For Her Love (31 page)

It was getting late, past ten at night, but she couldn’t even sit, much less sleep. That dreadful Captain Courtney should have fallen to his knees in gratitude, and what had he done? He had glared at her as though he wished her dead! It was not her fault, what had been done to him. She was only the messenger.

She searched for a comforting thought and found it. Mayhap the man felt some misguided obligation to go and rescue Grace, but Iolanthe had seen the look on his face when she had told him. He had been shocked. Devastated. He might retrieve Grace, but he would not keep her. As delicious as that thought was, it always carried fast on its heels the concern that was likely going to prevent her from sleeping at all tonight. One way or another, Edmund was going to find out what she had done. Courtney would return to bring Grace home and demand an annulment, and the truth would be out.

Edmund would kill her. There was absolutely no doubt in Iolanthe’s mind that the very second he had a chance, he would murder her. That knowledge should make what she had to do easy, but it didn’t. She was terrified. However there was no way around it. It was self-defense. She had to think. She had to have a plan. Nothing complex. It was not as though she hadn’t thought of it before. She had.

Looking back now, it all seemed rather silly. She and Edmund and Grace had gone together to visit one of Edmund’s business acquaintances on the way to Port Royal. Grace had been particularly awful. The wretched thing had put on a show of disgusting affection, linking arms with Iolanthe, even kissing her cheek, all because she had known how it made Iolanthe’s flesh crawl. And Edmund’s friend had gone on and on about how refreshing it was to see a mother and daughter get on so well in an age where children had so little respect for their parents. Edmund had been thrilled with Grace, believing her charade to be for his benefit, to impress his business associate. He had insisted that Iolanthe go along with it.

By the time they had left and continued their journey to the city, Iolanthe had been murderously angry. When they’d arrived in Port Royal, she had gone shopping on her own, and she had stopped at an apothecary shop in the very worst part of town. The two little glass vials that she had purchased were still under the false bottom of her jewelry box. By the time they had returned home, Iolanthe had thought better of her plan. She had been angry, but it hadn’t been worth hanging for.

Now, she had nothing to lose. If she did not kill Edmund, he would surely kill her.

Encantadora stared at the silver coins in her palm. The morning sun shone through the cottage’s barred windows and glinted off of the money. “Me gotta good place a hide dese,” she whispered. “But you neva keep a secret ‘round de ottas. Dem know in two seconds you got no stripes on you bak. You got sinting for dem, too?”

“That’s all,” Grace explained. “Can’t I just stay out here while I pretend to recover?”

Both women jumped at the sound the bolt sliding outside the cottage door.
Don
Ramon called to them, and Grace dove under the covers on the bed, Captain Montoya’s jacket still over her shoulders.

Encantadora stood, blocking the door, and engaged the procurer in earnest conversation. The sun through the windows was warming the room, and Grace felt her skin break out in sweat as she huddled under the covers in the sea captain’s heavy coat.
Please, please, please
, she chanted to whatever power might be listening.

In time, her new friend closed the door quietly, her finger to her lips. She plopped down on the bed next to Grace and whispered, “Moan an’ cry a little.”

Grace whimpered dutifully, throwing in a few sobs for good measure, and Encantadora went back, pressed her ear to the door, then made a slicing motion in the air with her hand. The gesture made Grace think of Matu. It was exactly the gesture she would have used to tell her that she had made enough noise. What she wouldn’t have given for Matu’s comforting presence.

Encantadora returned to the bed and lay down next to Grace. “Him wanna see you bak, see how bad de damage be. Me tell him you bak not so bad, jus’ welts, but you cryin’ an’ maybe a little crazy. Me tell him no mon for two, maybe tree day, not even him. Me swear me a-go have you ready a work, but me gotta spen’ some time alone wit’ you ‘cause you first time so rough.”

“Oh, Encantadora, I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You jokin’? Dis almos’ like a room o’ me own. Don’t gotta be wit’ dem otta ‘oomans when dem all nasty an’ spiteful. We get bored an’ we go afta each otta. It be a bad ting.”

“You hurt each other?”

