She would have gone into the kitchen, but the mute girl shook her head and escorted her to a handsome dining room, furnished in the Spanish manner in somber dark carved woods. The high-backed chairs had rich red tapestry coverings. The walls were hung with tapestries depicting—ironically, since they graced the home of the buccaneer who had taken them by force—the glory of Spain. There was also a quantity of gold and silver plate, and massive candlesticks.
Charity sat down to breakfast somewhat awed by the amount of loot that resided in the house. Obviously Court’s reputation as a scourge of the seas was not to be taken lightly. Here before her was the proof of his success.
Perched on one of the tall chairs, Charity sat back and let the little mute girl serve her. She picked at the fruit and thin cakes of cooked meal that were put before her, ignoring the heavier fare, the cold meats and heavy meat pudding. Her head was still throbbing and, in spite of her fine clothes, she felt disconsolate and ill-used.
She was halfway through her breakfast when Jeremy Court came in. He was dressed as she had not seen him, in serviceable leather boucan-hunter breeches and thick heavy boots, wet, with grains of sand still stuck to them. He wore a wide black belt with a big iron buckle and his serviceable brass-hilted rapier clattered beside him. Only his white shirt, of fine linen, reminded her of the genteel clothing he had worn the night before—and even it had the sleeves rolled up displaying the hard sinews of his bronzed forearms, while it gaped open to the waist, displaying a light dusting of dark hair on his powerful chest. His thick dark hair hung lank to his shoulders—and looked a little shorter, as if he might have hacked at it again with his knife.
Charity stared at him. Last night to look at him one would not have thought him a buccaneer. Today he was the very picture of one. Even his face had changed. His eyes were pale agates set against his bronzed hawklike countenance and his mouth was an unsmiling gash across that face.
“I see you have risen,” he observed unnecessarily.
“I—I found someone had undressed me last night,” she stammered.
For a moment there was a flicker in his eyes. “And you are wondering who it might have been?”
“Yes.”
He considered her coldly. “And you are thinking that because I am, as you have termed me, a sea-robber and a pirate—”
She looked hastily away, her fingers clenching and unclenching nervously.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I—”
There was no glimmer of amusement in the harsh smile he flashed at her suddenly; it was instead a wolfish gleam of white teeth. He leaned his knuckles upon the table and bent toward her. “Ask yourself what your pure planter would have done under similar circumstances.”
Stung, Charity lifted her head. “He would not have touched me,” she cried. “He would have called a maidservant to put me to bed properly!”
“Even so,” he said coldly, and turned on his heel and strode from the room.
Charity pushed away her plate. She had had her answer, but somehow it brought her no comfort. Though handsomely housed, well fed and dressed like a pampered daughter, she was still his prisoner, and the dark perfumed tropic night would fall again. . . .
Some time later, from her room she heard the heavy outer door open and a man’s boots cross the tiles of the courtyard. Going to the balustrade, she peered over. Below her the ship’s doctor, Leeds Kirby, was striding across the patio. Hoping for news of Polly, Charity picked up her skirts and dashed down the stairs.
She arrived breathless in the courtyard. “Dr. Kirby, a word with you!” she cried.
He turned and paused at sight of her, an appreciative smile lighting his face. Charity had hardly looked at him before, but now she saw that he was very narrowly built, of an exceptional leanness, tall and with sun-streaked sandy hair which fell carelessly onto his shoulders. His brilliant green eyes took in the sumptuousness of her appearance—so different from yesterday’s disheveled state.
“Mistress Woodstock.” He acknowledged her greeting with a formal bow.
“How is Polly?” She was almost afraid to ask.
“Her condition is grave,” he said. “That is why I stayed and did not accompany the Sea Witch when she left port this day.”
“She . .. left port?” faltered Charity.
“With the tide, mistress.”
“Then Captain Court is not—is not now in Tortuga?”
Kirby grinned. “When the Sea Witch is out prowling? Nay, Jeremy’s not in Tortuga.”
She pondered that. “Will you not have a glass of wine with me?”
He looked pleased and accepted, as Charity said, “The little mute girl will bring it. I have not been able to learn her name.”
