Master of Paradise (11 page)

The men laughed as the African man squeezed
the bound woman’s breasts and increased his thrusts as she shrieked
in fear and pain.

“God, I love these islands,” Hastings sighed,
settling himself down on the grass. He leaned back on his elbows as
a slave girl ran to retrieve the pipe and brought it to his lips.
Letting her hold it for him, he took a puff and reached between her
legs, fingering her as he exhaled and watched her eyes. She lowered
them, settling back to allow him what liberties he chose.

“If the Buxton bill passes,” cautioned Delon,
“you won’t love them so well. There will be no more debauching for
us,
mon ami.
”

“It won’t pass. I have powerful friends and
powerful men under my control who’ll make sure it doesn’t
pass.”

“A powerful father, more like.”

“In any case,” Hastings pointed out, “they
banished trading long ago and that hasn’t stopped us, has it?”

“
Oui,
but if they ban the ownership of
slaves, what are we going to do?
Hide them?
”

“It’s that abominable corsair we must be
concerned with at the moment,” said Montand. “You remember when he
commandeered that shipment of slaves last month and set them all
loose? Most of them have joined his ranks, I hear. It’s said they
plan to attack every slaver who comes this way and free its cargo.
Not only is he destroying our business, but all the attention he
receives in England aids Buxton and his reformers. One way or
another, we must wipe this menace off the face of the earth. And
soon.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Hastings
snapped. “We’re doing everything we can. We know he’s in the
Amirantes, but there are ten islands in the group, all of them
surrounded by coral reefs that will rip apart any ship that doesn’t
know the waters intimately. It’s a bloody graveyard of shipwrecks.
That’s why Soro hides out there. He knows those waters, where no
one else does.”

“Surely we can find a pilot capable enough
to—”

“You might find someone who knows a passage
to one or the other of the islands. But only Soro himself knows
them all.”

“So, unless we know the island for which we
search, and can find someone willing to take us there—”

“It would be suicide,” Hastings agreed.
“There is one possibility, of course. We’re just going to have to
attack every island till we have him. Attack till we find and
destroy the Portuguese bastard.”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“I shall need financial backing,
naturally.”

“But of course.”

“We’ll do it, then. We shall start next week.
We’ll gather a fleet, find as many pilots as we can who know pieces
of these waters, attack every last bloody island until we find
Soro, and kill him and everyone who sails with him. That should
take care of the problem.”

“What about your brother?” Delon asked
pointedly.

Hastings met his gaze and snapped, “He’s not
my brother. And I don’t care a fig what happens to him.”

“Then we’re agreed.”

“And while Soro is being blown to bits,”
Hastings continued, “I shall sail to Zanzibar the first of the
month and meet with the sultan.”

“Isn’t that dangerous at such a time?”

“If I don’t go now, I shall be forced to wait
another month for the next ship. Believe me, Soro will have his
hands too full in the Amirantes to pose any threat to me. Now,”
Hastings added, rising to his feet, “I should like to forget this
beastly business and have a go at this unwilling slave myself. See
if she hasn’t learned her lesson.”

He bent to retrieve a whip, which he curled
around his hand. Then he stepped into the eerie glow of the fire,
took the black man’s shoulder in his hand, and heaved him off the
sobbing woman so he went stumbling back. Taking the woman’s chin in
his fist, he yanked back her head and said in a menacing tone,
“Now. Are you ready to be a good slave? Or do you need another
lesson?”

As he shed his clothing and some of the
others rose to join him, Gabrielle turned and ran. She ran as if
she were being chased by demons from hell. She ran as fast and as
far as she could, trying to expel the horrid vision from her mind.
Her instinct was to fight them, to storm into the clearing and rip
the men from the woman and make them pay for their abuse. But
reason stayed her hand.

Their words had put Rodrigo in a new light.
And she saw her father and Hastings in a different light as well.
They were partners in an evil conspiracy, and Rodrigo was trying to
stop them.

She ran all the way back to State House. In
her bedroom, she paced the floor, panting through burning lungs,
asking herself the same question over and over:
What am I to
do?

