Captive Secrets (3 page)

They'd given her everything, these wonderful parents, big strapping brothers to love, a fine education, their love, this beautiful casa to live in . . . everything parents gave a child, and now she was casting it all aside.

Sirena gazed warmly into Regan's eyes. “She's right, darling, today is not the day to vent our hostilities.” She rose to embrace her husband.

Watching them, Fury smiled. Now she knew
exactly
what her parents would be doing later instead of fighting.

“I think that I will check on the progress in the ballroom,” she drawled. “Guests should be arriving in a few hours. I want to make sure there are enough fresh flowers.” Sirena winked roguishly at her daughter as she and her husband glided from the room.

As Fury walked through the halls, she thought about her parents and their wonderful life. They loved passionately, quarreled just as passionately, and nothing would ever separate them. They lived and loved for each other. She thought it miraculous the way their love had survived all these years. “There are other kinds of love,” she muttered to herself as she picked a wilted leaf from a flower arrangement. Love
had
to be more than just physical—passion-bruised lips, sweaty bodies, touching and caressing . . . When she was fifteen her mother had tried to explain about that side of it, but she'd felt too much shame to listen.
That
had been a mistake. She should have tried to understand instead of harboring such wicked imaginings. Right now, this very second, her parents were probably . . . touching, feeling, kissing . . . Swallowing hard, she ran down the corridor like a wild boy past her parents' bedroom. Face flaming, she made her way to the pond in the garden, where she dropped to her knees and splashed cool water on her burning cheeks.

The air around her churned as Gaspar and Pilar, their huge wings creating an umbrella over her, finally settled on her shoulders. Fury sighed. “You always know when something is troubling me, don't you, Gaspar? Pilar, you get back to those babies right now, do you hear me? I'm fine. Gaspar, make her go back, the babies might tumble from the nest.”

Gaspar daintily moved on her shoulder until one large wing nudged Pilar. Pilar tucked her head down and pecked Fury's cheek before she took wing.

“You have to be stern with her, Gaspar, she's a mother now. You must make sure nothing happens to the little ones. It's your responsibility to care for them until they can fly themselves. Look at me. Tomorrow I leave this nest and head for Java. It's time for me to leave and be on my own, to find my destiny. It's been so wonderful, but all things must come to an end. Come here, Gaspar, I need to hold you, to feel the beat of your heart, to know I'm the one who has saved you so that you could find Pilar and . . . and . . . make . . . babies like Sato and Lago. It's natural that this should happen for you, for others, but not for me. I promised myself to God, so these worldly emotions are not for me. You can go now,” Fury cooed. “Go ahead, I'm fine now. Pilar will peck your eyes out if you don't behave yourself.”

“Haw!” the huge bird squawked. Fury laughed as Gaspar flew toward the trees. “Haw!” his mate answered. Everyone, even the birds, had someone.

 

Fury flirted with her image in the mirror, twirling this way and that way to assess the effects of the costly gown on her lithe figure. Miss Antonia was to be congratulated: with this particular dress, the seamstress had achieved perfection. Her mother had chosen the design, but she had picked the color, a deep azure blue that complemented her indigo eyes and honey coloring. She loved the deep cleavage and the way the dress fell away from her tiny waist in deep swirls. Miniature seed pearls and sparkling gemstones were randomly sewn over the gown and along the length of the hem and sleeves, winking and shimmering every time she moved. Her mother would be delighted.

She'd dressed her own hair, piling it high on top of her head with ebony ringlets curling and feathering about her ears and neck. A veritable waterfall of diamonds graced her ears and slender throat. She would be the belle of this particular ball—her parting gift to her mother and father. They expected her to enjoy herself, to dance with all the eligible gentlemen and to flirt shamelessly. And she would; it wasn't too much to ask, and she was more than willing to create one last memory for her parents.

She was ready with minutes to spare, enough time to add just a smidgin of color to her lips and cheeks. Next she eyed the sparkling diamond garter her mother had given her when she was seventeen. It was decadently wicked, but as long as she was going through all the motions, she might as well put it on.

