Chance the Winds of Fortune (50 page)

Violent though her death had been, there was, strangely enough, a restfulness about her broken body. In death, Kate had found the peace that had eluded her in life. Her torment had finally come to an end—abruptly, yes, but the fates had smiled belatedly upon her at last. What she had so desperately sought to hide in life remained hidden in death, for the scarred half of her face was pressed to the earth. Enshrouded in black, the unmarred beauty of her face was like a cameo carved of palest ivory; it was smooth and cold to the touch and gave no indication of the ugliness that lay on the other side.

It was therefore difficult for the subdued group of men standing around her fallen body to believe that this was the crazed woman who had murdered the elder Mr. Taber, kidnapped Lady Rhea Claire, and come close to destroying the Dominick family. There was only one among them who felt no pity as he stared down at Kate, and that was Butterick, who had known the wickedness of the young Kate Rathbourne. But a few of the younger men, who saw only the beauty in the lifeless face, knew a feeling of sadness at the apparent senselessness of this lovely woman's death.

Kate would have been amused to know this, and Butterick could have sworn he heard laughter as he stood there in the stone courtyard, chilled to the marrow by the icy gusts blowing out of the west country.

He glanced around at the collapsed scaffolding and smashed remains of the old staircase. Shaking his head, he looked up at the figures standing above him like stone effigies. “We're goin' to have to be doin' a powerful lot of diggin' to get Lord Andrew out from beneath all of this, Your Grace,” he called through cupped hands. He kicked at a fallen piece of stonework, trying to forget the image of Her Grace's anguished face. But it would only be getting worse, he thought unhappily, for the little lord could never have survived the fall, much less the collapse of the staircase and scaffolding.

Sabrina pulled free from the warmth of Lucien's arms and staggered against the far wall, unable to watch any longer. She was weeping softly, when she suddenly heard a shuffling, scratching noise. Thinking it a mouse, or even worse, a rat, she instinctively stepped away.

But to her shock, she felt something reach out and grab hold of her bare ankle. Her scream caused Richard, who was about to retrace his steps to join the searchers below, to totter on the edge of the stairwell. He had not, however, planned his descent in quite so dramatic a manner and felt quite grateful for Lucien's steadying hand pulling him away from the edge.

As Richard turned, the light from his burning torch revealed his sister's figure. Richard halted a foot behind Lucien, who had come to a sudden standstill when he caught sight of his wife.

For neither Lucien nor Richard were prepared to see Sabrina standing there cradling her son in her arms, half crying, half laughing, as she met their disbelieving eyes over Andrew's golden head.

“He was crawling along the hall. I felt something grab my ankle. I thought it was a rat, and that is why I screamed,” Sabrina explained, her quivering words interspersed with Andrew's pleased chuckles as she pressed kiss after kiss on his grimy face.

Lucien said nothing.

“Andrew is alive!” Richard called out to the men who were digging down below. Then he turned away, but not before he had seen Sabrina and Andrew enfolded in Lucien's arms.

Richard grinned widely in response to the cheer that went up from below; then he looked back at his young nephew, wondering why he was not dead. By all rights he should be, for Kate must have been carrying him when she fell to her death on the stones below. What had happened then, to spare his life?

He glanced around the dusty corridor, trying to reenact the sequence of events; to Richard, a puzzle was a puzzle until he had solved it, and solved it must be before he could rest easy.

He imagined Kate's hurrying figure. She would have been slowed by the small boy she carried in her arms. She would have been searching frantically for the door to the south stairs. She would have stopped before it, then opened it to escape down the staircase that she remembered from more than a quarter of a century ago. She would not have hesitated to rush down it. And then she and Andrew would have been dead—but only Kate had died.

A quarter of a century, Richard speculated, eyeing with growing curiosity the door to the stairwell. This was most likely the original door that had been hung centuries ago, and if the stairs were in so decrepit a condition that they had collapsed, then the odds were that the door was in a similar condition. To prove his theory, Richard reached out and firmly closed the door, momentarily startling Lucien and Sabrina from their absorption in their son.

Their curious expressions became even more puzzled when Richard exclaimed, “Ah-ha!”

Then he nearly fell into them when the door finally gave in to his ungentle persuasion and swung back at him with unnecessary force. Richard turned a triumphant face to his perplexed audience. “It was stuck.”

“That was obvious,” Lucien remarked with a smile, well used to his young brother-in-law's eccentric ways.

“Whatever are you talking about, Richard?” Sabrina asked in bewilderment. “But whatever it is, I think it can wait until we are out of this drafty hall. You and Andrew are going to catch your death of cold standing here in bare feet,” she said sensibly, but more than that, the gloom of the corridor was beginning to unnerve her.

“Well, to put it quite simply, Rina, the door is warped,” Richard said, as if that explained everything.