“Her name is Ella,” supplied Kirby promptly. “That much about her we know, but little else. We took her from a Spanish ship where she was held captive, foully chained. She was terrified and she could not speak. Since I can find nothing wrong with her vocal chords, I assume it was fright that lost her the power of speech. Court brought her home with him and has treated her very tenderly, hoping she would regain her voice. She could have lived here as a daughter of the house, but she chose to help out in the kitchen—a role she seems to understand. Perhaps she was a maidservant at some time.”
“She is a dear little thing,” said Charity. “What do you think the Spaniards did to her?”
Leeds Kirby frowned. “Whatever it was frightened her so deeply that she cannot voice it. Perhaps some day. . . .” Ella approached them with a wine bottle and goblets, and he was silent while she poured the wine and departed.
They were silent for a space. Then the doctor raised his goblet, studying the color. “A fine Malaga,” he murmured, adding that he had actually come here to see her on delicate business. Young Timothy Hobbs, it seemed, was having a devil of a time with the Spanish lady he had bought. Charity stiffened and Kirby quickly explained that young Hobbs had shown the lady the greatest of courtesy, but she refused to eat and when he had but offered her some wine, she had again scratched his face. Charity hid a smile. She had guessed Dona Isabel to be a woman of spirit.
“Tim does wish to pay court to the lady,” Kirby added with a raised eyebrow. “In true old-fashioned style, he would sue for her hand. So, to put her mind at ease, he wonders if you would be so kind as to keep her here and let him call on her formally as he tries to learn her language. He hopes that you will be interpreter for these unlikely meetings until such time as he can take over and throw himself properly at her feet.”
Charity was touched. In spite of herself, her heart warmed to Timothy Hobbs, so humbly dedicated to the pursuit of a woman who despised him.
“I will try,” she said doubtfully, “but this is Captain Court’s house.”
“Of that I am aware. But I think it likely Jeremy will approve any decision you might make in this matter.”
“Oh? And why do you think that, pray?”
He shrugged, his green eyes veiled, and countered with a question. “Is that not the wedding gown of a Spanish lady you are wearing?”
Charity blushed furiously. It had indeed looked like a bridal gown to her but. . . now she wondered angrily if Court had left it on her bed in mockery.
“I did not know that,” she mumbled. “It is just a dress he left—” she started to say “on my bed” but caught herself in time. “Stop looking at me that way,” she added wrathfully. “I loathe Court and all he stands for.”
“So, that’s the way of it, is it? And on such short acquaintance, too...
“We’ve met before,” snapped Charity before she thought
“Ah,” he said softly. “That explains it.”
“It explains nothing!” she flashed. “Stop implying he’s my lover—no, don’t protest, your eyes said it!”
“My eyes are bold fellows, always prying about where they’ve no legitimate right,” he admitted, his green gaze deliberately roving over her round young breasts, her slender waist and hips. “But then, like me, they
’re rovers and take what’s offered.”
“Nothing’s being offered,” said Charity, setting down her glass rather hard. “Not to you and not to Court.”
“Disappointing,” he said. “But not surprising. I thought he’d have difficulty breaking you to hand.”
Charity leaned forward. “Is that what he did to that poor Spanish girl? Break her to his hand? Did she wear this dress? What happened to her? Oh, don’t look so innocent, Dr. Kirby. I heard all about his Spanish mistress, the one who disappeared! Did he—did he kill her?”
“Kill her?” Leeds Kirby looked startled; then he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, nothing so melodramatic. And poor she was not. Court merely sent her to Havana via a Spanish ship he stopped for that very purpose. From there she could take ship for Spain where she’d been headed when we interrupted her journey.” His eyes twinkled. “I can tell you she had no wish to leave him.”
So he had sent away the discarded mistress.
“I thought he hated the Spaniards.”
“Ah, but this was a lady. A most elegant lady, well versed in the ways of love. She had had two husbands, had Dona Elena. And I understand she had killed them both with the intensity of her affections. You could understand that a man like Court, hearing this, might be fascinated?”
