Captive Secrets (8 page)

Several minutes later, sweat dripping from every pore in his body, the jeweler squealed like a pig going to market. “What . . . wha . . .
oh!”

“Shhh, I am about to remedy . . . your problem, Mynheer.”

Amalie's touch was light, almost playful as she caressed, tickled, and prodded, her strong, muscular thighs contracting against the jeweler's flabby limbs. Her face, however, was impassive as she recalled other times when she had been used and abused by some of the white plantation owners. Because she was tall and long-limbed, those men had thought her impervious to pain and had not been gentle. She'd promised herself that someday she would be as cold and brutal with fat Dutchmen and foppish Spaniards.

Barely audible moans and squeals of delight from the man beneath her brought her back to the job at hand. Her fingers stiffened as they moved downward to the patch of fair hair, and then lower still. With a lithe movement she slid between the man's spread legs, her knees closing and then widening against his manhood. When he yelped with pleasure, she intensified the pressure.

Long, velvety hair fell over her face, a veil to hide from the jeweler the contempt she bore him. She crooned soft words, words pleasing and sensual to the prone man beneath her.

“You're hurting me!” the jeweler gasped.

“But it feels good, doesn't it?” Amalie cooed as she pressed her knees against his throbbing testicles. When she released the pressure, the man sighed, and Amalie almost laughed. She waited a moment and then brought her knees together with such force, the jeweler's head jerked backward in pain. The palm of her hand shot forward and upward against his chin in a single, savage thrust. His eyes widened in disbelief, then glazed over as his life drained quickly out of him.

When Amalie had slid the chemise over her shoulders, she returned to the man lying on the floor. Working quickly, she pulled up his underdrawers and trousers, then dragged his body over to the chair he'd been sitting in. She continued to struggle with the man's enormous weight until she had him propped in the chair. Next, she scattered all his books and papers about the floor. Finally she came to his cash box. Without a qualm, she emptied it of all but a few gold coins, then jammed the lid so that it looked as though someone had tampered with it. She savored the feel of the pouch in her hand. Weight meant money, power, and leverage.

Without a backward glance at the jeweler, she let herself out the rear door of the shop into a deserted alley full of refuse and empty barrels. No eyes looked on her as she walked through the alley, her head high, her back ramrod stiff. She started to sing under her breath, a silly little tune the old priest had taught the children. She felt victorious. She had all but a few guilders of the jeweler's money, and she still had the diamonds.

Her next stop was the justice's office, where she stood waiting in respectful silence until he raised his head from the papers on his desk.

“I can see why you would be impatient after all these years,” Muab said, nodding. “I affixed my seal to this proclamation earlier today, thinking you would soon come into town. As of now all of your . . . father's property and possessions, those that remain, are yours.” He handed over a packet of papers and wasn't surprised to see the beautiful girl's hands tremble as she accepted it.

“Thank you, sir, for your time and trouble,” she said quietly.

“Hrumph, yes, yes. You are now Amalie Alvarez. I've sent a letter off to the . . . to your father's superiors, informing them of this action. It is entirely possible they will respond, but unlikely. Give my regards to Father Renaldo,” the justice said, dismissing her.

“I will tell him you send your regards.”

The justice watched the tall girl walk through the door, wondering what she would do now. His stomach churned. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but . . . he no longer cared. He'd gone by the evidence, and in the end that's all that mattered. He wished the girl well.

 

The blazing sun boiled downward, but Amalie paid it no mind as she walked toward the harbor, shoulders drooping and head down in a subservient manner. For once she desired anonymity and knew full well that in her present posture the scurvy few at the harbor would virtually ignore her until she raised her head and challenged them with her yellow eyes.

The harbormaster was no stranger to Amalie. He'd always been civil when she appeared and asked to see the ships that belonged to Chaezar Alvarez. She also knew that he was a friend of the justice's and would now know that she was entitled to her father's property.

