Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (15 page)

I turned to Theodore. “I need to make Agnes my ward, and we want to provide for her in our wills.”

He nodded. “Before you sail again, I presume. Though if you intend to marry her off, she should begin attending the parties and balls before then.”

Agnes buried her face in her hands.

“That is not our intent,” I said with amusement. “Agnes is destined for better things than being some planter’s wife.”

Theodore frowned at me speculatively.

I shrugged.

He nodded and smiled. “I will keep that in mind.”

With a final bow to all, he began to leave, only to pause at the foyer doorway. “You do know where the tailor is, do you not?”

“It is a small town and I believe we can read the signage,” I assured him.

He left with a chuckle.

The Marquis was watching me with curiosity. When I met his gaze he glanced at Agnes. Dupree was at his elbow, and had likely translated all that he had heard.

I went to join them.

“Might I ask?” the Marquis began with a compressed smile. “Who is she? And…” He seemed to be carefully considering his next question.

“She is a very talented young lady we rescued from certain doom.

Her well-bred mother passed away and left the girl at her common stepfather’s command.”

“Ah,” he said with an appreciative nod. “Do you intend to marry her?”

“Possibly,” I said. I was still not sure how much I wished to reveal to him: but there was no denying any truth he could discover by simply asking anyone in town. “Though the matter is currently complicated by my being married.”

He regarded me with surprise.

“I am a Lord’s son,” I chided lightly. “My father sent a bride: a completely unsuitable woman. She is ever drunk and she engaged in an indiscreet affair when last I sailed. Now all on Jamaica, and possibly in England, know her as a drunkard and a whore, such that I must put her out even though I have no real interest in replacing her, even with a better example of ladylike decorum.”

“You are lucky to be English,” he said.

“Oui,” I sighed. “I can divorce her without a Papal Bull.”

He frowned for a time. “Is the girl of sufficient lineage to satisfy your father?”

I shrugged. “I think not, but if events progress in that direction, it will not matter.”

His gaze was quite compelling, and as I thought on it, I decided there was no harm in his knowing this either. “It is very likely I will never become the Earl of Dorshire.”

“Why?” he asked with more speculation than curiosity.

I sighed. “Because my father does not wish me to, and… I do not feel I shall ever return to England anyway.”

“Because you are a sodomite?” he asked quietly. Then he gave the little moue and sideways nod that he seemed so fond of, as he did it often. “Though, if sodomy were a proscription against inheriting, half our kings could not have accepted their crowns.”

I snorted. “My favoring men is but one reason of my father’s. Non, the real reason is that he has another man who he wishes to leave his title to, my second cousin, who he feels is far more suitable as an heir than I.” But the two matters were so much more complicated than that, and I could not foresee ever discussing that with this man.

The Marquis studied me. “But you married this woman anyway?”

That was a good question, one I wondered at with every passing month. “To appease him for a time. There are other matters at stake, or at least, there were.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “You said you do not think you will ever return to England?” With this he seemed more curious than speculative.

“Do you find this climate so very pleasant?”

I frowned. “Non, I cannot see how Gaston will ever do well in such civilization. We are happy here where we can avoid other men for long periods of time, or allow him to shower his anger against readily available enemies.”

This surprised him. He studied Gaston with a frown.

“Did you think he would return with you?” I asked.

“I do not know what I thought,” he said slowly.

He was lying: one of my fears upon reading his letter was correct; he had come here with the design of taking Gaston with him – thus the attempted abduction at the Chocolata Hole. Lead filled my belly.

He met my gaze and frowned at what he saw there. “I know I did not expect to find him so well… cared for.”

“He is well-guarded too,” I said quickly, guessing at his original choice of words.

He smiled apologetically, and held up a placating hand. “Having seen what I have now, I would not dream of attempting to take him from your side.”

“I hope not,” I said coldly. “For your sake. Gaston is my life. I have killed many men for things of far less value to me, including noblemen.”

His smile departed, and I saw the wolf in his eyes. “I would not have us be enemies.”

