Chance the Winds of Fortune (63 page)

Grumbling slightly, they turned and shuffled off, leaving a few choice remarks drifting behind. At the end of the street, they turned and disappeared, most likely to look for a different tavern this time.

“Now that the air has cleared a bit, I was wonderin', Captain,” Mackay began, then glanced meaningfully at the men still grouped around Dante, and added softly, “if we might have a private word or two?”

Dante glanced around at his men, who were already impatiently looking up and down the street in hopes of spying a golden head of hair twisted into a long braid. “Very well,” he said, nodding to Alastair and the others, who then drifted off in several directions.

“Now, what did you wish to say to me, Captain Mackay?” Dante inquired politely, though he was most anxious to be gone.

“Well, you might say, 'twas a continuation of a conversation we had a while back, Captain,” Mackay said, smiling widely at a couple of local citizens walking past and removing his hat in polite deference to the lady.

“Indeed?” Dante remarked casually.

“Aye, Captain. I was thinkin' that you might be in need of a silent partner. Maybe a man like me could keep to me own business back in Charles Town, while you went about your own business here, if ye get my drift?” he said in a very confidential tone.

“Not quite. I fear I am slow to comprehend your intent,” Dante murmured, his eye catching a flash of movement at the top of the street, which he could have sworn was Rhea Claire.

“I can make the others believe that you're just goin' about your business, and I can even make me own crew not suspicion a thing, Captain. Then there isn't quite so much to split up, should you just happen to find that treasure,” Mackay offered with a beaming look.

Dante noticed Conny hurrying up the street; the cabin boy hadn't moved off with the others and had been waiting for his captain in the shadow of the hotel. “As you said before, Captain Mackay,” Dante said, “we have already had this most interesting but hardly profitable conversation once before. I see no need to continue it, since as you well know, the crew of the
Sea Dragon
found a wrecked Dutch merchantman, her holds full of rotting spices. I really would advise you to buy your clove and pepper in the local market. Good day to you, Captain Mackay,” Dante bid him, stepping around a livid Bertie Mackay, whose expression and muttered oaths caused a genteel woman passing by to draw in her breath. Then, as her concerned maid fanned her faint-looking mistress, they scurried across the lane.

* * *

As the two groups split apart, Rhea remained, waiting for Dante to follow his men. Instead, he remained in conversation with the portly gentleman in velvet.

She was debating what to do when she suddenly caught sight of a blue uniform with gold lace and braid, and recognizing it as a King's naval officer, decided that now was her chance. She knew that with half the
Sea Dragon
's crew, and her captain, searching St. John's for her, it was just a matter of time before they found her.

Rhea left the safety of her hiding place and dashed across the street, not even glancing toward Dante to see if he'd noticed her; thus, she did not see Conny leave the shadows of the doorway he'd been standing in and start off in hot pursuit after her.

Rhea hurried through a crowd of people that suddenly seemed to be filling the narrow lane. Her figure seemed to blend in more now as she wound along the street, careful not to bump against the black women dressed in white muslin jackets and petticoats, many of whom balanced white wicker baskets on heads wrapped in colorful turbans of gauze and silk. Since the men were clad in loose white drawers and waistcoats, the blue uniform of the British naval officer should have stood out vividly, but Rhea did not see him anywhere.

Glancing around, Rhea noticed her surroundings for the first time and realized she had wandered into the marketplace, where hundreds of black people and mulattoes were crowded together to sell their produce of pigs, chickens, and all manner of fowl penned and displayed. As well, there were staggering piles of breadfruit, sweet potatoes, coconuts, papaya, avocado, and baskets of fragrant coffee beans.

Small children were running free, while dogs chased around in seemingly endless circles, snatching and barking at anything that crossed their paths. Rhea sighed in exasperation, wiping at the fine beads of perspiration beginning to form on her brow. There was no blue uniform in sight.

Giving up her search, she decided that her best plan of action would be to go back to some shop or inn. There, she would purposely cause an incident, which would force the proprietor, or proprietress, into sending for the authorities. Then she would be able to tell her story, and finally have someone listen to her.

