Captive Secrets (22 page)

The course she plotted was one of pure instinct, one she felt a man such as Luis Domingo would follow. If she was wrong, she'd have to live with her mistake. She hoped that Father Sebastian's information was accurate. She had to assume that the Spaniard would set sail in one of the Dutch East India's brigantines, which would give her a definite advantage. If she was mistaken—if he was sailing a frigate much like her own—he would be making top speed. She had to outmaneuver as well as outguess him.

Where would he head? If there was a storm, the brigantine wouldn't heave to under a reefed main topsail. Instinct told her the Spaniard would take the northern shore to reach Sumbawa while she was following a course along the southern shore of Java. Most likely he'd head for the shore off the island where the last Dutch East India ship was attacked. Weather and speed permitting, she could rendezvous there with the angry sea captain. Bali, she decided, the most beautiful island off Java's eastern tip, was his destination. Now it was hers as well.

The storm was savage in its intensity, but of short duration. Fury rode it out under her own prowess, the crew cheering her on. When she turned the wheel over to Mandu, Juli's oldest brother, there was open admiration in his eyes. “Well done, Capitana.” Fury beamed her pleasure at his words. Her mother's old crew had called her capitana, too. “I'd be obliged, Capitana, if you'd take . . . your feathered friends with you,” Mandu added uneasily.

Fury laughed and snapped her fingers. The birds spread their wings with a loud swish before they sailed upward among the rigging. Mandu turned his head to look over his shoulder.

“Think of them as being on
our
side,
our
protectors, not just my own,” Fury suggested, smiling. “As long as you do nothing to alarm them in regard to me, they are quite docile.”

Mandu gave a brief nod. “Aye, Capitana.”

Out on deck, Fury called for all hands.
“We
did well, men,” she told them. “Another day, and if my predictions are right, we should meet up with our quarry. Bali would be my first thought, but he may make Sumbawa, depending on his headwinds. For now we've earned a brief rest.” She turned away, dismissing her small crew. “I'll be in my cabin.”

Down below she grinned gleefully. Shorthanded as they were—a frigate generally required a crew of at least twelve—they'd done better than she had a right to expect. Good men, a good captain, and a good ship were all that was needed. Now she could relax for a moment.

On deck, the crew whispered among themselves. For a woman, this young lady had handled the frigate as well as any man. For once their sharp-tongued sister had been correct in her assertions. All they had to do now was secure the ship and allow the warm trade winds to spur them onward.

Ten hours later a cry of “Sail ho!” came from the rigging. The spyglass was in Fury's hands in a moment.

“Does she sport a Dutch flag?” she shouted.

“Aye, Capitana, and she's tightened sail. She's spotted us. Her captain is on the stern.”

“All hands on deck! Mandu, steer this ship directly broadside.” To the others she shouted, “I want no shots fired until I give the order. We aren't here to fight. Do you understand?”

Never in her life had she experienced such excitement. Her heat thundered in her chest and her pulses thrummed. Something niggled at her, some little-known thing she should have done and now couldn't remember. . . . Lord, of course, the lip and cheek color!

In the blink of an eye she raced to her cabin and dabbed from the little pot Juli had added to her satchel at the last moment. It was Juli who remembered her mother scrubbing the vermilion paint from her cheeks on her return.

Back on deck, Fury raced to the bow of the ship. Feet firmly planted and slightly apart, her hair billowing behind her, she waited, a smile on her face.

“Remember now, veer off at the last moment,” she called to her crew. “I want the captain to think we're going to attack, until the very last second. She's loosening sail. The men are in the shrouds. I can see them unfurling the sail! We have only a few moments of daylight left. We're almost broadside!”

As the last vestige of daylight relinquished its hold on the dark gray of early night, Fury felt her hand caressing the hilt of the cutlass at her side.

Luis Domingo, captain of the
China
Jewel, stood on the stern, his face full of shock at the figure of the woman outlined in the murky yellow light. Cutlass in hand, she made a low, mocking bow in his direction.

“We mean you no harm, señor, unless it is your intention to fire upon us,” she called to him.

He should give the order to fire; he couldn't understand why he wasn't. He knew his men were ready and waiting for this female witch to make some move that would warrant an attack. He also knew the
Jewel
could not outrace the sleek black frigate. So he waited, his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “We carry no cargo; this is a scouting voyage only,” he called.