She braced one long, tawny leg on the dressing table bench and secured the garter a few inches above her knee. It fit as perfectly as it had the day of her seventeenth birthday. Cheeks awash with color, she walked to the mirror, skirts in hand, and stared at the precious gems adorning her thigh and felt a rush of heat through her body. She turned from the mirror in time to see Gaspar land daintily on the window ledge, his talons securing his position. “Haw.”

“My sentiments exactly,” Fury said, quietly letting her skirts drop. “I don't like the way this makes me feel, Gaspar. It . . . it makes me feel . . . so . . . sinful.

“I can't wear this,” she muttered. “I don't know what Mother was thinking of when she gave it to me.” In a frenzy she released the catch of the garter and threw it on the bed, where it shimmered like a snakeskin. Her color still high, she ran to the basin of water on her nightstand to wash her hands.

“Lord, forgive my sinful thoughts. I'm trying to do . . . to act . . . I'll never think such thoughts again,” she gasped.

 

“Gaspar, Gaspar,” she said, an hour later tripping over to the huge bird. “You've never seen me looking like this, have you? At first I felt rather silly, as though I were dressing up in Mother's clothes, but now . . . I rather like the way I look. It's just for this one night,” she said, stroking the bird's velvety feathers.

His perch secure, the bird dipped its head and pecked at the dangling diamonds in her ear. Fury smiled. “I saw your babies fly. You should have warned me somehow, Gaspar. They were wobbly, but Pilar was right behind them. It was wonderful. Tomorrow they will fly farther and the day after still farther. The basket was a good idea, one of my better ones,” Fury cooed to the hawk. “They all told me Pilar wouldn't make her nest in it because I touched it, but I knew better because you carried it to the trees for her. I feel like crying, Gaspar, and I don't know why. I'm going to miss you and this house and everyone. Part of me doesn't want to leave, that little part of me I'm selfishly withholding from God. That small part that is me, Furana. I want to give entirely of myself, but—” One large wing fluttered and opened to spread over Fury's dark head. For a moment she allowed herself to lean against the bird's hard chest. “Don't forget about me, Gaspar,” she choked. “I must go now. I'm going to be late.”

The hawk's eyes never left the girl until the door closed behind her. “Haw, haw, haw!” he screeched. An answering sound echoed down from the basket perched high in the breadfruit tree. The bird's talons dug deep into the chair back as his huge wings lifted outward. He swooped about the room, heading straight for Fury's bed. His talons dug into the coverlet until his grasp on the diamond garter was secure. His surge through the open window was swift and sure as he soared upward to his mate. “Haw, haw!”

 

“My God, Regan, she's a vision of beauty,” Sirena whispered as Fury entered the ballroom.

Speechless, Regan stared at his daughter. She looked exactly like her mother. He wanted to say something, to compliment this child of his, but as always at moments like this, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Fury assumed her position in the receiving line, and the formality of her birthday ball began. She smiled charmingly, every inch her mother's daughter as she greeted the guests who'd come to wish her well. When the last guest sailed through the flowered archway, Regan raised his hand to the musicians, their signal to start the music. Instantly a handsome young man claimed Fury and whisked her onto the dance floor.

“She's more graceful when she fences, don't you think?” Regan observed to Sirena as he saw his daughter stumble over her partner's foot.

“She gets her clumsiness from you,” Sirena muttered. “We Spanish are light of foot, graceful, and demure.” Regan chuckled as his wife glided away to mingle with her guests.

“Sirena, my dear, however did you manage all this?” Dona Louisa asked as she waved her arms about the flower-decked ballroom.

Sirena smiled and squeezed her friend's arm. “With a great deal of patience, Louisa,” she said. “The flowers were brought in this afternoon from the greenhouses. I wanted to make sure they didn't wilt. Darling, you must try some of the rum punch we've laid out; it's a family recipe—Oh, there's Don Carlos. I must speak to him, Louisa. We'll talk more later, I promise.” With that, Sirena hurried off into the crowd.

