Captive Secrets (9 page)

Amalie's yellow eyes calmed, and as she relaxed she gave the appearance of a sleepy cat. Her plan, as she thought of it, had many parts. The children were the first part; she needed them to work for her. The frigate was the second part of the plan, and securing a good crew was the third part. The last part of her plan, the grand finale, hinged on the first three parts.

Excitement coursed through Amalie. It would be dangerous, deadly even, but if she didn't make any mistakes, she was sure she could assume the identity of the woman her father called the Sea Siren. An able crew would help her plunder the seas. Riches beyond her dreams would be hers. Her father's kingdom would be restored. She would be a queen and the children her loyal subjects. It was a perfect plan. The only flaw—if it could be called a flaw—was that her kingdom wouldn't have a king. Perhaps a prince or two, but never a king.

Amalie chuckled deep in her throat and dug her toes into the soft dark earth. Father Renaldo had always said one must anticipate problems and work them out before they became major concerns. There would be problems. She had no wicked scar on her arm, for one thing. The pictures in back of her father's journal denoted a terrible scar that ran the length of the sea witch's arm. Yes, the scar was going to be a problem, but it could be dealt with if she was willing to endure pain and disfigurement.

But how would she explain her sudden wealth? The thought had been in the back of her mind for days now. Anticipate, anticipate . . .

Amalie bolted upward, her cat's eyes lighting with sudden inspiration. The justice had said he was sending a second letter to her father's superiors in Spain informing them of his decision. Months from now she could say her father's holdings in Cadiz and Seville had been transferred over to her. The yellow eyes gleamed. The only person who could dispute her was the justice, but he would have given over his post by then. And he was a very tired, very old man, looking forward to his retirement.

Her plan, Amalie decided, would have no flaws, none at all.

A long time later, when the slice of moon rode high in the heavens, Amalie stirred. It was cool now, with a light caressing breeze. Overhead, stars sprinkled the sky in the velvety night. The birds had been silent for hours, and not a sound crept to her ears. It was time.

She walked on callused feet to the wagon, betraying her uncertainty as she roused the girls and asked, “How do we do this? Should we walk through town or . . . ?”

One of the girls giggled and said, “No self-respecting lady walks about after dark unless she's escorted by a man. Christabel's place is past the harbor. I know another way to get there, but it is longer.”

“Show me the way,” Amalie ordered, relieved. She wanted no encounters with any of the townspeople.

In the following hours, Amalie made many promises. Some she would keep; others were mere words. There was no honor in what she was planning, and the only reason she knew she would keep some of the pledges was to stay alive herself.

Shortly before dawn she issued her last order to a swarthy seaman with a stubble of beard and a nose that had been broken in too many places to count. “One month from today you will sail my ship to the cove at Saianha. Once the ship is berthed there, you will live aboard until I am ready to set sail. You will have a home with me for as long as you need one, providing you do not betray me or cross me in any way. You will be well paid, and you will be richer than you ever dreamed. I demand only one thing of you, and that is loyalty. Do you agree to my terms?”

The seaman looked Amalie over from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. His eyes strayed to the little girls, all of whom he'd had over the past months. Mellow now with rum in his gut and his loins sated, he nodded agreeably, but his eyes were those of a shark in open water.

“Aye, one month from today I will be in Saianha,” he replied.

Amalie watched as he stumbled down the road to town. She nodded to the girls. “It seems I have the scurviest, deadliest crew imaginable. For the right price one can get
anything.”

“Cutthroats,” one of the girls whispered.

“Devils,” said the second little girl.

“Vermin,” said the third.

“Yes, all those things, but they will make us rich. They are men—stupid creatures who understand greed because money can buy them women and rum. But they don't think beyond that. I, on the other hand, am a woman, and there are no limits to what a woman can do, especially one who understands her adversaries.”

Amalie's plan was under way.

That morning, Amalie's business with the harbormaster was completed in less than an hour, and she was on her way back to the mission by nine o'clock, a satisfied smile on her face. The smile lasted for several hours—until she and the girls discovered Father Renaldo's body alongside the road. Amalie leapt from the wagon and cried real tears . . . of relief.

