Captive Secrets (29 page)

 

Half in the shadows, Luis settled himself on an iron bench to await Fury's return. He could have followed her, but he'd wanted to remain in the garden and think about those few tantalizing moments in the grass. Whoever would have thought that the demure religious could be so passionate? Christ Almighty, he could have taken her right there! He still didn't know where he'd found the strength to stop himself.

A strange feeling settled over him. He tried to put a name to it, and when the elusive words finally surfaced, he almost choked on the thick gray smoke from his cigar. Protectiveness and love. For Fury van der Rhys. The thought was so mind-boggling, he rose and began to pace in irritation. It wasn't possible he could be falling in love with the young woman . . . it couldn't be! Yet his eyes kindled with desire as he recalled her entrance to the party. Every man in the room had wanted her, and he was no exception. He still wanted her, for all the good it was going to do him. He conjured a vision of himself, old and gray, unmarried and childless, living on his memories while Fury, in a nun's habit, prayed for his everlasting soul.

Luis stomped off through the garden in search of total darkness and solitude. As he turned to toss away his half-smoked cigar, he saw Fury out of the corner of his eye, contemplating the second-floor balcony. His heart began to pound. He wanted to go to her, tell her he would keep her secret and help her get back to her room, but he couldn't move. Forty minutes later he heaved a mighty sigh of relief when he saw her slide over the balustrade. He continued to watch, and twenty minutes after that the housekeeper appeared, pondering the same problem of reaching the second floor unseen. It was all Luis could do to keep from showing her the various footholds Fury had found. “First of all you have to hike up your skirts,” he whispered, “there to the right, that's it, grab hold, now inch your way, little by little, ah, that's it, now to the left, slowly, there you have it . . . straight now . . .”

The attack, when it came, was so silent, so deadly, Luis barely had time to dive for cover. His heart pumped madly. From somewhere deep inside him words came, words he later could barely remember uttering. “I mean her no harm, for Christ's sake, I think I love her!” Did he say the words or did he—the sudden silence roared in his ears. He knew his hair was standing on end in the breeze the birds created. “Jesus Christ!” he fumed as he got to his feet. They were overhead, each working the gentle breeze, waiting, waiting for him to . . . what? for Christ's sake. Explain? “I'd never hurt her,” he whispered. “I won't give away her secret. I won't,” he said fiercely. “If you're going to do something, for God's sake, do it now!” he commanded. He watched in horror as Pilar seemed to soar straight up in the air, her wings flapping in a frenzy in the light from the colorful lantern. She circled, her wings fanning the air, and then before he could blink his eyes she descended to within an inch of him, hanging suspended in the air, her wing tip feathering out to touch his cheek. So gently. “Take care of her,” he said softly.

“Hawhawhawhaw,” came Gaspar's cry overhead.

“And on that note, I think I'll say good night to my hostess,” Luis muttered in relief.

 

Luis wasn't at all surprised, a short while later, to find himself at the parish house. He looked longingly at the second-story windows. It was almost sacrilegious to wake the old priest at this hour, but he needed to talk to someone who wouldn't lie to him, someone who knew Fury van der Rhys, Peter Dykstra, and Fury's parents. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they walked up the path and onto the small porch of the parish house. He knew the door wasn't locked. The parish house as well as the church were never locked to those in need of prayer and a kind word.

Inside, Luis settled himself on the one comfortable chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Perhaps he'd missed his calling and should have entered the priesthood. It was so peaceful here. He imagined he could see tiny angels flitting overhead, plump little cherubs praying and singing. Because he believed in the
padre
's God he knew there were such things. He found himself grinning when he patted his shoulder where he knew an imaginary angel hovered.

He could sit here all night; the
padre
wouldn't care. He had no desire to return to his boardinghouse or to the ship. In fact, he'd even lost the need to talk with the good Father: best let him sleep.

Poor Father Sebastian, Luis thought, stretching comfortably. He was at the end of his life span; just yesterday he'd noticed the man's bowed back, his bent, gnarled hands. Was he in pain? Probably, Luis decided. Yet he'd never seen anything but compassion and goodness in the old man's face. No doubt at the end of the day he would sit in this chair and read his Bible, deriving comfort and the strength to endure one more day. Luis smiled, a sweet, gentle smile, and asked the Lord to allow the priest to live to be a hundred.

Would he be trespassing if he picked up the priest's Bible and read a verse or two? Perhaps he would find answers in this holy book. Or were the answers within himself? What exactly was it that he was seeking? Vengeance . . . yes, he was bent on vengeance for the death and ruination of his father. He'd almost forgotten about
that.
He'd been so intent on the future, he'd shelved the past.

