Captive Innocence by Fern Michaels

herself, revealed a world of wonder to her, where arms and lips and bodies were meant for the loving. He had shown her the secrets of the universe and she had learned them, proudly, head high. He had taught her that she was a woman and exalted with her, carrying her with him to the heights beyond the stars.
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    Afterwards, they slept in each other’s arms, and even in sleep their lips sought and their hands soothed. Twice again, before the light of day, he took her, each time finding a new and exciting variation to their lovemaking.
    Royall was sated, filled with the wonder of her new-found sensuality. Her body ached in places she had never known she possessed, and with that ache came a joy. She had found herself, felt she at last knew herself, and all the dark secrets were banished, exiled by the hands and lips and body of a mysterious buccaneer.
    Shortly before dawn he nuzzled her neck, holding her close. “I don’t want to leave you, mi poca leona.” These last words he whispered softly, calling her his little lioness. “I must leave Rio on the outgoing tide and still have affairs that must be attended to.”
    She could sense that he didn’t want to leave her, and it made her feel closer to him. But he said he must, and she felt it would be irrelevant to tell him that her own ship sailed very shortly. For a moment she held him close, knowing she would never find another man like him in her lifetime. But last night had been made for memories, and she would cherish every one.

Chapter Three
    Everywhere she looked the bright Brazilian sun illuminated the pageant of humanity on the rough-hewn wharf in the seaport city of Belém.
    Hawkers were everywhere, crying their goods at full voice. Sailors mulled about from one stall to another, quarreling about the prices and paying them all the same.
    Beggar children followed the sailors, pulling on their sleeves or tugging at their trouser legs, begging for a sweet or imploring the men, through gestures, to visit and buy something at their families’ stands.
    While merchants haggled over the prices, Indian women, long skirts wrapped about their slim bodies, vied for the best of the merchandise. All about was color and teeming life. It was the most exciting sight Royall had seen since Mardi Gras in Rio, and a far cry from her native New England.
    She took particular notice of the Indian women. They were lovely to her eyes—smooth, dark skin, not black like the Negro, but a nut brown, great dark eyes, and straight black hair tied at the back. They wore bright colors and patterns that enhanced their complexions, and Royall felt pale beside them.
    She noticed a few of the women appraising her, and she felt herself blush under their impertinent stares. A few of them spoke to one another, nodding in her direction.
    Mrs. Quince, noting her embarrassment, translated their light, musical language for her. “They say you’re beautiful; they call you the golden girl. These Indians are always impressed with fair skin and light hair. They envy you.”
    â€œAnd I was just thinking how lovely they are. They make me feel pale in comparison.”
    â€œWell, dear, you know the saying, ‘the grass is always greener.’ Come, we must inquire about our accomodations on the paddlewheeler. One mustn’t trust to reservations. Drat this outlandish chair,” the woman complained testily. “If these wheels get caught between the cobblestones, poor Alonzo will be without a wife. A wheelchair, they call this contraption,” she continued to mutter as Royall pushed her from behind. “I call it a curse! Push, Royall! And keep a firm grip. The Lord protect us, I won’t feel safe until we set foot in Manaus!”
    At the name of the exotic city, Royall felt a tingle and a quickening of her senses. “Manaus,” her geography text had read, “a treasure trove of wealth and culture, glistening beneath the Brazilian sun.