He held her up, for she was tottering. Her pale face stared panic-stricken up to his.
"Monsieur!" she gasped again. "What is this? Where am I?"
He made answer curtly, in a tone that sounded repressive.
"You are on board my yacht, mademoiselle." She swayed, and he put his arm round her. "You are in safety," he said, in the same brief fashion.
"As—as your prisoner?" she whispered, trying weakly to free herself from his hold.
"As my guest," he said.
By an immense effort she controlled herself, meeting his stern eyes with something like composure. But the memory of that single, scorching kiss was still with her. And in spite of her utmost resolution, she flinched from his direct gaze.
"If I am your guest," she said, her low voice quivering a very little, "I am at liberty to come—and to go—as I will."
"Absolutely!" said Pierre, and she fancied for an instant that he smiled.
"You will take me wherever I desire to go?" she persisted, still battling with her agitation.