Chapter Eight
Mercy lay helpless, draped over the captain’s lap with her bare bottom uncovered to a man’s gaze for the first time in her life. So humiliated was she at her powerlessness, she barely felt the sting of the first hard spank.
Once the initial shock wore off, Mercy swore her bottom was being set on fire. With each whack, the vicious burn increased. She thrashed and twisted, kicking her feet, but he had her pinned. Every time his hand connected with her aching backside, she jerked convulsively. She started cursing him again, her vocabulary growing even more colorful, joined with opinions of his poor character and dubious parentage expressed in yet a third language.
“I recognize that word. It’s the island term for bastard.” He stopped and pulled her to her feet. “Apparently, my hand is not providing sufficient incentive for you to show the proper remorse.”
He dragged her across the room and bent down in front of her satchel. Keeping a firm hold on her arm, he rummaged in it and retrieved the wooden hairbrush. He surveyed the room.
“This will do,” he announced, grabbing her around the waist and sitting on the edge of the bed.
Mercy found herself once again upended across his lap. Damn, but the man was strong! He trapped both her legs between his thighs so she couldn’t kick him again. Then, with one strong arm across her back to keep her in place, he drew her skirt up even more slowly than before.
No longer in shock, Mercy was overcome with shame. She could only imagine the sight greeting the captain’s eyes as he pulled her robe higher. That of her naked bottom quivering over his thighs, surely even redder than her face must be. To make things worse, he was taking his time uncovering her. She felt certain he was prolonging the moment, enjoying the opportunity to take her from haughty indifference to total helplessness.
At the first whack of the hairbrush, Mercy let loose with a piercing shriek. The impact of hard flat wood on her posterior was far more painful than his hand had been.
The evil man actually laughed.
“It seems I was right,” he chuckled, as she pummeled the leg she could reach with both fists. “This hairbrush delivers a much more compelling message.” Seizing both her wrists in his free hand, he pinned them to the mattress and began her punishment.
His first spanking had been merely a playful interlude in comparison. The hairbrush came down on her burning backside over and over. When he moved lower to the spot where the twin curves of her bottom met her thighs, she clamped her jaws together to keep from howling, determined to deny him the satisfaction of bringing her to tears.
Mercy had never been struck as a child. Her backside was on fire, driving all rational thought out of her head. She scarcely heard his voice as he began intermingling the hard smacks with questions.
“Tell me the truth. You’re not a nun, are you?”
When she didn’t answer, he stopped. “Here’s how this will work. I’m going to ask you again. And you will answer me honestly. If you don’t respond at once, you will get another whack. If you lie to me, and be assured I know a lie when I hear one, you’ll get double the measure each time. Now, are you a nun?”
Mercy’s mind raced. She had been mired so long and so deep in her deception she couldn’t fathom a way to admit the truth without incurring even more of the captain’s wrath.
“I am Sister Bertilde of the Sisters of Saint Francis.”
The hairbrush cracked down swiftly. Twice. She gasped, writhing on his lap.
“Best to keep your story straight. Last time I believe you said you were with the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Now – what is your name?”
“I am…I am…”
The back of the brush came down on her aching bottom once more, and she buried her head in the mattress to keep from crying out.
“Answer me! But think carefully before you do,” he warned.
“I am Mercedita Whitaker.”
***
James was stunned into silence. Could the half-naked woman draped over his lap really be the daughter of the master of Whitaker Hall? Her answer to one question brought a hundred others to his mind.
“You said all the Whitakers died of the fever.”
“I lied.”
“What did I say about lying?” He delivered two more harsh smacks. She squealed, struggling to break free.
“I lied then,” she cried out. “I’m telling the truth now! I’m Mercedita Whitaker. My old nanny and I hatched this plan to spirit me away from St. Thomas when my mother and father were dying. The part about the white slavers is true. We knew they would come for me.”
“And how could you know they were coming for you?”