Captive Secrets (13 page)

Juli began to laugh, but the sound died in her throat as two black shapes flew into the room with a wild rush of feathers. Crossing her arms over her ample breasts, she backed against the wall.

“Merciful God, what . . . !”

Fury giggled. “They won't hurt you, Juli. Believe it or not, they followed me all the way from Spain. This is Gaspar and this is Pilar. I raised them from fledglings, and now they're my friends.” She rolled up the sleeves of her wrapper to show Juli the scar on her arm. “When Gaspar was still a nestling, he was attacked by a full-grown kite. I saved him, but was badly scored in the process. It's turned out rather like my mother's scar, don't you think?”

Juli nodded, her eyes full of fear. “It's an omen. A bad omen,” she said.

Fury laughed. “No, no, it's simply a bad wound that healed. There's nothing about it that can be construed as an omen.”

The hawks were on the floor now, their talons gripping the carpet as they minced their way to the goatskin packet. Pilar's wing tips rustled as she flicked out at the shiny black boots, her eyes glittering at her reflection. Gaspar, more intent on the cutlass, moved closer. He circled Pilar and the packet twice before he was satisfied that nothing was amiss. Then, with a wild flutter of his wings, he swooped up and out of the French doors, Pilar following in the wake of the breeze he created.

Juli's hand flew to her throat. “What . . . ?”

“They're curious,” Fury said lightly, trying not to show her own unease. “Perhaps they picked up my mother's scent.”

“They—they look like devils straight out of hell!” Juli cried, crossing herself. “You aren't going to leave them here when you go to . . . Not here!”

Fury sighed and crossed to the window, peering out. “I tamed them, Juli. I truthfully don't know what they'll do when I leave. They've never had to forage for food, and they'll die if they aren't fed.”

“Please, Miss Fury, don't ask me to feed them,” Juli pleaded. “Ask anything else of me, but not that!”

“Once they get to know you, they won't hurt you,” Fury said reassuringly. “All you have to do is put their meat in a pail and leave it for them. Let's do it together while I'm here. Later, if you're still afraid, have one of the djongos do it.” She turned away from the window. “Come, let's put these things back.”

From their perch on the low stone walls outside Juli's room, Gaspar and Pilar watched as Fury helped the housekeeper replace the costume and cutlass within the protective goatskin. Gaspar's eyes glittered as the lid of the trunk was raised and then slammed shut. Pilar's eyes were on the brass handles at each end of the heavy trunk.

 

Fury slept fitfully in her mother's high, wide bed, her dreams invaded by demons with talons, disguised as mortals. When she struggled awake, darkness was still caressing the dawn, loath to unleash the soft lavender that would herald a new day.

Minutes later she entered the kitchen, washed and dressed in a gay cherry-red day gown, and found Juli at the table sipping coffee. “I gather you, too, didn't sleep well,” Fury said bluntly.

When she'd seated herself, Juli rose and stood next to the chopping block, her cup of coffee in her hands. It would never do for her to forget her place. Her tongue, however, was something else.

“Why are you up so early?” Fury asked. “You needn't worry about making breakfast for me. All I really want is coffee.”

“I'm baking for Father Sebastian,” Juli explained. “He has a ferocious appetite in the morning, and then I make up a basket for him to take back to his parish. Your mother always had us do that.”

Fury smiled. “It would seem that little has changed here; why is that, do you suppose?”

“People change, not places,” Juli said, shrugging. “If this house changed, you would be unhappy. You have wonderful memories of it. Your parents knew you would return from time to time, and really, what is there to change? The herbs on the windowsill grow and are cut and grow again. The floor and walls will last hundreds of years. My chopping block has a few more cuts and nicks, but otherwise it, too, will last a lifetime.”

“I guess what I remember most is the smell of nutmeg and cinnamon and the little frosted cakes,” Fury murmured. “Once I asked my mother if a person could get drunk on the smell of spices and flowers, and she said yes. Do you know, Juli,” she said suddenly, “that a man can make a woman's blood sing?”

Juli's round, dark eyes widened. “Now, where did you hear such a thing?” she gasped.

