Captive Secrets (10 page)

It wasn't until the galley cook served up a dessert of thick-crusted, greasy apple pie that the captain spoke about Fury's request. “They agreed,” he said gruffly.

“When?” Fury asked, suddenly nervous.

“They're waiting topside for you now. Mind you they play for blood; it's more than sport with them.”

“Thank you, Captain, I know it wasn't easy for you to . . . coerce the crew.”

Diaz leaned back on his chair, a cigar clamped firmly between his teeth, watching as his slim young charge left the table to do battle with his band of sea serpents. He wasn't sure whom he pitied more—the girl or the men.

A purse of coins in her hand, Fury tripped over to the sterncastle and motioned to the men that she was ready to play. She fought the laughter bubbling in her throat at the sight of them. Their hair was combed but still wet, their beards trimmed, and they wore clean shirts. To a man, they looked embarrassed and uncomfortable.

Fury gathered up her skirts before she settled on her haunches the way the men did. She folded her hands primly in front of her. “Gentlemen, if you will explain the fine points of this game to me, I think we can be under way,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Two hours later Fury looked down at the pile of coins next to her. Clearly she was the evening's winner. “However did this happen?” she asked innocently.

“I thought you said you never did this before,” grumbled Basil, the second mate.

“Makes no difference, mate,” Tobias said gruffly. “She won it fair and square and wiped us out.”

“And to show you that I am fair and a good sport, I'm going to give you all a chance to win it back.” Fury smiled sweetly. “Now, I'm going to divide this money into even stacks, and I'll cut the cards with each of you, winner takes the pile. Is that agreeable with you?” Slowly, reluctantly, the men nodded and gathered around her. “Good. All right, then”—she held out the pack of cards—“who wants to go first?” -

Suddenly a brisk wind whipped across the deck, and a clap of thunder rumbled ominously in the distance.

“Let's make short work of this, mates,” Tobias said, rising and brushing off his leggings. “We're going to have a downpour any second now.”

Four minutes later Fury walked away with her three original coins in her hand. “Weather permitting, I'd be more than pleased to join you tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder. “Thank you all for being so kind to me.”

The crew stared at one another, their mouths hanging open. “She's better than any of us,” growled Esteban, the cook.

“I never saw a lady spit on the dice before. In fact, I never saw a lady
roll
dice before,” Basil said in awe.

“She didn't cheat, either. I watched her like a hawk,” Javier, the bosun, said sourly.

Tobias grinned. “At least she gave us a chance to win our money back. I for one like the lady, and I think we all enjoyed the evening whether we admit it or not. C'mon, now, lads. It's time to secure the ship for the squall.”

The storm, when it finally hit, lasted a full five hours. Not until the sea was calm again, lapping against the sides of the ship with rhythmic familiarity, did Fury relax enough to fall into an uneasy sleep punctuated by vague images of two black shapes riding a tall man's shoulders.

 

The following morning, when Fury knelt by her bunk, the prayers she couldn't remember came easily to her lips. She prayed aloud until her voice grew hoarse and her knees protested. She had so much to make up for, so many prayers to be said. Unbidden, a prayer for Luis Domingo tumbled from her lips. Heat spiraled up from the core of her being and settled on her cheeks. She said a rosary and then another for her wicked thoughts, and still they stayed with her.

She was angry now, with herself and with her God, who kept testing her over and over. Well, she'd had enough!

Fury washed and dressed and realized that she'd had nothing to eat, but she wasn't hungry. She'd walk along the deck and soak up the warm sun. Perhaps she'd read or write a little in the journal she'd kept since childhood. When her mother had given it to her many years before she'd whispered, “For your secret thoughts, darling.” She'd been afraid to write down her secret thoughts, though, for fear her inquisitive brothers would somehow find the journal and mock her.

The crew nodded to her amiably as she strolled along the deck. Fury sighed as she settled herself on a caned lounge with her book. Today was going to be like all the other days—slow-moving and boring.

