Chance the Winds of Fortune (60 page)

Rhea cried out in fright as something landed beside her in the bunk; then she found herself staring into two shiny emerald eyes.

“Jamaica,” Dante muttered beneath his breath as he glared down at the big tomcat who was now curling up next to Rhea's shoulder. The cat's purring grew louder as he sensed the attention he was receiving from his master and the soft-voiced one.

“Damn,” Dante murmured, touching his shoulder where the cat's claws had caught him. When he held out his hand, there was blood staining his fingertips. “How the devil did he get in here?” he demanded angrily.

“I think he has been in here all the time,” Rhea said huskily, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “He was in here when I was dressing for dinner. I suppose I forgot about him.” Her voice had begun to shake when she realized how timely Jamaica's interruption had been, for now, as she stared up at the tall man standing beside her, whose beautifully chiseled face was shadowed by the sallowness of the lantern's light, he looked a stranger to her—and one that frightened her as she remembered their lovemaking of only moments before. She had almost given herself to the captain of the
Sea Dragon
, a cold-blooded adventurer who cared for no one and was only interested in discovering a sunken treasure ship.

“You forgot about him?” Dante repeated, feeling an unbelievable frustration as he stared down at her half-naked form huddled in the bunk. She had curled up, almost protectively, around Jamaica; her slender thighs were closed tight, but her position afforded him a tantalizing view of the pale curve of her bare buttocks, which taunted him with their smooth expanse of soft sensuality.

Dante started to reach out a hand, thinking to unseat his cat from his place of honor on the bunk beside Rhea, but as his hand came close, she drew back with all the haughtiness of a highborn duke's daughter.

“Don't touch me!” She spoke so authoritatively, Jamaica's purring became a warning growl.

“Your passion is certainly fleeting,” he remarked softly. But there was savagery in his pale eyes as they wandered freely over her slightly clad body. “Perhaps you are right,” he added, a warning glint in his eyes as he picked up his coat and vest from the table. Eyeing the traitorous Jamaica, Dante flinched slightly as the drying blood on his shoulder stuck to his shirt.

At the door he turned and glanced back, a bitter smile lingering on his lips. “Good night, little daffadilly,” he said, and then he was gone.

* * *

Alastair finally gave up waiting for the captain to return to his cabin and decided to call it an evening. He had been sitting in silence for close to half an hour now, for Fitzsimmons had left almost an hour ago to join a card game he knew was in progress in the crew's quarters. He'd had an anticipatory gleam in his eye at the thought of coming away with quite a pile of winnings.

Alastair glanced around the captain's cabin, making certain nothing was amiss, then quietly opened the door and let himself out. He was making his way along the short corridor when he heard quiet crying coming from his old cabin, now Lady Rhea's. He paused in surprised concern, listening for a moment longer to the muffled weeping. He was about to knock when the crying stopped; then all was silent beyond the closed door. Alastair stood a moment longer, undecided about whether he should intrude. No, it might be wiser not to, especially if the captain were on the other side of that closed door. That type of interruption might prove highly embarrassing for all parties concerned, thought Alastair, for after tonight's disturbing undercurrents he was not at all certain that the captain might not have received an invitation to enter the privacy of Lady Rhea Claire's cabin. It was becoming more obvious to him with each day's passing, that if her ladyship remained on board the
Sea Dragon
much longer, the captain would sooner or later end up in that cabin.

But as Alastair walked across the quarterdeck, breathing deeply of the balmy West Indian air, he saw the captain's solitary figure standing near the taffrail, his coat thrown casually over his shoulders. With a sigh of relief, Alastair settled against the bulwark, allowing himself the pleasure of enjoying the star-filled black skies far above the raking masts and singing sails of the
Sea Dragon
. Little did he realize that he had been staring at a desperate man.

* * *

In the glimmering light of her cabin, Rhea buried her face in the coolness of her pillow, muffling her deep sobs as she tried to banish from her mind the memory of Dante Leighton's searching hands on her body. But it was hopeless. She could still feel how possessive they'd been against her burning flesh when he had touched her intimately, discovering the secrets of her body, of which she'd had so little knowledge until he had revealed them to her.