Sudden anger ripped through Luis, driving all his peaceful thoughts into oblivion. He slammed the Bible onto the table. Honeyed words weren't going to change past injustices or make him forget about his father and what Fury's mother did to him. For in his mind now he was convinced that Sirena van der Rhys was the Sea Siren.

He should return to the ship and try to get some sleep. At least in sleep he wouldn't be tormented. He gazed around at the moonlight spilling into the room, and then, sighing, he righted the Bible on the little table, aware for the first time of the crackly paper underneath. Idly he opened the stiff paper and read the flowing script. He sat for a very long time, the words burning into his heart. When he at last folded the religious decree, he felt as though he'd been kicked in the stomach by a mule.

On stiff legs he made his way back to his ship, his thoughts as unyielding as his bones. There would be no sleep for him this night—and probably not for several nights to come.

Fury was lost to him . . . not that she'd ever truly been his, but this evening, for a few brief moments, she'd been ready to offer herself to him. And what had he done? He'd goddamn well turned away from her. If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never forget the look of shame and humiliation on her face—not at what she'd been prepared to do, but at his reaction to it. “You're a bastard,” he muttered. “A low-down, scheming bastard!”

When the gray-laced dawn crept over the horizon, Luis was on the deck of the
Silver Lady
cradling a mug of three-day-old coffee in his hands that was so strong he could have eaten it in chunks.

The trade winds were cool and balmy as they rippled across the deck, but even they couldn't ease his tortured thoughts. Perhaps he should cut his losses and sail the
Silver Lady
back to Spain, begin all over. He had the rest of his life to make a fortune. He would probably never marry now, so he didn't have to worry about building a fine house and supporting a family. He could live at sea and call the
Silver Lady
his home.

As for the real Sea Siren, let her rest in peace. Her daughter would soon be peaceful enough in the convent, praying for all their wicked souls. The bogus impostor could have his cargoes, and may she never know a moment's peace from them. The hell with Dykstra and the Dutch East India Company. The hell with the diamond merchant he was to escort back to Spain. He would sail with the evening tide.

But before then, he decided, he'd take one last ride back to the cove, prove to himself once and for all that Fury really was impersonating her mother. If nothing else, he wanted to carry that proof back to Spain with him. It was important to him, and he wasn't sure why.

The sun was creeping into the sky when Luis began his trek through the jungle. Somehow he felt sure that he would find the cove serene, with no trace of the hateful black ship. Certainly he'd given Fury plenty of time to sail her out to open water. He wondered if she would ever realize what he'd done for her. On the other hand, she might realize full well that it was within his power to sign her death warrant. Even if he chose not to expose her and her ship, but sailed away without telling a soul, mightn't she convince herself otherwise? She would assume her ship was no longer safe here in the cove—and with no place to hide, she'd be open prey to any marauder on the seas.

Minutes later he reached his destination. Sure enough, there was no sign of the ship that had rocked so gently in the calm cove waters the night before. Any doubts about Fury's identity were now washed away, he thought grimly.

Over and over on his ride back to the harbor he asked himself if he could turn his back on Fury. It was his fault she'd rushed to move her ship, and it would be his fault if she didn't survive to enter the convent two weeks from today. Could he live with that?

The small town was alive with bustle and noise as Luis reined in his horse at the parish house. All the von Klausner guests were departing for their homes after a huge breakfast, as was the local custom. He wondered where Dykstra was. The entire board of governors would be leaving Clarice's about now, their morning baths and huge breakfasts a pleasant memory. Past memories were best forgotten, he thought sourly.

“Señor, will you join me for lunch?' the priest asked, opening the door in greeting.

“Yes, thank you,” Luis replied. “But, Father, I must talk with you, it's very important.”

“Can we talk over lunch, or would you prefer my study?”

“It doesn't matter. Father, you must speak with Fury. . . .” All his hopes and ambitions spilled out, along with the past evening's activities and his recent trip to the cove. “I was here last night, Father, I needed to talk with you. I was going to read a verse or two from your Bible, and the . . . the letter underneath fell to the floor. I don't know why I read it, there's no excuse I can offer for invading your privacy. I do apologize,” Luis said gruffly.

“She doesn't know . . . about the letter, that is,” the priest said fretfully. “She and her housekeeper left the von Klausners' just as the sun came up. I intend to ride out to their casa myself when the sun sets and tell her then. I'll give her a message if you wish.”

“Tell her the cove and her secret is safe with me. She has nothing to fear from me. I'm sailing this evening.”