I spoke from my Horse. “Then do not cross me.”

His eyes narrowed with seeming bemusement. “You are correct: you are perhaps as mad as he, and certainly as temperamental.”

The words stung, and I left him and went to Gaston. “We should find the tailor’s,” I said, attempting to keep my tone light.

Gaston would have none of it; and he was on his feet, his gaze hard upon his father.

“I will explain outside,” I said quietly. Shame at my hasty anger already threatened to color my cheeks. “Please,” I hissed.

With a frown, he followed me out the door. The Marquis pretended not to watch us leave. I was thankful we were already armed with swords and a pistol apiece: I would have left the building without arms rather than stay long enough to fetch them from our room.

I acutely felt Vittese’s gaze upon us as we walked down the street.

“What did he say?” Gaston hissed when we were beyond the hearing of Vittese or his men.

“I do not know if he is incredibly cunning or whether I am a fool,” I growled.

Gaston’s hand closed about my arm, and I knew I had best stop or deliver Vittese the spectacle of seeing my matelot pulling me off my feet.

I turned to face Gaston.

“I feel he wished for you to return with him to France,” I said.

Gaston’s gaze hardened even more and he glanced angrily back at the house.

“Non,” I said. “I do not know if he still wishes that. He professes that he would not dream of separating us now,” I said sarcastically.

“But I do not know if we should trust him. And so I lost my temper and threatened him. And… He made me feel the fool for it, quite deftly.”

Gaston’s face contorted from anger to concern and then sympathy.

“What did he say?” he asked again.

So I told him all I could recall, and while I was not clear as to exactly what I had said concerning my wife or Agnes, the last words we exchanged were quite clear in my heart, and so I am sure I repeated them correctly.

“You are sure he was lying when he said he did not know what he expected?” Gaston asked thoughtfully.

“I felt it in my bones… but… perhaps…” I shook my head as melancholy rushed up to swamp me. “Perhaps it was my father talking, or rather me talking to my father. I just… I am sorry I am such a fool.

You need me to be…”

He grasped my jaw and pulled my gaze to his. “I need you to love me, and you prove it with every word you say or deed you do.”

The regard in his eyes choked any other refutation I could make. I nodded as much as his hand on my jaw would allow.

He released me. “You suspected this from the day we received the letter,” he said.

I nodded sadly. “But… He might not have been lying when he said he would not dream of it now.”

“He need not separate us to haul me off to France,” Gaston said angrily. “He only need haul you with me.”

I had not considered that. Gaston did not give me much time to consider it now. He pulled me back toward the house, and I went without protest though I knew not what he planned.

He found his father sitting and chatting – with the help of Dupree– with Agnes. The Marquis appeared surprised at our return, but the look he gave me was somewhat smug until Gaston spoke.

“Why did you come here?” Gaston asked.

“To make amends,” the Marquis protested and shook his head.

Gaston stood with his arms crossed and his feet wide: appearing as immovable as the day I first saw him.

The Marquis was not so daft as to think he could navigate around him. “I wished to make amends and find out how you were living, and insure that you were being cared for. I did not know if the letter I received could be believed, or if it was even written by your hand.”

“So you planned to make amends by taking me back to France by force?” Gaston demanded.

His father sighed and smiled grimly. “I did not think you would wish to see me, and I wished to meet with you to gauge your…”

“Sanity? Competence?” Gaston snapped. “While I was bound at your feet, or bludgeoned senseless by Vittese’s men, or perhaps in a cage?”

“I had hoped it would not be like that, though we did prepare accordingly in case it was,” the Marquis said sadly, with more grim amusement.

“You are no different than Doucette,” Gaston spat. “Leave; you have said your peace. I hope God lets you sleep well now that you have confessed your sins.”

The Marquis appeared stricken. “Non, non. You misunderstand…»

“I understand that you see me as incompetent and insane,” Gaston growled. “I will never return to France. I cannot. You have named me such and made me less than human there. I will not spend my life locked in a cage so that you can feel you care for me or make amends with God or my mother’s ghost.”

