Pirate's Golden Promise (26 page)

“A fine lady as yourself? You should be able to associate with the women on the island. Why, Lady Modyford has many friends, and I'm sure you would find a female friend to your liking.”

“As Captain Morgan's mistress, I'm afraid I'm quite shunned.”

“Oh, I see.” His face grew red with embarrassment.

She laughed. “You must learn not to blush so hard, for it shows your thoughts.”

“I won't. I mean I'll remember that.”

Wynter looked at the suddenly darkening sky. “I believe we should get home before the rain.”

“Aye,” he said and gave her his arm.

By the time Wynter returned to the house, rain was already violently whipping the island. She arrived with John Esquemeling in the parlor, drenched and out of breath, but bubbling laughter surfaced on her lips.

“We appear to be drowned cats,” she said.

“Aye,” he agreed and shot her a ready smile.

“I'll have Selma light the fire.” Wynter started to leave the room, but she stopped dead in her tracks as Henry paused in the doorway.

“Such a delectable sight you are, Wynter,” he stated flatly as his gaze raked the thin dress clinging wetly to her and outlining her curves.

She hadn't seen him in a few days and had grown used to his absence. Now his presence disturbed her. “Hello, Henry, I hadn't realized you'd arrived.” She hoped she hid her distress about seeing him again.

“Apparently so.” His cool blue eyes flickered over Esquemeling. “I thought your job was to keep an eye on the lady, not cavort in the rain with her.”

“Sorry, sir,” Esquemeling mumbled. “We were caught in a downpour.”

“You're dismissed for the moment.”

“Aye, Captain.” The frightened man bowed and reluctantly left the parlor.

“You had no right to do that, Henry. John and I are friends.”

“John is it? Well, I see you've captured another man's heart, Wynter. Isn't my captive heart enough for you? Must you add every man you meet to your list of conquests?”

Just then Selma entered the room and handed Wynter a linen towel to dry with. Wynter waited until the girl started the fire, then sat in front of the flames and dried her hair. Henry knelt beside her and grabbed her shoulders when Selma departed.

“Answer my question, Wynter. How many men do you plan to fall in love with you?”

In the firelight her eyes sparkled like gray crystal, but she frowned when she answered him. “One was all I counted on, Henry, but you stole him away from me. You forced me to lie to him. For that I shall never forgive you. It doesn't matter how many men fancy themselves in love with me, because I shall always love Cort, not you, Henry—never you.”

His fingers dug into her shoulders. “You're a heartless, beautiful wench, but you're mine and will belong fully to me after you've birthed Van Linden's bastard. Believe me, my love, you have very little time to get Van Linden out of your system. Or perhaps I'll take a hand and help things along.”

She stopped drying her hair. Wickedness seemed to ooze out of Henry's every pore, and Wynter shivered. “What are you jabbering about, Henry?”

“I made a mistake to think that you would come to love me. I shouldn't have set Van Linden free. As long as you know he's alive, you'll never belong to me. Aye,” he said and touched her cheek. “My mistake was in not killing him when I had the chance.”

Henry stood up suddenly and strode purposely towards the door.

“Henry, wait!” Wynter was up and behind him, tugging on his shirt sleeve. “Don't hurt Cort! Please don't go after him.”

Glancing down at her, she almost felt as if he didn't see her at all. He looked at her in stony silence, then shrugged her hold off him and left the house.

She placed her hands to her mouth, knowing this time that she was helpless to save Cort. Nothing would stop Henry now.

The departure of the
Fortune
was delayed because of inclement weather. The rain which had started earlier in the day turned into a gale wind that buffeted the island, and at times, Wynter thought, would destroy the house. As darkness fell, Selma lit the candles in the dining room and Wynter sat alone to a supper she felt unable to eat. Her thoughts were on Cort and the harm she knew would befall him when Morgan finally left Port Royal. Destination: Santa Margarita. Of this, she was positive.