“I am sorry, but I don't quite see what that has—”

“Don't you understand?” Richard interrupted patiently. “Kate would have had a devil of a time opening it. And she certainly could not have succeeded, wounded as she was, and burdened with Andrew. She would have needed both hands to open it. She had to put Andrew down while she struggled with the door. Her time was precious. She must have been frantic, for while she was wrestling with that stuck door, she could probably hear your footsteps, Rina, coming ever closer. Perhaps she even saw the flickering candlelight at the end of the corridor,” Richard said, his speculations vividly recreating the tragic scene of moments before.

“Finally, she would have succeeded in opening the door, then she would have picked up Andrew and descended—and both would have died.” Richard spoke softly, for he had realized before either Lucien and Sabrina how close Andrew had come to dying with Kate on the stone floor of the courtyard below.

“As chance would have it, while Kate was struggling with that warped door, Andrew, finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings, toddled off to explore. Kate had no light to find him by, nor did she have the time to search the length and breadth of the hall for him. She had to make a decision—whether to risk capture or to flee and save herself. We know which decision she made,” Richard stated, resisting the urge to glance down at Kate's black-clad figure. Instead, he reached out and gently tweaked his nephew's nose.

Sabrina shivered, her arms tightening around Andrew's soft body as she pressed him closer to her breast.

“Come,” Lucien said, guiding his beloved wife and son from the scene of Kate's death, where he believed Camareigh, the great house she'd coveted, and not chance, had meted out the ultimate justice.

* * *

A few hours later the glow of dawn was lightening the eastern horizon as Sabrina stared out at the distant hills. Now a bishop's purple against the gilded heavens, they would soon turn somber against ashen skies.

Sabrina sighed and turned away, the warmth of the fire drawing her to it. Sleep had been a stranger to her, and now as she waited for Lucien to return from making the arrangements for Kate's burial, she found her thoughts lingering on what he'd said about Kate no longer having the power to hurt them.

“But you are wrong, Lucien,” Sabrina whispered as she opened her clenched hand slowly and gazed down at the delicate diamond and sapphire ring resting on her palm.

“Rhea,” Sabrina breathed, “I swear that I will never give up the hope that you still live. But where are you? What is happening to you now?” she cried, her shoulders shaking with the grief that would be her constant companion until she found her daughter. And unless that moment came, Kate had won.

Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men.

—John Donne

Close to a fortnight had passed since the
Sea Dragon
had cast off her mooring lines and set sail for Antigua. The brigantine was laden with a cargo of lumber, tar, fish, and livestock, and it had been business as usual for its captain and crew, or so it had seemed to any interested bystanders on the docks in Charles Town.

Only the
Sea Dragon
's captain, her supercargo, and the steward had known that this was to be no ordinary run between the Indies and the Carolinas. None but these three knew that once the
Sea Dragon
's cargo was discharged in St. John's Harbour, she would set out on a venture which could change forever the lives of her crew. Whether her quest ended in good fortune or misfortune was the hazard of the die, but it was one which they had been willing to chance ever since prying open that strongbox unearthed on Trinidad.

Soon, however, the true destination and purpose of the
Sea Dragon
's voyage would be a secret no more, and then Longacres, the coxswain, would once again be dreaming of his tavern in St. Thomas; Cobbs, the bos'n, would be imagining himself the Norfolk country gentleman; MacDonald, the Scots sailmaker, would be designing his shop-yard along the banks of the Chesapeake; Trevelawny, the dour carpenter, would be seeing the familiar, rocky shores of Cornwall; Clarke, the quartermaster and self-styled dandy, would be conjuring images of himself in the finest silk, sipping a goblet of claret; and Seumus Fitzsimmons, the first mate, would be outfitting his newly purchased schooner for service as a privateer.

Young Conny Brady, the cabin boy, had never stopped dreaming of sunken treasure and Spanish galleons haunted by drowned sailors. He had remained fired by his boyish dreams of fame and fortune, which a lifetime of adventure would surely reap.

Houston Kirby's gruff demeanor certainly would not alert the crew to the
Sea Dragon
's secret. He'd had months to speculate calmly on the possible outcome of this voyage, and he had come to the rather uneasy conclusion that if a fortune they found, then 'twould have been an ill-fated voyage for one Dante Leighton.

Nor would the crew of the
Sea Dragon
have gleaned anything out of the ordinary from the behavior of their captain. His grim-visaged expression seldom varied, except when he gazed upon the girl; then it became brooding, as if perplexed by her.

Dante was gazing at her now, an unamused glint in his narrowed gray eyes. She was whispering into young Conny Brady's ear, whose giggling laugh was drawing indulgent smiles from the men who always seemed to find some small task to keep them nearby whenever she came on deck. It seemed, at least to Dante's cynical eye, as if she had bewitched the crew of the
Sea Dragon
. Every man jack of them had been disarmed by a pair of gentle violet eyes, and what once had been a crew to be reckoned with was now little more than a pack of grinning fools.