Rhea touched her swollen lips, still so tender, and remembered the unrelenting pressure of his mouth on hers. She felt groggy, as if his kisses had drugged her, leaving the taste of him in her mouth. She raised her head, placing her flushed cheek against her folded arm, only to find her senses filled with the scent of Dante Leighton on her hot skin.

Rhea gazed up at the low beamed ceiling, her lips trembling as she realized that she no longer felt as if she belonged to herself. The captain of the
Sea Dragon
had become a part of her in an almost mystical way.

She struggled to her feet, unseating Jamaica, who gave a plaintive meow as he jumped onto the table. He sniffed at the dried-up piece of gingerbread, then turned an indifferent back to it as he began to clean his whiskers with self-absorbed intentness. Standing on unsteady legs, Rhea fought the laces of her corset; when she finally freed herself from it, she dropped it to the deck, where it lay in an untidy pile with her chemise. With stiff, unresponsive fingers, she unwound the rawhide straps wrapped around her calves, then rolled off her stockings.

She stood for a long moment in silence, then hesitantly felt her small, delicately rounded breasts; next, her hands strayed down the curved line to her waist, then spread across her hips as if feeling her body for the first time. She continued to stand there, benumbed by this awakening of her sexuality, and with a tired sigh, she began to unplait her braids, mechanically freeing the long strands one at a time, until her hair flowed loosely down her back.

She pulled a blanket from the bunk and wrapped it around her shivering body; then she crawled back into bed, huddling with her arms wrapped around herself, overwhelmed by disturbing emotions that refused to subside.

Dante Leighton, demon captain of the
Sea Dragon
, had kindled a spark deep inside of her, just as he had so confidently promised he would. And he was a devil, for he had teased her and taunted her, lighting a fire in her blood. But he had not ignited it into that all-consuming blaze, which she knew instinctively would come only when that ultimate fulfillment was reached. And now, as she found herself aching for the touch of his lips and hands on her body, she knew only Dante could satisfy this fever burning through her.

Rhea gave a slight start of surprise as she felt something climbing over her shoulder before relaxing as Jamaica curled up beside her, his rumbling purrs comforting her as she rubbed her cheek against his soft fur.

“Oh, Jamaica. What has your master done to me? Why has he tried to destroy me? What have I ever done to hurt him?” she asked helplessly, not fully understanding this woman's body that had been aroused by a man's touch.

“I have got to escape him, Jamaica,” Rhea vowed, hugging the big tabby closer. “There will be no hope for me unless I can free myself from him. If he touches me again, if he kisses me, then I truly will be lost, Jamaica. Lost to all that I have ever known. I fear I'll become his slave forever,” Rhea whispered, terrified of losing herself to him, of needing his touch to survive.

Exhausted, Rhea Claire's heavy-lidded eyes closed while the gentle rolling of the ship rocked her into slumber—but even there she could not escape from disturbing dreams of Dante Leighton.

Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel!

—Shakespeare

The hills of Antigua, covered with sugarcane, loomed to starboard, rising out of the dawn sea in verdant waves as the
Sea Dragon
made landfall for the first time since leaving Charles Town. She closed the land and glided under a gleaming spread of canvas into St. John's Harbour, her leadsman taking a sounding as the
Sea Dragon
entered shallower waters. Her salute to Fort James, standing sentinel on the tip of a finger of cattle-grazed pastureland stretching into the bay, had been duly acknowledged and now she was brought to, her anchor biting the bottom. The local pilot, who had guided the
Sea Dragon
through the rocks to her safe anchorage, had already returned to shore, and now other island boats were making their way toward the new arrival.

The hillsides enclosing the harbor were dotted with palmetto-trimmed fields that tumbled into the lush darkness of tamarind and cedar-shaded valleys, and there on the pastoral slopes were the stone manor houses of the great plantations. The hot West Indian sun shone down brightly on a wealth envied even by the affluent English landowners in the mother country. Cylindrical stone sugar mills nestled amongst the cane bore stark testimony to this Caribbean prosperity.

