Captive Secrets (15 page)

“Handsome and dashing, even if he's a common seaman,” Clara crowed as she removed the bandage on Amalie's arm. A moment later she exclaimed in horror at the sight of the open wound. “Mother of God!”

She ran off to the kitchen for medical supplies and was startled to find Amalie laughing wildly when she returned. “What is it? What's the matter?” she asked, alarmed.

“Fetch me my father's journal, Clara, I want to show you something,” Amalie said. When Clara returned a moment later with the tattered book, Amalie leafed through it until she found the page she wanted. “See this!” she cried delightedly.

Clara gazed down at the drawing of a woman in scanty attire, her left arm poised in midair as she brandished a cutlass. Down the inside of her arm ran a jagged-looking scar, which the artist had magnified with red ink. Her eyes widened as they returned to the site of Amalie's injury.

“If I'd planned it, I couldn't have done it better,” Amalie told her, grinning. “Some things, I've come to learn, are better left to chance.”

“Is there much pain?” Clara demanded as she sprinkled on the healing powder brought along from the mission.

Amalie shook her head. “It's a pain I can live with. Go to bed, Clara. If I need you, I'll call. Tomorrow we have much to do now that the ship is here.”

“I'll stay until you're asleep,” Clara insisted. “You thrash about in your sleep, and you might injure your arm.”

The moment Amalie had drifted into a sound sleep, Clara left the room with the journal in her hand. In the kitchen, she turned up the wick in the lamp and stared down at the drawing. This wasn't God's hand, of that she was sure. It was the work of the devil. God's wrath was going to come down on all of them, she was sure of it. She blessed herself.

She owed her life to Amalie, as did the others. Without her intervention the four of them would still be working in Christabel's brothel. She'd prayed to God on a nightly basis to be freed from Christabel's bondage, and nothing had happened until the day Amalie appeared. Was she one of God's emissaries, or had she been sent by the devil?

The others, younger than Clara, saw Amalie only as a savior and didn't think beyond the fact that they were finally free of Christabel and had a roof over their heads and all the food they could eat. Should she talk to them? She wondered, frowning. But what could she say? Was it wrong of Amalie to want what was rightfully hers? No, she decided, but it was a sin to plunder ships at sea. Of course
she
was a sinner too. They were all sinners. But they'd been forced into sin. This plan of Amalie's was deliberate.

Clara squeezed her eyes shut and prayed.
Please, God, forgive us for what we're going to do. And as soon as Amalie has enough to restore this fine house, make her stop so we can all live simply and honestly.

Her hands trembling, Clara walked down a long hallway to Amalie's room. Satisfied that her benefactress was sleeping peacefully, she left the journal and returned to her own pallet, where she said a rosary before falling into a restless slumber.

It was a full week before Amalie was able to move about with ease. Tired and weak from a three-day fever, she allowed the girls to coddle, admitting only to herself that she rather liked the attention. Clara insisted that she spend part of every day sitting in the shade of a banyan tree, her wounded arm free of its bandage, to receive a dose of the sun's beating rays. “It will help heal and dry that monstrous scab,” she said knowledgeably.

After several hours, when her arm started to itch badly, Clara would move her to the veranda and pour whiskey over the wound, wincing when Amalie screamed in agony. But it had to be done. And as the days passed, Amalie found that the process grew less painful, a sure sign that the wound was almost healed.

One afternoon, after she'd awakened from a brief nap in the sun, Amalie became aware of a commotion at the far end of the veranda. The children were squealing with delight. They had a visitor.

She stared at the stranger through narrowed eyes. He was taller, more muscular, than any man she'd ever seen. More handsome in his fine lawn shirt and ink-black trousers. What was he doing here? she wondered. What did he want? Her heart took an extra beat when the man turned to stare in her direction. He was devilishly handsome.

When he continued to wave his arms and point in her direction, Amalie swallowed fearfully. Surely Clara and the others wouldn't allow him near her. She didn't want to see anyone. Nervously she waited as Clara approached her, certain the jeweler's death was about to be laid at her feet.

“What is it, Clara?” she called out. “Who is he, and what does he want?”

“His name is Luis Domingo, and he's from Spain,” Clara replied, eyes sparkling. “He said the Spanish Crown paid him to bring a trunk here to you. And you have to sign this paper because he has to return it to Spain. He's a sea captain on his way to Java. He wants to talk to you, Amalie.”

“No,” Amalie said, shaking her head. “I don't want to talk to him. And I can't use my hand yet—you'll have to sign the paper for me. Here, stand in front of me so he can't see what you're doing. Did he say what's in the trunk?”

Her tongue caught between her teeth, Clara signed Amalie's name in a shaky hand. “No, it has a seal on it. He's handsome, isn't he? Are you sure you don't want to talk to him?”

“I'm sure. You told him I was ill, didn't you?” Clara nodded. “Good, now return this paper to him, thank him, and offer him a cool drink. And while he's drinking it, find out what he's carrying on his ship. Be vague, as though you're making polite conversation.” She watched with narrowed eyes as Clara hurried away.