She knew now, with a woman’s instinct, that
Rodrigo had told her the whereabouts of his hideout for a reason.
He’d wanted her to go to him. He’d taken Cullen knowing she’d
eventually decide to do the very thing she knew she must: go after
him herself.

If Hastings’s fleet got there first, Cullen
could be killed in the attack. Still, she wasn’t ready to face
Rodrigo on his own terms. She needed time to think. But there was
no time. Hastings would probably be home soon. She needed an idea.
Something daring, something no one would guess. Not Rodrigo.
Certainly not Hastings.

Suddenly, she halted mid-step. The perfect
scheme seized her in its grip. It was so obvious, why hadn’t she
thought of it sooner? Impulsively, she sneaked down the hall to
Hastings’s formal bedroom and threw open his armoire, rummaging
through his clothes. Yes, there was just what she needed here—even
a man’s ceremonial wig. She picked up a shirt, held it to her
breasts, and turned to the mirror.

A vision filled her head of a mass of shadowy
figures surging to their feet beyond the footlights as she yanked
off her wig. She’d fooled them all, she thought, stripping off her
feminine clothes. Why couldn’t she do so again?

The gaggle of taverns in Shantytown was
little more than a ragged collection of open huts, fashioned from
gayak wood with woven latanier leaves forming roofs in case of
rain. There were no walls, no hidden pockets of safety; just enough
wooden posts to keep the roof above their heads. Even at night it
was warm enough that enclosing partitions were deemed
unnecessary.

For Gabrielle, this meant unwanted danger.
There were only a handful of taverns, but each was within easy
spying distance of the other. Even through the rain, she could look
from one into the other and see the collection of French overseers,
British seamen, and American whalers sprawled about the rickety
tables or huddled over their grog. Already she’d been observed in
three of them, asking questions she hoped would lead her to
Rodrigo.

It was raining again. She entered the fourth
tavern, shaking off the warm water, altering her walk, her stance,
the slant of her eye to better fill Hastings’s clothes. It was
stifling in the suit and cloak, the rain increasing the muggy heat
instead of alleviating it. The boots were too big, in spite of the
rolled-up stockings she’d used to stuff the toes, and rainwater had
seeped in, sloshing maddeningly as she walked. She had to work
consciously not to limp or drag them unnaturally. Not for a moment
could she forget her role. To be discovered as a woman was
dangerous from any standpoint. These men were rough, accustomed to
living a thousand miles from the nearest law. What would they do to
a woman caught lurking in the dark bower of their midst?

Then there was Hastings. He was clever enough
to figure out her intentions. Already, he could have men searching
for her. She had to make her escape quickly, if at all. Mahé was an
island. The only way to get off it was by ship. She glanced once
again at the dhow riding the swells in the harbor and felt a curl
of nervous excitement in her belly. Small and flat-bottomed, the
vessel was perfect for her plans. Someone had to own it, and she
had to find him quickly. It might take time to convince him of her
scheme. And time was something she had precious little of to
spare.

The men looked the same here as they had in
the other establishments: mostly vagrants or men who worked the
waterfront. One or two freed slaves sat in the back, away from the
whites who disdained them. As she entered, a buxom whore eyed her
speculatively, set her tankards down on the nearest table, and
sashayed forth.

“I’ve not seen you here before,
cher,
”
she greeted in a French accent. Her dishwater hair spilled over her
shoulders, her fleshy hips moved toward Gabrielle’s. If she didn’t
stop her, the whore would get too close and uncover secrets that
were better left undisclosed.

Thinking fast, Gabrielle took the whore’s
chin in her fist and with a flick of her wrist, shoved her back
like an arrogant rogue. “You move too fast, woman,” she said with
her best masculine swagger. “I attend to business first. Pleasure
comes with the dawn.”

The whore licked her lips and ran her eyes
along the gentleman’s frame. “Then I’ll hope for a speedy
night.”

Inwardly, Gabrielle laughed, feeling warmed
by the lack of suspicion in the whore’s eyes. So far, her deception
had played perfectly. Still, it was dangerous to remain. All the
whore had to do was slip up behind her and run her hands along what
she assumed was the gentleman’s chest, and she’d come in startled
contact with Gabrielle’s bound breasts. It wasn’t a chance she
relished taking.