A restless bank of fluffy white clouds was gathering over the emerald hills of Antigua, while a stirring breeze whispered through the waving fronds of the palm trees on the beaches of fine, white sand, which from the
Sea Dragon
's quarterdeck looked like silken crescents of moon that had fallen from the sky.

To Rhea Claire, who had just come up on deck, having been confined to her quarters by the captain's order until the pilot had left the ship, the tropical splendor of St. John's Harbour with its azure skies above aquamarine hills and its turquoise bay seemed a vision of unreality. Never before had she gazed upon such a brightness and variety of color.

“Aye, 'tis quite a sight, that,” Fitzsimmons commented. “Even puts to shame the green hills of me own homeland, though I'll not be repeatin' that within hearin' distance of another Irishman,” he said with a broad smile, his black eyes twinkling at Rhea. But her usually warm smile seemed forced, and there were pale mauve shadows around her beautiful eyes, as if she'd had a restless night.

“Ah, lassie, 'tis a fine sight ye are,” MacDonald commented as he climbed the ladder to the poop deck, his eyes resting with a paternal glint on her leather skirt, then as he noticed the lowness of the décolletage, not to mention the view of slender ankles and calves, his heavy, sandy brows lowered ominously. “Reckon I'll be havin' a word with Mister Kirby before the day's finished,” he grumbled, not missing the light in the Irishman's eye as he continued to glance at Rhea's flawless profile and a bit lower too, which gentlemanly discretion should not allow.

“'Twill be a fine sight for the men, eh, Alec?” Fitzsimmons remarked.

“Aye, Seumus, and that is what has me worried a wee bit,” he responded laconically, his bushy brows lifting as he heard the pounding of feet on the companion ladder and glanced afore to see Longacres's toothless grin as he neared the top. Following close behind Longacres was Conny. “Aye, 'tis as I feared 'twould be,” he said, blowing a billowing cloud of smoke aloft.

“Told ye, didn't I, Mr. Longacres!” Conny's young voice was carried to them on the breeze.

“Aye, that ye did, lad, that ye did.” He chuckled, his squinting gaze enveloping Rhea's figure. “Aye, reckon 'tis as fine a sight as is a sail on the horizon to a marooned sailor,” he growled, rubbing his stubbly chin and almost dancing a jig as he came toward her.

Rhea forced herself to smile at the old pirate, trying for the moment to put aside her own troubled thoughts. “I hope Conny repeated my appreciation for these kind gifts from you and the crew, Mr. Longacres,” Rhea said as she looked him unflinchingly in the eye.

“Oh, aye, that he did, m'lady,” Longacres said, pleased even at his age to have the young lady's attention centered on him.

“I am indeed very grateful,” she told him, warming slightly toward the man when she felt the genuine pleasure in his smile.

“'Twas me own great pleasure, as well as the rest o' the crew's,” he said. Then he added with a devilish grin, “O' course I would've buried them alive if they hadn't!” He laughed, and Rhea wondered if he ever had done such a thing.

“Did ye happen to be seein' who was anchored not far away, lads?” Fitzsimmons asked with a meaningful glance aport at a ship flying a tartan flag.

“Aye, that I did,” MacDonald said noncommittally, but Longacres wasn't quite as close-lipped about it.

“Seems we been seein' too much o' that buzzard of late,” he said, sending a stream of brown tobacco juice over the railing.

“Reckon he's got business hereabouts,” MacDonald said, not overly concerned by the sight of that tartan flag.

“Aye, Bertie Mackay's always up to something,” Fitzsimmons said sourly, remembering the sight of those very same sails off Cape San Antonio.

“Bertie Mackay?” As Rhea spoke the name, she felt there was something familiar about it. “I seem to have heard that name before.”