“You have time to ride out and tell her yourself,” the priest said.

“If you don't mind, Father, I'd rather not. In fact, I think I'll forgo lunch as well.” Luis extended his hand. “Perhaps we'll meet again one day.”

“If not in this life, then in the next one,” the elderly priest said, walking with him to the front door. “I wish you a safe journey, Señor Domingo, and have no fear, I will deliver your message to Fury just as you instructed. Godspeed.”

Father Sebastian watched the handsome Spaniard until he was out of sight. He didn't have much firsthand knowledge about love between men and women, but what knowledge he did have told him Luis Domingo was in love. Fury had been acting the same way, her face flushing any time the Spaniard's name was mentioned. The thought of her in a convent for the rest of her life was so upsetting, he walked into his kitchen and ripped the cloth from the parrot's cage. “Go on, say it!” he croaked petulantly.

“Say your prayers, say your prayers,” the parrot babbled.

“Shut up!” he ordered, throwing the cloth back over the parrot's cage. “I don't need you to tell me to pray, it's all I do; it's what I do best.” To his housekeeper he said, “I'm leaving now. I won't be here for dinner, I may not even return this evening. If you see me, I'm here; if not, I'm not here.”

“Are you all right, Father?” the old woman asked, bewildered.

“No, I'm not all right, but don't concern yourself,” he grumbled. “Just give me a jug of water to take with me and that umbrella you never use. I'm too old for this hot sun. And before you can say it, I don't care if the town thinks me daft or not.”

 

The sky overhead looked evil somehow, Amalie thought fearfully. Low gray clouds scudding together formed a thick blanket that dipped lower and lower until it was impossible to distinguish the fog from the cloud bank. But if she showed fear in any way, her crew would forget about Miguel and the allegiance they'd sworn to her. Open water at least gave a captain and his ship a fighting chance. Navigating this narrow river known for so many deaths would take every ounce of skill and determination. Amalie wanted nothing more than to squeeze her eyes shut and not open them until she had secured her ship in the first deepwater cove she came to. But she was hell-bent on a course from which there was no turning back. Amalie was steering what she hoped was a straight blind run with one of her crew on the bow to warn her if she came too close to the dangerous rocks on either side of the narrow river.

Her hands gripped the wheel so fiercely, her knuckles showed white. She wanted to think about the real Sea Siren and the whispered diamond consignment her crew had picked up on that was due to arrive in Batavia. Until now it had all been so easy, a game of sorts; but no longer. The Spaniard's riddles finally made sense to her. The woman her father had written about in his journal was back on the high seas—and seeking revenge. Revenge against her, Amalie, for plundering the seas in her name.

Dare she set sail after the Dutch ship and the diamond consignment? Of course she dared; the diamonds were the reason she was steering this very ship up the River of Death. If she was successful, she, too, would retire from the sea. She'd return to Saianha a wealthy woman, able to live in luxury until she died.

The plan when they weighed anchor was for Cato to pilot the jolly boat into the harbor and sign on to the Dutch manifest. Seamen talked when they were full of grog. Rego would be in town waiting for Cato to inform him of the sailing time. But she'd have to be careful. The real Sea Siren, if she knew of the diamond consignment, would be on watch. She might even be noble enough to provide an escort for the Dutch ship. The thought was farfetched but not impossible.

Amalie's shoulders ached with the strain of constant vigilance. They were close now, almost there. . . . She watched, grim-faced, as Cato reached out and touched a jutting rock. They were all a hairbreadth away from disaster, and everyone aboard the ship knew it.

“Never again,” she muttered to herself. “I never want to be this close to death again.”

When at last Cato shouted, “We're clear, the cove is dead ahead!” Amalie did her best to straighten up, to look confident and assured. Fortunately only Cato knew how weak she was, how terrified.

“All that matters is you did it,” he murmured. “Don't think back, think only of the present. We'll weigh anchor, and at first light I'll make my way back down the river and into town. I'll take the jolly boat as far as it's safe and travel the rest of the way on foot. Rego will return with the boat when I have the information you need.”

Below decks in her cabin, Amalie gave in to her emotions. She huddled in her bunk, shivering uncontrollably. Tears of frustration, of fear and relief, coursed down her cheeks. She wasn't the Sea Siren. She was an impostor who couldn't even come close. That woman had been nerveless, her ability lawless. The Siren had relied only on herself, while she, Amalie, was dependent on her crew and others for information. Hers was a mission of pure greed; the Siren had sailed to avenge a wrong. There was no comparison no matter how much she wanted to believe she was every bit as capable and talented as the famous Sea Siren. “Even in death you robbed me, you bastard,” she hissed to the four walls. “I wish you could hear me, Father,” she spat out.

