Captive Secrets (23 page)

Blood raced through Cato's veins as Amalie clawed at his back, her mouth burning beneath his. Frantically, low moans of pleasure and desire shaking her, she writhed beneath his hardness.

“Hurry, hurry,” she murmured, tearing her mouth from his. With one hard thrust from Cato she arched her back, involuntarily crying out, her head rearing into the pillow.

Stunned with what she'd just experienced, Amalie clasped Cato's head to her breast as she crooned words of satisfaction. Minutes later she whispered, “Again, please, again.” This time she moved to lie on top of him, her breasts crushing against his chest. Ever so slightly she brought her bruised lips to his, her tongue darting in and out of the warm recesses of his mouth.

Cato, his body slick with perspiration, his heart drumming, silently offered himself up to his queen.

Moaning with pleasure at her ability to arouse him with a mere touch, she crouched up onto her knees, straddling his firm body, her breathing hard and ragged, her motion rhythmical, drawing him deeper into her web.

Cato reached for her breasts. with trembling hands. A low, fierce growl of ecstasy ripped from his mouth as Amalie once again brought him to the brink of exploding passion—only to stop all movement, leaving him burning for release.

“Beg me, plead with me,” she whispered. “Tell me you want me, all of me, tell me there is no other like me.”

Cato's eyes glazed as he repeated the desired words from the depths of his soul. “Don't leave me,” he whispered as he drew her to him, their bodies entwined. “I need you,” he gasped, surrendering to wave upon wave of passion. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, every nerve in his body clamoring for satisfaction. “Please,” he moaned.

“Yes . . . Now . . .” she whispered. They rolled as one, her powerful hands pulling his full weight down onto her.

He rode her like a wild stallion, hard and fast, plunging, withdrawing, until neither of them could stand the exquisite pain a moment longer. Amalie rocked her slick body against his, meeting each explosion of his passion with a tortured cry.

Cato had no idea how much time had passed until Amalie stirred next to him. He didn't care if he never went on deck again. This was what he wanted; this was what he would never forget. He reached out to stroke Amalie's face, and she smiled against his hand. “Did I please you?” he whispered huskily, his heart bursting with love. “Will I make a fitting king for you?”

Amalie smiled again, curling her naked body like a cat. “Of course,” she whispered, and realized she meant the words. Cato was so innocent. She'd pleasured many men, more than she cared to remember, but not one had been interested in pleasing her. Only Cato. She tweaked his cheek playfully, wanting to bring a smile to his face.

“Will . . . will we do this again?” he asked in a hushed, pleading voice.

“As often as you like,” Amalie replied. She gurgled with laughter when, minutes later, Cato swaggered from her cabin. In no way would she ever think of him as a boy again. In her heart she knew he'd never breathe a word of what had transpired between them. It would make little difference to her authority over the other men if he did, but it was nice to know he respected her enough not to boast about their lovemaking.

Stretching luxuriously, Amalie savored the feeling of satisfaction that welled within. She could still smell the musky scent of Cato, and it pleased her. With a little work, a little refinement, he just might be the perfect king for her domain. She detested the word
slave,
but Cato would make a willing one. She pressed her face deep into her pillow and imagined she was holding him in her arms, kissing him, making love to him. She remembered the way her body felt when he was deep inside her. Right now, this very moment, she wanted that feeling again and knew she would never have enough now that her passions had been aroused. Hours and hours . . . days, possibly weeks of doing nothing but making love and eating. Could one exist only on love? She wanted to find out, needed to find out, and she would.

Amalie slept then, her dreams filled with a tall, dark-eyed Spaniard who in no way resembled Cato. When she woke, it was fully dark, a bright orange moon shining through the mullioned window in her cabin. As she dressed she tried not to think about her dream and what it meant.

