For Her Love (30 page)

A four-poster bed nearly swallowed the one-room cottage that Grace and the Spaniard entered. It was swathed in linen and littered with silk pillows, but the bedposts were reinforced with leather to keep the chains and manacles from biting into the wood. Encantadora lit candles in wall sconces and on a small table, next to a whip made of a cluster of knotted strands that looked like a mass of black snakes. She spoke to the Spaniard, but he shook his head and gestured her to the door.

The prostitute shut the door softly behind her, but to Grace, it sounded as loud and definitive as the clang of a prison door shutting her away for life.

*

Diego moved swiftly from one window to the next, until he had assessed all three in the tiny space. All were barred. The only way in or out faced directly toward the back of the
burdel
and the two guards flanking the rear gate.

“This is not going to be easy,” he said over his shoulder as he tested the bars and found them absolutely secure.

“P-please—don’t—”

At the sound of the terrified woman’s voice, he turned and took a good look at her. Her arms were wrapped tightly over her breasts and her teeth appeared to be chattering. He couldn’t decide whether he pitied her her fear or was annoyed that she thought him the sort of man who beat women for pleasure. In the end, pity won, and he handed her his jacket to cover her scandalous gown. At the same time, he picked up the whip from the table, and Grace cried out.

“I am not disrobing,
Señora
Courtney,” he assured her. “I thought you might prefer to wear something more substantial than that flimsy silk. As for the whip, we are going to have to make this convincing.”

“You—you mean that you are not going to rape me, only—only use the whip?”

Diego laughed at the absurdity of such a notion, but stopped as soon as he realized the depth of her terror. “Where you whipped before?”

She shook her head. “N-nay. But I have seen it done more times than I can count.”

“Well, this time when you watch a whip being plied, no one will be hurt.” He glanced around the room. “The pillows will not work. We will need something to make a more persuasive sound.”

Comprehension finally dawned on her face, and she accepted the jacket with a shaky smile. “Something leather,” she suggested. They both looked all around the room. The leather reinforcements on the bed didn’t seem a feasible solution. Everything else was soft, more likely to produce a mild thud rather than a sharp crack. Then Grace’s face lit up. “Your boots!”

Diego looked down at his feet. His boots, with their wide tops lying side by side on the bed, should be perfect. He pulled them from his feet, tugged self-consciously at a hole in his stocking, and set them on the mattress. He lifted the whip and looked at Grace. “I will take care of this part. The real performance must come from you.”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, and when the first lash hit the leather, she let out a blood-curdling scream. He let the whip fall twenty times, and her cries and tearful pleading were so hauntingly convincing that he felt sick to his stomach. It took several minutes after he had stopped for her to begin to calm down again.

“Obviously, you told me the truth about witnessing more than your share of whippings.”

She opened her eyes and took a gulp of air into her lungs. “You have no reason to believe me, but I don’t generally lie,
Señor
—”

“
Capitán
,” he corrected, “Diego Montoya Fernandez de Madrid y Delgado Cortes. I do not generally have much patience with liars.”

“Then why did you come back? And what possessed you to sacrifice that kind of money?” Her eyes fell down to his threadbare stockings.

Diego sighed. For all that he preferred the truth, in this case, it was hardly credible. He had gone back to his ship, fully satisfied that he had done his duty as a gentleman. He had tried to purchase the woman at the block, but the bidding had gone far beyond the funds that he’d had with him. He had felt terrible for her, of course. He wasn’t heartless. He just didn’t see what else he could have done for her.

But Diego’s patron saint knew him all too well.
She
knew that he had been saving most of his money to buy his ship,
Magdalena
, a ship named in her honor. Maria Magdalena was well aware that he was hoping to open his own shipping company here in Havana, and that he kept the majority of his savings here. After all, it was her protection that had made his every voyage so successful and had allowed him to amass those savings.

Sometimes, she came to him in visions; other times, it just seemed to him that he knew what she expected of him. The truth was, he had sat in his cabin most of the evening trying to talk himself out of coming to
El Jardín de Placer
with such a sizable portion of the funds that he had hoarded to buy his ship. But all along, he had known that Magdalena would never forgive him if he did not make one more attempt to save the Englishwoman from the life that Magdalena herself had escaped with her Lord and Savior.

