Captive Secrets (16 page)

She tested the hard bunk, then sat back with an uneasy sigh. Everything she'd planned was about to happen. What if the men aboard Domingo's ship put up a fight and she lost her crew? What if the Spaniard captured her and turned her over to the authorities? Her resolve hardened as she recalled the anticipation on the faces of her men. None of them had any intention of backing down or putting up a weak fight. If need be, it would be a bloody battle with no quarter given, of that much she was certain.

Amalie drew in her breath as she buttoned the stark white blouse. She was nervous, unsure of herself, and she didn't like it at all. Even the sight of the rapier didn't comfort her, and the cutlass only made her wince. With her injured arm there was no way she could hold it, much less wield it. She could, however, attach the cutlass to the belt at her waist and carry the rapier. Two weapons might even enhance her resemblance to the notorious Sea Siren and force Domingo's crew to think twice about fighting back.

She pulled on the boots, grimacing as the leather abraded her blistered feet, then hobbled out the door and up the ladder. Once secure on deck, she struck the classic “Sea Siren” pose—legs astride, rapier in hand—and silently dared her crew to comment.

Watching her, Cato drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. She was magnificent. Her long hair streaming behind her in the gentle breeze, the black kid boots cuffed at the knees, the soft white shirt tied in a knot at her waist, those long, slender legs . . . Jesus, he wanted her, as did every man aboard ship, and he would fight to the death for her. He had heard tales of the infamous Sea Siren, and he'd bet a year's wages that there wasn't a man at sea who could tell the difference.

Amalie did her best to hold the spyglass steady as she scanned the horizon. She forgot about everything—her uneasiness with the crew, even the stinging pain of her blisters and chafed thighs—the moment she sighted the minuscule speck in the distance. “Sail, ho!” she cried.

“Where away?” Miguel shouted.

“Straight ahead,” came a reply from high in the rigging.

Amalie swallowed past the lump in her throat. “Loosen sail, full speed. I want every minute to count. Remember what I told you—our attack is to be quick and deadly if necessary.” She leapt down from the bow and raced to the stern, where she climbed onto a pile of rigging atop a water barrel. With her legs spread to steady her, she was a Valkyrie, the frigate her Valhalla. She threw back her head and laughed, the sound ripping across the water like the wind.

The
Sea Siren
drew ever closer to her prey, and Amalie knew the moment Luis Domingo had focused on her with his glass. She read the fear and loathing in his face and laughed again, this time in triumph.

“Make no false moves, Captain,” she called out as the two ships came within hailing distance, “or my men will make short work of you and yours!”

In reply Luis Domingo brought up his cutlass and lashed out at Amalie's men as they leapt aboard the
Silver Lady.
It took all of thirty minutes for Amalie's cutthroats to subdue Domingo's nine-man crew. Outnumbered and pinned to the mast by Cato, Domingo could only curse his revenge as he watched his cargo being carried off. His eyes spewed hatred at the beautiful creature on the stern of the ghostly black ship.

An eternity later Amalie gave him a low, sweeping bow, her rapier slicing through the twilight. Luis tried to blink the sweat from his eyes, staring in disbelief as the long-legged creature blew him a gentle kiss with her fingertips.

“I'll kill you for this!” he shouted. “I'll hunt you down and rip you limb from limb!”

“You aren't man enough,” Amalie called out, chuckling. “This little assault was nothing compared with what I could have done if you had angered me. As it is, I'm feeling charitable, so I'm allowing you to keep your sandalwood, your ship . . . and your life. You have much to thank me for, Captain.”

“I'll die before I thank you, you thieving bitch!” Luis spat out.

“That can be arranged, too.” Once again she offered him a mocking bow. “Perhaps next time. Until we meet again, Señor Domingo, thank
you
for your generous contribution to my well-being.”

It was fully dark by the time the black ship had melted into the night.

 

For hours Luis swore he could hear the Sea Siren's evil laughter as he cursed and stormed about his ship. “All of this,” he snarled, “and not a shot was fired! Pinned to my own goddamn mast! She'll pay. I swear before God that she will pay!”

“We were outnumbered, Cap'n,” Julian said nervously. “It was like this when she attacked the
Spanish Princess.
We had no time to react, and we were loaded down with cargo. Only that time the Siren sank the ship. Today she was generous.” He peered out into the night and shuddered. “You don't suppose she'll come back and ram us, do you, Cap'n?”