“I'm not interested in your cargo, señor. I've been tracking you since you left port. Take a good look at me, señor!” Fury ordered. “I am not the pirate who plundered the
Silver Lady
! You were mistaken, and I demand an apology.”

“You'll get no apology from me, you sea slut,” Luis snarled. “You robbed my cargo. I saw you, I talked to you. No woman makes a fool of me!”

“You'll regret those words, you miserable Spaniard!” Fury cried. She didn't stop to think. She was a whirlwind of motion as long legs flexed and then leapt. In a split second she was aboard the
China Jewel,
the tip of the cutlass pointed six inches below the Spaniard's belt.

Stunned, Luis stepped backward, followed by the scantily clad woman wielding her cutlass. “I could kill you this very second,” Fury said, her voice ominously quiet. “All it would take is one downward stroke. But I told you I meant you no harm. You should have believed me.”

She inched closer, the cutlass secure in her hand. “Listen to me carefully, señor. I never killed for the sake of killing. I never plundered for my own benefit. My reign on the sea was a cause, and when that cause was laid to rest, I retired. Until today I have not been aboard that frigate out there for twenty years, nor have I attacked any ships.”

“Then how do you explain the Dutch East India's brigantine?” Luis snapped.

“She was beset by an impostor, as were you. I don't know who, or why this . . . this person chooses to masquerade as the Sea Siren, but I shall find out.”

Fury took a step backward and lowered the cutlass a fraction. “And now,” she said mockingly, “I believe I came aboard for a reason . . . an apology. Proceed, Captain.” When Luis remained silent, she whipped up the cutlass to slice the buttons from his shirt, then returned it to point directly at his groin. “I'm losing patience, señor.”

Grim-faced, Luis shook his head. “No apology, Sea Siren, not from my lips. I know what I saw, I know what I experienced. What you say may or may not be true; I am, however, willing to concede your point—if you will but
show me your arm.”

Fury drew away, startled and at a sudden loss for words. At that moment there was a loud,
swoosh
ing noise from above. Both Fury and Luis looked up in time to see Gaspar and Pilar swoop down, then soar upward again, their wings rustling as they circled the Spaniard in a menacing orbit.

“What the goddamn living hell is
that
?” Luis shouted as he doubled over.

Fury laughed.
“That,
señor, is called retribution. Those birds can kill you as quickly as I can. Right now they're quite angry, as you can see. If I
ever
hear you or your crew refer to me as a sea slut again, I'll unleash them on you so fast, your head will spin.”

Luis observed the circling hawks for a moment or two, then returned his gaze to Fury, eyes glinting with rage. “Another time, another place, Siren, and we'll face off again.”

“On your knees, señor!” To the birds, Fury called, “Watch him till I'm back aboard.”

Luis stared, mesmerized, as incredibly long legs leapt high above him. He sucked in his breath when she landed gracefully aboard the black frigate. The sound of her laughter raised the hackles on the back of his neck.

“Admit it, señor, I outmaneuvered you!” she called, offering a salute with the tip of the cutlass.

“Never!” he cried passionately. “I could have drilled you broadside. But I was in a charitable mood.”

Again Fury's laughter tinkled across the water. Her crew as well as Domingo's knew she was the victor, no matter what he said.

The hawks swooped down with deadly intent, only to sail upward in their own wake as Fury called, “Enough!” He watched in amazement as both birds flew into the black ship's rigging.

Until this moment he'd been unaware of the fog rolling in. Even now it shrouded his decks, creeping upward. All he could see of the woman aboard the black frigate was the diamond garter twinkling in the misty light. Then . . . nothing.
She always disappears into the mist,
the old sea salt had said.

A long time later, a tankard of ale in his hand, he asked his first mate, Julian, for his opinion. “Was it the same woman?”

Julian frowned. “I don't recall seeing that diamond garter on the woman who attacked the
Queen,
and I know there were no birds. . . .”

“What about the first time, when she attacked the
Spanish Princess.
Did you see a garter or those damnable birds then?”

“It was so long ago, Captain, and my memory isn't what it used to be. The birds I would remember, but the garter, I'd have to say no. Women . . . acquire baubles and wear them at a whim. It's possible she confiscated it from somewhere. She is more beautiful than I remember. The red lips and cheeks I remember, and those long legs

. . . aye, Captain, a beautiful woman.” “How old do you think she is?” Luis asked.