It was far simpler to reply, “It helped that you should have mentioned Geoffrey Hampton. Now, unlike
you
,” he gave her a reproachful look, “I can honestly say that I am related to his wife, Faith. We are cousins.”

“Never say it!
That’s
how you knew ‘twas a lie when I claimed that Geoffrey was my brother!”

“And still a lie when you changed your tune and claimed Faith to be your sister.”

“But Faith is English.”

“And so is her aunt, who is married to my uncle, who is Spanish.”

Grace narrowed her eyes, but they glittered with mischief rather than malice. “So ‘twas not a blind bet you made with your money. You knew that Faith would likely intervene if Giles were to balk at paying you.”

Diego waggled a finger at her. “It was nearly blind. How was I to know that you were telling the truth? And even now, how do I know that your husband can repay me? I, of all people, know that he is no longer robbing Spanish ships of their gold.”

“He and Geoff are doing well. He will repay you, I’m sure.” Her face took on a faraway look. “He is a good man.”

Diego gave her a reassuring grin. “We will get you back to him. Is it possible that he is here, looking for you?”

Grace shook her head. “I do not imagine that he will look anywhere that is held by the Spanish. It may be that he has gone to Saint-Domingue. He will know only that my uncle has taken me.”

“Then we must get you out of Havana. The woman who brought us here, she seemed concerned for you.”

“I hardly know her, but she has done her best to help me.”

“Do you think that she will do a little more? Can she convince
Don
Ramon to leave you in her care while you ‘recover’ from tonight? If she will, I have bought us a little time, and I will come up with a plan.”

Grace chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Possibly.” She started to remove his coat.

“Keep the jacket. Whatever you do, do not let
Don
Ramon see your back. If you can, try to stay out here. In the pocket of that coat, you will find a few silver pieces. Perhaps they will help to buy your friend’s silence and her help.”

“You’ll get your money back, Captain, every penny.”

He heaved another sigh. He certainly hoped so.

*

Giles stood at the helm of the ship and stared at the stars. It was after ten. Where was Grace now? What was happening to her? Whatever it was, she would never recover. Every time he thought about it, he wanted to go back to Welbourne and beat Iolanthe as he would any man who was guilty of the same crime. His hands tightened on the ship’s wheel as if he had them around Iolanthe’s neck.

And he tried so hard not to think about the rest. But the more he forbade himself to contemplate it, the more it snaked its way into his thoughts.
How could she not have told me?
Why does it matter?
He looked down onto the deck below where one of his men stood, smoking a pipe and gazing out to sea. It took him several minutes to summon the courage, but finally he called out to him. “Jawara!”

The man looked up. “Aye, Cap’n?”

“‘Tis quiet on deck tonight. Come and pass a while with me while you smoke your pipe.”

Jawara stayed where he was for a moment and looked around him. “Me?” Between the darkness of night and the deep ebony of Jawara’s skin, ‘twas impossible to see the expression on his face from this distance.

“Aye,” Giles said.

Reluctantly, Jawara climbed up the stairs, but he didn’t approach the wheel. He leaned his shirtless, dark, muscular frame uneasily against the rail behind him and waited.

“A fair night,” Giles commented, and Jawara nodded somberly, lifting his pipe to his lips. “Fair night indeed. We’ll make excellent time, do you not think?”

Jawara nodded.

Giles searched for something to say. He cleared his throat and finally asked, “Do you like it here, on board
Reliance
?” he asked.

Another nod.

“Are you truly content, or is it simply better than being a slave?”

“You gotta problem wit’ sinting me done, Cap’n?”

“Nay! Nay! I was—just making conversation.”

“Makin’ convahsation?” This time Giles nodded, taken aback by the heaviness in Jawara’s deep voice. “We neva make no convahsation b’fore, Cap’n. You tink me not pullin’ me weight?”

“Nay, Jawara, you pull more than your weight. I know that. I appreciate it. You’re a good man.”

Jawara nodded. “Dat all?”

