As he had promised, Leeds Kirby dropped by daily to report on Polly’s condition. These reports were delivered over wine, served in the courtyard. For it amused Charity to play at being mistress of this handsome house. And it was very restoring to her damaged self-esteem to sip her wine, aware of Kirby’s hot bold gaze roving over her, to smile at him seductively and let the trade winds blow her fair hair. She did not admit, even to herself, that part of her reason for enticing the doctor was to spite Court.
“Like Jeremy, I’ve developed a taste for fine Spanish wines,” he told her, staring into his glass.
“Stolen wines,” she amended.
“Like other forbidden fruits, they taste the better,” he agreed, smiling. “But this particular wine, if I’m not mistaken, was lifted by the Spanish from a French ship—and Jeremy merely lifted it from them.”
“At gunpoint, of course.”
“Of course. Twenty guns—all pointed at the galleon’s golden side.”
She sniffed. “Since you’re his apologist, what about my white dress? Didn’t you say it was some Spanish girl’s bridal gown? So Court robbed her!”
“I spoke a bit out of turn there,” he admitted. “But Jeremy didn’t rob her of the gown. She’d had it made and merely refused to take it with her when she left.” So, it had belonged to his Spanish mistress. No doubt she had meant to wear it at her wedding to Court.
To shield her confusion she asked Kirby again what had happened to Dr. Cavendish, who had been captured with her and taken aboard the Gull. Kirby reported that the old doctor was all right. But St. Clair was holding him for five thousand pounds’ ransom.
Charity wanted to send him a message but Kirby vetoed it. St. Clair was an evil man, he explained, and one who hated Court. It might go hard with a prisoner of his who received a message from Court’s house.
She shuddered, seeing the thrust of his words. And was reminded that she too was a prisoner. Well, she’d not endure it! She’d see the governor forthwith and obtain her release!
When Kirby rose to leave, she said casually, “I think I’ll accompany you as far as the quay. The weather’s so fine, I’d enjoy a stroll.”
On his way to the door, he came to a full stop and swung toward her. From the keen gaze he focused on her, the smile that played around his reckless mouth, she knew he had divined her meaning.
“Mistress Charity,” he said softly, “I think you are like to get me killed.”
She flushed. “How so?”
“If you’ll notice, Ravenal guards the door, and Jeremy’s left him orders to slice in half the man who takes you through it.”
She paled. “I—I did not know.”
He gave her a light-hearted look. “Of course, I might be persuaded to chance it,” he murmured. “With the right bait....”
With Court away, she told herself she had no immediate need to see the governor. “I’ve lost my taste for strolling,” she said hastily. “I—I think it may rain.” Changing the subject, she asked him how long he thought Court would be gone.
Kirby shrugged. “Who knows? Another week or so if he runs into luck and a good prize strays into his path. Hardly longer; he wasn’t provisioned for a long voyage. Of course,” he grinned, “in our profession he may not be coming back. Don’t forget, ah the dons of Spain are gunning for him.”
“And half of Charles Towne,” she said grimly.
“Ah? I hadn’t heard that.”
“They say he’s behind the attacks on English shipping—that he masterminds them, even though it isn’t his ship that carries out the actual attack.”
Kirby laughed. “Don’t believe all you hear. Gossip’s not very reliable. If Court really wanted Charles Towne he’d set sail for Carolina and sack the town.”
Her eyes widened. “He would not be so bold!” she gasped.
“Have you not heard of the raid on Maracaibo? Made us all rich.”
She had heard . . . vaguely. It had not interested her then. A Spanish town....
“It’s where he got the material for that blue dress you’re wearing,” he added wickedly. “He had it made for a lady who departed before it was finished. And since it fits, ye know her dimensions!”
The Spanish mistress again! Kirby plainly enjoyed baiting her. She bade him goodbye, abruptly, and was almost glad to return to her stiff-spined Castilian guest.
Dona Isabel and Charity were united in one thing: their fierce desire to escape. It brought them together. For long hours they talked about it—return to England, return to Castile. Charity noted that Dona Isabel’s waspishness toward Timothy had grown milder and finally seemed to disappear altogether.
“I have made a discovery,” she told Charity one day, her expression sly and rather pleased. “Our cook speaks Spanish.”
Since Charity had never heard the cook do more than growl or mutter, she waited for some revelation. It was not long in coming.