Rhea was wending her way through the marketplace when she spied MacDonald wandering toward her, and she ducked behind a couple of stacked up crates holding some worriedly clucking chickens. As Rhea stood there and watched the Scotsman walk past her, so close that she could almost have reached out and touched him, she felt an almost unbearable loneliness for her friends on board the
Sea Dragon
, and for this Highlander who had known her great-grandfather. She watched silently, however, as he disappeared into the crowd; then, with one last look at his tall figure, she stepped from her hiding place and walked away in the opposite direction. She found a small, twisting lane leading out of the market square and followed it, the sounds of laughter and voices raised in barter drifting away behind her. She had just come to the realization that this was not one of the better sections of town, when a group of men suddenly erupted from a tavern almost abreast of her. Quickening her pace, she hurried past, anxious to go unobserved; alas, this was not to be, for one of the rum-soaked hearties spied her gently swaying hips and let out a hoot of delight.

Rhea glanced back in fright, startled to discover that this was the very same rowdy group of men who had been challenging the captain and crew of the
Sea Dragon
less than half an hour earlier. Now their mood was anything but harmonious and they were looking for trouble of one kind or another. And it seemed they did not care if it were a female or male who happened to cross their path. Whoever it might be, that unfortunate person would rue the day.

And Lady Rhea Claire Dominick seemed to be that unfortunate person, for as she started to run, the men broke into pursuit of her flying figure, following her golden braid like a beacon.

She sped along the uneven lane, stumbling once or twice. She was dismayed to find it all but abandoned; suddenly, the houses along it fell away and she was surrounded by lush, tropical undergrowth, so thick that further exploration was impossible. Rhea spun around in panic as she heard the group of men coming closer and wondered how she could feel such fear in broad daylight. Her eyes sought for some alternative escape route, but the thick, dark green leaves and branches seemed to be closing in around her. The silence was broken by the excited laughter and shouts of the drunken seamen, who now faced her across the desolate space of the forgotten lane.

“Mighty fine sight, eh, mates?” one of them asked.

“Why ye run from us, girlie?”

“Reckon we would've paid plenty, but seein' how ye put us to so much trouble, guess we've already done paid, eh, mates?” said the one known as George Grimes with a wide grin. His eyes were burning over Rhea's slight figure, noting with pleasure the rapid rise and fall of her small breasts.

“Oooohwe, but she's a beauty!”

“Aye, she's a fine sight, indeed.”

“Reckon we oughta get to know her a little better, eh, mates?”

Rhea stared in mesmerized fascination at this group of evil-looking men; not since awakening in the dark on board the
London Lady
had she known such paralyzing fear.

“Hey, what be yer name, little one?”

“Come on, tell ol' Jacko, he sure wants to know.”

“Lookie there at that hair. 'Tis like gold, 'tis. And them eyes, d'ye ever see such a color? Reckon I'm gonna take a closer look, mates!” he said with a leering grin as he moved a step closer, his eyes never leaving Rhea's face.

Rhea could feel her muscles trembling, and she knew if she tried to run she would probably fall, so weak did her legs feel. She watched the progress of the shaggy-haired man, whose dirty clothes lent proof to his state of mind, and cried out, “Don't come any closer!”

“Oh, but that be nice. She sounds like a real lady, her,” he said, grinning, his step bolder as he gained support from his mates who had formed a half circle around the clearing. “Come on, sweeting, say something else fer ol' Jacko. I likes the sound of yer voice, sure I do,” he taunted her as he moved in closer.

“Don't ye touch her, ye son of a whoremonger!” cried out a high-pitched voice. A small form shot into the midst of the group, startling the seamen who had not heard his approach.

This figure plowed into the back of the man called Jacko's legs, knocking him off his feet. The two rolled in the soft dirt, but it was no contest, for the figure that had come to Rhea's rescue was less than half the weight of the other man. Nor was he a murderer like this other man was, for the flash of the blade of a knife was in the air; then it was between the two rolling bodies. Then all was still, except for the man named Jacko, who staggered to his feet, a cornered look in his eye as he stared down at his victim.