Dante's scowling gaze settled on his men who were gathered around the companion ladder on the quarterdeck, where Conny and the girl were sitting, their bare feet dangling short of the deck. Dante eyed with growing displeasure the beaming expressions on both Cobbs's and Fitzsimmons's faces as they listened to the girl's quiet voice. She even had that old sea dog Longacres hanging on her every word. MacDonald, who was sitting nearby on a crate of clucking chickens, was apparently not immune to witchery either, for his blond mustache was twitching in response as he mended a length of canvas with sail needle and thimble. Dante's eyes widened perceptibly when he heard a rustly laugh; turning his head slightly, he was startled to see even the Cornishman grinning over the girl's story.

His patience already had worn thin when he caught a whiff of something nauseatingly sweet. Looking around he saw Barnaby Clarke who, in fresh silk stockings and stock, would have been more at home in a salon than on the quarterdeck of a fighting brig. But it was when Dante saw Alastair Marlowe present the girl with a carefully peeled orange, the supercargo's hand lingering against hers for just a moment too long, that Dante's simmering temper boiled over.

“Trim and make sail!” the captain of the
Sea Dragon
ordered in a voice harsher than it needed to be since the ship had been running smoothly by the lee with the northeast trades filling her sails.

“Your coffee, m'lord.” Standing beside his captain, Kirby had spoken softly but won an irate look for his trouble. The captain knew well where Kirby's sympathies lay.

Even Jamaica seemed smitten with the girl and was forever rubbing himself against her legs, his feline pride gone by the board for a pat on the head, Dante thought disgustedly. He had just spotted the big orange tomcat amongst the men palpitating over the girl.

Dante stared hard at Rhea Claire Dominick and wondered if this could possibly be the same girl who had sneaked aboard the
Sea Dragon
little over a fortnight ago. Although still dressed in the same tattered green velvet she had been wearing then, she bore little resemblance to that wild-eyed, spitting creature he had discovered in his cabin that night.

For under the conscientious, if at times exasperating, ministrations of Kirby, the girl had begun gradually to regain her strength. Part of his cure had included countless bowls of chicken broth, tankards of warm milk laced liberally with brandy, and, when he had thought she was up to it, his special stew, which the crew swore stuck to your ribs for days afterward.

Night after night, Dante had swung from a hammock stretched between two deck beams in his cabin, watching with half-closed eyes the feverish girl sleeping fitfully in his bunk. And not for the first time had he found himself wondering about her, for this girl calling herself Rhea Claire Dominick remained an enigma to him.

However, to the rest of the crew of the
Sea Dragon
, including Kirby and Alastair, both of whom should have known better, she was the tragic victim of foul play. To his men she was exactly what she claimed to be, and when her wide, innocent-seeming, violet eyes gazed into theirs, they never thought to question her or doubt her words.

On the other hand, he had been caught up in a deception of his own making, for how could he possibly tell his men of his suspicions concerning this girl whom he'd caught rifling his cabin? They would surely ask themselves why he should be so concerned that she had seen the treasure map that
they
all thought to be worthless.

And, to make matters worse, his men thought him a saintly fellow to have rescued the girl, when both he and the girl knew that the reality was quite different.

She was no fool, however, this ragamuffin with the fine airs of a lady, and since she knew only too well his skepticism concerning her true identity, she had made a valiant effort to befriend his crew. But in order not to lose the sympathies she had so easily culled from them, she'd had to take heed of his warning.

Their rather strained heart-to-heart talk had taken place shortly after she had recovered enough to ask to be allowed on deck. Dante still remembered now her almost pathetic attempt to maintain her dignity while standing before him in his shirt. It had been quite a remarkable feat. And despite the distraction of the hardening nipples of her small breasts against the soft silk of his shirt, he had refused to be swayed from his course of action. Too much was at stake to make a mistake now.

“If you value that pale-skinned derriere of yours, then I'd not speak a word about that map you so fortuitously discovered,” he had warned her, smiling inwardly at that look of innocent surprise that had crossed her delicate-featured face. “If you intend to keep in my men's good graces, then I'd say naught of it, my dear. You see,” he had explained, “your presence on board the
Sea Dragon
has been impossible to keep a secret, and quite naturally, my men have been curious about my guest. And thanks to the good offices of one Houston Kirby, your sad little tale has been regaled to the crew, until I daresay there has not been a dry eye on deck. Of course, sailors do love a good yarn. So, for your own protection, my dear,” he'd advised, “I would continue to pretend to be the innocent they think you are.”