The moment her booted feet touched the deck, she heard the cry of “Sail ho!” from high in the rigging. Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought of another battle, especially now, when she didn't feel like fighting. Uneasily she took notice of the low, swirling fog. The smoky lamp pots added eerie shadows everywhere she looked. Perhaps it was an omen of some kind, a warning. . . .

Almost immediately she discounted the thought. A fog was a fog, and the smoky lantern pots were lights, nothing more. But she would have them extinguished in any case-lights could be seen even in fog.

“Where away?” she shouted, cursing when the spyglass offered nothing but swirling fog. She ran to the bow and brought the glass to her eye a second time, then craned her neck backward to peer into the rigging. “You're sure?”

“Dead ahead, Captain. She's traveling at five knots, perhaps a little less, and she doesn't know we're on her stern,” the seaman called softly, knowing full well that voices carried over the water. “She's heavily armed.”

Darkness, Amalie decided, could either be one's enemy or one's friend. “Douse all lanterns,” she ordered. The only thing in her favor right now was the fog and darkness, since she was sailing in unfamiliar waters. One good shot could scuttle her frigate, and they'd all be joining Miguel.

At last she sighted them—the galleon and her two brigantines ... loaded with ivory and perfect for her needs. She couldn't afford to make a mistake. Swiftly she motioned to Cato.

“We'll attack from the jolly boats,” she told him. “I want a dozen men in the water swimming alongside. The galleon won't expect such a feeble attempt—surprise will be in our favor. As soon as we have cloud cover, over we go. Have everyone gather round while I explain our plan. . . .”

Amalie's heart pounded as the jolly boats set out under cover of the thick gray fog, one to the left, one to the right, and the third directly in the wake of the galleon. The plan, she'd explained, required strict silence. Having her crew attack by stealth while she rendered the captain helpless would be their one main advantage. They were sadly outnumbered, and what she was planning was foolhardy. But she gave each man his orders and the promise of an extra dividend when splitting the prize. Bloodthirsty by nature, they could hardly wait to get their hands on the small convoy.

“Directly ahead,” whispered one of the men from the water.

Amalie looked about but could see nothing save the eerie yellow glow of the galleon's smoke pots. Another few moments and it would be time to board. This attack, she thought excitedly, would double or perhaps triple the price on her head. Three ships at once! She almost laughed aloud as she slid over the side of the jolly boat.

Everything was going according to plan; even the thick, dark clouds cooperated, sailing across the sky to give her all the cover she needed. The moment her feet touched the galleon's deck, she crouched down, straining to make out the deck in the thick fog. One of the men jabbed his forefinger in the direction of the wheelhouse, and Amalie sprinted off in a half crouch, all senses alert to anything that might hinder her progress.

Seconds later one of the smoke pots hissed loudly in the water, her signal for them to attack as one—and all hell broke loose.

“All hands on deck!” the captain shouted into his horn. “To your stations! Attack!
Attack!”

Amalie smiled in the darkness as she crept behind the captain. A minute later she had his hands pinned behind his back and her arm locked around his throat. “If you want to stay alive, Captain, order your crew to cease and desist. I want these ships. If you force us to kill your men, it will be your doing.”

The captain tried to speak, but Amalie's arm was slowly cutting off his air supply. When he struggled, she merely increased the pressure. “Quietly, Captain, or I'll snap your neck. Now—order them into the jolly boats.”

“Jolly boats?” the captain rasped.

“Of course. Do you think for one moment the Sea Siren would leave you in open water to die? I told you, I want these ships, not your lives. Make your decision now.” Amalie released her hold on the captain and thrust him forward. She watched through narrowed eyes as he picked up the horn to obey her command.

It was all too easy, she thought suspiciously. Something was wrong. “I want to see your log,” she told him, “and then I want a roll call—on deck. And if you do anything out of the ordinary, Captain, I'll run you through and pin you to the yardarm.”

The captain was a fat man, his steps jerky and faltering with fear. Amalie jabbed his buttocks with the tip of her cutlass as she marched him to the quarter deck. Soon the crews from all three ships were howling their outrage at the near-naked long-legged apparition issuing orders in a voice stronger than any they'd ever heard from their own captain.