Throwing her napkin down, she rose from her chair and paced the length of the room, half listening to the hard patter of rain on the roof. Though the storm would have worried her at any other time, this night she didn't care about the lashing wind and the driving force of the rain. She needed a plan, something to divert Morgan from Santa Margarita, but she came up with nothing. The thought had occurred to her that she could entice Morgan into her bed, but she dismissed this. He'd realize immediately what she was up to, and even afterwards, she couldn't be sure that Cort would be safe from him.

Because of the wretched night, the howling wind, she paid little heed, when she later entered her bedroom, to a noise near the window. She was just about to call Selma with the taper to light the sconces on the wall when a flash of lightning illuminated the room and she saw him. Her heart thumped in her breast, but she calmly went to the door and turned the key, locking them inside.

“You can come forward, Dirk. I know you're there,” she said smoothly.

He shuffled towards her in the dark, and she heard his groan when he banged his knee on the bedpost. When another streak of lightning zigzagged in the darkened sky, she saw he was dripping wet.

“You'll catch your death in those wet clothes,” she told him and handed him the counterpane from the bed. “Undress and cover with the blanket while I light the fireplace.”

He started to protest, but Selma tapped on the door. “Will you need me for anything else tonight?”

“No, that will be all.”

“Do you expect Captain Morgan? Perhaps I should keep his supper warm.”

“No, Selma, I don't expect him. Good night,” she told her, then whispered under her breath, “I hope he never returns.”

“He won't be here tonight, vrouw,” Dirk whispered. “Heard him talking at the tavern to his men. They're to ready the
Fortune
and sail as soon as the weather breaks. He's spending the night with a pretty tavern wench.”

“Better her than me,” Wynter said and started to stoke the fireplace while Dirk took off his wet clothes. When she turned around, the crackling flames lit up the room and she saw Dirk huddled in a chair, looking very big and out of place, wrapped in the dainty print blanket.

“Are you hungry, Dirk?”

“Ja, I am.”

“I'll get you something. Stay put until I return and be very quiet. Selma's ears belong to Morgan.”

Dirk nodded, and Wynter quietly went to the kitchen, pleased to hear Selma's gentle snores coming from the small bedroom to the right of the kitchen. She raised the lid off the stew pot which hung over the hearth and spooned a hearty serving of a beef and potato stew onto a pewter plate. She cut a heaping slice of bread and placed it on top of the still warm stew; then she grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a cabinet and headed back to her room.

Dirk ate greedily and swallowed half of the whiskey before he was able to speak. “I didn't eat too well these last weeks, vrouw. Most of the time I hide in alleyways and in empty buildings. But I keep my eye on Morgan and on you.”

She leaned forward in the chair facing his. “I thought you sailed on the
Sea Bride
.”

“No. I wait here to see what will happen. That red-cheeked boy isn't the only one watching over you, protecting you, and keeps eye on you for Morgan. I watch over you for Captain Cort.”

She squeezed his hand, “Thank you, Dirk. I'm grateful to you, but Captain Cort won't care what happens to me. I hurt him deeply, terribly. He'll never forgive me.”

“Only way to ask forgiveness is to see him. We have to leave Port Royal for Santa Margarita.”

Wynter stood up and began pacing, a habit which was becoming quite familiar to her. “I know, Dirk, but Morgan, I believe, intends to attack Santa Margarita. How will we ever leave the island without his knowing it? Before the break in the weather?”

Dirk shook his head. “Not until the storm lets up. We have until then to think of something.”

Dirk began to slur his words a bit, and Wynter noticed his eyes close a few times. “Rest now. We can think up a plan in the morning. I doubt the storm will be over by then.”

But Dirk was already asleep and didn't hear her.

She went and lay on the bed, wide awake, certain that sleep wouldn't claim her. It did.

When she opened her eyes, the morning sun filled the room with its brightness.

“Dirk!”

Her voice awakened him. He looked up, startled, and pulled the blanket about his beefy frame. “What is the matter, vrouw?”

“The storm has ended.”

Dirk was up, his gaze drifting to the golden sand and the blue sky. Wynter had already read his thoughts and she flew off the bed and unlocked the door. Running outside into the glaring sunlight, she saw John Esquemeling already on the beach. His presence gave her the hope that the
Fortune
hadn't been readied yet.