“Sey nasty tings. We don’ touch each otta. We all
Don
Ramon’s property. You mon pay big for de damage him sey him do. We do damage, we pay too, only we don’ got no money.”

“But if he doesn’t want his property damaged, what can he do to you?”

Encantadora went a little pale under her dark skin. “De ‘ooman dat work on her bak don’ need de soles of her feet.” At Grace’s skeptical frown, she continued, “You tink him can’t do nutten so bad to two little places like dat? You don’ wanna find out.”

*

Once they arrived in Havana, Giles instructed Geoff to begin searching brothels while he made inquiries at the market. The docks and main streets of the town were bustling, and the market place even busier still. A large shipment of slaves had just arrived, and it was nearly impossible to approach any of the auctioneers. He waded through people, inspecting the contents of various pens, looking for one that might be more inclined to cater to the local whorehouses, but most seemed to be hawking sugar workers.

He was ready to give up and seek Geoff when he spotted a familiar form at one of the pens several yards off. Jacques Renault was apparently concluding a transaction and had begun to haul a screaming African girl with him through the crowd. She was small, only a little higher than his waist, and she was no match for him. Giles tried to run after them, but he collided with one man after another and found himself cursed in a variety of languages. He lost sight of the pair, then picked them up again well up the street.

By the time he had shoved his way through to where they had been standing, sweat drenched the front of his shirt and dripped unpleasantly down his face. Jacques and the child had vanished. Giles grabbed a passing man by the jacket.

“A Frenchman,” he gasped. “Did you see a dark-haired Frenchman and an African child here? Just a minute ago?”

The man jerked his arm free and muttered something about “
el loco
.”

“Damn it!” Giles spat.

He started to grab for someone else when he heard voices through an open window above him. First a terrified, high-pitched wailing, followed by a sharp slap and an unmistakable voice shouting, “
Fermez la bouche, marmot!
” The wailing settled down into a whimper. “
Et maintenant, ouvrez la bouche pour moi
.”

Giles spun and burst through the door of the inn that he’d been standing in front of, then hurled himself up the stairs, past a shouting innkeeper. The upstairs hall had three doors on each side, and Giles scrutinized the ones whose rooms would face the street. Behind the middle door came a series of muffled thumps and then a child’s voice pleading in a strange language.

Giles launched a booted foot against the door with all his strength, splintering the wood surrounding the lock and sending the door flying open into the room. Jacques, his breeches around his ankles, had the girl pinned naked to the bed. He spun around in alarm that turned to terror when he saw Giles.

“
Ce n’est pas votre affaire!
” he squealed.

Giles pulled him away from the girl before he threw his fist full force into Jacques’s jaw and sent the bastard flying bare-arsed onto the wooden floor. He was dimly aware that his knuckles hurt and that the girl was screaming, but he hauled Jacques to his feet by his hair and then struck him twice in the stomach. This time, he let the man sink to the floor, gasping for air.

“Where is she?”

“
Je—ne—sais—pas
,” Jacques wheezed.

“Do
not
tell you me you don’t know!” A kick to the ribs had Jacques writhing on the floor, his shirt bunched around his waist, his breeches tangled around his feet. “Where is she?”

“She is an African!” Jacques whined. “She lied to you!”

The kick to his back hit the kidneys, and the Frenchman screamed.

“Where is she?”

“S-sold,” Jacques whimpered. “Spaniard p-paid a fortune.”

“Who was he?” Giles demanded.

“D-do not know.” Giles drew his foot back and Jacques screamed, “
Je ne sais pas! C’est vrai!
A very rich procurer. That is all I know! I swear it!”

“Tell me the name of your connection. Who auctioned her for you?”

“Claude LaMonte. Do not hurt me again!”

It would have been honorable to allow Renault to put his clothes to rights and defend himself, but Giles found that, where Grace’s vile, despicable uncle was concerned, he hadn’t a trace of honor to spare. If he lived, how many other children would suffer at his hands? He drew his cutlass, knelt, grabbed a handful of dark, oily hair, and ran him through the heart. The cur gasped and then went limp. Even under these circumstances, he felt a deep weight inside of him. No matter how many battles he had been through, he had never acquired Geoff’s ease with death.