A monstrous banyan tree surrounded by thick greenery at the side of the road beckoned with promise of shade, and Amalie was drawn toward it. She needed time to think, to rest a moment, time to massage her aching, callused feet.

As she lowered herself onto a mossy patch beneath the old tree, she was suddenly assailed by doubt. Perhaps she should wait to visit the harbormaster, buy some clothes and shoes and come back another day. Those she would deal with now would regard her as a slab of meat, a slave's bastard child dressed in a worn, thin chemise that left nothing to the imagination. Would the gold in the pouch she held in her hand garner respect?

Her head snapped upward as another thought struck her. What would be the outcome in regard to the jeweler's death? Was there anyone who knew how much money he kept in his cash box—his wife, some family member, a shop owner? Had she left enough coins there to satisfy the authorities that burglary had not been the motive for his death? It had taken all her strength to snap the man's fat neck, something some men wouldn't be able to do. Certainly no one would suspect a woman. No, a simple crime of passion, a murder—probably at the hands of one bent on vengeance—would be the verdict rendered by the . . . justice, the same justice responsible for giving her her new life.

Satisfied that her interpretation of the incident would be shared by the authorities, Amalie rose to her feet in one effortless movement. She'd had all the rest she could afford, and as inviting as the tree looked, she had to move on. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the harbormaster's quarters.

Hans Wilhelm was a crusty old man with twinkling eyes and a hatred for soap and water. On his desk were two guns and a saber that he used or threatened to use on a daily basis. He was so fat he was grotesque, and his twinkling eyes were merely a trick of the light filtering through the wooden shutters. He was a hard man to deal with, and his only priority in life was to gouge as much money as he could from the owners of the trading vessels he dealt with.

Wilhelm leaned back in his chair, his belly jiggling with his effort. His coarse shirt was stained with weeks of sweat, and he reeked of himself. Amalie breathed through her mouth as she entered his office and waited for him to speak. He knew why she was there; she could see it in his beady eyes. His voice, when he spoke, came from deep in his belly, gruff yet hollow-sounding.

“I've been waiting for you, Amalie, my dear.”

“I want to know if you'll take the brigantine, the galleon, and the sloop and trade me a frigate.” Amalie forced herself to sound casual, indifferent, as though she really didn't care one way or another what the harbormaster's answer would be.

Wilhelm's nostrils quivered. He smelled money. “Now, why would I want those rotten ships? And why would the likes of you be wanting a frigate?”

Staring at him, Amalie was reminded of a mound of dough with finger indentations. “I asked you a question, Mr. Wilhelm. If you can't give me an answer, I'll go to the Dutch East India Company. Or I can make inquiries elsewhere.”

Wilhelm sighed wearily. “It would cost a fortune to have those ships careened, and they're rotted with teredo worm,” he lied. “That will have to be taken care of before we can begin to discuss the possibilities you mentioned,” the harbormaster said craftily. He wondered uneasily if this was some kind of trick to trap him. His fat stomach lurched when he remembered how he'd spent the money that came from Spain for repairs and harbor fees. Long ago he'd made up his mind to lie if any of the Spaniards' superiors ever came to claim the ships left in his care. He'd never been able to bring himself to the point where he would sell off or dispose of the ships out of fear that perhaps one day some fool would arrive with the proper credentials and claim the ships.

“I'm prepared to pay the bill . . . in full. But don't try to cheat me, Mr. Wilhelm,” Amalie said quietly. “I know how much upkeep costs per year. My father kept a ledger with all his debts.”

“Yes, your . . . Mr. Alvarez was a crafty bastard.” And so are you, he added silently.

They haggled for well over an hour until Amalie suddenly turned to leave. “We're getting nowhere, Mr. Wilhelm. Either you're interested or you aren't. I wish to settle this now. As to the frigate, I know there is one in the harbor that has been there for two years. Set your price . . . now!”

“All right, all right.” Wilhelm waved a hand in the air as if tired of debate. “If you have a mind to, we can walk out to the wharf and see just how rotten those ships are.”

