Pirate Code (20 page)

Seven

Rain was angry. At herself, at her mother, at everyone. She had been with Jesamiah Acorne all night, playing with his hair, exploring his body. Caressing him, loving him; her delicate touch, to him, feeling like a light shower of rain.

She had put the dream into his head by whispering into his ear; had made him believe he had seen the Witch Woman bedding with that Dutchman.

~ He will turn to me, now. Now he thinks he does not have her, he will want me. ~

She had been wrong. He was totally ignoring her.

And now he was with this other woman, the red haired, pretty, human woman.

Rain had screamed and shouted and demanded that he pay attention to her, made love to her. Only he had pretended not to hear or see her. He did not love her at all! No one loved her! She may as well give him to her mother!

But she was curious.

~ Why do you want him, Mother? You have collected the bones and the souls of many who have entered the eternity of your realm. Why do you want this Jesamiah Acorne? ~

~ He is of the sea. I want him because he is of the sea. ~ Tethys crooned as she lay languid, waiting and watching from the bottom of her murked depths. ~ I was there when he was begun, and I was there when he was born. I watched as his human father planted the seed within his mother’s womb. I shared the love with which he was made and I wanted him, even then, I wanted him as my own son. ~

Rain did not hear, did not bother to listen. She did not care for her mother. Why should she? Her mother had no care for her! She ran off over the sea, weeping her tears of rain.

~ Maybe I will let you have him, ~ she sobbed. ~ Maybe I will give him back to the Witch Woman. Or maybe I will let that one with the red hair, the green eyes and the lies, have him. ~

Tethys subsided lower into the depths and was silent. In the mud, among the clutter of the debris of wrecked ships, fish and human bones, rotting flesh and shredding skin, she settled, lay still. Unmoving, unfeeling.

She could wait.

For a little longer she could wait for the babe who had been born within her embrace. Could wait for the boy who had become a beautiful man. She was immortal; time was meaningless to her. She could wait for him to return to where he had been born, to where he belonged, to the sea.

She could wait.

Eight

The carriage ride was short, a mere twenty minutes along the coast to an expensive and tasteful house built on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Jesamiah had yet to meet this Señor Louis Escudero. The old gentleman had been upstairs when they arrived, and then Jesamiah had been too busy bathing, shaving, changing into clean clothes that he guessed had belonged to the lady’s dead husband, and wolfing down a meal that would have done the King of Spain himself proud.

Finishing the last kidney, Jesamiah leant back in his chair, folded his hands over his belly and belched loudly. Had the decency to grin and apologise. “My pardon Ma’am.”

Señora Escudero flicked him a mildly reproachful glance and poured coffee. “I take it the food was to your satisfaction?”

Sitting here in this fine house was infinitely more preferable than a prison cell, even if the windows were being rattled by a rainstorm that would rival Noah’s flood. By comparison, everything at this moment seemed satisfactory.

Leaving the table, the gold-rimmed china coffee cup in his hand, Jesamiah went to peer out at the tempest. The sea below the sheer drop, not a few yards beyond the walls of the house, was spuming foam over the rocks and up the cliff face. How was
Sea Witch
faring? Was she battling with this wind somewhere?

He sipped at the hot, black, sweet, coffee. Signing those papers before he had been permitted to leave the Tower had galled. They were his promise to not attempt an escape. That was a nonsense. Did they seriously think pieces of paper would hold him should he choose to go? An old man and a woman as his jailers – oh he was not disillusioned, he was a prisoner here, a bullet would be put in his back if he tried to leave. Which, he figured, the Governor was going to be disappointed about; Jesamiah had every intention of staying put. It was raining outside, there was good food, comfort and a very pretty woman inside. He was not stupid. Besides, what else did he have to do?

The Señora had witnessed his agreement on behalf of her father-in- law and Jesamiah had read her full Spanish name over her shoulder as she had signed.

“Francesca? Pretty name.”

“Only Don Damian calls me that. My friends and my family call me ‘Cesca.”

He had quietly digested the information, had not, yet, found the gall to assume she included him as a friend. Had signed his pledge against the surety of his ship. If he escaped, when the
Sea Witch
came back into harbour she would be fired upon and sunk.

“Don Damian,” Señora Escudero had said at his side, as he had disdainfully read the conditions, “does not expect your ship to return. He believes your men have abandoned you.”

“Then there ain’t much point in me signing is there?” he had answered. “But since she will return…” and he had put his signature with a flourish:

Jesamiah Acorne. Cpt.

His cutlass and pistol had been waiting for him in the carriage, his weapons returned as part of the honourable estate of parole. His ribbons he had kept, del Gardo not realising their usefulness, although he had disposed of them while wallowing in the wooden tub of hot water provided for him in the guest quarters upstairs. They were ragged and soiled; he would have to get some new ones from somewhere. Standing at the window, his fingers automatically went to fiddle with them, was frustrated to find them not there, twirled a strand of hair around his finger instead.