The trees overhead were silent in the soft, warm breeze, an indication that Pilar was calm . . . for the moment. Jet eyes watched, their field of vision almost limitless as her young sailed up and then down, testing their newfound freedom.

Pilar's killing talons were tucked beneath her long, fluffy belly feathers and had been in that position for some time. Slowly, calmly, she ruffled her feathers, taking on the appearance of a dry pine cone, and then shook them free a second later. Shiny emerald leaves moved in the dry breeze as the huge bird was transformed suddenly into something swift and deadly. The houseboy standing under the tree dropped the pail of raw meat and ran as fast as his bare feet would carry him. Safely inside, he peered through the breakfast room windows, his eyes searching fearfully for Gaspar.

The hawks were his responsibility, the housekeeper had told him, and he had given his word to the van der Rhys that he would care for the winged devils until they were ready to move on. He hated and feared them and their deadly sounds.

The evil-looking male, Gaspar, had been gone for almost two days, something that had happened twice before since Miss Fury's departure. The female was not her usual calm self. “Devil birds,” he spat out, and blessed himself before returning to his other duties.

Outside, the branches of the chestnut tree dipped and swayed as Sato and Lago frantically sought purchase with their talons. Satisfied that her offspring were secure, Pilar soared to the ground, her talons digging into the wooden pail. She waited, wings tucked close against her chest, for her young to descend. The moment they left their perch she sailed upward. She watched as the young ate their fill and then returned to their perch beneath Pilar to wait for Gaspar.

The huge hawk returned as the sun was setting. Pilar fanned her wing and lowered it delicately over his tired body. He slept, his shiny eyes at rest, with Pilar next to him.

Six weeks to the day of Fury's departure, Sato and Lago were able to fend for themselves. Their glittering eyes watched as Gaspar and Pilar emptied the basket in the chestnut tree.

Gaspar ruffled his feathers before he soared straight up, Pilar in his wake. They circled overhead several times before they started their journey.

“Kukukukuku.” Good-byegood-byegood-byegood-bye. For one startling second Pilar faltered, her huge wings dipping in the soft breeze. Then Gaspar tapped her wings with his own, his signal not to look back.

Their journey was just beginning.

 

Ronrico Diaz, the captain of the
Java Queen,
was a religious man, and he found himself looking forward to the late afternoons when Fury would walk about the deck and talk with him about her beliefs and her decision to enter the convent. He himself had two daughters who were nuns and one son who was a priest, and he constantly spoke of his family. Every night he prayed for this girl because he wasn't sure she was ready for God. So many rosaries, so many prayers tumbling from her lips, so many questions in her eyes.

“Miss Fury, do you think you will recognize Java once we dock? It's been many years since you were there,” he said gruffly.

“I think so. I was ten when we left, and my parents talked about Java constantly so that I would remember. I'm looking forward to seeing my old home again. You seem pensive this afternoon, Captain Diaz. Is something troubling you?”

“Yes and no. We're due for some bad weather shortly, I can feel it in my bones, and we sail with an empty hold. Cargo makes it easier to ride out a storm.”

“I have every faith in you and the crew. And to add to that faith, I will say some extra prayers. I thought . . . what I mean to say is, I was concerned that you might be worried about pirates. We're approaching dangerous waters, are we not?”

He patted her arm. “The
Java Queen
is a fortress, your father saw to that. There's no need for you to worry about pirates. They won't waste time attacking a ship that carries no cargo. In ten weeks you'll be safe and sound in your old home. I made that promise to your parents.”

“God sees to our safety, Captain Diaz. I myself have no fear. Long ago I placed my hand in His, and He will protect me, and you, and this crew. But I must admit I'm so bored, I would almost relish some excitement,” she blurted out.

“What kind of excitement?” the captain asked uneasily, wishing Regan van der Rhys had allowed him to take on at least a few passengers. But the governor had been adamant about the empty hold and not taking on passengers.