“From my mother. She said my father has always made her blood sing, and that's how you know you're in love.” Fury propped her chin in both hands and gazed dreamily at the housekeeper. “I wonder how that feels.”

“I don't think either one of us has to worry about that,” Juli said grumpily as she punched down a mound of dough on the floured board. “You're going to the convent next week, and I'm here in this house with no men about.”

Fury laughed. “Speaking of men, I think I'd like to take a walk in the gardens before Father Sebastian arrives,” she said. She kicked off her slippers and hiked up her skirts. “Would it be too much trouble to serve him outside?”

“Of course not, and you will be served, too,” Juli said bossily. “Once you leave here you will be fasting and eating rotted fish and God knows what else. You will eat breakfast with Father Sebastian.”

Fury grinned. “Now I understand why you and my mother got along so well; she can be just as bossy. Well, I humored her, and I will humor you, too. Pink ham and golden eggs on a fluffy cloud.” She laughed as she raced out to the garden.

Out of Juli's sight and hearing, however, the laughter died in her throat. There must be something wrong with her, she thought. She'd never felt this way before—uneasy, on the verge of tears all the time, achy and . . . lonely. The bad dreams were with her all the time now; no wonder she had shadows under her eyes. And her appetite was completely gone. In fact, she didn't care if she never ate again. What was wrong with her?

“Dear God,” she cried suddenly, “I didn't say my morning prayers!” In the whole of her life she'd never forgotten the important ritual. “Now,
that's
an omen,” she said sourly.

But she didn't rush to clasp her hands in prayer. Didn't raise her eyes heavenward to beg forgiveness. Instead, she walked around the gardens to the long drive in front of the house to wait for Father Sebastian.

An hour later, when the priest clattered up the driveway in his wagon, Fury was the picture of misery and dejection. The elderly cleric noted the shadows under her eyes and sighed. He'd intended simply to hand over the letter he'd brought and leave, without having to witness its effect on this beautiful girl. But seeing her here, looking so wistful, so alone, he changed his mind.

“Good morning, Father,” Fury called, running over to meet him. “It's a lovely day, isn't it? Juli is going to serve us breakfast in the garden.”

“Good morning, my child. Yes, I think I would enjoy a light repast on this beautiful morning. . . . Furana, I've brought the letter as promised. But I'm afraid the news it contains may not be to your liking.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, frowning as she accepted the heavy vellum envelope the priest was holding out to her.

Father Sebastian watched as Fury read the letter from beginning to end several times and tried to digest its contents. He'd been expecting outrage, tears, a fit of temper, and was almost disappointed when she looked up at him, dry-eyed, and said, “I don't understand.”

The priest fanned himself with his pancake hat. “The bishop himself ordered the nuns to Surabaja, where a deadly fever has broken out,” he explained gently. “They've been gone for over three months and aren't expected to return until next year. There is also a possibility they may not return to Cirebon at all. Much depends on the sisters' stamina and endurance. Several weeks ago the bishop told me three of the sisters had fallen prey to the fever. For now, Furana, I'm afraid you must remain here.”

“Is the convent closed?” Fury demanded.

The priest frowned, puzzled. Was he hearing relief in the girl's voice? “No, it isn't closed. There are three old nuns who were not well enough to make the journey. The bishop gave them a special dispensation. But the gates are locked and chained, and no one is to be admitted. I take in a wagonload of food once a month; I ring the bell to let them know it's there, and then I leave. Those were my orders from the bishop. If you wish, you may make the next journey with me, but you cannot speak to the nuns. Nor will they let you see them.”

Fury's eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled. “What am I to do, Father? What if they never return? What will become of me?”

The elderly priest regarded her compassionately. “Child, God works in mysterious ways, and we must not doubt His wisdom. Perhaps you were not meant to enter the order.”

Fury gazed off into the distance, her eyes narrowed against the glare of the early-morning sun. At last she sighed and turned back to Father Sebastian.

“I think, Father, that you may be right. God has chosen this way to tell me that for now, at least, I am not meant to join the Holy Order. I must accept it. I have no other choice.”

