Captive Secrets (24 page)

Cato shuffled his feet on the deck. “Have someone bring food to my cabin” meant he wasn't to do the bringing. Steaming with jealousy, he stalked away, aware that Amalie's eyes were boring into his back. When she wanted
him,
she would let him know. If he wanted her, he would just have to wait until she was ready. Lovemaking on command. He spit over the side of the rail to show his displeasure. Maybe living as a king wasn't going to be so wonderful after all.

 

In her quarters, Amalie spread out the old maps and charts on her bunk, knowing full well it was going to take every bit of concentration to decipher her father's faded markings. Hours later her eyes burned with strain and her shoulders ached with tension. What good were the ships if she couldn't find a safe harbor for them? And the ivory-was it a good idea to leave it aboard the ships, or should she secure it in the caves with the rest of the booty they'd plundered? Her head reeled with all the possibilities. Becoming rich had been the easy part. The hard part, she now realized, was keeping the riches secure.

Returning to Saianha would be the simplest solution. In her own waters she might fare better, but then, what should she do with the plunder they'd already stored? She couldn't have two bases of operation, and yet . . .

Her head started to pound. If her crew became aware of her indecision, they might decide to take matters into their own hands. What captain would sail blindly with no destination in mind? She had to come up with something before she went on deck. She bent over the maps again.

Amalie could barely keep her eyes focused when, an eternity later, she sat back with a satisfied sigh. After hours of painstaking scrutiny, the oldest of the maps had yielded the perfect sanctuary: a deep cove at the end of the River of Death. There was something in her father's journal about the deadly river, something to do with the real Sea Siren. Volcanoes and rocks . . . “the only explanation,” he'd written in his cramped hand. But explanation of what? According to the chart in front of her, the mouth of the river had been closed off when twin volcanoes had erupted years before.

Amalie massaged her throbbing temples before she returned to the maps. Bits and pieces of her father's journal flashed before her, committed to memory. Of course! “The only explanation” meant the Sea Siren had sailed her ship up the River of Death, and that was how she'd outwitted all who'd been determined to capture her. Amalie felt giddy with the realization. How else could the female renegade disappear at will? If the mouth of the river was blocked at some point, surely over the years the elements had created another opening.

Her best calculations, allowing for a stint of heavy weather, placed her approximately seven days away from the river. She'd give the order to change course and head directly for it; with luck, the tides and currents over the years had rendered it passable. She could only pray that she wasn't making a mistake.

Amalie felt almost invincible as she strode up and out to the deck. How wonderful the balmy air felt, how clean and fresh! The throbbing in her temples eased with each long-legged stride. She had accomplished a feat the equal of any the Sea Siren had performed. And she'd become a woman in the true sense of the word. This strange, intoxicating elation had to be . . . happiness. It was unlike anything she'd ever felt before.

Hours later she was still on deck, her perch on a pile of rigging secure. Overhead, millions of tiny stars winked down at her while dark clouds, as soft as gossamer, sailed across the sky like graceful dancers. She'd lost all track of time and knew only that it was the dead of the night. She should have been sleepy, but she wasn't.

“I thought I'd find you here,” Cato said softly. “You should be asleep.” He reached out to caress her hair, and Amalie shivered beneath his touch.

“I don't want to sleep for fear I'll miss something,” she said. “If I had my way, I'd never sleep. It's such a waste of time. We live only once, and every hour, every minute, should be savored. Sleep robs us of those precious hours and minutes.”

Cato pondered her words. “In these hours, nothing of importance happens. Darkness is a time for . . . many things.”

Amalie laughed throatily, the sound tinkling seductively across the rippling water. “One night we'll make love here on the deck under the stars. Would you like that?” He nodded. Amalie knew that even now he was consumed with passion for her. All she had to do was crook her finger and . . .

“There's a time and a place for everything, Cato,” she said, smiling, touching his cheek. “Soon. . . . ”

A bank of dark clouds scudded across the moon, blotting out the winking stars. “You see, if we were below decks, we would miss this blessed darkness,” she murmured, gazing up at the heavens. “It's as though someone tossed a coverlet across the sky, bathing us in this dark velvet. Now we have only scent and feeling. The smoke pots are low. Once they're extinguished the blackness will be complete.” She looked at him. “Does that frighten you?”