Her face grew hot. “And how long did he live with this—with her?”
“A month. He had no desire to sully her reputation—he would have been content with less. But she had to be returned forcibly. It seemed she preferred the easy life in Tortuga to the grimmer ways of Spain, where her next husband had already been chosen for her. An old man, I understand—if not, he soon will be.”
“Are you never serious?” she demanded, suspicious he might be baiting her.
“Rarely. It doesn’t go well with the heat down here.” He fanned himself with his hat. “It’s better to take things as they come—as you will learn.”
“Learn?” She drew herself up. “I’m not staying!”
“Are you not?” he murmured. “Well, that’s between you and Jeremy.”
“Court has nothing to do with it—it is my decision.”
He shrugged. “If you should chance to change your mind and find time hangs heavy, I’d be glad to while away the hours with you when I’m in port.”
She smiled scornfully. “And suppose Court catches us ... whiling away the hours? What then?”
“Why, then we’ll learn which is the better blade, won’t we?” he said. “Faith, it’s a chance worth taking for such a face as yours. I’d have bought you myself, mistress, but I’d gambled away all my ready gold—a condition that’s usual to me. But you’re right to count the danger. Court’s a very durable opponent. He’s crossed swords with the best and cut them down.” His face turned grim for a moment. “Twould seem he enjoys doing it.”
She shivered. And women, she wanted to ask. Does he enjoy cutting them down too?
“In any event, I’ll be leaving Tortuga shortly,” she said, as if to reassure herself by repetition. “But in the meantime, I’d be delighted to act as translator for Timothy and his lady—and please bring me news of Polly, Dr. Kirby.”
“Every day,” he promised smoothly. His green eyes seemed to heat up like burning copper as they played over her desirable flesh.
When he left, Charity went back upstairs to pace around in fury in her wedding finery. The dress represented Court’s way of mocking her, she realized. For now she remembered that under the spell of the wine, believing herself speaking to a man who might the very next morning set her upon an outbound ship, she had talked too much. She clenched her hands, remembering she had told him about the patroon and Pieter—and that she had been a highwayman’s mistress.
And so he had cruelly left a wedding dress upon her bed, and taken himself off to sea.
Looking out the open casements toward the ocean, she frowned. Not even to Alan Bellingham had she told the whole truth about herself. But her tongue had rushed to give a buccaneer all those details that must surely damn her in a man’s eyes.
She leaned against the lacy iron grill of the balcony and studied the sea’s hard blue shimmer, reflecting in the distance the diamond brilliance of the sky over Cayona Bay. And she asked herself, Why had she told all this to Jeremy Court, and no other?
In the afternoon Timothy Hobbs brought his reluctant captive over and Charity was struck again with his fresh face and honest gray eyes. Just looking at him made her homesick for England. Gravely he stood by while Charity introduced herself to Dona Isabel again, and explained the situation.
Dona Isabel looked startled. She turned and gave Timothy Hobbs a long slow critical look. His face and neck turned fiery red under her inspection and he waited eagerly.
“Ridiculous,” she said in Spanish, with a toss of her head. “That I would marry a pirate? And an English pirate at that? Ridiculous! Tell him never.”
Charity explained to Dona Isabel that she had no choice but to endure this courtship, and turned back to Timothy. “Dona Isabel said she won’t marry you.” He looked so crestfallen that she added in spite of herself, “Perhaps she’ll change her mind after she knows you better.” At that he took heart and gave Charity a flashing smile. She knew she had made a friend.
Timothy was persuaded to let Isabel get settled before he continued his suit. He went out to the courtyard and waved goodbye as Charity showed the proud black-haired woman to a bedroom down the hall from her own. She noted that Isabel was wearing a new lace mantilla and an even handsomer Spanish comb than the one her captors had crushed underfoot. Her dress was different, too, from the one in which she had been sold. This one was a stiff maroon brocade, perhaps unsuitable for the climate, but very handsome. Earlier, a small trunk had been brought in on Ravenal’s broad shoulders. Plainly Timothy was treating his captive well.
