it will be legions easier than explaining an immaculate conception.

"You look lovely, maîtresse," says one of the other maids.

This ensemble was selected by Maman, perfectly in vogue with the ladies of France. Unfortunately, a flawless string of diamonds and ribbon-covered bodice cannot undo the damage of what's beneath. I cannot help but feel like a counterfeit product, a soiled handkerchief. However, I know not the appropriate attire for a farce wedding.

With a sigh, I descend into the madness. The hallways are a sea of nervous energy and lavish decorations. Bundles of lilies are stacked at the tops of the banisters, precariously hanging over the edge, ready to anoint some poor passerby with the tastes of our gardener. Bows in the same pale pink as my dress ribbons hang over the door frames. Footmen and silver trays of food scurry across the foyer.

I swear my mother has sampled a hundred courses over the past few weeks. She stands in the foyer, menacing the servants,

"No, no, don't put that there. The birds will get into the food. Jacqueline, please, have you lost your eyesight?"

Noticing her daughter, she unwraps her arms. "Oh Catherine, you look just lovely," she says.

I look like an overstuffed marionette. "Merci, Maman."

My mother continues, "Nearly all of Saint-Michel has shown up to celebrate. More than twice the guest list. I don't know what I'm going to do. We'll simply have to turn away those without invitations."

Her expression does little to feign surprise. Every detail of the wedding has been meticulously planned, from the dove cages to the courtyard reception. Details of the event have probably been swirling about town since the first envelope was sent. For my parents' lack of a son, my husband shall inherit thousands of acres of sugarcane and hundreds of tenants. My nuptials announce the continuation of empire.

The servants follow Maman as she strides across the estate.

Benjamin gently touches my arm.

I turn. He wears a handsome, purple waistcoat with sleeves weighed down by gold cufflinks. A proud sword is mounted at his side.

"You know," he says, "I truly believe that we will grow fond of each other."

"I concur," I reply, the breath catching in my throat. What if I don't want to grow fond, slowly wilting into marriage like an un-watered lily?

He smiles. "You look beautiful. As always."

"You're very kind."

Benjamin plants a chaste kiss on my hand. Good friends as we may become, never will this man look at me with lust or desire.

Truly, it is a fortunate outcome. Our marriage will allow both of us to indulge in affairs more suited to our natural proclivities. He may continue his trysts with the gardener. Perhaps I can find myself a swashbuckler. I do wonder about the capabilities of the men in Port Royal. With Benjamin on my side, there'd be no need to prove the legitimacy of a full-blooded heir as he would stake no claim to my womb. In some ways, I imagine that my mistake already provides relief from the demands of his condition. It is an excellent development, indeed.

Why does the thought make me lightheaded and tense in the chest? Why must a pleasant future be so painful?

What if I want more than friendship and chaste kisses, sordid affairs with sleazy mercenaries? When may I speak of mind-numbing passion, of agonizing desire? To be known, and to be loved despite.

Last night's dream sneaks into my musings. There was a reason my hair was kept simple during my captivity. A prim hairstyle would never have lasted a second past those wooden doors. When the viscount grabs my ankles, I become a heathen, writhing under his touch. I try to blur out his face, imagining only the sensation, but the two are inexplicably linked.

I despise him for blackening those memories. I despise him for opening up a side of me that he can no longer satisfy. I do not doubt that he has already ruined the joy of my wedding night.

***

I greet our esteemed guests with a smile etched into my face. Benjamin stands at my side, not too close, not too far. Always the gentleman.

Guests fan out across the veranda, while the musicians are sequestered in a corner. A long, ornate carpet has been repurposed to serve as the aisle, another sign of my family's unmatched wealth. Most guests stratify themselves by social status, though the villagers are welcome to witness the events from a distance. Beyond the white chairs, there is a large throng of peasants looking to sweep up table scraps.

I am whisked away to make my great entrance.

As the piano sounds, I exhale. I have only to make it through the ceremony and then society's gaze will be cast upon its next infatuation.

My mother sits near the front, bursting with respectable tears. Benjamin stands next to the priest, perhaps the only other person who understands what we are truly getting ourselves into. My father waits with me at the base of the aisle. His face is stoic as he takes my arm.

A stomach sickness is coming on quickly, but this is no time to take a rest. The musicians strike their instruments, and the processional begins. The seated guests glow with envy as I pass. They must imagine this to be the happiest day of my life.