Luis snorted. “She won't be back. She's sailing off to dispose of my cargo, God only knows where. Pirating is a handsome business, all profit.” He turned to glare at his first mate. “You're sure that woman was the same one who struck down the
Princess
?”

“I swear on my mother, Cap'n. Did you see those long legs and that midnight-dark hair? Her laugh is the same, too. My blood ran cold when I heard it.”

“It's easy to laugh when you're victorious, Julian. But she won't always be victorious; I'll see to that,” Luis said, his voice so deadly quiet, so ominous, that Julian crossed himself involuntarily.

“Aye, Cap'n.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Luis that his father, the elder Domingo, had said the same thing before he died.

“Swab these decks and get me a Bible so we can give the dead a Christian sea burial. . . . Three good, honest, hardworking seamen cut down—I swear I'll make her pay for this!”

“Ay, Cap'n,” Julian said, sighing as he watched his captain stride away. How did a person exact revenge on a ghost? For twenty years had passed since her attack on the
Spanish Princess,
and the Siren was still as young and beautiful as ever. No, she was an evil ghost, and mere mortals would never stop her. The only thing to do was pray.

All night long Luis Domingo prowled the decks of the
Silver Lady.
It was all true, every word the old man had said.

The Sea Siren lived.

 

Dawn, Fury thought, was always a happy time for her parents because it signified a new day, a day to be cherished and lived to its fullest. She, too, had come to think like her parents, rising early to watch the sun ascend the heavens. Today, however, she would have preferred the impenetrable mask of night—a Stygian ally to hide her shame and bewilderment. Shame, because somewhere deep inside her she was relieved that the bishop had denied her entrance to the convent. Bewilderment, because now she had nothing to do until her parents arrived.
If
they arrived. Her parents, she knew, were not creatures of schedules. They could very well decide to stay in the Americas for years.

The early-morning dew soaked Fury's delicate slippers as she strolled through the garden, but she barely noticed. She gazed about in the soft grayness, knowing that in just minutes the garden would be ripe with color and scent. All around her would awaken to greet the new day, as had she, but to what end? Without a purpose in life, and the means to fulfill that purpose, one day was much like another—empty and joyless. She was sick to death of needlework and books. Prayer, too, had become a chore that rarely soothed the agitation of her mind. It wasn't that God wasn't responding to her devotions; it was that she had no patience to wait for that response. Everything was in God's time. Time . . . How she hated the word. Time could be an eternity. It was entirely possible that she could wither away and die of . . . loneliness, she thought morosely.

Fury wiped at her eyes, certain the tears shimmering on her lashes would spill over. She knew she was indulging in self-pity, and determined at once to make every effort to change her empty days and evenings. Today, for example, she would go into town to visit with Father Sebastian and offer her services to the parish. It was the least she could do.

By now it was full light, the slight breeze warm and flower-scented. Fury drank deeply of the early morning; in a short while, the air would be heavy and hot. But she was getting used to that. In the month since her arrival, she'd found herself adapting to her old home with ease. Boredom was her only problem. There were simply too many hours in the day.

Her arms full of fragrant blooms, she made her way back to the house to change and by midmorning was ready to leave for town. The sun beat down upon her as she climbed into the flat wagon and nodded to the djongo who would take her to Father Sebastian's rectory. She was dressed simply in a yellow-sprigged muslin dress with long sleeves, her ebony hair pulled back and swirled on top of her head. She knew she should be taking a hat or at least a parasol to ward off the fiery rays, but she loved the way they tinted her fair skin to a rich honeyed hue.

By the time they'd reached the village, Fury was limp with the heat and soaked with perspiration. But at least here the air was slightly cooler, and a gentle breeze blew in off the village quay. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the tang of salt air.

The village was small and laid out along the tiny waterfront. Many of the gabled rooftops were tiled, giving them a sense of permanence. This village, crowded as it was between jungle and water, seemed to have a timelessness about it, unobtrusive in its surroundings. As the wagon rounded a bend in the dusty road, the hamlet disappeared. The small parish church was nestled at the end of the long, narrow street, and to its right sat Father Sebastian's house. In another minute she would be there.

They were just passing the Dutch East India offices when Fury gasped in horror. The djongo turned his head, startled.

“What is wrong, missy?” he queried.