She had to admit that the great ballroom did look like something out of a fairy tale, with the monstrous crystal chandeliers and matching sconces that winked and twinkled with the dancers' movements. The musicians were dressed in impeccable white with crimson cravats and cummerbunds that set off the scarlet blooms surrounding the dais where they strummed their guitars. They were playing a lovely ballad, and more couples swirled onto the dance floor in time to the music.

Sirena moved to the rear of the room to check the serving tables. Her practiced eye told her everything was in order. The Spanish lace that had been in her family for ages was pressed and draped to perfection on the long tables, and she knew the linen skirts under the fine lace held no wrinkles either. Satisfied that the dining room and buffet tables could not be improved upon, she turned and peered over the heads of a young couple ready to move onto the dance floor. Fury whirled by in the arms of a dashing young man who devoured her with the eyes of a puppy, warm and adoring.

Catching sight of her mother, Fury grimaced, either at her own clumsiness on the dance floor or at her partner's obvious devotion. Sirena winked at her daughter to show she understood perfectly and then lost sight of her as the crush of dancing couples swallowed them up. Suddenly, Sirena found herself blinking back tears, and she hurried away.

When Fury lost sight of her mother, she returned her attention to the engaging young man in her arms. Ramon was everything a girl could wish for—charming, well brought up, and classically handsome, with olive-toned skin and ink-black eyes. He was also sweating profusely, and at last Fury took pity on him. “It's beastly hot in here, Ramon, would you like a breath of air? I know I would.”

“Yes, yes, I would,” he replied eagerly, his heart beginning to pound as she linked her arm in his to lead him off the dance floor and through the wide double doors to the veranda. If only he could kiss her, hold her face in his hands and kiss her until . . . He stumbled, and Fury's tinkling laugh made him bolt for the open door.

“What is it, Ramon, do you feel faint?” Fury asked as she noticed the young man's trembling shoulders.

He hated Fury's sisterly tone. “No, it's just that I—I had this sudden urge to . . . kiss you in there,” he said, waving toward the ballroom. “You look so beautiful,
carida.
Everyone always said your mother was the most beautiful woman in Cadiz,” he blurted out, “but they're wrong, you are.”

Fury stepped backward, aware suddenly that the air about them was no longer still. Trees rustled overhead, a familiar sound. Gaspar was close, probably perched on the veranda roof observing her. She craned her neck to peer past the lanterns that were strung along the sloping roof.

“What is it?” Ramon asked, looking about uneasily.

“Nothing, why do you ask?” she replied, her eyes searching past the lantern light for some sign of the hawk. “You said you wanted to kiss me; well, here I am.” At twenty-one, Fury had yet to be kissed. Now she decided it was time. She moved closer to her young man, holding up her head, eyes closed, and puckering her lips in a classic pose of breathless anticipation.

Ramon swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing in excitement as he licked at his dry lips nervously. He reached out and grasped Fury's shoulders with both hands.

How long did it take to kiss someone? Fury wondered peevishly—and then a sudden rush of air in the warm evening startled her. She knew it was not Ramon.

Her eyes snapped open the next moment as she heard the sound of wings. Gaspar and Pilar swooped down from the veranda roof, and there was nothing playful about their descent. In the lantern light she could see the birds' glittering eyes as the tips of their huge wings bombarded Ramon, knocking him over the veranda railing. Fury knew instantly that the birds were merely warning the young man: their talons were curled; otherwise they would have ripped Ramon to shreds. But
he
knew nothing of the kind.

Forgetting herself, Fury hiked up her skirts and leapt over the railing. “No!” she shouted sternly. “Gaspar, no! Pilar, no! Now look what you've done!” She tried to stifle her laughter at Ramon's ungainly position in the oleander bush. “He's fainted. No doubt from fright.”

Gaspar circled overhead, his eyes intent on the figure on the ground. “He wasn't going to hurt me,” she called softly. “Kisses don't hurt. I . . . wanted to see what it felt like.”

Pilar's wings flapped twice before she headed back to her perch in the trees. Gaspar circled the couple several times, his wings flapping angrily before he headed back to the veranda roof.