“No. Does it frighten you?” Cato asked curiously.

“Somewhat. If a ship were to come upon us, how would we see and retaliate? We would have to rely on our senses of smell and touch. A little difficult if one is to do battle, do you agree?”

Cato shrugged. “Unlikely.”

“The moment we make a safe harbor, I want the galleon's weapons transferred to this frigate. It was foolish of me even to think of sailing this ship without cannon, but I did it, and it's not a mistake I want to repeat. Two expert gunners are all we need, providing they have excellent eyesight.” Amalie could feel Cato's shudder.

“If I'm to die, I'd rather die at a man's hands,” he said stoutly. “A man whose face I can see.” His tone softened then. “If you wanted this frigate outfitted with cannon, it should have been done in port. It's going to be an awesome task, and there's going to be a war among the crew. Give some thought to unloading the ivory from the brigantine and sailing her. It will be a simple matter to paint the ship black if that's your intention.”

“No,” Amalie said harshly. “This is my ship. The
Sea Siren
belongs to me. It wouldn't be the same; I must sail
this
ship. At one time it carried its own cannon, but those bastards in town made off with them, thinking this ship would never be seaworthy again. It can be done, but until then I think we should sail only under cover of darkness. We have three ships to worry about now as well as our own, and we're short handed. We're ripe for the picking if another pirate ship accosts us. I have no intention of giving up what I have, Cato. I want you to apprise the crew of this. If there's any dissension, let me know.”

The last of the oil in the smoke pot sputtered out, bathing the deck in total darkness. For a moment all was silent, and then suddenly Cato whirled about, his words hissing in the quiet moonlit night. It took a moment for Amalie to realize that he was talking to one of her men. A strange sail had been sighted three leagues westward, said the crewman, flying two colors, Dutch and Spanish.

The words whipped from Amalie's mouth. “Do we assume she's armed? How high does she ride? Cargo?”

“I recognize her,” the seaman reported. “She's the backbone of the Dutch East India Company and is deployed to convoy cargo vessels and to fight off pirates. She's three-masted and carries square rigging. It's doubtful she's carrying cargo, she rides too high.”

Amalie peered about her in the darkness, seeing nothing. The night could work for her or against her, since the same darkness cloaked the unknown ship to the west. Her mind raced, and for the first time she felt unsure of her course. “Has she spotted us?”

“Aye, but she probably thinks we're from her own company since her true colors still fly. The night is too dark for her to see us clearly.”

“Can we overtake her?”

“Aye, if we change course and leave the other ships behind,” the seaman said. “But then we have no cannon.”

Attack or not attack? Perspiration dotted Amalie's brow. “Conditions are not . . . appropriate for an attack,” she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “We'll stay on course.”

“There are weapons aboard the brigantines,” the seaman said boldly. “We can be aboard in minutes.”

“To what end?” Amalie snarled. “A ship with an empty hold will do us no good. We have to find a safe harbor for the three ships we have now. A fourth, if we're lucky enough to snare her, will only compound our problem. She's no good to us. Pass the word, we stay true on our course.”

“What if she attacks us?” Cato asked quietly.

“That's a different matter. If it happens, we'll deal—”

A volley of thunder ripped through the black night, drowning out Amalie's words and putting an abrupt end to her hopes of sailing on unseen. “All hands on deck!” she shouted as pungent black smoke whirled upward from the galleon. “She's been hit broadside. All hands to the brigantine. Over the side.
Quickly!”
A second volley of shots rocketed through the night and then a third, none of them finding their target.

The frigate was alongside the brigantine in minutes. Amalie leapt aboard, shouting orders to fire on the three-masted ship. “Shred her sails! Rupture her bow! Splinter her stern! I want that ship gutted and sunk! Move fast, men! The fool fires on his own ships!” She pointed to several scurrying seamen. “You, you, and you, shore up this ship—and be quick, or that beautiful ivory will sink to the bottom of the sea, where it will do us no good.”