“You would be a better judge of that than I, Captain. Young, I'd say.”

Luis's brows knitted in thought. “No more than twenty, I'd say. The real Siren would be in her fortieth year or thereabouts.” He threw up his hands in disgust. “Women!”

“You saw the scar?” Julian asked.

“No, but it's my gut feeling it's there. She must be real, she has to be real.”

“Flesh and blood?” Julian demanded fearfully.

“As real as you and I. I could feel her breath on my face. I want her,” Luis growled.

“As does every man jack aboard this ship,” Julian said. “She's a devil angel if ever there was one. She strikes the fear of God in me, I can tell you that.”

Luis sat alone for the rest of the night, secure in the knowledge that his ship was in Julian's capable hands. He searched his mind for ways he could have reacted differently, things he could have said and done. She hadn't exactly made a fool of him, but she'd definitely had the advantage. Only a fool would have attacked the odds once she boarded the
Jewel.

Beautiful honey-colored legs, eyes that were more blue than the sky. So very beautiful, more beautiful than any woman he'd ever met. Strong, capable, sense of humor. Her remembered laughter sent chills up his arms. His last thought before retiring to his cabin was that this was one woman not to be taken lightly. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered once again what it would be like to make love to the exquisite sea creature.

 

In her bunk Fury lay still, trying to stem the trembling that threatened to overtake her. It was over; she had successfully carried off her plan. She truly believed she was the victor, although no battle had been waged and no blows struck for either side.

Not until dawn was she able to give definition to what she was feeling: her blood was singing, and all because of Luis Domingo.

 

Amalie leaned against the cave opening, her pose one of nonchalance. It was backbreaking work carrying the cargoes of the many ships they'd plundered to this safe, secure cave, not that she was doing any of the work. As each crate or barrel was stored inside, she logged it in one of her father's old ledgers. Later, when she felt it was safe, she would dispose of the goods to the highest bidder, preferably in Spain. She wondered idly when and how much; she had no idea what the contents of the cave would yield in the way of money. She also had to allow for the crew's share. No matter, it was close to a fortune.

It was a beautiful evening, warm and star-blessed. She was glad to be on land. While she liked the sea and the rolling ship, she knew she could not create a life for herself on the water. This was where she belonged; the ship and the sea were merely the means to insure that the rest of her life would be charted to her satisfaction.

The note she'd made in the margin of the ledger irritated her. In order to transport the contents of the cave to a ready market, she would need a brigantine, perhaps a galleon, possibly two. There was no way she could purchase the ships, since she had no ready money and nothing to trade for them. She would have to commandeer them at some point and drive the crew overboard. But where would she secure the ships until it was time to sail for Spain?

Another problem, and one she thought about constantly, plagued her as no other. How long would her crew be content with things the way they were? Already they were grumbling about money and the risk to their lives every time they accosted a ship. For six months now she'd been able to calm them, promising them anything she could think of to ward off a mutiny. The only alternative was to kill off those who became too verbal in their complaints or demands.

Amalie logged a cask of coffee beans and another of nutmeg, the men cursing as they rolled and dragged the heavy barrels into the recesses of the cave. Tomorrow they would sail on the morning tide in hopes of overtaking a galleon with an escort of two, all heavily loaded with ivory, a prize that was unequaled among their current plunder. A prize the Dutch East India Company could ill afford to lose. Amalie smiled in the darkness. Their loss—her gain. If she could just find a safe hiding place for the galleon and brigantines, she could keep the cargoes on board and not have to go through this time-consuming ritual of loading, unloading, and logging in.

She smiled again, grimly this time, when she thought of the price on her head. She knew in her gut there wasn't one among her crew—save, perhaps, Cato—who hadn't speculated on turning her in. That amount of money, plus all the cargoes, would make them rich for life. The whole fine mess was taking its toll on her, and she knew it. She slept little, and when she did, it was lightly. The least little sound woke her. Most of the time she was irritable and angry with the crew's sly looks and open greed. She knew she was going to have to do something soon to set an example, one they wouldn't forget.

Minutes later Amalie snapped the ledger closed and signaled her men that it was time to leave. She was last in line to slip and slide down the steep incline that led to the small harbor where her ship was anchored. Cato was directly in front of her. The tension between her shoulder blades told her that something was up. Miguel and some of the others must be plotting to waylay her, she reflected, or, worse yet, kill her so that all the cave's contents and her ship would be theirs.