A commotion was stirring up in the hall. Spanish voices chattered excitedly, then Geoff’s ringing voice interrupted. “Out of my way. Out!”

Giles looked back over to the bed. The little girl sat in a tightly curled ball, her coffee-colored knees tucked under her chin and her arms wrapped fast about her legs. She stared at him with wide, brown eyes. Here, terrified and alone, was someone’s daughter. Someone’s cherished little girl. Giles’s stepped forward to comfort her, but she shrank back, her eyes darting over to Jacques’s undignified corpse.

“Get back!” Geoff said, somewhere behind Giles and the girl.

There was a heated spate of Spanish, then the sound of coins clinking. It was the rich, thick chink-chink-chink of gold doubloons rather than the merry jingle of silver. The Spanish protests died. Through it all, Jacques’s blood pooled on the wooden floor and soaked his fine, white linen shirt.

Finally, Giles faced his friend.

“Feel better?” Geoff asked with a little smile.

Giles didn’t answer. He opened a leather trunk at the end of the bed and pulled out one of Jacques’s shirts, tossing it to the little girl. Better? He didn’t know. Gradually, a feeling of calm began to infuse him. He didn’t feel exactly good about killing Renault, but neither did he regret it. He dreaded the moment when he must face Grace, having failed so completely to protect her. But he was going to find her, of that he was certain.

“What should I do with this?” Geoff asked, indicating the child.

“Goddammit, Geoff, she’s not a thing!”

Geoff looked away. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Take her back to the ship. I’ll be along with Grace.”

“What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know. It depends upon how she is when I find her. I cannot think about the future just now.”

“Not Grace. The girl.”

Giles studied the silent, frightened child. “I don’t know about her either, but we’re not leaving her here.”

Geoff reached for her, and the move seemed to galvanize her. She scampered out of reach and objected in a barrage of African words.

Giles left Geoff to deal with dressing and transporting the resistant girl. On the street below he heard the girl’s protests and then Geoff’s grunt of pain. She has spirit, Giles thought, just like Grace. With grim purpose, he headed back to the market place to find Claude LaMonte.

*

Diego was anxious to leave the seedier section of Havana behind him. A crowd had gathered outside one of the inns. As he skirted it, he heard men speak with great relish of some Frenchman’s murder in the rooms above the street. This was a side of the city he had conscientiously avoided in the past, and it was further tarnishing his view of the place.

A few streets away, the front of
El Jardín de Placer
was deserted. It was a quiet place in the light of day. Outside the back gate, however, two Africans sat on guard. They were substantially less vigilant than the previous night’s pair, as they leaned their backs against the plastered wall that blocked off the
burdel
courtyard from the alley. They chatted quietly, sparing an occasional glance for the little cottage where Diego had last seen Grace. He would have to cross an open stretch of alleyway in order to reach the barred window at the rear of the cottage and see whether or not she was still there.

A guard reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pouch. From it, he extracted several dice, and soon the two men were tossing them onto the hard-packed dirt between them. Diego used the opportunity to make a dash for the back of the cottage. Through the barred window, he could see a female form reclining on the bed.

“
Señora
Courtney!” he whispered urgently.

“Captain!” she whispered back, but she rose from the other side of the bed, where she had been hidden from view.

The other woman sat up and looked sleepily around her. “Work already?” she murmured drowsily. When she spied Diego at the window, she came instantly awake. “
Buenas tardes, Señor
,” she said.

He smiled. In the light of day, with her face still soft from sleep, the prostitute looked very young. “
Buenas tardes
.”

“This is Encantadora,” Grace supplied. “She, too, is from Jamaica. She has kept
Don
Ramon at bay for me.”

“
Usted es muy amable
.”

Encantadora shrugged, as though reluctant to admit herself capable of an act of kindness. “It a break for me, too.”

“So, what would you recommend as the best way to get Mistress Courtney out of here?” Diego asked.

She shrugged again. “It betta be when me not ‘round. Me not takin’ de blame.”