Rhea stared down in horrified disbelief at Conny Brady's still form, the black curls tousled above his pale face. The wide blue eyes were now closed and the childish voice had been silenced.

“God, but he was just a kid,” one of the men complained.

Rhea's screams of terror and grief ripped through the air, making the hairs rise on the back of the men's necks.

“Shut her up, man. We could all go to the gallows fer this!” hissed one of them in warning.

The man called Jacko grabbed Rhea as she knelt beside the fallen Conny, but he barely had time to grab hold of her hair before he was surprised by a stinging pain shooting through his shoulder. Glancing up, he cowered in fear as he faced the hard-bitten stare of one of the King's officers, whose pistol was still smoking. In his other hand, he held a carefully balanced sword, and its point was dallying too close to his chest for comfort.

“Unhand the lady, or face certain death,” the officer ordered, placing himself between the spot where the fallen child and the girl were, and where the group of men were standing. They were still feeling brave from their consumption of rum, and their faces still showed their ugly thoughts in such a way that the officer could easily read what was going through their minds. He was just one, and they were six, and even though he had a sword, they had their knives, and one of them could, if he had the skill, throw it from a safe distance with deadly accuracy.

“Be smart lads and return to your ship, although your mate here stays with me. He has a few questions to answer for the magistrate,” the officer told them in a friendly tone of voice, while his eyes never left the group, alert to the slightest movement.

“'Ere, ye'll not be leavin' me to take the blame,” Jacko muttered thickly, his eyes sending a warning to those less brave among his comrades who had murmured thoughtfully to one another at the officer's suggestion.

“Think a moment, men,” the officer continued, his voice smooth and reasonable, having the same calming effect on these men now as it did on his own men when they were under fire. “Would this brave hearty here, a man who would stab a child, stay and fight for any one of you? Think on that before you make that move that will put your necks in tightening nooses,” he told them, his demeanor calm, and unhurried, giving them no reason to act rashly.

But Jacko had far more to lose, and as the officer's blue back turned at an angle toward him, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a knife, for he could throw it with equal skill with either hand. This he raised quickly, ready to throw, but never got the chance, for the loud report of another pistol sounded. In the next moment, he was staring down at his shattered hand, the blood dripping onto his already bloodied shirt front.

The officer glanced down at Jacko's harmless knife where it had fallen near his boots, then up toward the origin of that bullet. A slight smile curved his lips as he met the gray-eyed stare of Dante Leighton.

“Captain Lloyd,” the captain of the
Sea Dragon
greeted him. Then, as he saw the crumpled form of Conny Brady and the weeping form of Rhea kneeling beside him, his eyes raked the group, and even those rum-soaked brains of Bertie Mackay's crew felt the murderous intent in their cold depths. If there was one man on earth they would not have wished to see standing there, it was Dante Leighton, captain of the
Sea Dragon
, for they knew he would show them no mercy. And so, to his bitter amusement, Sir Morgan Lloyd, captain of HMS
Portcullis
, found five pairs of beseeching eyes trained on his King's officer's uniform—an article of clothing more often spat upon than not.

“Dante!” Rhea cried, when she saw his tall figure standing behind the group of men. She was kneeling beside Conny, cradling his lolling head in her lap and trying to stanch the flow of blood from his shoulder. “He's been stabbed, and 'tis all my fault,” she wept, her hot tears falling onto Conny's flushed face. But as she rocked him in her arms, his eyelids started to quiver, then opened slowly.

“Lady Rhea?” he mumbled. “I thought I'd never see ye again. I didn't want to see ye leave the
Sea Dragon
, but I didn't tell anyone. It made the captain mad, and he doesn't like me anymore,” he whispered, his eyes glazed. “I saw you crossing the street and I followed you into the marketplace. I lost you for a few minutes, but when I found you again, these men were around you, and I had to help you, Lady Rhea,” he told her, his eyelids drooping.