“Anything!” Fury cried. “Captain, do you think the men would allow me to join in some of their games, the ones they play with cards and dice?”

“Your father would have me drawn and quartered!” the captain exploded.

“My father isn't here. And I don't see what harm it can do. Not every day, of course, just once in a while,” she coaxed.

“They're a motley crew, and they swear and cheat,” the captain told her. “And they play for money. It's no place for a woman promised to God.”

“Would they swear and cheat with a woman promised to God? I think not. And I have money to play with. I see no problem, Captain.”

“They drink and tell bawdy stories,” the captain said desperately.

“Captain Diaz, I was not raised in cotton bunting. I grew up with four brothers who were all hellions. I've heard all the bawdy stories. I'm an adult, Captain, and just because I'm entering a convent doesn't mean I don't know what goes on in the world.” To drive her point home, she added, “Don't forget how my father took us all to sea every year. He told me I needed a well-rounded education. I even know how to swear, what do you think of that?”

“I think it's a sin,” Captain Diaz groaned.

“We're all sinners in one way or another. Captain, I wish to play,” she said firmly. “And tomorrow I would like to take the wheel for a little while if you have no objection.”

The captain had plenty of objections, but he wasn't about to voice them now. “I'll speak to the men. If they say nay, there isn't much I can do about it. If they agree, then you . . . may participate. Now, isn't it time for your evening prayers?” he asked sourly.

“So it is. I'll pray that you tell me during the evening meal that it's agreeable. Adios, Captain.” Fury laughed all the way to her cabin.

Alone in her cabin, Fury realized she was more than just bored: she was lonely. She'd been at sea for a little over six weeks and still had ten more weeks to go before she set foot on dry land. Her rosary, always a source of comfort, found its way to her hand. She fingered the beads, but she didn't pray. The holy ritual did not comfort her; she felt angry and didn't know why. She made a tight fist of the prayer beads before she placed them under her pillow to gaze around her with somber eyes.

Her quarters were rough yet comfortable, with a few of her more treasured possessions scattered about. The cubicle was small, but she knew her room at the convent would be smaller still. She would have a candle, a pallet to sleep on, her prayer beads, and possibly a prayer stool.

In a way, Fury thought morosely, this long sea journey was to prepare her for her lonely life. The first day she'd rejoiced to be truly alone with God and her prayers. After several hours of repeating them, she'd tired of prayers, and her thoughts had strayed to her parents and her beloved brothers, to Gaspar and Pilar . . . and to Luis Domingo. She'd daydreamed of excitement and adventure and indulged in one satisfying reverie after another. The first time it happened she had wanted to pray, needed to pray, but the familiar, comforting words wouldn't come. And today she'd spent four hours on her knees willing the prayers to pass her lips, but to no avail.

“This is what I want,” Fury whispered fiercely. “It's what I prayed for all my life, and now that it's almost in my grasp, it's slipping away from me—and it's my own fault. My thoughts are no longer pure. I've become selfish in my boredom.” The realization that she'd cajoled the captain into helping her relieve her boredom sent scorching color to her cheeks.

“What kind of person does that make me?” she asked herself, mortified. Her conscience answered:
Human, normal . . . mortal.
“Yes, but my life has been promised to God,” she protested. “I want everything. I don't want rules and taboos. I want ... I want. It's that simple.”

Fury stretched out on her bunk, hands reaching beneath the pillow for her prayer beads. They were her lifeline to God, a now tenuous bond that was slowly being severed by ... herself. She wept tears of anger and humiliation that the life she'd planned so carefully was eluding her through self-indulgence and cant. At last, exhausted by her inner struggle, she slept.

 

Up on deck, the captain—an honorable man, for the most part—was attempting to persuade his crew to Fury's request. “It is a small favor I'm asking of you. Think of the girl and not yourselves for a change. What harm will it do to give up your grog for an hour or two? What harm is there in letting her win once or twice? And, it wouldn't hurt you to spruce up a little for the lady,” he added meaningfully. “Now, I'm not asking you, I'm ordering you to do me this
one
favor!”