The following days crept by on tortoise legs and then swept into weeks, and Fury's routine was always the same: she ate, she slept, and she prayed—or tried to pray—and at night she gambled with the crew. At best it was a monotonous and predictable business, and she realized she hated it. Her devotions were more sporadic now, less intense, and she constantly questioned her God. Daily she prayed for a sign that she was doing the right thing. At first she felt dismayed when her prayers went unanswered, and then she grew angry and demanding, even to the point of threatening to abandon her vocation altogether.

At some point—she wasn't sure exactly when—the notion struck her that she was being tested not by God, but by herself. The realization left her so unnerved that she forced herself one morning to sit down with her journal and make two lists—one of everything she loved and was giving up and a second of everything she would gain once she entered the convent. Even after several hours' concentration, her second list was pitifully short; still she clung stubbornly to the conviction that, despite her threats, she was meant for a life devoted to God. “I'm going into the convent,” she declared fiercely, “and that's all there is to it!”

Suddenly the sun was blotted out overhead. Fury raised her eyes, and for a moment her heart stopped when she realized what she was seeing. She ran to the rail and shouted, “Here!
Here!”
Her arms flailed in the air as she cried out, bringing Tobias running to her side. “It's Gaspar and Pilar! I can't believe it! They've found me!”

The weary hawks worked the wind, racing down, then up, literally hanging in the warm breeze. Fury's heart pounded in her chest as the majestic birds made one final circle and then sailed gracefully to the deck.

Tears streamed down Fury's cheeks as she reached out to stroke “her beauties,” as she called them. Pilar lifted one huge wing in greeting. Gaspar, his glittering eyes triumphant, leaned toward his mistress and laid his head against her cheek.

“I knew you would come, I felt it in my heart,” she whispered. “Oh, I'm so glad you're here—I've missed you terribly!”

She turned to Tobias, smiling at him through her tears. “They're exhausted, and probably haven't eaten for ever so long. They need food and a basket—wide, but not deep. Please fetch them for me,” she said.

Warily the captain came up behind her. “I see it, but I don't believe it. Your father told me about these birds-killers, aren't they?”

Fury laughed. “Nonsense. Wild hawks, perhaps, but not killers, these two. I raised both of them from the time they were mere fledglings. They're completely loyal to me. As long as I'm not threatened in any way, they'll remain quite calm. Can you imagine, flying all this way! You look surprised, Captain Diaz.” Fury laughed. “I can tell you exactly how they got here. They can fly six to eight hours straight. They roosted in ships, and when possible they probably flew along the coast, stopping in ports like . . . like people!” She gurgled with laughter. “Who cares how they did it? They did it, and they're here safe and sound. Not to mention exhausted.” She crooned softly to the weary birds, stroking their sleek backs. She swallowed against the lump in her throat when she noticed how many feathers both hawks had lost. She thought her heart would burst with love for the birds.

Diaz watched as Fury stroked the hawks' silky backs, her delight and pleasure in them evident on her face. It was the happiest he'd seen her since she boarded the
Queen.
But he didn't care what reassurances she made; these were hawks, and hawks were killers. He wanted no part of them.

“I cannot conceive how you flew all this way and actually found me,” Fury whispered to the exhausted birds. “I know I'll never understand, but I thank you for coming.” Tears blurred her vision as Gaspar and Pilar leaned forward to touch her cheeks with their beaks. She yowled her pleasure then, sobs racking her body. The hawks looked at each other. They'd never heard these sounds before. They rustled their wings, stretching them to cover the girl's head and shoulders.

Tobias, on his way back with the basket in hand, stopped dead in his tracks at this display of devotion from two birds of prey. He inched forward cautiously, then set down the basket and slid it with his foot toward the rail. In his other hand he held a bucket of salt pork. With the hawks' glittering eyes on him every second, he lowered it to the deck, and then without a word withdrew as quickly as he could, heading for the crew's quarters and the keg of rum the men had stowed away there.

Fury dried her eyes and reached for the basket. When she spoke, her voice was soft, a comforting caress. “We have only two more weeks before we reach land. Until then you can rest, both of you.” She pointed to the mizzenmast and held out the basket to Pilar, who clasped it with her talons.

