The Siren's Song (19 page)

Gilly sucked in a breath and yanked free of him.

He’d gone too far again. Instantly, he was sorry. Truths were sometimes better delivered delicately. An art he desperately lacked. He placed a hand on her face, an apologetic gesture she did not appreciate. She pulled away and looked to him with a crushing amount of grief and bitterness.

“Don’t you think I knew he didn’t love me? Don’t you think I knew I killed my child for him? Oh no, I didn’t know at the time. No. I was so ignorant, so needy of him.” She sank to the bed, covering her face with her hands before continuing. “One night, I began bleeding. I was terrified, but Hyde, he couldn’t be bothered. He’d been invited to a well-breeched rout. He told me to rest while he collected a full purse at the card game.”

Drake could only imagine the fear and emptiness she must have endured. That alone was enough to put the cad on a rack.

“I sought out a midwife on the other side of town. The old woman said I was fortunate the baby died. If it had lived, the baby would have been born deformed, sickly, an abomination.”

By the way Gilly shook her head, Drake knew that Gilly wouldn’t have cared in what state the baby was born. She’d have nurtured and cared for it with all the love a mother could give. Wouldn’t she let him hold her?

“Shall we talk of guilt?” Her gaze shot up to pin him in place. “I am most deserving of it. I killed my babe. By God, I killed my babe. I wish with all my soul I could take it back. I wish I would have been stronger.”

They were a lot alike, he and Gilly, languishing in self-condemnation and blame. Aye, she had her demons.

“You are a victim, Gilly. Not a monster.”

She stood, a cynical stitch in her brow as she looked to the door. Foolish if she thought he’d let her run away now. Drake didn’t want Gilly to hide from him anymore. With no place to go, she moved to the window. Staring into the outside world would have to be harborage enough.

Beyond her, out the window and past the avenue, the bay glittered. Ships docked along the quay, but his sights fell upon the
Rissa
with her sails furled. Mighty masts shorn of her canvas made her appear less formidable, not the infamous ship of wicked pirates. He sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I used you, Gilly. I used you for my own gain. And I’ve hurt you. I am no different than Hyde.”

Gilly faced him, stunned, wiping away the tears that trailed down her cheeks. His admission, not sparing her more pain, would be the death of him.

“For that.” He drubbed his fist against his heart. “I want you to hate me as much as I hate myself.” She must give him the hate he was entitled to and renew his self-destructive mask.

“You mentioned I play with innocent people’s lives,” he continued. “’Tis true. And should my crew ever know the truth about the wrecks, I would welcome their mutiny, welcome the blade meant to cleave out my heart. But understand this, I do not send innocents to their deaths. No one has ever died by my heinous trapping. My lantern is set out on nights of calm seas and often when I know of vessels choking with wealth nearby. It takes a lot of money to maintain autonomy for a brotherhood who claims no country as his own. Equally, to protect those who are sympathetic to our cause. There are many, and they are paid handsomely.”

Why were these confessions so damned hard? Why did the walls feel like they were closing in? He swiped at his damp forehead.

She waited, waited for him to say more. And more he had to say. “I would never have lured the
Rowena
had I’d known there’d be a sudden storm. Nor had I known you were on board. I would never have brought harm to someone so beautiful, so innocent.”

Drake reached to touch her cheek. She ever-so-slightly tensed, and he let his hand drop away. He cleared his throat and lowered his head.

“I learned long ago honest work never goes unpunished. A man can work long, hard days to feed his family, be God-fearing, abide the laws placed upon him, and pay his levies. These things are never enough. Someone always wants more and they will squeeze it from him until he has given them his last breath. Then they take it from his loved ones.” A bitter taste coated his tongue. How he hated bureaucracy. “Why? So a politician can get fat off the sweat of peasants, farmers and shop keepers? So he might dress in the finest fashions, eat delicacies from around the world, lounge in furnishings fit for kings and prance around as if a glorified idol?”

Heat flooded his face. He must keep his anger in check.

“I’ve no desire to live an honest life so that a man cloaked in politics can steal from me. I take advantage of opportunity and I’m a mercenary. I follow where the money takes me. Sometimes, opportunity needs coercion. I’ll not apologize for making my unprincipled means. ’Tis better to come about my intangibles perfidiously than to be an exploited mule.”