She called to him. “John, do you plan to leave with Captain Morgan today?”

“My orders are to stay here. The
Fortune
sailed two hours ago.”

She blinked back tears and ran inside. When she got to her room, Dirk had already dressed. “I've killed Cort, killed him as surely as I stuck a dagger through his heart. God, Dirk, what are we going to do?”

The tears slid down her cheeks, and Dirk placed an arm around her shoulders. “Pray, vrouw. For now, that's all we can do.”

Long after Dirk had sneaked away from the house, Wynter talked on the beach with John. She didn't mention Morgan's leaving and neither did John, but she sensed his helplessness about the situation. It was only near dusk when Dirk reentered the house, undetected by John outside or Selma inside, did she feel a surge of hope.

“I can get a small boat, vrouw. We can sail to Santa Margarita and be thereby tomorrow evening if we don't run into bad weather. Pack few clothes and enough food to last two days. Meet me by Wherry Bridge at midnight.” Then he was gone as silently as he had come.

After Selma had retired for the night, and Wynter again heard her snores, Wynter pilfered the pantry for a loaf of bread and hard cheese and a bottle of wine, enough to last two people for a few days. She had dressed in her blue calico and packed the three gowns Cort had bought for her on Saint Martin. The new clothes Henry had purchased were left untouched in the wardrobe. She was ready long before the appointed meeting time and quite anxious to be off. However, she had to make certain that John didn't see her leave the house.

Parting the lace curtains on the parlor window, she spotted him stretched out on the beach. There was no moon or stars that night, but the bulk of his reclining figure was obvious to her eyes. She'd grown fond of John and hated to think what harm would befall him when Henry learned she had fled, but Wynter couldn't dwell on John's problems. She had enough of her own.

She prayed that Santa Margarita hadn't been attacked by Morgan and his crew, and that if it had, no one had been injured. She doubted that the islanders would escape Henry's cannons, but oh, how she hoped she'd find Cort and everyone alive.

At eleven thirty, she raised the latch on the back door and ran away from the house. The distance to Wherry Bridge wasn't great, but a patter of rain had started to fall and made the walk through the sand rather awkward. She'd taken the beach path instead of Queens Street, thus bypassing traffic and the taverns. But as a roll of thunder resounded in the heavens with the inevitable streak of lightning which followed, she wondered about the folly of this plan. Gusts of wind whipped her gown about her legs, and the rain increased until her long curls fell limply down her back. What a night for an escape!

She knew when she neared her destination because of the smell of dead fish from the nearby market. Luckily, at this time of night no customers bartered for the catch of the day. All was deserted when Wynter spotted Dirk and the small boat in which he sat on the other side of the bridge that crossed the King's Wharf.

The boat was so small that it was barely larger than a rowboat. How would they traverse the distance from Port Royal to Santa Margarita in such a flimsy thing? With the sudden squall surrounding them, Wynter doubted they'd be able to leave the wharf.

Coming closer, she had just crossed the bridge when she felt a pair of arms encircle her and pull her from her feet. She struggled and screamed in an attempt to gain Dirk's attention. It worked. Before she was aware of it, Dirk had sprung from the boat and scampered onto the wharf. His brawny body was poised for a fight, but the fight in Wynter died when she heard John's voice in her ear.

“I'm not going to hurt you. Please call the man off.”

“No, Dirk!” she cried. Her warning stopped him. He stood with fists poised. “This is a friend.”

“Ja, it is that red-cheeked youth who keeps you prisoner for Morgan.”

Wynter felt John loosen his grip on her, and she turned up her rain-streaked face to his.

“Let us go, John.”

He appeared so sorrowful as he shook his head that she felt immense guilt for wanting to escape Port Royal. “Captain Morgan will have my hide. I'll never escape the brunt of his wrath.”

“Please, John, I've never begged another human being for anything in my life, but I appeal to you now. Let us leave. I have to get to Santa Margarita and see to Cort.”

“Chances are he's dead.”

“I know,” she said quietly, “but I want to go there anyway. I can't stay here, not with Cort's child growing within me. Morgan detests the man I love, John. I fear for the safety of my child after its birth.”