Amalie wanted to pray then, to the God she'd learned about in the mission. If she said the words she learned and remembered, it would be sacrilegious and only compound her spiritual being. That God would not forgive what she'd done.

When Cato looked in on Amalie, just before setting out in the jolly boat, she was sleeping, her tears drying on her cheeks. She looked so beautiful, he thought, her hand cupped under her cheek. Peaceful and saintly . . . He felt his loins stir, and he ached with his need. Softly he turned and closed the door behind him. He had his own mission now, one dictated by his love.

 

Juli clucked her tongue at her mistress. “You need sleep, Miss Fury. There's nothing you can do until one of my brothers brings word. Use that time to rest. Warm milk, warm chocolate,” she coaxed.

Fury shook her head and continued her restless pacing. A sudden clatter in the courtyard sent her flying to the balcony doors. “It's Father Sebastian,” Fury muttered as she turned from the window. “What do you suppose . . . ?”

“Nothing good, I'm sure,” Juli said sourly as she moved out of Fury's way.

Fury threw open the heavy front door to stare anxiously at the priest. “What is it, Father, has something happened? Why have you come all this way so early in the morning? Juli, fetch a cool drink. And set the table for breakfast.”

“No, child,” the priest said, mopping his forehead. “No breakfast, but I would like a cool drink. Please, let us sit down. My bones grow older each day.”

Fury waited in an agony of impatience as Father Sebastian drained his drink. At last he sighed heavily and leaned forward, his face so earnest she almost swooned with fear. Something had happened to her parents, she thought wildly. The elderly priest looked so sad, so forlorn.

“It's my parents, isn't it?” she blurted out. “Something has happened to them. That's why you're here.”

“No, child!” cried Father Sebastian, obviously upset that his behavior had so misled her. “That's not why I'm here.... Last night, quite late, Luis Domingo came to the parish house. He entered, but he did not wake me, although he needed to talk. Instead, he . . . sought solace by picking up my Bible, and he . . . he read this.” The priest drew out the parchment letter from the archbishop. “I meant to tell you about it earlier, child, but I couldn't. I so wanted you to enjoy the soiree and not concern yourself with this until it . . . This doesn't mean you have to . . . Forgive me, Furana,” he concluded lamely.

Fury reached for the crackly paper, but the priest hesitated. “Before I give you this,” he said, “I want you to know something. Señor Domingo asked me to give you a message. He said he'd been to the cove and seen your ship. He said your secret is safe with him. He's sailing with the evening tide. He read this letter while I slept and later apologized to me for having done so. You'll never see him again, Furana.” The good father sighed heavily. “I fear we've both misjudged the man. Mynheer Dykstra, however, will not be as generous as Senor Domingo. With him the matter is much more personal, I believe.”

“The letter, Father. Give it to me,” Fury demanded. Her face betrayed no emotion as she read the contents. “This says I have . . . two weeks . . . two weeks to do . . .”

“Whatever you want. Two weeks is fourteen days. A person could sail quite far in fourteen days. This time of year the trade winds are a sailor's dream. When one leaves the outside world for a religious vocation, one must leave his old world in peace, with no emotional ties. I . . . I told Señor Domingo he should come out here and tell you himself, but he declined. I wanted to say something to him that would ease his mind, but I couldn't say what he needed to hear. He knows who you are, Furana. And he's carried his vengeance against your mother for so long. He's turning his back on everything—his chance to seek out the impostor, his chance for a handsome commission to escort the diamond merchant back to Spain, everything.”

“We all make decisions we have to live with, Father,” Fury said softly.

“He must love you very much to make such a decision.” Father Sebastian felt his old heart quicken at the look of pure joy that settled on Fury's face. Her eyes were like stars, her smile as radiant as the sun. He wanted to cry when the stars and sun left her features. “Child, I have no idea what you feel for the Spaniard. What does a man of God know about love between a man and a woman? But I know what I saw in Señor Domingo's face, what I heard in his voice. And I must assume that God, in His infinite wisdom, has given me the insight to interpret his emotions. I believe he is in love with you. What you do with this information is up to you, of course. Now, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to impose on you for a short nap before I return to the village.”

“Of course, Father,” Juli said, holding the door open, her eyes on Fury. She wondered smugly if her own eyes were as star bright as her mistress's. Aldo would arrive, if all went well, after dinner. Her feet literally danced up the long staircase. What was Fury going to do?