Father Sebastian nodded. “Those are my thoughts exactly, Furana. We both must accept God's decision.”

“I suppose that means I am now mistress of this house—and my first duty in that position is to escort you to breakfast. Your arm, Father,” Fury said, and gave him a tremulous smile.

The tall, lean, bare-chested man standing so easily on the bow of the
Silver Lady
bore little resemblance to the distinguished gentleman who had attended Fury van der Rhys's birthday celebration in Cadiz. His dark eyes took on a brooding quality as he stared out at the sparkling blue of the ocean. He'd felt out of his element at that party in his crisp linen suit and neat cravat; generally he preferred the casual dress he affected on shipboard: a loose flowing shirt and dark trousers tucked into soft leather boots that were kept polished every day.

Absentmindedly, he massaged his month-old beard with one sun-bronzed hand. It itched like hell, but he scarcely noticed; his thoughts were far away, back at the grand casa in Cadiz. “Too ornate,” he muttered. The young women attending the birthday celebration had been silly creatures . . . with the exception of Fury van der Rhys. The food had been too rich, the musicians and decorations too costly—all memories of a life he himself had been obliged to give up many years before, thanks to the witch they called the Sea Siren.

Luis Domingo lifted his spyglass to search the sea for any sign of other ships. He'd worked too hard over the past fifteen years trying to rebuild his father's shipping company to let this first commission fall into the hands of bloodthirsty pirates. Someday when he was as rich as Regan van der Rhys he would count the cost of all the sleepless nights and missed meals and paid-off debts. Someday . . .

Luis allowed his thoughts to carry him away as the
Silver Lady
sliced through the water, her Spanish colors billowing in the light breeze. This was a lazy time of day for him, the winds calming, the air still, the smell of the sea teasing his nostrils. He was relaxed now, so relaxed that he found himself drifting back in time, back to the single moment that had changed his life forever. At the age of eight he'd had no idea what death meant, but he remembered how it felt when one of his father's friends had told him that his father would never be returning to their fine house.

Domingo snorted. Fine house indeed! His mother had been forced to sell that house as well as the furnishings and hire out as a domestic to some of the richer families in Cadiz. She'd been only fifty years of age when she died, but she'd looked twice that, bent and crippled from hard work and not enough nourishing foods. Domingo's eyes narrowed against the pain of that memory.

All that was changed now, thanks to his diligence and hard work. He'd worked like a slave, day after day, just to pay off his father's debts. Fifteen long years of blood, sweat, and even tears that none had witnessed save his sweet, gentle mother. A pity she wasn't alive to see the results.

Once he'd paid off the debts, it had taken him two more years to earn the money to outfit the two remaining ships that belonged to his father. He'd had small consignments, but none like this one, and none that yielded enough profit for anything but the barest necessities. This particular commission was a lifelong dream of his father's and one the man would have accomplished if it hadn't been for the sea witch.

For the thousandth time, Luis ran the route over in his mind—he'd memorized the navigational charts. Cadiz to the Canary Islands and on to Cape Verde, and from there to Gabon, where he would weigh anchor, seek any needed repairs, and lay in fresh supplies. Three days at the most in port and then on to Cape Town, where he would lay in his most precious cargo, ivory. Then northeast to Madagascar and from there to the Sunda Strait and his last port of call, Java.

He closed his eyes as he envisioned his full hold, bales of shimmering silks, ivory, and spices. Coffers full of pearls, barrels of tobacco and molasses that would fetch a king's ransom—providing he wasn't accosted by pirates. There was no doubt in his mind that he would be a rich man when he returned to Spain, rich enough to set up a household and think about marrying . . . someone as beautiful as Furana van der Rhys.

A light breeze tickled the sails of the
Silver Lady
as she skimmed among the small breakers. “Tighten sail,” he called as his eyes searched the vast ocean.

“Aye, Cap'n,” came the reply.