“Cato, look at me,” Amalie said. “This damned crew is planning something, aren't they?”

Cato kept his eyes fastened to the scrubby terrain and treacherous vines. “I'm not sure,” he answered, his voice low.

Panic swept through Amalie. She needed these men, needed them desperately. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried to speak normally. “I'll cut out their gizzards, yours, too, if you align yourself with them.”

Still, Cato did not respond. Desperate now, Amalie tried a different tack. “Cato, do you recall the conversation we had on deck one night while the others were sleeping and you were on watch? I meant every word I said. When my father's house is finally restored, I will live like a queen—and a queen needs a king. You and I could be very happy ... as long as you don't cross me and do something foolish that we'll both regret.”

Cato turned at last to speak to her—and in doing so lost his footing. Amalie reached out, her grip on his arm like a vise, and pulled him upright. “There now,” she said softly, releasing his arm, “you're steady on your feet. Remember, I want to know your decision before we sail.”

Cato nodded, his young gaze full of admiration. Amalie's strength and stamina never ceased to amaze him. But he'd be a fool to side with the woman against Miguel and his cutthroats. She would be sadly outnumbered, of that he was sure. He would tell the others, his friends, that they would be princes, and because he would be king he would grant them whatever they desired. She hadn't said anything about crowns, though, he worried. A queen and king always wore crowns and elegant robes. His spirits soared almost immediately when he remembered seeing the trunk with its heavy lock and emblem of the Spanish Crown. Crowns and costly robes would be kept in such a place. His spirits plummeted. His young, curious voice carried back to Amalie. “Where will you get a throne?”

Amalie chuckled deep in her throat. “I already have . . . two of them. They belonged to my father. Solid gold,” she lied. “In need of polishing. It will be your first . . . kingly duty.”

It never occurred to Cato that kings didn't do manual labor. He smiled in the darkness. Already, he could feel the costly robes about his shoulders. He would have to give some thought to the crown and how it would stay fastened to his head. Gold was heavy, and if the crown were studded with priceless gems, it would weigh even more. Wearing a crown was probably something one had to get used to, he thought smugly. He racked his imagination to come up with something he could tell the others princes wore. Possibly neck cuffs studded with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. He almost choked on his own saliva when he thought of the others as his loyal subjects. He knew at that moment he would do whatever Amalie wanted him to do, even kill.

In her cabin Amalie changed from her coarse dress to the abbreviated costume responsible for Miguel's slobbering mouth. Cato was so young and probably no match for Miguel and his cohorts. She had doubts about her own abilities but refused to dwell on them. The impending confrontation was inevitable, had been from the start. Miguel's greed exceeded only her own. It would happen in open water, of that much she was sure, which didn't give her much time to prepare for the onslaught. An hour, perhaps two at the most, before the crew made a move. Her heart pumped madly in her chest with the realization the crew would openly attack her and try to kill her. How she defended herself and how victorious she was would set the precedent for her reign at sea. The previous altercations were what she considered necessary exercises to prepare her for the really important attacks like the one she was anticipating today.

Amalie flexed her injured arm. Daily she'd exercised with the heavy cutlass until she thought she would drop with fatigue. She was confident that she could outfight any man bent on attacking her.

 

The attack, when it came, was stealthy and deadly.

Amalie swiveled, cutlass in her hand, at the precise moment Miguel raised his arm to strike her down. The seaman's body had reflected off the shimmering water when the glass was to her eye, which gave her the split second she needed to square off against the hateful cutthroat. All about her were shouts of outrage and curses of rebellion as she brought up her arm to fend off Miguel's wicked blade. Up and down, to the left and to the right, she feinted, her agile body dancing away to thrust and jab.

“Kill me, will you?” she cried. “Not likely, you pig!”

The surprise and a quick moment of fear showed in Miguel's eyes as Amalie's lightning-fast movement sent him reeling backward. She pressed her advantage, parrying with an expertise he'd not known she possessed. His eyes widened when her blade sliced down, then upward, ripping not only his trousers, but his filthy shirt as well. The sight of his own blood brought obscenities spewing from his mouth. His own cutlass sliced through thin air as Amalie danced backward and then to the left, her cutlass whacking his arm at the elbow. She laughed when his ugly face contorted in pain.

“Whore!” Miguel roared, his blade lashing out at Amalie's scarred arm.