She moved from her, strutting as best she
could about the sandy floor strewn with dried palm leaves, making
sure her back was never turned to the whore, keeping one eye on her
as she surveyed the men.

“Who among you lads owns that dhow out in the
harbor?” she asked, as she had in the last three taverns.

The activity went on as before. Some spoke
French in quiet tones. Two Americans were flipping coins to see who
had first call with the whore. She felt the time ticking away as
the rain beat against the leafy roof and spattered in the sand
outside. Another false start. She’d have to look elsewhere, yet she
was running out of taverns. It was possible the owner was safe in
his bed, and she’d never find him.

Then she heard a small voice. “I have that
honor.”

She looked around but couldn’t spot the one
who’d spoken. Had she imagined it?

There was a rustle from one of the tables and
a man half stood, wavering just a bit. He was short with a balding
head and florid face. As she approached, she could smell the fumes
of liquor as if he’d blasted them her way.

“That’s your dhow?” she asked again, hoping
she’d heard wrong. This man, although English, looked neither
sturdy nor sober enough to navigate his way so far as the next
tavern, much less the impregnable reaches of Rodrigo’s
hideaway.

“She is.”

“And a fine one she is at that,” she
complimented him, although her knowledge of such things was
decidedly limited. All she knew was a smaller boat had a better
chance of navigating the dangerous reefs she’d have to sail through
in order to find Cullen.

“Thank you, mate. Have a drink fer yer
pains.”

Gabrielle sat down and accepted the tankard
of strong brew the whore slapped before her. She gave the whore a
wink and a pat and sent her safely on her way.

“What do you do with such a fine skiff?” she
asked the seaman.

“Oh, mostly ferry back and forth amongst the
islands.” He paused to gulp his drink, spilling suds down his chin.
These he wiped away with his shirtsleeve. “Mostly transporting
goods. You ain’t drinking.”

She took a sip, grasping the tankard by its
bowl, the way the other men did.

How best to handle this? she wondered. Appeal
to his masculine pride.

“Well, as I said, it’s a fine-enough-looking
boat, but I don’t reckon she’d hold up on longer voyages.”

The skipper raised himself up in a show of
outraged dignity. “I’ll have you know, laddy, I’ve been to the
outer islands and back with this beauty with nary a scratch on
her.”

“Ah. Then you must be a navigator of
exceptional skill.”

He shrugged. “Jonah Fitch does all right,
that he does.” He peered at her then, as if suddenly realizing the
man before him was asking a goodly number of questions. “Say, now.
Don’t know as we’ve seen the likes of you in these parts before,”
he said, leaning closer so his breath singed the inner flesh of her
nostrils.

“I came in on that ship that was attacked by
that pirate.”

“Oh. Bad business, that.”

“Indeed. I’ve a mind for some solitude after
such an ordeal.”

“There’s solitude aplenty in these parts,”
the man offered.

“I had in mind more solitude than I’ve found
on this island. Some place where a man can nurse his shattered
pride.”

The blur seemed to recede from the seaman’s
eyes. “What did you have in mind, laddy?”

This was it. She could succeed or fail all in
the next minute. “Ever hear of an island named D’Arros?” she asked
carefully.

A nearby Frenchman, overhearing, leaned
across their table and said, “D’Arros. This place, she is way out
in the Amirantes. Dangerous waters,
monsieur.
”

“Don’t I know that?” Fitch snapped, shoving
the Frenchman aside. “Get on with you.” When the interloper had
left, he turned back to Gabrielle with a noticeably shrewder eye
and lowered his voice. “I know where it is, all right. I’ve been by
there, many a year ago. But there’s talk now about them Amirantes.
Talk that ain’t exactly to my liking.”

She tensed. “What sort of talk?”

“Some say the pirate Soro haunts those
waters.”

Either he was onto her scheme, or was
dickering for more money. She leaned over in a conspiratorial way,
coarsening her accent. “Let’s hope not. It’d be just me bloody luck
to run into him again, what with this recent encounter. I don’t
reckon a chap could be that unlucky twice in the same lifetime, do
you?”