There was more going on here than he was being told, but so what? His belly was full and ‘Cesca was one of the prettiest women he had seen in a long while. Add to that, there was a clean-lined two-masted brig moored to a small jetty at the bottom of the cliff.

The
Kismet
. He could read the name painted along her stern.
Kismet
. Fate. Jesamiah did not believe in fate, he preferred to look after his own destiny.

Watching him, ‘Cesca saw how his eyes coveted the vessel; assessed correctly that the call of the ocean would always shout the louder in his ears above any other voice. Yet… yet she had heard that Captain Jesamiah Acorne was a man who enjoyed his women. Any woman who could anchor his affection would be one of exceptional quality. Or who possessed a high talent in seduction. Did Don Damian intend her to sleep with this pirate? She assumed so, although the malicious bastard never usually cared to share his possessions, not unless he had an opportunity to watch. She shuddered. She had been made to endure that humiliation already. Never again. She would kill herself before being passed around like a parcel to his evil friends a second time.

Unconsciously she touched her fingers to her lips. The pirate’s kiss had been pleasant, erotic. The only other man who had kissed her like that had been her husband.

“You are English?” Jesamiah asked, turning away from the window to smile at her. “Tell me, what is a beautiful English woman doing here in Hispaniola?” He wanted to add, what is a beautiful English woman doing in Don Damian’s bed but thought better of it. He would ask later, when he had worked out the rules of the game that he was unintentionally involved in playing.

“I am a Catholic. Despite the claim that England is now tolerant of us, I found I was more comfortable among those who share my papist belief in the Christ.”

“That still does not explain how you come to be here.”

She returned his smile, that sparkle in her green eyes so alluring. “It is no great secret.” She laughed, the sound trilling, melodic, delightful. “I met a man and fell in love with him. He happened to live here. As his wife, I naturally came with him.”

Jesamiah raised one eyebrow, the question plain.

“I was a travelling actress. I met my husband when we were in Cadiz, performing one of Master Shakespeare’s romantic plays.”

“And now?”

Head high, she matched his look eye to eye. Knew exactly what he was asking. “And now I am a widow and summoned to entertain Don Damian del Gardo whenever he wants me. I am a good actress. I pretend I am honoured by his attention.”

Jesamiah sipped his coffee, shifted his glance to the
Kismet
. “You could refuse him.”

“No one refuses Don Damian del Gardo and lives to see another dawn,
Capitán
Acorne,” a voice responded gruffly in passable English.

Both Jesamiah and ‘Cesca swung around to see Señor Escudero entering the room, walking slowly, relying on the support of his cane and a servant’s arm.

Jesamiah swallowed an automatic reaction of revulsion, feeling his guts leap from his stomach into his throat. The man’s face was hideous, the skin scarred and puckered on the left side and he had only one eye, the other was a shrivelled, empty socket. His feet were twisted and bent, his hands gnarled, the nails missing from several fingers.

Immediately, ‘Cesca hurried to help him into a chair; from her attentiveness she was undeniably fond of him.

“I see my appearance shocks you
Capitán
Acorne. It shocks many people, save for those who did this to me.”

“Forgive me, I did not intend to insult you,
Señor
.”

Louis Escudero flapped a misshapen hand in dismissal. “You are probably wondering why del Gardo has seen fit to release you into my care. You are here because he knows for certain neither I nor my beautiful daughter-in-law will go against him.” He touched his hand to his face. “Once already he has had me tortured, and discovered I had nothing to tell. And now he abuses ‘Cesca and holds her son to ransom. If we betray del Gardo,
Capitán
, my grandson will be killed in the same manner as was his father. We have had enough pain and misery, we will risk no more. You, therefore, will be adequately supervised while in our care.”

Something Jennings had told him tugged vaguely at Jesamiah’s mind, but he could not remember it. He said instead, “And if I happen to let some useful information slip, then maybe you can bargain with the bastard to leave your family alone?”

Señor Escudero nodded congenially. “’Cesca said you were an intelligent man. I see she was right.”

Rallying a more relaxed atmosphere, the old man asked for coffee, and then said, “So,
Capitán
, while you are under our jurisdiction, shall we attempt to at least make an appearance at friendship? I had great respect for your father.”

“My father?” Jesamiah’s head shot up.

“You are the son of Charles St Croix, are you not?”

Relaxing, Jesamiah shook his head, he had been worried there for a moment. “Alas,
Señor
, you are mistaken, I am not. His name was Mereno.”

Escudero laughed, not mocking but clearly entertained. “And before he took that name he used the alias of Charles Cross. You surely know the French for Cross?”

Croix
.