“Aye, ye might be sayin' he's in the same business we are,” Fitzsimmons said with a grin and a wink at Longacres, who was glaring across the bay at the ship lying aloof of them.

“Then he is an acquaintance of Captain Leighton's?” Rhea asked, thinking the captain might lower a boat and pay a visit to his friend. Then, with him away from the ship…

“Coooee! That'd be the day! Reckon they've crossed each other's bows too often to be takin' tea with each other, m'lady!” Longacres guffawed, nearly doubling up in laughter at the idea of the captain sitting down to tea with Bertie Mackay.

“Shall I be puttin' it another way, then?” Fitzsimmons suggested, a slight smirk on his lips. “With a friend like Bertie Mackay, a man's havin' no need of enemies.”

As Rhea listened to their less than complimentary comments about the other captain, she gradually remembered where she had heard the name of Bertie Mackay before. With a feeling of dread, she realized that the captain would most likely, being the unreasonable man he was, eye her more suspiciously than ever, thinking she was in league with the rival smuggler.

“Aye, and there ain't many still
alive
who can claim to be Mackay's enemy,” Longacres said, spitting another stream of tobacco juice over the railing, despite Fitzsimmons's look of disgust.

“Reckon the cap'n's been his enemy fer a fair piece of time,” Conny said proudly. “Got the best of him in the straits, we did.”

“Aye, did I ever tell ye about that time, m'lady?” Longacres asked, clearing his throat to better tell his tale. “Ol' Bertie Mackay thought to do us in, the good lads o' the
Sea Dragon
, but I reckon he sailed too close to the wind that time, the cur. Planted a spy on board, he did. Thought to find all o' our secret coves, then turn traitor on us with the King's man,” Longacres said with a scowl, obviously still feeling wrathful indignation at such a trick. “But we showed him, and his man, eh, young Conny?”

“Aye, the cap'n made quick work o' that scoundrel,” Conny recalled with satisfaction.

“What happened?” Rhea asked reluctantly, for the look in Longacres's eye must surely be reminiscent of his pirate days.

“Caught the spy who was on board, we did, then set him adrift in the straits. Put a signal light on board too, just so Bertie Mackay wouldn't get lost,” the coxswain wheezed, choking on his quid of tobacco and turning a purplish color until MacDonald whacked him hard on the back.

“What happened to the man?” Rhea asked faintly. She was finally beginning to see the wisdom of the captain's advice about not mentioning the incidents of that evening when she had come on board the
Sea Dragon
, for if he had believed she was associated with Bertie Mackay, what then might these men believe?

“Could still be out there in the straits, I reckon,” Longacres said huskily—and a trifle hopefully.

“Well, if he is, then 'twas a ghost I was seein' in St. Eustatius the last time we was there,” Fitzsimmons recalled, causing a look of almost comical disappointment to appear on Longacres's face.

“Bet he wished he were still adrift in that gig when Mackay overtook him and brought him aboard,” Conny said, wondering what that confrontation had been like.

Rhea glanced across the shimmering stretch of water that was crowded with shipping, first spying a Union Jack fluttering at the jackstaff of one ship, then the red, blue, and white of the Union Flag in the canton of several flags flying at the main of ships anchored nearby. English ships, Rhea thought on a rising tide of hope, as well as a king's ship. And Antigua was a British colony; surely she would be able to find someone to assist her—if only she could get ashore.

“Reckon the lads will be lookin' forward to gettin' ashore,” Longacres commented, leering at the crew members who were hanging over the bulwarks, looking toward the town of St. John's sitting snugly in the curving of the bay. The town's narrow lanes and rows of shops and taverns opened onto an expansive view of the harbor, and were positioned to take full advantage of the cooling trades. Part of the town, however, had recently suffered a fire, for there were still several blackened buildings standing in proof of the conflagration.

“Reckon ye be just as anxious yeself,” Fitzsimmons remarked.

“Aye, s'pose so, but don't be knockin' me down this time, mate, as ye hurry there yeself,” Longacres retorted, not a man to be bested, and especially not by this smooth-tongued Paddy.