“I could not care less about this treasure map you insist upon speaking of,” she had reiterated. “I do not know who you think I am pretending to be, but I shall tell you who I really am, for you seem to have a very short memory. I am Lady Rhea Claire Dominick. I am the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh, and I was kidnapped from my home. All I am concerned with, Captain,” she had informed him almost contemptuously, although tears were not far off, “is finding my way back home. That is all I desire.”

“Well put, but it has little to do with the rather delicate situation you now find yourself in on board the
Sea Dragon
. However, your actions on board my ship may well determine whether or not you ever see your home again,” he had hinted, his voice intentionally threatening.

Then, when he saw the fearful consternation gathering in her eyes, he had elaborated further. “Whomever, or whatever you might be, you will only harm yourself by speaking of matters which do not concern you. You might very well find yourself marooned on some desert isle, and you would never find your way home.”

He remembered feeling a slight twinge of guilt at the terrified expression that had settled over her face at his words, but still he had continued relentlessly.

“Some people say, and perhaps with good reason, that there is little difference between privateering and piracy. In fact, on the high seas, His Majesty's Navy too often refuses to recognize any difference between privateer and pirate. You've not met Longacres yet; he is the
Sea Dragon
's coxswain and a reformed pirate, if that is indeed possible. You really must have a word with him, for although he seems quite civilized at times, he is certainly not a man that I would care to double-cross, for he remembers only too well the feel of a cutlass in his hand.” With these words, Dante had driven home his point, for the girl's face had blanched alarmingly. “Think of this conversation as a friendly warning, for I truly do have your best interests at heart.”

“I do not wish to cause trouble for anyone. All I want is to go home,” she had whispered, her violet eyes downcast, her narrow shoulders slumped in defeat. A less determined man would surely have been touched by her obvious distress, Dante had thought, turning his back on her thin figure.

That had been over a week ago. And now as Dante's eyes strayed upward toward the sun-bleached sails billowing in the freshening breeze, he wondered if the
Sea Dragon
would continue to make good speed toward the Indies. Her yards were braced up and her sheets had been eased out to meet the thrust of a quartering wind blowing well abaft the beam. If all went well, then they should be sighting land by eventide on the morrow.

As Dante's gaze fell on the girl, he wondered how she would react when she heard that stirring cry from aloft that land had been sighted off to starboard, then heard the gull's cry mocking her as it soared high above the swaying masts, its outspread wings a flash of gray as it glided closer with the downdraft, only to fly away free and leave her behind.

What her thoughts were at this moment, he could not know, for her golden head was bent as she attempted to tie a complicated spritsail sheet knot with the help of young Conny. She was unpredictable, this woman-child, for one moment she would be laughing and playing riddle games in childish abandon with the boy; then, in the very next breath, she would be smiling with a captivating seductiveness into Alastair's boyish face, or meeting the dark eyes of Fitzsimmons, who was acting to the hilt the charming Irish rogue.

There was one thing, however, of which Dante was certain: that she would try to escape him once they had docked in Antigua. It would be her only chance to gain her freedom, and she knew it. She also knew that he had no intention of allowing her to succeed. It mattered not whether she was a hireling of Bertie Mackay's, or a conniving wench off the streets who merely wished to better her station by becoming the mistress of a marquis, she would not be leaving the
Sea Dragon
when she docked in St. John's Harbour. Whatever her purpose for being on board ship, she would never have the opportunity to divulge what she had intentionally or inadvertently seen while on board the
Sea Dragon
or at least not until it was too late to cause harm.

Of course, it would be a far more dangerous situation all around if she were indeed the daughter of Lucien Dominick, Duke of Camareigh. He could well imagine her angry recitation of the experiences she'd had while on board his ship. She would not spare the
Sea Dragon
's captain when telling her tale to sympathetic listeners. It would complicate matters no end to have His Majesty's Navy in hot pursuit with a warrant for his arrest, and the firepower to back it up should he be reluctant to comply with their wishes. Nor would it help matters to have a vengeful father, who also happened to be an all-powerful duke, out for his blood. He wanted no enemy of that ilk shadowing his every step.

That possibility seemed unlikely, though, for only a madman would have dared to kidnap a duke's daughter, and especially that particular duke's daughter. A sudden thought struck Dante and a slight smile curved his mouth as his eyes lingered on the girl's fair head. He noticed how her long braid gleamed like a shiny golden sovereign.

When Dante laughed softly, Kirby caught his captain's expression and drew a deep sigh of relief, for he'd been having restless nights of late spent worrying about his master. Only once before had he seen the captain in so dangerous a mood, and then it had nearly ended in tragedy. And now, what with worrying over the captain and what he might end up doing, as well as being concerned over the intricate stratagems for the salvaging of that Spanish galleon—not to mention his fears about the prospect of returning to Merdraco—he felt at times as if his short legs were carrying the weight of the world.