“Both of us already know how rotten they are. They can, however, be salvaged, so why not finalize our business now? I'll return tomorrow, and you can have the papers ready for me to sign. I want the justice to oversee this transaction. I'm sure he'll want to send off another letter to my father's government, apprising them of the fact that I'm selling the ships to you. Is that satisfactory?”

After another twenty minutes of haggling, the final price was agreed upon. “I want the frigate careened and then taken to the cove at Saianha,” Amalie said. “How long will that take?”

“A month, possibly less,” the harbormaster said, rubbing his jowls thoughtfully.

“Good. Then it's a bargain?”

“Yes, a bargain.” Wilhelm's eyes gleamed at the thought of how full his cash box would be.

Amalie nodded. “I'll return at eight o'clock in the morning. Will that be satisfactory?” Again Wilhelm bobbed his head.

Smiling, Amalie strode down the plank walkway to the harbor and stared at the row of ships in their berths. She knew immediately which ones were her father's, and she also knew where the frigate was. She shaded her eyes from the burning sun for a better look. To her, the frigate looked in worse condition than her father's ships. When she'd had enough of the brutal sun and the sailors' leering eyes, she retraced her steps and headed down a well-trod path to the town's only brothel.

Amalie hated the place and all that went on behind the curtains on the second floor, hated it because the women were used and paid a pittance for their bodies. Three girls from the mission were here simply because there was nowhere else for them to go.

At the back door of Christabel's establishment she called out and announced herself. Anyone who knew her would have been astounded at the look of compassion in her eyes as several young girls ran to her. How old and weary they looked, and none of them was as old as she. She stared into the eyes of the old hag who owned the brothel. “I've come to tell you that these
children
won't be returning to this . . . place,” she said coldly, defying the hag to question her further.

Outside in the sultry late afternoon, Amalie explained to her charges that she was taking them back to her plantation, where they would live and work. “All I ask is your loyalty; if you can pledge that to me, then I will take care of you.” The girls nodded, their eyes alive for the first time in months. “Then it's settled. I must stay in town this evening so I can be at the harbormaster's office at eight o'clock. We'll have to sleep in the wagon this evening, and we'll need food. One of you can go to the shop for it. I also need to know where I can hire some able-bodied men to crew my frigate once it reaches Saianha.”

The girls giggled. The oldest, at fourteen, pointed to the path behind her. “All you have to do is waylay them on their way back from Christabel's parlor. Or we can do it for you, they know us.” Three pairs of grateful eyes waited for Amalie's response. After a tense moment, she nodded.

“Waylay them, then—but that's all. Believe me when I tell you you'll never suffer at a man's hands again. It's getting late now, and I have no desire to be on this street once darkness falls. We'll come back after midnight.”

The children, as Amalie thought of them, huddled close together in the wagon, a huge banyan tree shielding them from the late-afternoon sun. For a while they whispered and giggled; then, eventually, they slept, sweet smiles on their faces.

Amalie sat on the ground with her back against the ageless tree, her long, honey-colored legs stretched out in front of her and her future secure in the pouch around her neck. Her head buzzed with the day's activities and the knowledge that by tomorrow she would have a frigate and a crew to man it. She would also have her father's mansion. The girls would clean it and keep house, but would there be enough money left to initiate the necessary repairs to make the place livable? There would have to be; she'd see to it.

A much more serious problem was what to do about the old priest and the dangerous knowledge he possessed. He alone could ruin her scheme. If walking back to the mission in the heat hadn't killed him, then she would be forced to deal with Father Renaldo more directly. It would be at least a year before another missionary would arrive, possibly longer.

She could move the rickety mission to her plantation. The children could live in the old slave quarters, and their first major task would be to clear away the jungle from the main house. She knew that the fussy, flighty town women would cluck their tongues at first, but in the end they would approve as long as the quarters held beds and were clean. Amalie Suub Alvarez . . . protector of small children. Who would ever fault her?