His reasoning was not acceptable by any means, yet he wanted her to know why he chose his occupation. He liked that word—
occupation.
Why he wanted her to understand baffled him, but it was important she did. Even if she didn’t agree.

“How does that make you different than a corrupt governor?”

“I don’t need to live like a king, but each day I do live will be spent of my own will, free from domination, and free from the shackles of caring too much.”

“Caring too much about oppression, or do you speak of personal matters?” She gave him the full effect of her pale eyes. His knees could have buckled under their childlike sincerity. He willed himself to not look away.

“Both.” He sank down into a chair. Memories crept out of the recesses in his mind. Where was his damned liquor to chase them back into the darkness? He rested his fist against his mouth, irritated.

The angel stood before him, wreathed in sunbeams, and waiting patiently.

“My father, a modest farmer, worked his fingers to the bone. My sister, brother-in-law and I worked the fields with him, while my mother tended the cows, mended the clothes and prepared meals. Everything we grew was stripped from us to fuel the demand of commerce in the harbor.”

Drake fastened on images of his family. His father laughing, giving his only son a hand up from the ground after he had spooked the horse pulling the plough and had fallen. Mama, covered in flour, humming by the cooking fire. Leopoldo, Giana’s new husband, affectionately rubbing her growing belly. Mama’s tears as the tax collector took the last cow. The hurt in Father’s eyes as he sent Drake to scrounge for food. How Drake wanted to stay and help Leopoldo pull the plough. Drake wished desperately he could have done more.

“My father gladly received the pittance he was given for the betterment of Havana. A strong community is built by a strong foundation, he would say. Havana was growing and he was proud to be a part of that foundation. Governor de Barca became greedy and wanted more colonial control with the harbor strengthened as a key Spanish port. He increased taxations so there was nothing left after the tax collector visited. My family struggled to put food on the table, and with my sister nearing the end of her pregnancy, there was cause for concern. Hope was all we had.

“Governor de Barca, his military commander Mancho Diaz and two soldiers visited farmers who’d fallen behind paying levies, including my father’s. If he could not pay, de Barca considered our land forfeited. De Barca began to ride off, but my father grabbed his horse’s bridle, begging for more time, for mercy. De Barca yelled he was being attacked.”

Sweat beaded on his brow, as if he stood under the baking sun back home all those years ago bearing the stifling August heat. Drake remembered clearly de Barca’s cold sneer as if his father were rotten filth, and how he calmly ordered Machete to subdue the traitors who had turned against their country.

“Machete rode up behind my father and struck him down. My mother, wailing, rushed to his side, but Machete wheeled his horse around and struck her down, as well. The governor never looked back as he spurred his mare ahead.”

The screaming, the cries, they pulsed in his ears. He raked his hands across his ears and through his hair. Son of a bitch, the memories unfolded with clarity. A vague silhouette moving within his vision dropped on the bed across from him. He tried to focus on Gilly, but the nightmare was too vivid.

“The soldiers grabbed Giana and Leopoldo. But I, I rushed Machete and pulled him from his horse. At fifteen, I was a lanky beanrake, no match for a larger man like Machete. Machete smashed his sword’s handle into my face and beat me until I could hardly move. As I lay on the ground, he tried to skewer me. I rolled, but was unable to avoid his blade entirely. Leopoldo wrestled away from his captive and hit the soldier holding Giana. That cost him his life with a bullet to his forehead. And Giana, my precious sister, went into hysterics. She fought, clawed and kicked. She spat at Machete, called him vile names. Somehow, she wrenched an arm free and slashed Machete across his cheek with her nails, drawing blood.”

Drake smiled. The scar of Giana’s spirit was still visible on the bastard’s face. Then his smile faded.

“I begged Machete to spare her over her continual screaming. I begged for him to kill me instead of my sister.”

What came next proved Machete had no soul. Drake licked his dry lips.

“He gored her through her belly. Her shock, her horror, it tore through me. I reached for her, dragging my body to her. Machete kicked me in my wound and I fought to keep conscious. Machete and his men rode off. I’m certain he thought I would die. I bled in the dirt, listening to hoof beats and dying sobs, until the only thing I could hear was the wind.” He paused, recalling the taste of blood in his mouth, the grit he breathed, the windmill grass swaying in the breeze. “If only I had fought harder, smarter.”