Giles scratched his head. This wasn’t the first time he had ever spoken to Jawara. He spoke to him all the time. Why was this so damned hard? He never thought twice about saying, “Jawara, climb up there and give me more sail” or “Jawara, take this barrel of water down to the galley.” Why was a simple conversation so difficult?

“We only converse,” Giles protested. “This isn’t business.” The comment, meant to set the crewman at ease, only seemed to increase the strain between them.

Jawara took a deep draw on his pipe and then frowned at it. “It a-go out,” he explained. He knocked it against the rail and let the ashes fall into the sea. “Me tink you gotta be worryin’ for you wife.”

“You have no idea,” Giles said.

There was another long, uncomfortable silence before Jawara replied, “Me tink me gotta idea.”

“Are—are you married?” Giles asked. ‘Twasn’t a question that had ever occurred to him to ask. Jawara was a more or less permanent fixture on board either
Reliance
or
Destiny
. Giles had never seen him leave for any kind of home in Port Royal.

“Me don’ tink so. Me wife an’ me, we got separated when we got here. One mon buy her, s’maddy else buy me. Me got away an’ a-go look for her, but me don’ know where a look. Dat be tree or four year ago. Her prob’ly dead now. Her carryin’ me firs’ chil’, but me tink her lose it on de ship.” Jawara’s voice was hollow, the voice of a man who had emptied himself of emotion. “You know, me never been a slave. A lotta slaves here be slaves in Africa, but me be a free mon me whole life.”

Giles had never felt more ashamed in his life. How could he have worked with this man for so long and not known this? “I’m so sorry.”

Jawara shrugged. “You not a bad mon. You pay me, treat me wit some respec’. But what me wanna know, me wanna know dis—how can white men do dis? How can dem take a free mon’s wife an’ sell her away from him?”

It was hard to speak, but Giles replied, “I have no idea.”

“It drive me crazy sintime. Sintime, me lie in me hammock an’ wonder ‘bout her. Me wonder, dat mon who buy her, did he rape her? Did he beat her? Did her jus’ drop dead in de field and dem trow her body in some hole in de groun’? Me love dat ‘ooman, you know?”

“I’m sure you did.”
God help him
, he thought, struggling with is own emotions.

“Sorry, Cap’n. Me not de best person a talk to ‘bout dis. It not helpin’, me talkin’ like dis.

“Nay! ‘Tis good. I thought no one could possibly understand. It helped to be able to talk to you.”

“We get her bak. You see,” Jawara assured him. “Her a white ‘ooman. Nobody a-go hurt her.”

Giles winced. “Tell me about your home, your family, back in Africa.”

Jawara smiled wistfully. “Me got me a madda, a wife, an’ tree sistas. Me use’ to tink dat be too many ‘oomans. Dem keep me fadda an’ me jumpin’ alla time.”

Giles smiled back. “I have three sisters, too. All younger.”

“Mine be two younga, one olda. You gotta olda sista, you might as well got two maddas. Dem always bossin’ an’ complainin’, but dem lookin’ out for you, too, you know?”

“Were your mother and sisters taken into slavery?”

“Don’ know. Me not see dem on de slave ship, so me tink maybe dem got away. Me hope so.”

“So do I.”

“Can me axe you sinting Cap’n, sinting business?”

“Certainly.”

“You like de work me do?”

“Aye, Jawara. I meant what I said. You pull more than your weight.”

“If me be white, an’ me work as hard as me do now, what den?”

“What then?”

“Aye.”

Giles thought for a moment, and then realized with a fresh surge of shame exactly what would have happened. Jawara might well have been first mate by now. But would white sailors follow the orders of an African? Giles couldn’t see it. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’ gotta sey nutten. Jus’, me hopin’ you might tink ‘bout it some. Not now. You got plenty a tink ‘bout. Jus’ maybe later.”

“Thank you, Jawara. I appreciate your work and your—your friendship.”

“No problem,” Jawara replied. The two men went back to their quiet contemplation of the sea, and while they may not have been completely at ease, Jawara made no move to go back to the deck below.

*

Once again, Iolanthe found herself pacing the length of the keeping room and brooding about her husband. God, what a disaster this whole affair had turned out to be! She grabbed the embroidered pillow that she had left in the keeping room that morning and used it to muffle a scream of frustration.