“Son of a whore!” Amalie countered as her blade sliced upward, ripping Miguel's ear from the side of his head. “You swore your allegiance to me and turned mutineer, and for that you and the scum that follow you deserve to die!”

Miguel's eyes were murderous with rage as he swung his cutlass, missing Amalie's own ear by a hair. Amalie thrust blindly, off balance as the seaman tried to pin her against the railing. Curses and dark mutterings rocked in her ears as she thrust the cutlass straight out, piercing Miguel in the middle of his stomach. She heaved mightily, ripping the blade upward toward his chest. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.

Amalie whirled then, her eyes glittering as she faced the circle of men that had formed around her and the unfortunate Miguel. She crouched, her hand beckoning the next volunteer who wanted to do battle. “Now, do it now, or from this day on you'll never know a moment's peace,” she cried, “for I no longer trust you. I'll kill you when you sleep, when you're high in the rigging, when you're sotted with ale, or when you're playing a game of cards. I'll come up behind you and slice your head from your neck.”

When no one moved, she straightened to her full height. “I see that wisdom has struck all of you suddenly. From this moment on you will never again question my authority. You belong to me now, body and soul. You will do what I say when I say it. And the first man who looks at me crossways will find himself shark fodder like Miguel,” she warned them. “Now get rid of this vermin and scour these decks till they sparkle!”

The silence roared in Amalie's ears as she strode to her quarters. The moment the cabin door was closed and locked, she rushed to her bunk and buried her face in the pillow to muffle her cries of triumph.

She'd won.
She'd won!
She was now in total control of her ship and the men aboard. There wasn't one who'd have the guts to start a fight with her. Over and over again she played back the scene with Miguel. The exhilaration was overpowering, running like fire through her veins, until she realized what it was she was experiencing: the need to prove herself even more. And the only way she could do that was with a man.

Cato. Cato, with the young, strong body and dark, burning eyes. She would devour him, satiate herself, and make him a willing slave to her bidding. It would be a simple matter to drug the young man with her charms until he was addicted to her body as well as to her mystique. All she had to do now was wait until he brought her a mug of coffee and his hourly report on conditions topside.

Within minutes of the hourly bell, Cato arrived at her cabin carrying a steaming cup of coffee, and meat and bread on a tray. Amalie—or his queen, as he now thought of her—was sitting on the edge of her bunk, smiling at him. He returned her smile and gingerly set the tray on the small table next to the bunk. There was something very different about the way she was looking at him, almost as if she wanted him . . . to touch her. A core of heat curled in his stomach and then fanned outward to suffuse his cheeks with color.

“I want to thank you for—” Amalie jerked her head to indicate the upper deck. Cato nodded and turned to leave. “Wait, don't go,” she called. “Come, sit here by me and tell me what the crew is saying. Have I anything to worry about?”

He wanted to tell her she would never have to worry about anything; he wanted to tell her he would protect her from the likes of Miguel and any others who might have the same intentions. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was; how he admired her strength and the way she'd attacked the man who was now feeding the sharks . . . But he didn't. His tongue was too thick in his mouth for words, and his body was raging with desire. Dare he tell her what he was thinking?

Hands trembling, he sat down next to his captain. “I . . . the men, they have all sworn allegiance to you, and this time they mean what they say,” he began. “Miguel was . . . has always been . . . They're glad he's dead. You have nothing to worry about. I promise to keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Thank you,” Amalie said, and touched his arm in a gentle caress. Cato flinched as though he'd been struck.

“Would you like to touch me the way I'm touching you?” she asked softly.

Cato nodded, his callused hands reaching out almost of their own accord.

Amalie laughed deep in her throat, the sound primitive and sensual, demanding. “No, not my arm. Here . . .” She pointed to the cleavage between her breasts.

Cato closed his eyes as he buried his face in the twin mounds of creamy flesh, only half aware of Amalie's fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. When at last her breasts were totally free of their confinement, she stretched and leaned back, relishing the artful working of his tongue, moaning her pleasure as she drew his head upward. Their lips met in a searing kiss that left both of them gasping. In a second their clothing fell to the floor as their bodies met and locked with each other. Amalie felt herself crying out as Cato's hands stroked her body, slowly at first and then urgently. She could feel a roaring in her head as the urgent caresses unleashed the wild, clamorous passion she'd so long held in abeyance.