Soon he would sail into Cape Town with the mysterious cargo that he kept in his quarters. He had no idea what he carried in the enormous brass-bound trunk that had been delivered to the harbor just as he was about to sail. The royal communiqué the imposing man offered identified him simply as an emissary of the Spanish Crown and ordered the captain of the
Silver Lady
to keep the trunk sealed and secure in his quarters at all times. Upon arrival in Capetown, it was to be delivered to one Amalie Suub Alvarez, who would then sign a letter of acceptance that was to be delivered to the Crown on the return journey. Finally, and most impressive, he'd been paid in advance for this service, something unheard of in the shipping business.

Luis found himself staring up into the rigging, his eyes searching for flaws or weaknesses. In an instant he was scaling the intricate maze of ropes with ease, while his crew watched him warily. None of them relished the tongue-lashing they would receive if the rigging proved unsatisfactory.

Out of the entire crew only Julian Castillo, the first mate, had sailed with Domingo's father. He'd been a boy not yet out of his teens when he'd signed on with the elder Domingo and frightened out of his wits the day the Siren had cut down his captain's ship. Pressed for details by the authorities, Julian could only say that the Siren was as deadly as she was beautiful. Over the years his boyhood memory turned fanciful, and he began to embroider his stories with more detail: “The Sea Siren is stronger than any man, with a laugh that tinkles off the waters like an eerie sound from hell before she disappears into a black mist!” In truth he remembered very little, what with fear of going over the side and the possibility of becoming shark fodder; but he did remember the terror he felt when he first saw the black ship approach the
Spanish Princess.

Julian frowned, heavy brows drawing together across his forehead. His head pounded fiercely, as it always did when he tried to remember a detail, something that was said as he cowered in fear. Always it was the same when he fought the mists of memory: his head would pound so unbearably, he couldn't think. He wanted to remember, for Luis Domingo's sake. Perhaps someday . . .

Luis slid down the rigging, his movements agile as he landed gracefully on his feet. He nodded to his crew, who relaxed perceptibly. Whatever he'd imagined he saw was fine, and no new orders were given. Once again he picked up the glass, but this time, as he returned it to its case, a vague feeling of apprehension settled over him.

“Cap'n, I'd like a word with you,” Julian called.

Luis shook off his uneasiness and grinned at the first mate. “My ears are yours, Julian.”

“If you've a mind to, Cap'n, I think you could pick up some sandalwood at our next port of call. I know several merchants who have storehouses full of the wood and are just waiting for the right moment to strike a business deal. There's still some room in the hold. I don't pretend to be up on the latest female trends, but I did hear that the ladies of Seville have been begging for treasure boxes made from the fragrant wood. I'd say they'd fetch a pretty penny if the right craftsman was commissioned. Tack a fancy price on one of those little boxes and every lady'll want one.”

“That means an extra day in port,” Luis said thoughtfully, stroking his bearded chin. “What the hell, a man can't have too many sidelines now, can he?” He clapped Julian on the back. “If the price is right, we'll take on as much as we can carry. Advise the crew we'll be making port at this time tomorrow.”

“Aye, Cap'n.”

As Julian strode down the deck, Luis stood alone, measuring the sea. In the last hour the wind had increased steadily, and before long the waves would be churning furiously. Another hour and they'd be in for a stiff storm. He'd be fighting a southerly wind, where his course now lay, and he might have to veer off to the west if the gale increased.

Hours later, with the storm behind them and a mug of freshly brewed coffee in his hand, Luis congratulated his crew. “Well done, men. In a few hours we'll make port, and the drinks are on me. It's up to you to find your own women, though,” he added, chuckling.

To a man, the crew saluted their captain. They would eat, drink, and bed as many wenches as possible in the time allotted, and while Domingo had said the drinks were on him, they knew he wouldn't join them. It was an arrangement agreeable to all.

The
Silver Lady's
arrival in the Sandalwood Islands was as smooth as silk, each member of the crew doing his job to perfection—their reward, ten hours on land to do whatever they wanted. Once Luis had agreed on a price for the sandalwood, Julian stayed long enough to supervise the loading and then departed to enjoy a few hours of freedom with the pouch of coins Luis handed over.

“We sail with the tide, Julian,” Luis said, his eye on the fragrant wood being loaded into the hold. Julian was right; it would fetch a tidy price, more if he could find a suitable craftsman with whom to share the profits.