Pilar turned into the breeze and with barely a ruffle of her wings, the stately bird sailed upward on the gentle breeze. Gaspar and Fury watched until the basket was secure in the rigging. The moment Pilar's head disappeared, Gaspar swooped downward and with one talon lifted the bucket of meat. His wings fanned as he, too, caught the breeze, and he swooped upward. Fury clapped her hands in delight. “Rest, you've earned it,” she called up to them in a lilting voice.

Fury's faith, which had slowly been deserting her since her journey began, was now restored. She clasped her hands reverently and murmured, “You sent them, I know You did. Forgive me, God, for doubting. Forgive my doubts.”

She gave no thought to the fact that when she entered the convent, the hawks would have to leave her . . . once and for all.

 

The
Java Queen
was three days away from the Port of Java when a storm lashed across the ocean. It was the worst of his career, Captain Diaz declared worriedly as he ordered Fury below decks until the faltering storm had subsided. “If it ever does,” he added mournfully.

“I have to get Gaspar and Pilar,” Fury cried, running forward to the rail. “They'll die up there with no protection!”

Diaz grabbed her arm. “I'm
ordering
you below, Miss Fury.
Now!”
He spun around and bellowed for his second mate. “Basil, take this girl below decks and lock her door!”

The moment Basil reached out for Fury's arms, two black shapes swooped across the quarterdeck, screeching their disapproval. Fury wrenched free of Basil's hold and fell to her knees in the driving rain. “Go below!” she screamed to the birds. “I'll try to follow you.”

Gaspar flew ahead of her, Pilar at her back, her powerful wings urging the frightened girl on toward safety. At the top of the ladder Fury turned to look behind her, but all she could see was the blackness of Pilar's outfanned wings. Gaspar was above her, she could sense his presence. Choking and sputtering, she slid down the ladder and landed flat on her back. Gaspar fluttered down the hold to her side, and Pilar, talons curled beneath her, joined him.

Amid the muted howl of wind and water, Fury struggled to a half-sitting position, her eyes on Gaspar. Twice she tried to get on her feet, but Pilar's wing tips held her down. “Hawhawhaw,” she screeched.

Suddenly the deafening sounds of the storm above decks lessened and Gaspar was alongside Pilar. Fury watched as Pilar dropped her wings to wipe the rain from Gaspar's drenched feathers.

On her hands and knees Fury crawled to her cabin, the hawks urging her forward.

Safe in her cabin, she sat on the edge of her bunk, the hawks perched on the mahogany footboard, their gleaming eyes finally at rest.

Above decks the sea boiled and the heavens split as Captain Diaz steered the galleon under her close-reefed sails. He kept her bow pointed as near into the wind as possible, but never dead into the eye of the storm. Gigantic waves, whipped by the gale into curly white combers, rolled continuously from the west. Spindrift lashed out with unrelenting fury, stinging his face as he fought the wheel.

The maelstrom demanded his full concentration. Powerful seafaring hands, rough and callused, gripped the stout wheel. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark, spectral shapes of clouds scudding across the sky. This rain could kill him, he knew, drive him overboard, beat the strength from his body. He'd once heard Regan van der Rhys liken the rain to a vampire draining a man's vitality bit by bit until he could no longer stand erect. Already the savage torrent was whipping up his nostrils and down his throat, choking off his air supply, pounding him to nothingness. The bastard wind was going to drive the
Queen
to destruction if he didn't regain his strength and do something.

Diaz realized something in that moment of fear. It wasn't the storm that frightened him out of his wits, but the thought of what Regan van der Rhys would do to him if anything happened to his daughter.

Fearing the worst, Diaz grappled with a length of sailcloth to lash himself to the wheel, but it was ripped from his numb hands by a violent breaker.

Minutes seemed hours and hours seemed eternities as the storm raged. Diaz was blinded by the brutal downpour but kept to his heading by sheer instinct. Suddenly a crashing breaker and a yowling cannon of wind exploded behind him. He had no time to think or pray as he was carried away, crashing and sliding in the unholy cataclysm. No man heard his screams as he was swept over the side.