Dona Isabel looked around her at the spacious room with its handsome carved furniture. “Madre de Dios, these pirates live well,” she muttered. “We had nothing so fine in my father’s house in Spain.”
That surprised Charity. Somehow she had assumed Dona Isabel to be wealthy, and had wondered why she had not been ransomed rather than sold.
“My home had nothing so fine either,” she told her Spanish guest frankly. “Although I attended a fine school, and it was my mother’s hope that I would make a good marriage.”
Isabel looked at her sharply, as if recognizing in Charity a fellow-sufferer. After a while, Isabel poured out her own story, striding around the room as she did so, dark eyes flashing. She was unfortunate, she cried. Before God, she was! Her family in Castile, impoverished but aristocratic, had sacrificed everything to raise a suitable dowry for her, their only daughter. She had been on her way to Porto Bello to marry Don Jaime Alvarez, a wealthy young man whom she had never seen, when these damned English dogs—pardon, senorita, French dogs—had attacked. She would take her own life, yes, gladly, before she would submit to any of them.
Charity interposed that she doubted Tim would push her to such lengths, and left to give orders to the servants for Isabel’s comfort. Charity had expected difficulty from the cook, but to her surprise that big fierce woman accepted her meekly enough as mistress of the house. At least in Court’s absence, she would rule here.
Except in one thing: The cook blocked all efforts to leave by the back door, and John Ravenal, who slept in a tiny room at the front of the house, guarded the front door. Charity never saw him without his cutlass and a wicked-looking pistol thrust into his belt. With his giant size and meek expression that could turn wolfish and formidable in a flash, Ravenal was a wise choice for her guard, she decided.
Yet it chafed her. Though she was mistress here, she was a prisoner also.
Well-treated, well-fed, well-clothed, she and Dona Isabel were not allowed to leave.
The next weeks were perhaps the oddest Charity had ever spent. Day after day by a tinkling fountain amid spilling exotic flowers, she sat in the tropical courtyard as a duenna and watched while
Timothy, dressed in his best—a rather strange best, for he had no sense of style—paid court to his aristocratic captive. Gravely Charity translated for Dona Isabel’s edification the story of Tim’s life, a story which touched Charity deeply for Tim had been born in a seafaring town much like Torquay. One of fourteen children, there had been little for him to eat and less to wear. As soon as he was big enough, young Tim had signed on as a cabin boy and had sailed the seas ever since. Smart and hard-working, he had learned all he could, but times were hard and promotion didn’t come easy. Several days out of Plymouth on a merchantman bound for Barbadoes, his ship had been set upon by a Spanish warship. Although they’d given a good account of themselves, they’d been outgunned from the first and taken captive. Tim had been wounded in the engagement and he had known what lay ahead—the Inquisition, torture and a painful death.
Charity looked at Dona Isabel, whose dark eyes were inscrutable as she studied her English captor.
But his luck had not yet run out, Tim told them proudly. On the way to Cartegena with the English prisoners, the Spanish warship had chanced upon the Sea Witch, Court’s vessel, and had promptly fired upon the celebrated English buccaneer.
The Spaniards had had reason to regret it. Out-manned, outgunned, still Court had, with reckless daring, crippled his adversary. Court had released the captives, after he boarded the ship, which was laden with fine wines and other good things. Timothy was among those who decided to stay with Court. Since his shipmaster had been killed in the engagement, Court had given battered young Timothy the job.
Timothy’s voice rang with pride when he spoke of the pirate. Charity could see he counted Court his friend. It did not jibe with her opinion of the man.
As the days passed, Ella became very friendly, often seeking Charity out, and Charity had begun to understand Ella’s sign language. She tried to get Ella to eat in the dining room with Isabel and herself, but the girl hung back. Bright fear blazed up in her eyes when Charity tried to make her sit in one of the high-backed chairs. It was the same when Charity tried to persuade her to move from her little room beside the kitchen into one of the large bedrooms: Ella gasped and broke away from her. There were terrible things in Ella’s past, Charity realized, things she’d best leave alone. And they had to do with sitting at a fine table and sleeping in a fine bed. . . .
This Loving Torment Page 35