If only I could imagine that as well.

Finally, I am deposited next to my future husband. Lightheaded, I catch only snippets from the bishop.

"Esteemed guests and countrymen, we gather on this most fortuitous day..."

His mouth keeps moving from underneath the tall miter.

"And by the book of Genesis, we see that Eve was created for Adam to be his helper..."

The aging clergyman holds mine and Benjamin's hands together as he wanders closer and closer to the holy vows.

"Does anyone object to the union of these two young people?"

Of course not. All of Saint-Michel exists at the behest of the Guînes family, and not a soul would dare -

"I object."

The hooded perpetrator snakes through the crowd of bedecked ladies and gentlemen.

Slowly, the guests part in anticipation of the drama. Everyone loves a subversion of the aristocratic proceedings, but bile rises in the back of my throat. Even in pauper's clothes, his voice is unmistakable.

At the foot of the aisle, the viscount pulls back his hood.

Papa charges down the aisle, "What is the meaning of this? I will not have my daughter's wedding interrupted by some rabble-rouser."

A messenger tugs on my father's sleeve. His face shifts quickly from puzzlement to tension in every crevice.

"Señor Navarro, I believe," he says, "I don't believe that you were invited to this event." The viscount's title is deliberately overlooked.

Instead of his usual prideful rebuttal, Rafael drops to one knee.

"My apologies, but I have come to seek your daughter's hand for myself," he says in clumsy French.

A few laughs break out from amongst the crowd. The last attempt at an inter-island marriage resulted in the death of my father's sister.

"The man is not one for invitations," Benjamin mutters. His hand hovers above his weapon.

My father continues, "Señor Navarro, I think that even you can see, she is unavailable. As if we would bother with the likes of your people."

The viscount ignores his insults, "Catherine? What say you?"

His eyes are unbearably hopeful. As if they truly believe that I'll say yes, and we'll simply dance off into the sunset. Even if I could forgive him, even if I still crave his touch after all of this pain, I already gave him my answer on the cliffside. Some things cannot be mended.

"Of course, I echo the sentiment of my father."

My words ring hollow and cold. He seems unsurprised.

Without even taking a moment to grieve, he removes the sword from his belt and casts it on the ground. It gleams in the sunlight.

"Very well, Catherine."

Turning toward my father, he says, "Monsieur, I take full responsibility for your daughter's absence. For six months, I held her captive in my home and now freely submit myself to your judgment."

Maman turns white and Papa, red. There is nothing I can say in response. What good can come of this, Rafael? Must you destroy every last thing I hold sacred?

Papa has done his best to restrain his suspicions about my nautical adventure, asking few questions, giving me the pistol for future protection. The past was permitted to lie still and dead, but a claim like this calls it all into question. The sheer absurdity is a confirmation in itself.

Before long, our guards surround the viscount. Papa has made his decision. Rafael allows himself to be restrained.

My father picks up Rafael's sword. "To think we've had half a century of feuds, just for it to end in Spanish surrender."

"If this is Catherine's will, do with me as you wish," Rafael says, eyes locked on mine.

He is forcing me to choose. It is a ridiculous plot depending solely on my prior weakness to kill him with my own hands. Well, Rafael, it is not my hand holding the sword.

My mother's eyes have grown wide, but she makes no motion to stop the bloodbath. Half of me longs for the blade to cut his neck clean off. I've certainly fantasized about his insides flayed; his head mounted on a stick. A woman's weakness is quite different than her objective opinion.

However, as much as I try to harden my heart, a part of me would mourn his feet never again touching the ground, his heart never again beating.

"Papa, stop," I utter reluctantly.

"Darling, it's alright," says my father. "I don't wish to upset you and your mother or any of the other ladies, but the man must pay for what he's done."

He raises the sword. Rafael cringes but lifts no arm to defend himself.

My heart drops. Of course, I want justice for his crimes against me, but his murder doesn't erase the memories burned into my skull, the painful ties of familiarity. Not to mention the faint kick I'm beginning to imagine.

Sensing my concern, Benjamin holds my arm in place. I wouldn't get down the aisle in time. The bloodlust in my father's eyes is too quick. Rafael is as good as dead, and moving to save him would only assure my guilt.

There is only one recourse.

I cry out.

"Papa, I'm carrying his child."

Chapter 28: Deaf Ears - Rafael's Perspective

Child?