A little before dawn the next day, much to Luis's delight, a staggering Julian led the brigade of drunken boisterous sailors to the
Silver Lady.
They saluted their captain, vapid smirks on their faces. “Hell of a night, Cap'n,” Julian said, his words slurred. He threw an arm over Luis's shoulder in a sweeping gesture that almost knocked them both off balance.

Luis grinned and helped his first mate stand upright. “So it would seem. All right, look sharp now, men, this berth isn't what the
Silver Lady
is used to.”

The crew fell into step, all signs of drunkenness gone as if by magic. Luis watched in amazement as sail after sail was loosened or tightened, the grips on the rigging as expert as always. He nodded and took his place in the wheelhouse. Later, when the ship was in calm waters, he knew the men would groan and moan and hold their heads and retch over the railing, the cook standing by with pails of strong black coffee laced with mint for their sour stomachs. But for now they would work like dogs to do his bidding—because they respected him. He never asked them to do anything he wouldn't do himself. He was a fair man, as fair as his father before him. Over all, he was proud and pleased—proud of them, and pleased with himself.

As his hands manipulated the wheel, he noticed with some concern that the
Lady
seemed cumbersome. Her hold was too full. If pirates did attack him, he wouldn't stand a chance, he reflected. They could fight, but one well-placed shot broadside and the
Lady
would be done for. He frowned. Perhaps his desire to make an extra profit from the sandalwood had gotten in the way of good common sense.

It was almost dusk, the most hateful time of day for sea captains bent on reaching port unharmed. It was almost impossible to see clearly what lay ahead—which made it the most advantageous time for pirates to attack. Luis turned the
Lady
in the sultry breeze as he ordered his men to climb into the shrouds and watch the seas.

As the days wore on, Luis's apprehension increased. He was sailing in dangerous waters, waters familiar to pirates and unfamiliar to him. What chance would he have in the event of an attack? If he could just make Cape Town and unload most of his cargo, he would feel safe. Two more days, he told himself over and over. Just two more days.

 

The
Silver Lady
was no more than twelve hours from Cape Town when Luis spotted the ship off his starboard bow. “Sail ho!” came the cry from above. “She's black and she carries no colors!”

Luis pressed his eye to the round circle of glass, but in the failing light he couldn't distinguish colors. “All hands, prepare for attack!” he shouted.

“All hands ready,” Julian shouted back.

“She's traveling at five knots, Cap'n,” called the mizzen watch. “She sees us but isn't changing course! She's going to pass us by!”

Luis stood on the bow, the glass to his eye. It was a frigate, black as ink with sails to match. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as he waited and watched. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until the frigate sailed ahead, paying his ship no mind.

The crew was on deck, clustered around him, jabbering. They'd all heard the tales of the magical black ship and her long-legged female captain.

“Men in the rigging—”

“A man at the wheel—”

“No sight of a woman—”

“She carries no flag or name. Is it the . . . ?”

“I don't know,” Luis growled. “Carlos, fetch Julian. Tell him to report to me here on deck!”

Moments later the first mate faced the captain in the eerie, yellow lantern light. “It gave me a bad turn there, Cap'n. I never thought I'd see that ship again.”

“
Is
it the same ship, Julian?” Luis demanded. “How can you be sure?”

“In twenty years, Cap'n, this is the first time I've seen a black ship. I can't swear it's the
same
ship, but it put the fear of God in me, I can tell you that!”

“Did anyone see a female aboard?” Luis called out. To a man, the crew shook their heads.

“What does it mean, Cap'n?” asked Julian.

“I don't know,” Luis replied. “But I'm damn sure going to find out the minute we reach Cape Town.” He thrust the glass at Julian. “Keep your eye dead ahead. I'll be in my quarters.”

The door closed securely behind him, Luis drew a deep breath. So, it wasn't a fairy tale after all. His eyes narrowed as he stared sightlessly at the navigational charts spread out before him. How many black ships with black sails could there be? As far as he knew, there had been no reports of any in the previous twenty years. He tried to swallow past the dryness in his throat.