Luis Domingo . . . here, in Java? It wasn't possible! Yet there he was, going into the Dutch East India offices. “Faster, Ling, make the horse go faster,” Fury ordered. He can't see me like this, she thought wildly. Dear God, what must I look like?

“Horse hot, missy, no go faster.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I'm sorry. . . .”

There was no place to run, no place to hide. He was turning now at the sound of the wagon wheels, and she was close enough to see his frown of puzzlement. Obviously he was trying to remember where he'd seen her before. Then, mercifully, they were past him. “Turn around, Ling, and see if that man is staring at us,” Fury said breathlessly.

“Much look, strange look, on man's face,” Ling reported. “Man still looking,” he added a moment later when he turned for a second look. “Padre's house, missy. You wait, I help you down. Horse need water and shade tree. I wait over there,” he said, pointing to a small lot on the opposite side of the road.

Fury almost swooned as the old priest led her into his cool study. Concerned, he immediately ordered a cool drink and then had his housekeeper lead her upstairs to “freshen up.” The child needed to talk to him, that much was obvious; but why now, he wondered, wringing his hands in agitation, why at this particular time of day? Luis Domingo would be arriving within minutes. And Domingo, unlike the delicate young lady upstairs, was in a murderous frame of mind and hell-bent on revenge. And he knew why. Father Sebastian peered out the window nervously. The moment he'd heard about Domingo's experience with the infamous Sea Siren, he'd personally canvassed the town until he'd found Jacobus—who was now, this minute, secure in the rectory sleeping off his last jug of wine. God alone knew what would happen if Domingo accosted the old sea barnacle now, in his current state. Better to keep them apart, at least for the time being.

“Merciful Father,” the old priest murmured, fingering the beads of his rosary, “grant me the wisdom to help Señor Domingo, and show me the way to protect Jacobus ... and,” he added, eyes twinkling, “if You have the time, allow me a little insight into Miss Furana.”

The priest started when the garden bell tinkled and Fury reentered the room at the same time. In a matter of minutes Luis Domingo would walk through his door.

“There's no time for explanations, Furana,” he said hurriedly. “Go upstairs immediately and stay there until I call you. Señor Domingo will walk into this room in a few seconds, and I—I doubt he will take kindly to your presence at this time. He's rather . . . overwrought.”

Fury's eyes were full of questions, but she knew better than to argue with the gentle priest. Without a word she headed for the rectory staircase and took the steps two at a time, the way she had when she was little and her brothers had chased her about the house. She reached the top just as Luis Domingo announced himself.

What was he doing at Father Sebastian's? Fury wondered. Flattening herself against the stairwell wall, she listened as the Spaniard repeated the story of his ruin at the hands of the nefarious Sea Siren. . . .

An hour later, after Luis had finally calmed down enough to listen to reason, Father Sebastian blessed him and showed him out. Instantly Fury descended the stairs, her face full of shock, eyes disbelieving.

“It's not true, you
know
it isn't, Father,” she cried. “The Sea Siren . . . Father, it's impossible! Why would he tell such a lie? You should have said something, told him that my mother is in the Americas. Why didn't you?”

“Child, listen to me. It's understandable that you're upset, but think for a moment. How would it look if I suddenly appeared to know so much about the Sea Siren? I admit I was fearful of giving away some of my knowledge. It is imperative that I protect those who have seen fit to take me into their confidence. All Señor Domingo knows is that he lost his cargo to a woman dressed as the infamous Sea Siren who captained a black ship that was identical to the
Rana.”
The priest rubbed his eyes wearily. “When I first heard the story in the village, I immediately brought Jacobus here. It was Jacobus who told Luis Domingo his version of the Sea Siren months ago, in exchange for a jug of rum. I think we should put our heads together and—”

“And what, Father?”

“I don't know, child, I don't know,” Father Sebastian said, gnarled fingers clutching at his rosary as if to a lifeline.

Fury shook her head. “I don't understand why he came to you. You're a priest, what would you know of pirates and cargoes?”

Unconsciously, the priest began to knead the hard beads. “Comfort, words of wisdom. Why did you come here, Furana? You yourself seek comfort and a solution to your . . . problems. Why should Señor Domingo be any different?”

Of course he was right, thought Fury. She was reacting emotionally, something her mother had always cautioned her about. “I assume the whole town knows now,” she muttered. She threw up her hands and started to pace the tiny study.