“You were just a boy.”

Drake tore his gaze from the mists of the nightmare. Tears stained Gilly’s cheeks. He lamented over how much he made her cry. He hated to see her that way. Never had he wanted to share his torment with anyone. Why did he with her, his precious songbird? She didn’t deserve to receive his pain.

“Had you done any more you would have died, too,” she said.

She was right, of course. He had told himself the same over and over. The awareness didn’t ease the guilt, but he had his ways to ease the burden.

“I will avenge their deaths,” he declared. “Then I will be free.”

“Will you? Did killing de Barca bring you closer to peace? Yes, I heard you in the church. I understood you killed him and why.”

“He had to die. Ordering my family’s deaths under false defenses made it easy for him to take our land. Machete has been harder to get to over the years. But his time has come.”

“I wonder, when you take Machete’s life if you will be the same person. Will you still be aloof and cold?”

He knew exactly what she meant. How he had treated her, how he had ravished her, was unforgivable. The guilt was beyond any other. Like a splinter beneath the surface of the skin, that particular offense ached upon his soul.

“Gilly.” He slid off his chair and knelt before her. “I have spent my whole life trying to protect women from the indulgence of depraved men. Somehow, I failed to protect you from me.” Gliding his hand into hers, he looked down to summon his courage. Odd he hadn’t trouble with his bravery before. “I never meant to hurt you, never meant to force myself upon you.”

He chanced a glance up. More tears streamed down her face and the breach in his heart widened. He didn’t think his heart was able to break, but here it was crumbling into dust. “When I am certain Machete cannot harm you, I will arrange to have you taken anyplace you desire. You will be safe, Gilly. I promise.”

Why was this so hard? He was a hellish pirate, feared throughout the Caribbean, unafraid of battle, violent temperamental seas and hanging from the gallows. He laughed in the devil’s face, daring the demon to drag him to hell. And yet he was terrified of the feelings this woman evoked. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I hope that you can forgive me.”

Her hand slipped from his. Quivering lips parted to answer him. He waited for her to vilify him, to rake him with curses for sullying her virtue. He wanted to hear how he defiled her and how she hated him for it. No, he
needed
to hear it.

A knock at the door startled her and they both shot to their feet.

“Who’s there?” Drake drew his pistol, edging to the door.

“Your spirits,
señor,
” called the voice from the other side.

Drake opened the door, pointing his gun at the young man holding a tray. The lad stiffened upon seeing the weapon. “It’s about time,” Drake mumbled. He motioned for him to put the tray on the table and take his leave.

Gilly wiped her tears and popped the cork from the bottle. The amber liquid gurgled from the neck into a metal cup. She couldn’t have her poison, so she’d drink his. He was taken aback when she handed him the cup instead.

“I have been angry with you, Thayer, so very angry. And I am still angry. But not for the reason you think.”

She looked to the wooden beams in the ceiling and chuckled. What in God’s name was there to laugh about?

“You lured me the way you have passing ships. You play with my affections and then cast me aside. I suppose I should be angry with myself for letting you. I’ll admit, ’Twas my fault for misreading your intentions. Confound it, I’m not sure what I thought to expect from a dangerous, worldly man such as the likes of you. I’ve no experience in the matter. None at all. May I? I desperately need a drink.”

He nodded, but she had already begun to pour herself a cup. Gilly swallowed the liquor in one gulp. She hissed and poured herself another.

“This brandy is watered down. We should complain to the owner. I bet he charged double for what this is worth, too. How on earth are we to enjoy this if it doesn’t burn our throats? Brandy should be strong, don’t you think? It’s going to take more than two bottles—”

She glanced up at him. His mug must’ve reflected the whirlwind of confusion he felt listening to her rattle on because she let out a long sigh.

“What I want from you, what I wanted from you that night we, um, in my cabin, I wanted you to be with me.
Me.
I acted like a hussy and I feared that I had misled you. I was scared that I would mean no more to you than a passing night of strumming. I wanted you to fall for me the way…”