 

“You fire like women with babies on their hips!” Luis Domingo shouted above the cannon shots. “Do I have to come down there and show you how to do it? Open your eyes and fire on the target. Shot that goes to the bottom of the sea does us no good.” Roaring with rage, his face white as sheeting, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a pair of beautiful long legs leap gracefully from the bow of the brigantine and land just inches from where he was standing. The Sea Siren!

“Enough!” she cried. “Give quarter or we sink this ship with all your men aboard! Think fast, señor, you have only seconds!”

“Never!”

“Never is a very long time. Never could very well be your eternity. I'll ask you again—give quarter.”

“I said never!” Luis snarled. “I'll kill you before I yield. First you robbed my cargo with your cutthroats, then you had the gall to accost me a second time and tell me that it wasn't you at all but an impostor pillaging and plundering in your name.” He took a step forward and spat in front of her, eyes murderous. “Liar! Sea slut!”

What was he talking about?
For the briefest of seconds Amalie's blood ran cold and she wavered. “I—I had no intention of attacking your ship, señor. You fired first. As for your cargo, if you aren't man enough to defend what is yours, you deserve to be bested. Now fight like a man or go over the side! I gave you your chance and you ignored it.”

Amalie's cutlass lashed upward and then down quicker than the volley of shots ripping through the night. She feinted to the right, the tip of her blade slicing through the air. Suddenly a jolt of pain ripped up her arm into her shoulder as the Spaniard's cutlass met her own. She sidestepped neatly, drawing the blade down the length of his leg. Taken by surprise with the force of her strength, Luis staggered backward. Amalie seized the advantage and brought up the cutlass, using both hands to hack at the weapon in her opponent's hand. Recovering quickly, he jabbed at her midsection, but she stepped aside nimbly, her weapon arching upward. She feinted to the right and then the left, lashing out in every direction, hoping to make contact in the darkness. Again steel met steel, but this time she felt herself being driven backward, farther, farther, until she was forced against the ship's railing.

“Now it is
you
who will give quarter,” Luis growled, drawing his cutlass against hers and pressing the weight of both to her heaving breasts.

“You speckled-shirted dog, I'll never give you quarter!” Amalie gasped, and brought up her knee with all the force she could muster to trounce the Spaniard in the groin. He reeled backward, doubling over with pain. Amalie held the cutlass high overhead, about to bring it down on Luis's neck, when Cato appeared next to her.

“There's no need,” he cried, staying her arm. “You've won. His crew and yours know you are the victor. They've all been disarmed; you'll have no further trouble with them. We can be on our way unmolested—why not let them keep their captain?”

Luis snorted at Cato's report. “Why don't you have those goddamn black birds finish me off if you don't have the guts to do it yourself,” he hissed.

Amalie paused, caught between Cato's declaration of victory and the Spaniard's puzzling words.
What black birds?
Suddenly she felt his hand on her arm, the fingers running up and down the heavy welt of the scar on her arm.

“Lying slut!” he roared. “If my life depended on what you call the truth, I wouldn't believe you. A fine tale it was! Send in your killing birds and be damned!”

Amalie lowered her cutlass, exasperated. “I don't know what you're talking about, señor. I don't want you and I don't want this ship. You fired on me. Ask yourself why I would attack a ship with an empty hold.”

“I'd rather ask why you travel with a Dutch and Spanish escort,” Luis countered. “Those ships belong to the Dutch East India Company. What are you doing with them?”

“I might ask you a question, señor,” she said, ignoring his demand. “Why would you fire on your own ships? You ride these waters looking for me, and yet it's your own company's ships you shot at, not mine. Are you that poor a shot, or is it that you're afraid to fire on me directly since I scuttled the
Silver Lady?”
She laughed with the triumph of a conviction, then backed away from him until she'd reached the bow of the ship. “I have no more time to converse with you further, señor. Be sure it's a pretty tale you spin when you return to Batavia, and be sure to spell my name correctly on the wanted posters.”