Usually, I ensure that Alma only sends me the girls nearing their monthly cycles. The last thing I need is a hundred illegitimate sons vying for the Navarro estate.

Foolishly, I never took such precautions with Catherine. I wanted to have her whenever I pleased. I let her soak up every last drop of my seed. And thus, the current predicament.

Even in that puffy, yellow and pink monstrosity, Catherine would make a radiant mother. And for her to have saved me, her heart cannot be completely blackened.

She, too, must feel the flame between us, unconquerable, unquenchable. My joy is limited only by the blade at my neck.

Catherine's mother interrupts, "You are with child?"

Catherine nods, and her mother's hand goes to her mouth. The fiancé seems startled but not upset. Less can be said of her father. I can see on his face that he's struggling to accept this information. This new development leaves him with nowhere to turn his anger.

A new target is selected for his outrage. he turns to the blushing bride.

"If you defend his indiscretions, then you're no daughter of mine,"

He throws down my sword and bows to her fiancé. "My apologies, for wasting your time, Monsieur Dupré."

The fiancé's face is unchanged.

"Papa," Catherine pleads, but her father refuses to acknowledge her.

Instead, he turns to me.

"Go on, take her. I'll have nothing to do with a Spanish bastard."

Catherine desperately scans the crowd for a sympathetic face. A sea of hats and wigs wilt on the horizon. Her people have turned their backs to her. No one wants to be on the old man's bad side, especially now that such a large fortune is at stake. Who would risk their lot for a recently disenfranchised heiress? Only her mother and her fiancé carry expressions that resemble remorse.

Seeing Catherine in such pain, I almost regret coming. There was no love in her eyes in the moments before she sold her soul. Now, there is only terror.

I proceed down the aisle to collect my prize. Tears stream down her perfect cheeks as she makes sense of her options. Does she truly not know that she will always have a place with me? I will prove it to her.

Quietly, I take her hand. It is cold to the touch. She allows herself to be led through the crowd into Isabel's outstretched arms.

"Poor sweet girl," she croons, "Everything will be alright."

The three of us walk to a pair of horses waiting on the periphery. Catherine mounts with Isabel, her shoulders collapse onto Isabel's back. As pleased as I am to see that she's still comfortable with my sister, it strikes a chord of jealousy in me -- a chord that even her fiancé could not stir. Their connection is so easy and unburdened. I swallow it all down and lead the horses back across the island.

***

Three hours is a remarkably long time when no one is speaking.

We arrive at the estate without further event. Catherine was still the entire ride. So still that I would've thought her sleeping had her knuckles not remained white. The layers of her dress sit in disarray over the back of the horse. She looks to Isabel once the horses slow.

"Why don't you find something more comfortable to wear?" says my sister. "I'll meet you inside."

"Thank you, Isa."

It's the first time I've heard Catherine speak since the wedding.

"There are still gowns in your closet," I add.

After our voyage, I planned to surprise her with another shipment of fine fabric, and the results stand ready, waiting for her return. I want to sweep her off her horse and carry her over the threshold. The beautiful mother of my child. Home, once again.

Catherine returns an icy glare.

Isabel smiles, "I think my closet will do just fine for now."

Of course, by that she means, Shut up, idiot, you're making it worse.

Catherine's hand lingers on Centurion's nose before departing. I move to follow her, but Isabel holds me back.

"Whatever you're about to do can wait."

"I must apologize. Catherine being disowned was never part of my plan. I shall make it up to her. I give you my solemn vow."

"I'm sure you will, but right now, she's not ready to hear it. After all that, it's a miracle you're not dead."

Isabel straightens her skirts, maddeningly rising above all the chaos. My sister could wade through a pigsty and come out smelling like roses.

"Don't pretend to you didn't have a part in this plan," I say. "You're the one who snuck me past the entry guards as your manservant."

"Only because I knew that you'd eventually do something drastic. I thought it better for everyone that you risk your life before Catherine's nuptials rather than after."

I touch the spot on his neck where her father nicked me. A small trickle of blood remains. Death was closer than I would have liked to imagine. In truth, expecting that Catherine had any feelings left for me was a complete gamble. My head could easily be rolling about on the Guînes lawn by now.

"A word of advice, Rafa," she adds, "Catherine is our guest, not your consort, not your slave, and certainly not your bride. Go to your study. Give her some space to breathe."