“The good Father is tucked in with a cool drink on his night table,” she reported on her return to the study. “He'll sleep well; I closed the draperies. Now!”—she regarded Fury narrowly, hands on her ample hips—“what was
that
all about? It's just a letter, it didn't come from your pope. You don't have to obey it if you don't want to. If you have doubts, you shouldn't even
consider
obeying. I heard what Father Sebastian said, and I saw your face, Miss Fury. Does the wind have to blow you over before you wake up to what's in front of your eyes? Do what your heart tells you to do!”

“Juli, in case you haven't noticed, I no longer have a ship in the cove,” Fury snapped. “I couldn't do anything even if I wanted to—at this time. Until one of your brothers arrives with information, we have to be patient.”

“You could be making plans,” Juli persisted. “Don't you want to see him one more time? That place you're planning on entering, it will be dark and dreary . . . his handsome face could be the sunshine in your thoughts.”

Fury flinched. “I'll be too busy to think about Señor Domingo. Besides, it's unholy to think of a man when I've given myself to God.”

Juli gave her a withering look. “You haven't given yourself yet. You still have two weeks to do whatever you want. Two weeks, Miss Fury!”

“I'll just have to live with that, won't I? The woman posing as my mother probably has knowledge of the diamond consignment and has heard that Senor Domingo is to sail with the diamond merchant. Now that he sails on his own frigate, she won't go after the Dutch ship. She'll probably think it's a trick of some sort and go after Luis . . . I mean Senor Domingo. She'll never get the diamonds, and he—well, he can take care of himself,” she concluded defiantly.

The silence between the two women grew unbearable. Fury refused to meet Juli's eyes, although she knew the housekeeper was staring at her, waiting. . . .

“You have no guts!” she burst out at last.

Fury was on her feet in a second. “I resent your remark, Juli!”

“And well you should,” Juli responded. “You were play-acting before, enjoying yourself and the drama you created. Now, when it's time to do what your mother would do, you have no stomach for saving the man you love. You love him, admit it, Miss Fury!”

“I'll admit no such thing. You forget your place. Perhaps my mother allowed you to speak to her in such a manner, but you will not talk to me like this!”

Juli stomped her way out of the study, calling over her shoulder, “Your mother was a woman in every sense of the word. You hide behind a holy facade and mumble prayers that do not come from your heart. You're afraid to become a woman!” She slammed into the kitchen and began to hack away at a chicken on her table, muttering angrily all the while.

Moments later Fury thrust open the door. “Juli, I'm sorry. I never should have spoken to you as I did. Please, forgive me. You've been a wonderful friend to my mother and myself. I don't know what I would have done without you. Listen to me, I have to make you understand. I'm committed to God. I'm meant to enter the convent. Of course it isn't going to be easy, I know that. There's every possibility I may fail in my vocation, but I have to try. Can't you understand? All my life . . . God is my life.”

Juli sniffed and bent over her chicken without looking up. “The way I see it, Miss Fury, is you're cheating your God. You'll never convince me you don't have worldly feelings for the Spaniard. If you wish to dupe yourself, that's fine with me. Even those damnable birds haven't touched him. That should tell you something. You say they're attuned to you, so therefore they must know he's . . . good for you.”

“You think I should go after him . . . and do what?” Fury asked, spreading her hands wide. “Somehow I don't think Señor Domingo will think kindly of me when I tell him I'm sailing along as an escort to protect him,” she sniffed.

Juli brought the blade down across the chicken's wing joint with a vicious slam. “You don't have to tell him
that.
When you catch up to him, tell him you want only to warn him. A man will think kindly of a woman if she tries to apprise him of trouble. All men know we women have a sixth sense.”

“How much of what you've just said is your own insight and how much is my mother's?” Fury demanded. She laughed bitterly as Juli refused to meet her gaze. The chicken lost its leg with a loud
whack!

“Cook that,” Fury said, pointing to the unfortunate fowl, “and give it to Father Sebastian. I don't want any lunch. Don't ever give me chicken again. I'll be in the garden.”

“Thinking, I hope,” Juli muttered as the knife severed the remaining leg from the carcass.

Out among the lush greenery, Fury headed for the nearest shade tree to reflect on the events of the past twenty-four hours. What was she to do? How foolish of Juli to assume there were choices for her to draw from. Could she go after Luis Domingo, warn him, and then head back to port and enter the convent? Two weeks wasn't much time. If there was a storm or if another ship accosted her, she could be delayed. If she didn't appear at the convent gates at the appointed time, she might be denied entrance. If she did go to sea and got herself killed or maimed, she could never enter the convent—or anyplace else, for that matter.