It was a bloodless battle for the most part, with only three men of the galleon's crew carrying slight wounds. To a man, her own crew emerged unscathed. In her excitement, Amalie searched for Cato and gave him a jaunty salute with the tip of her cutlass. “Well done!” she called. “Well done indeed.”

“I never believed the story until now,” the captain muttered.

Amalie turned to him with a smile. “What story is that, Captain?”

“That you were real. There were some who said you were a legend. Once before you all but ruined the Dutch East India Company. Are you here now to finish the job?”

Amalie merely shrugged. Let him think what he wanted. By the time he reached port—
if
he did—his story would be so outrageously magnified, she'd be hard-pressed to recognize it anyway.

The captain struggled to stand at his full height. He couldn't go over the side without one last attempt at bravado. He needed to show his crew he was not a coward. “They'll kill you, you know. There's a price on your head now that will increase when we reach port. The Dutch East India Company has hired a man, a crew, to ride these seas and capture you.”

Amalie laughed. “You're all fools! There's no man out there,” she said, motioning to the open water with her cutlass, “who can kill me. I'm a legend. Am I real, Captain, or am I a ghost? How is it that none of my men were hurt? How is it that I captured
you
so easily? If I were flesh and blood, could I do all these things? Think about
that
when you make your report to your company's officers.”

The captain's eyes bulged with fear. A spirit, a ghost? He looked around at his crew, who were eager now to go over the side. By the time he turned back to Amalie, a low bank of fog had rolled across the deck, obscuring her form within its thick, swirling tentacles. The captain reached out to her with a trembling hand, but she stepped backward, to be enveloped completely by the heavy mist. It was as if she'd never existed.

Giving a low groan, the captain spun around and threw himself overboard. There followed splash after splash of water as his crew did the same. Amalie had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

“Secure these ships and make ready to sail!” she hissed to her crew.

“Aye, Captain.”

 

Amalie watched the beginning of a new day from the bow of her ship, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. There was a smile on her face as she admired her three latest acquisitions . . . a marvelous night's work. The ivory alone would make her richer than she ever dreamed. A few more ships to her credit, and she would soon have a flotilla. An
armed
flotilla.

Cato came up behind her. “Are we sailing home?” he asked quietly.

Amalie turned, her eyes softening in the early light. “No,” she said. “Soon, though.”

“What will you do next?” he asked. He was remembering the hours he'd spent lying next to her. He wanted to be there again, in her bunk, shutting out the world.

Amalie pretended to consider his question as she sipped her coffee. “I think we'll wait for the . . . person the Dutch East India Company hired to find me. He can't be far away. And I suspect he won't be as foolish as our fat captain. Silent and deadly, I'll wager. If he's who I think he is, then he feels he has a score to settle with us for sacking his cargo.”

“The Spaniard?” Cato asked.

She nodded. “It makes sense, doesn't it? Who else would be angry and poor enough to take on the fruitless task of finding the Sea Siren? Remember, too, that we attacked his ship off the coast. For all we know, he could be sailing blind. He doesn't know we're in his waters, so to speak. He's either captaining his own ship or one belonging to the Dutch East India Company,” she mused. “Until then, though, our immediate problem is where to hide these ships.”

“The outer islands are riddled with hideaways and caves,” Cato said, frowning. “If we found one, we can find others. Surely your father's maps will yield a suitable place. Perhaps a deep harbor, the one he used to store the unlimed nutmegs you told me about when we were in Saianha.”

“I told you about that!” Amalie said in puzzled surprise.

“It was when I carried you to your house after you injured your arm. You spoke of many things then. I remember all of them,” he said softly, proudly.

He was so boyish, Amalie thought, and yet manly at the same time. Her eyes warmed as she handed him her mug. “Have one of the men bring some food to my cabin. I want to go over those charts again.”