“Your Captain Court,” said Dona Isabel in a leisurely voice, “has a mistress. She comes to see him from time to time and stays for upwards of a week.”
Her words stung Charity. “He is not my Captain Court,” she responded sharply. And driven by curiosity, “Who is she?”
Dona Isabel shrugged her expressive shoulders. “The cook said only that she always wears a heavy-black lace mantilla over her head. No one has ever seen her face. They call her ‘the lady in the mantilla.’ ” She laughed. “Perhaps she is married.”
His Spanish mistress, thought Charity, eyes widening. The one who had had to be removed forcibly. Did she return for visits? Undoubtedly she had married again. This would be her . . . let’s see, third husband? This woman who had killed two already with excessive affection. Charity’s cheeks burned. Isabel took a dainty bite of avocado flavored with fresh limes and laughed softly.
That afternoon Dona Isabel surprised Timothy by graciously offering him her hand when he came to call. He reddened joyfully as he took it and sat down on the edge of a stone bench, earnestly trying to converse with her in his halting Spanish. Charity knew he was spending ail his waking hours trying to learn Spanish, that he had acquired a tutor from among the Spanish captives on the island. Several times Dona Isabel hesitatingly corrected something Timothy said and he repeated the words correctly and gave her an adoring look.
Charity realized that Dona Isabel had abandoned talking about Porto Bello and the waiting Don Jaime. She mentioned this to Leeds Kirby, who quirked an eyebrow at her. “Tim’s softening her up,” he said. “She’ll smile on him yet, you’ll see. Women are attracted to the man who is there. Absence brings . . . forgetfulness.”
Under that hot green gaze, Charity flushed. The implication was obvious: Kirby was the man who was here. From that first moment she’d never doubted that he wanted her. She smiled at him. “You're a cynic, Leeds,” For they’d been on a first-name basis for some time.
He nodded. “That I am and life has made me so. Look at me. Irish and trained as a doctor and yet, could I make a living in my chosen profession? I could not. It would seem I did not inspire trust. Men did not want me tending their wives and daughters—thought I showed too much interest in them already. For that same reason these gentlemen wouldn’t let me tend them. They feared I’d hurry them to their graves and be off after the widows and the beautiful orphans!” He laughed and Charity was caught up by the gaiety of his mood.
“Is that why you became a buccaneer?”
“No, that’s why I signed up with Monmouth when he invaded England thinking to be its king. Devil did I care for Monmouth; twas good pay and advancement I was seeking.” He grinned. “And the thought did cross my mind that if he won—slight as his chances were—I might end up the king’s physician, a somewhat favored post.”
“The west country favored Monmouth.”
“Aye. We landed at Lyme. We were met by singing schoolgirls and flowers; it all seemed a great lark. On to Taunton with five thousand men. What cared we that Parliament had condemned our leader to death? We hailed him as king.
But the tide turned and we fell back on Bridgwater. . . He sighed. “Our poor raw recruits were cut to pieces. And those that weren’t were hanged forthwith or tried by the Bloody Assizes.”
“Were you taken?”
“Aye. With Jeremy. We made our escape by separate routes.”
She was surprised. “Was Court with Monmouth then?”
Kirby laughed. “No, he was there on personal business and got caught up in it.”
“Personal business?”
“A lady,” said Kirby, but he would elucidate no further.
It came as no surprise to Charity when Dona Isabel announced that she had decided to reconsider Timothy Hobbs’s proposal. Isabel added bitterly that she would have no dowry since the jewelry and plate and fine linens she had been bringing to her affianced Don Jaime had all been stolen by—she started to say “pirates” and softened the word to “buccaneers.”
Later, Timothy arrived with a cart that contained her entire dowry, and Isabel nearly fainted with delight. Charity thought it must have cost the young man a packet to run about and buy it all back, but she could see from his blissful expression that it was worth it. He even offered recklessly to kidnap a priest of her choice for the nuptials. At this, Dona Isabel paled and said rather severely that enough kidnapping had been done already, adding vaguely that she would like to be married somewhere that had the flavor of Spain.
Two days later a prize crew of buccaneers brought into port a Spanish galleon that had struck its colors because it had already been disabled by a storm, and Timothy learned there was a priest aboard. He had them all rowed out in a longboat—Dona Isabel,
Charity, Ravenal—and Leeds Kirby, who gave the bride away.