“Soon enough fer that, mates,” MacDonald commented. “Reckon the cap'n'll be goin' ashore soon to enter the ship at the customhouse. Figure ye got time to spruce yeself up a bit, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” he added offhandedly, his lips twitching beneath his thick moustache.

For what must surely have been the first time in his life, Seumus Fitzsimmons felt uncomfortable. Rhea's violet eyes had turned on him in curiosity, and he knew she was thinking of those ribbons he had given to her, and that he now would be empty-handed when he visited his paramour.

Rhea sighed, wondering what her next move should be. Since the captain had not told his crew of his suspicions of her, and since they were obviously in sympathy with her predicament, perhaps she could convince one of them to take her ashore after the captain had left.

As Rhea stood there in thought, a sudden cheer went up from the seamen grouped together in the waist of the ship. Their waving arms and whistles signaled the small boats that had gradually approached from the lee side and finally closed the distance from shore.

Feeling familiar soft fur against her legs, Rhea reached down, without even bothering to look, and picked up Jamaica. She held him cradled in her arms as she leaned closer to the taffrail to see what the commotion below was about.

She glanced into the small boats floating close to the
Sea Dragon
's hull. They were loaded down with fruits and vegetables, fish, shells, and even colorful bouquets of flowers. Several of the black boatmen kept their oars propped against the
Sea Dragon
's planking in order to keep at a safe distance.

“Lady! Lady! You want some pritty flowers, yes! Pritty flowers for pritty lady!” called out a woman who was sitting in the bow of one of the boats, after she'd caught sight of Rhea's golden head peering over the taffrail.

Surrounded by an incredible display of exotic blooms, clusters of lavender bougainvillea, dusty pink frangipani, and scarlet hibiscus, she held up an armful of yet more beautiful and fragrant blossoms. Rhea could breathe heavy perfume in the balmy air drifting around her.

“Jessamine,” Rhea murmured sadly as she caught sight of the delicate, cream-colored flowers of her favorite scent. She had a crystal bottle of it on her dressing table at Camareigh.

Fitzsimmons saw the sadness in her eyes as she stared down at the flowers, and tossing a coin down to the woman in the boat, he caught the bouquet of jessamine that she sent floating to them through the air.

“M'lady,” Fitzsimmons said, presenting it with a flourish to a pale Rhea. “Beautiful they are, but not half as lovely as ye be, m'lady,” he said softly, and for once his black eyes were not full of malicious amusement.

Rhea buried her face in the mass of fragrant blooms, breathing so deeply of the perfumed petals that she felt almost faint. “Thank you, Seumus,” she said, her violet eyes warm with friendship.

And Fitzsimmons knew that was all that would ever be in her eyes for him. It was, however, better than nothing, he thought with an almost casual acceptance of what fate had meted out for him, which was not to be a life with the fine Lady Rhea Claire Dominick by his side.

Jamaica, however, did not care overly much for the sweet scent of jessamine, preferring that tantalizing odor of freshly caught fish that was drifting his way, not to mention the pails of milk being offered for consumption.

Feeling his hind legs stiffening, Rhea released the orange tom, who knew exactly where to go to attract the attention of a softhearted, generous islander who might enjoy seeing a cat catching a piece of fish on a port sill.

With a shrug, Fitzsimmons nodded below at the group of seamen laughing and calling out friendly, though suggestive remarks at several young women in the boats. “Reckon I oughta see what they be up to and keep an eye on them,” he told her with a wicked grin. Then he was hustling after Longacres down the companion ladder.

MacDonald was contentedly smoking his pipe and staring at the island, his thoughts elsewhere, which left Conny and Rhea standing together near the taffrail.

“How come those flowers Mr. Fitzsimmons bought fer ye are makin' ye sad, Lady Rhea?” Conny wanted to know, his wide blue eyes full of confusion, for either a person was happy or they weren't, but Lady Rhea seemed to be both—and at the strangest times. “You seemed so happy a minute ago when ye was smellin' them.”