“I'm sorry now that your parents confided in me,” Father Sebastian said softly. “But when your father became ill, Sirena thought it was because of her . . . activities on the high seas. Even though Regan isn't of our faith, I prayed with your mother for days on end.” He sighed. “Lord, I wanted to tell that young man he was mistaken, but I am bound by the promise I made to your mother.”

Fury nodded. “Yes, of course. But we must do something, Father. We can't allow these tales to flourish, and yet we can't openly defend the Sea Siren. That would cause suspicion. I—I need time to think.”

“What do you want me to do, Furana?” the priest asked quietly.

Fury paused, frowning. “If you could go to the Dutch East India offices and see what Mynheer Dykstra knows, that would be most helpful, Father. . . . And then I'd like you to bring Señor Domingo to the casa tomorrow evening for dinner. Together we might be able to clear up this whole sorry dilemma.” She cocked her head to one side, considering. “Tell him only that's he's been invited to the van der Rhys casa for dinner. He'll assume that my parents issued the invitation, and I would prefer it that way. I rather think this meeting between us should come as something of a surprise. It's entirely possible that the man is lying. Other sea captains have plundered their own ships for personal profit. He could be doing the same thing.”

“I'll pray for a solution to this problem,” the priest said, suddenly feeling out of his depth.

Fury spun about, eyes glinting dangerously. “You do that, Father. Perhaps praying will work for you. It certainly hasn't for me, of late. As far as I can determine, God has forsaken me. And now He's seen fit to burden me with this very
earthly
problem—quite fitting, don't you think, Father?”

“That's blasphemy, child,” Father Sebastian said, aghast. “You're distraught. You must not denounce God because of this unfortunate incident—or for
any
reason. Hell is—”

“Right here, Father. I'm walking in hell now and have been for the past month. You might pray about
that,
if you've a mind to!” Her face flooded with indignation, Fury fled the parish house. It wasn't until she was safely back in her room at the casa that she regretted the way she'd spoken to the priest.

It had to be a lie, a trick of some sort. The question was: Why would Luis Domingo pick Java of all places to fabricate such a tale . . . unless he was up to something? Nothing else made sense. The man had to be acting on the tales Jacobus had told him, salvaging his cargo for his own personal gain—
in the name of the Sea Siren.
Damn his eyes!

By God, she'd find a way to stop him. All she had to do was sit down with a clear head and figure out a way to end the tales of her mother once and for all. First, though, she'd begin a journal, while things were still fresh in her mind. Tomorrow, after dinner with Domingo, she'd have a detailed report for her mother to read so she'd know her daughter had acted in good faith on behalf of the Sea Siren.

It was late afternoon when Fury retired to the garden to gather more flowers for the house. She felt better having committed her thoughts and anxieties to paper. She'd also planned a simple but tasteful dinner for the following evening. Her dinner gown would be simple, too, since all her good clothing had been left behind in Spain. Perhaps she could find something appropriate among the things her mother had left behind.

When her basket was full, Fury retraced her steps to the house down a long, winding stone walkway. A circling breeze forced her eyes upward, and she watched as Pilar and Gaspar sailed down to perch on the banister of the garden terrace. Setting the basket on a glass-topped table, Fury walked over to the hawks, stroking their silky heads and crooning soft, warm words of affection. Both birds ruffled their feathers. Gaspar inched his way across the banister until he was even with the basket of flowers. One talon reached out for a soft purple bloom. Daintily, so as not to crush the delicate flower, he inched his way on one talon back to Fury and Pilar.

Fury held her breath. Who was the flower for—herself or Pilar? Please let it be for Pilar, she prayed. It was a game she'd played with the birds back in Spain. Before, the flower had always been for her. Now she nodded slightly to Gaspar. He offered the bloom to Pilar, who seemed to take an eternity before deciding to accept it. A minute later it was Pilar who inched her way toward Fury to offer the mangled bloom.

Fury laughed in delight and clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Now you understand about giving and receiving.” She placed the flower in her hair over her ear and bent low so the birds could observe what she'd done. “Well done, Gaspar. Thank you, Pilar.”

The hawks preened, their feathers whispering to each other before they soared upward. Fury danced her way into the huge kitchen to hand over the flower basket to the cook.

Later, on her way upstairs to her room, she decided she would wear a flower in her hair when she dined with Luis Domingo and Father Sebastian.