Tobias, the first mate, grinned crookedly at Diaz. “No need to shout, Cap'n. The men will act accordingly. When she loses all her money, the jig's up. She can't play without it—those are the rules. It'll be fair and square, Cap'n, you have my word.”

The captain gave his first mate a gruff smile. To his surprise, he found he was looking forward to the confrontation between his salty crew of sea dogs and the little lady of God. It would do the scurvy lot good to act like gentlemen for a little while. And he seemed to recall Regan van der Rhys telling him that his daughter was a fair hand with the dice and the cards. “A female gambling shark” he'd called her.

The laughter rumbling in the captain's belly as he strode away made the back of Tobias's neck prickle. He stared after the old sea goat with suspicious eyes.

When Fury woke an hour later she was drenched with perspiration. She brushed at the fluffy tendrils of hair that clung to her cheeks and knew a quick wash and powder were in order before she dined with the captain in his quarters.

Normally, after a nap, she would rise and then drop to her knees and pray. Now she squeezed her eyes shut and willed a prayer to her lips.

Hail Holy Queen
. . .
Merciful Father, I implore you
... What was
wrong
with her? Where was her God? Why wasn't He there to comfort her?

“You're testing me!” she cried, anguished. “And I'm failing miserably. I can't remember my prayers, my knees are sore, and my thoughts are far from pure. I'm contemplating a diversion to drive away my boredom. Why are You letting me do this? I don't understand!”

In desperation she dropped to her knees and reached for the wooden cross on her pillow. “Oh, my God, I am heartily sorry . . .”

For what?
a niggling voice inquired.

“For failing my God,” Fury murmured, weeping.

You cannot fail God unless He allows it,
the tiny voice responded.
Perhaps He isn't ready for you yet.

Fury shook her head. “I must be stronger. I know that. And I try to be . . . but it's the dreams, the terrible, sinful dreams. I cannot make them go away. I have no control over them!”

Your secret desires,
the voice tormented her.
Women of God hold no secret desires. In your heart you aren't ready to embrace God.

“No!
No, that's not true! I love God more than life itself.” But no matter how hard she tried, Fury could not deny the words. She
was
having sinful dreams, and she
was
dwelling on them, trying to decipher them, willing them in her mind to mean nothing.

Defeated by the knowledge of her own unworthiness, she rose from the bed to splash cold water over her face and rub her fiery cheeks with a towel. When she'd changed her dress and run a brush through her hair, she again sat down on the bed, reaching automatically for her crucifix. As her fingers caressed the figure on the cross, her eyes filled with tears. This wasn't supposed to happen. She was supposed to be happy, and she was more miserable than she'd ever been in her life.

The dreams were part of it—dreams of Luis Domingo and the hawks. Dreams could be explained away, even squelched if one had enough willpower. But the picture flashes she experienced when she was calm, her mind at peace—those truly bothered her.

Premonitions? Daydreams? Her head felt like a beehive, all jumbled sound and mindless fury. She had to think, and she had to think
now
about what she'd seen before she drifted into sleep . . . Gaspar and Pilar flying in a tight formation to reach her, their eyes seeking out the
Java Queen.
She shivered in the warm cabin. They were searching for her now, pursuing the ship. Soon she would know if these pictures were real or the devil's work.

The devil's work
. . . She rubbed her knuckles against her eyes. That's why she couldn't remember her prayers: she'd allowed the devil inside her mind, and now she was no longer holy.

“Begone, Satan!” she shouted. “I renounce you in the name of Jesus Christ!” She waited, holding her breath, for the imagined holocaust.

The supper bell rang. Shoulders slumping, Fury slammed the door behind her as she fled, heart pounding, up the ladder to the captain's quarters. One picture pursued her as she ran—that of Luis Domingo wrapping his strong arms about her naked body. Shuddering, squeezing her eyes tight against the image, she careened into the captain's quarters, flustered and breathless, an apology on her lips for her unladylike behavior.