Jesamiah poked the inside of his cheek with his tongue. Croix. Charles St Croix. So that was it, the name he had not known.

From politeness Señor Escudero had remained speaking in English; “You are much like him, although you have your mother’s dark eyes.”

Jesamiah’s attention had wandered to the
Kismet
again but with a gasp leaving his lips he focussed fully on the Señor. “You knew my mother?”

He was a grown man, his mother had been dead these many years, so why this absurd lurch of grief dancing a jig in his innards at an unexpected reminder of her? He missed her. Missed her sweet singing voice, her giggling laughter – even missed her scolding tongue that could rattle off a dozen reprimands in the one breath. Missed her as he was missing Tiola. Ah no, he was missing Tiola more. A mother was the one you were born to, you loved her out of respect and duty. A wife? A wife was the woman you chose to be with for the rest of your life. Except Tiola was not his wife, and now, never would be. He swallowed hard, thrust the thought aside.

“Charles brought your mother to this house every year; Don Damian never knew, for he was a master of disguise, your father.” Escudero chuckled, then added with regret, “I was sorry to lose them as friends, they were good people. Your father was a good man.”

“Not according to del Gardo!” Jesamiah snorted, the pain of bitter memories stabbing at him. Every year when his father had prepared to make sail in one or another of the estate’s ships, he had asked where Mama and Papa were going; had begged to be taken with them, not left behind. And always he had received the same answer; “To somewhere that is not suitable for small boys. Your brother will take care of you.”

Oh aye, Phillipe had taken care of him. He still bore the physical and mental scars to show how much care he had taken. Phillipe; his father’s firstborn, who had so hated Jesamiah’s mother that he had taken his spite out on her child.

Jesamiah’s lips drew back in a savage snarl, “You must have known his first wife as well, then. Was my half brother like my father too? Did he also have his mother’s eyes?” He saw no reason to mask the hatred.

The old man frowned. “Was? You use the past tense.”

“Phillipe is dead. I had occasion to kill him before he killed me.”

Nodding slowly, Señor Escudero digested the information; the implications. “The boy never came with them, so I would not know if he was alike his mother or father. You killed him? May I ask why?”

“Aye, I killed him and no, you may not ask why.“ As an afterthought Jesamiah added, “All you need to know is that he was a bastard.”

The old man nodded slowly. “As was his father.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Jesamiah answered quickly. “Phillipe was born in wedlock. As for Papa, I have always guessed he was born illegitimate; why else would he not use his real name. St Croix you say? I have never heard of it until today.” He attempted a smile, although he was finding this stirring of emotions difficult. “Phillipe was a bastard in the other sense of the word, however.”

‘Cesca was standing near him, she heard the pain in his voice. Compassionate, she reached out, laid her hand on his arm.

A renewed burst of rain stuttered at the window; the catch must have been loose for suddenly it flew open. Cold rain and a swirl of wind rushed in, the curtains crazily lifting, items rattled, the tablecloth billowed upward, knocking over a jug of fruit juice and Jesamiah’s empty cup. Señor Escudero cried out, ‘Cesca ran to help Jesamiah slam the casement shut, his face, hair and front of his shirt and waistcoat were wet. She did not hear the wild cry of frustration, the scream of annoyance as the window slammed; Jesamiah did, but he told himself it was nothing more than the sound of the wind. And the face he had seen at the window, before it had burst open, had been his unease calling up fanciful notions.

He failed to notice the puddle in the shape of a woman’s footprint on the tiled floor. Had he done so perhaps he would have questioned his sanity.

“Tell me,” he asked Señor Escudero, “do you know of a Captain James Wickham?” The thing Jennings had said had at last come into his mind. It had been about del Gardo and Wickham’s mother; a little boy watching her distress after being used. Abused. Had Señora Wickham also gone to del Gardo because, like ‘Cesca, he had threatened the life of her child? If so was it any wonder Wickham had wanted to destroy him.

“Diego? Of course. Everyone who appreciates a fine brandy knew him.”

Turning to look at the old man, his head cocked on one side, Jesamiah queried, “Then you knew he was a smuggler? Did you know him as anything else?”

‘Cesca answered for her father-in-law. “Was he anything else? We assumed he was a privateer. Did he have family? It is a sad thing for a man of the sea to drown.”

She had answered too easily and Jesamiah had the sudden distinct impression that she knew more about James Wickham than he did. Very casually he stated; “I believe he knew Chesham.”

“Chesham?” Her brows furrowed, then she understood. “Oh, you mean that poor man in your cell? Forgive me, Captain, maybe he did, but how would we know if they were acquainted? And since both are dead, what does it matter?”

After a pause, Señor Escudero passed a slight chuckle, “When you have your ship returned,
Capitán
, maybe you could find me an alternative source for my brandy? I have very little left. Diego’s talents will be sorely missed along this coast.”