 

Luis Domingo gazed admiringly at the manicured gardens as he waited for the cool drink the young lady was bringing him. Relieved at last to be rid of the huge trunk, he glanced down at the spidery signature on the heavy vellum. Amalie Suub Alvarez must be very old—old and waiting to die. He allowed his eyes to sweep the grounds and the shrouded figure reclining on the cane chair under the spreading banyan tree. He thought he smelled death.

The drink was cool and tart, and Luis gulped it down in two long swallows. He wiped at his brow, aware that his neck and armpits were soaked with sweat.

“I'll walk with you to your wagon, Señor Domingo,” Clara offered.

Luis looked over his shoulder. “Is she going to die?”

Flustered, Clara stammered, “Wh-who?”

“The old lady. Is she going to die?”

“Ah, no, no, she . . . No, I don't think so. Tell me, Señor Domingo, what do you carry in your ship? Jewels, spices, silks? My mistress likes me to . . . to tell her little stories. I'll make one up about you and tell it to her this evening before she goes to sleep.”

Luis laughed, a sound that carried on the breeze across the garden to Amalie, whose eyes popped open. She liked the deep, masculine sound.

“Well,” she demanded peevishly after Luis had left, “what did he say?”

Clara clapped her hands in excitement. “Everything, all manner of riches! He's so handsome, isn't he, Amalie? He's sailing to Java and then back to Spain to sell everything he's picked up in his travels. Isn't that romantic? And bringing you that trunk all the way from Spain—and then delivering it
personally
! What do you think is in it?”

Amalie's brow furrowed. “It's probably papers and ledgers of my father's. I don't even want to look at it. Have the boys carry it down to the cellar. Now, tell me, when is Señor . . . Domingo leaving for Java?”

“Two days. He said he would sail with the tide.” Clara hesitated. “Amalie, you aren't . . . you wouldn't . . . But you aren't well enough yet!”

Amalie smiled. “In another two days I'll be fine. Now, Clara, I want you to go to the cove and ask Cato to come here. But first have the boys take the trunk to the cellar. I want it out of my sight.” A trunk full of the trash of her father's life. Why would the authorities think she would want such a thing? To be rid of it, of course. Chaezar Alvarez had been a blight on the Spanish Crown. Well, she didn't want his wretched refuse, either. She had more important things to worry about.

Two days . . . just two more days . . .

Amalie set foot on her ship shortly before she gave the order to set sail. She had come aboard with little gear beyond the scanty costume she'd recreated and the high buccaneer boots, which she'd secured in her cabin. She would have plenty of time to don them once Domingo's ship was sighted, and she had no desire to let her crew see her naked legs before she absolutely had to. Now, looking around at the surly faces of her crew, she knew she was about to make her first concession.

“No seaman worth his salt sails on a ship that carries no name. It's bad luck,” Miguel snarled. “We don't care about colors, but we do care about a name.” The others lined up behind Miguel and chorused their agreement, even Cato.

Amalie was on uncertain ground. She knew nothing about naming a ship, but it was obviously a matter that had to be settled immediately or she would have a mutiny on her hands. That she did understand. She struggled to come up with a meaningful name, one that would strike fear in her crew and those of the ships they accosted.

“From this moment on,” she called out, “the ship will be called the
Sea Siren
! If there's one among you who objects to this decision, he may leave now.” When no one moved, she nodded. “So be it.”

This was the moment the crew had waited for—the moment she herself had waited for. Could she do it?

“To your posts,” she cried, her hands tight on the wheel, heart beating wildly. Book learning was quite different from real-life experience, she was discovering. She forced herself to relax, the warm salt air a balm to her body. Gradually she began to feel confident and exhilarated.

The frigate skimmed out of the deep-water cove, over the white-capped breakers, and into open water. Amalie caught the smirk on Cato's face as he faced several of the crew. Obviously a wager had been placed on her capabilities, and she'd come through a winner—as had Cato. She liked the idea that he had not bet against her, and her eyes thanked him before she turned the wheel over to Rego, her first mate.

Now it was time to walk about
her
ship. She'd lied, cheated, stolen, and killed to arrive at this moment. She smiled as she strolled the deck, aware that the crew's eyes were on every step she took.

The newly named
Sea Siren
was a sleek, three-masted frigate that was skillfully demonstrating her prowess in what Amalie thought of as her maiden voyage. She sported fresh decks scrupulously scoured and a sterncastle whose varnish was just beginning to dry. And it was all hers. No one was ever going to take it away from her.

Amalie turned and swayed on the rolling deck. She took a deep breath and then another; she couldn't afford to get seasick, not when things were going so well. Any sign of weakness on her part would be seized by the crew as justification to take matters into their own hands.

Cato appeared out of nowhere, startling her. “It takes awhile to get your sea legs. It'll help if you eat something. If you like, I can bring a bit of food to your cabin. Miguel says we should sight the Spaniard by nightfall.”

Amalie looked into Cato's anxious blue eyes. “So soon?” The young man nodded. “Very well, fetch me some fruit and a little bread. I'll be in my quarters.”

Amalie had never before set foot aboard a ship. It was all a new experience for her, but one she liked . . . very much. Her cabin was small with a bunk, a chair, and several shelves. It was clean and smelled of soap and the sea. The bundle on her bed drew her eye. Soon it would be time to don the costume.