His father shook his head. “You are…” He turned beseeching eyes to me. “Can you calm him?”

“Non! He is not mad at the moment,” I scoffed. “He is angry, and with good cause.”

Gaston was more than angry, though, he was furious; and I could see he was teetering on the precipice of allowing his Horse to run wild. I felt the Marquis deserved whatever came of it, but I knew I would serve Gaston poorly in allowing it.

I grasped Gaston’s arm. “Let us go.”

He shook me off, but he turned and walked away.

“Will?” Striker queried.

Pete stood beside him. Sarah stood in the doorway of a room to the left of the foyer – a room from which the wolves must have just emerged.

Their proximity was such that I knew they must have heard all that was said, though only Sarah had understood it. She was regarding me with alarm.

I thought of the havoc that would be caused and the people possibly harmed if the Marquis did try to abduct us. We did not know how many men he had. We did not know anything. We had simply assumed he was a gentleman. The Marquis was a wolf, and we had been fools to trust him.The image of Gaston beaten and bound filled my head such that I could see little else. The last time I had envisioned such horror with such clarity had been in the church at Puerto Principe. I had run, dragging Gaston with me, his madness thundering at our heels, and… it had been my madness, not his.

I took a deep breath and was surprised at how ragged it was.

Striker’s gaze was darting between the front door, which Gaston had just walked out, and me. Neither Pete nor he were going in pursuit of Gaston. They seemed far more concerned at my condition.

I had to go with Gaston. I needed Gaston. I was not well.

I went to Sarah and whispered, “I cannot make this decision. He is our father in my eyes and I am not able to… think clearly on the matter.

Gaston cannot either. I fear he… the Marquis, not Gaston, will…”

“I heard,” she said quickly, her face compassionate. “All of it. We will speak with him, and…” She shook her head. “You go. It is all right.”

I ran into the street and collided with Gaston. He was still wild, but not so wild he did not sense my duress.

“Let us run,” I said.

We ran. I thought we should go to the Palisadoes and run until our Horses calmed.

And then we realized Vittese and his men were pursuing us.

As we darted into an alley, I turned and fired. My ball narrowly missed the tall man. Perhaps I do possess better aim when startled, as opposed to mad.

My miss slowed the tall man down, though; but it made him extol his men to run faster. Gaston led us through alleys, and even buildings, at a pace that left me capable of little other than attempting to stay with him.

When at last we slowed as we neared Fort Rupert and the gate to the Palisadoes, I was dismayed to see that Vittese had been smart enough to send men ahead of us. Gaston was unfazed, though. He snatched my empty pistol and tossed it, along with his own, to a cluster of buccaneers who had just entered the gate, and implored them to drop them at the gunsmith’s. Then he led me into the water. The men pursuing us could not swim, apparently, and they had not been told they might shoot us either. So there was little they could do but yell imprecations from the shore.

I stopped and turned – well out of musket range – and awarded Vittese my middle finger. There was a great deal of laughter from the buccaneers who had witnessed the chase. Our enemy did not see the gesture, though, as his men and he were now surrounded by the militia and the Brethren.

“We will kill him later,” Gaston growled, and began to swim parallel to the shore.

I began to follow, and then wondered how I had managed to come as far as I had into the water, even with the threat of pursuit. My boots seemed to weigh as much as the damn steer they comprised the hide of.

They surely held a barrel of water. I took a deep breath and, with much struggling beneath the surface, managed to get one foot and then the other free of the damn things. They promptly sank.

Gaston had thankfully discerned what I was about and waited for me. He was, of course, not hampered by the leather wrapped close about his calves.

We began to swim east along the Palisadoes again, angling a little closer to shore, but as there were still men to be seen, and Gaston wished to avoid them, we stayed in the deeper water well beyond the surf.

After more than a hundred yards, I could take no more. My chest felt tight, and a weariness that should have come after far more exertion had settled into my limbs.