The marriage was performed on the galleon’s swaying deck, beneath the frowning guns of a buccaneer citadel. In the stiff white brocade gown and white mantilla in which she would have wed Don Jaime, Dona Isabel took her vows beside the proud young Englishman. The group toasted the bride’s health with stolen Spanish wine, and fired a broadside from the disabled galleon to announce the event. Bells rang in Tortuga in answer. Everyone was rowed ashore again, where a roaring crowd of buccaneers greeted them. Pistols were fired into the air, and a laughing Timothy—for he was very popular in the port—carried his bride away to his house.
Wistfully, Charity watched them go. Gentle Ella was a mute, cook only growled, and Ravenal seldom spoke. It was going to be a silent household without Dona Isabel.
Beside her Leeds Kirby said, “I think your friend Polly’s well enough to be moved. It would do her good to have someone to talk to. Why don’t I bring her over?”
With a grateful smile, Charity turned to him. “That would be wonderful, Leeds. When can you do it?”
“I will go and get her now, if you like.”
So Charity and Polly were reunited and spent long hours together as Polly regained her strength. She was very thin and her hair came out in handsful when she combed it, which made her cry. Charity comforted her, saying it would all grow back and she’d soon be returning to England. What would she care then how she’d looked in Tortuga?
Polly smiled at that and consented to sit in a big chair before the open casements on the second floor “taking the sun.” Outside lay a sparkling tropical world, the world of the Caribbean where treasure-laden ships made a dangerous passage.
Charity heard the front door open. “That’ll be Leeds,” she told Polly. “He’ll be coming up to see how you are. I’d better tell him we’re up here.”
Polly put a detaining hand on her arm. “Tis a friend to me you’ve been, Charity,” she said hesitantly, “but I do think you should know that Dr. Kirby has his eye on you.”
Charity laughed. “I’m well aware of that.”
“I did ask him why he hadn’t gone with Captain Court—I was none so sick the Frenchwoman who serves him as a nurse could not have tended me. And he said that there was greater booty in Jeremy Court’s house in Tortuga than any Court might take on the seas—a woman with hair of gold.”
Charity’s senses quickened. “Leeds,” she called, “we’re up here.”
“And he did say, too, a man could have any woman if he waited long enough, but that usually he found they weren’t worth waiting for.”
“Did he now?” said Charity carelessly. “Well, Leeds Kirby will wait many a long day before he has me!” Leaning against the railing of the iron grillwork balcony, Charity looked out through the crystal air toward piles of big white clouds that drifted with the trade winds, then at the frowning gray Mountain Fort and the red-roofed town below. For Court’s house enjoyed a view of both the town and Cayona Bay. Into that bay, flying before the rising wind, swooped a fast rakish ship, tall-masted, fleet, with a dark hull and billowing gray sails.
Behind her, Leeds Kirby said softly, “That’s the Sea Witch. Jeremy is back.”
CHAPTER 34
All Tortuga was aware that the daring Captain Court was back in harbor, and that he’d captured the richest prizes of the season—not one but two heavily laden Spanish merchantmen. On shore most of his crew of buccaneers swaggered and spent their gold in grog houses and taverns and brothels. From her conversations with Leeds, Charity knew that within a week or two most of them would be penniless and eager to put to sea again to fill their pockets.
“Do not judge these men too harshly,” Leeds had said. “Most of them were once peaceful boucan hunters on Hispaniola, where great herds abounded. They hunted and smoked the meat.”
“They were wanted men?”
“Not necessarily for crimes—political mistakes, let us say. They lived quietly enough on Hispaniola until the Spaniards drove them off. When they returned to their island anyway—faith, they had nowhere else to go—the Spaniards destroyed the herds. So they took to the sea in little boats and used those to take bigger ones, sailing right in under the guns and killing the gunners with small arms. The island of Tortuga was unoccupied, so the buccaneers took it and fortified it. Those are stolen Spanish guns that command the harbor. The men formed a confederation, that of the Brethren of the Coast. And here they eke out a living the only way they know—by plundering Spanish ships that pass through these waters on the way to greedy Spain. You must not blame them too much. Desperate men seek desperate bargains.”
“And you?” She gave him a level look. “You and Jeremy Court were peaceful boucan hunters?”
He burst out laughing. “Touché!” he cried. “No, indeed we were not. But both of us,” he grew sober, “have our own grievances against Spain. Court was aboard a peaceful English vessel the Spaniards seized; he was sentenced to death, and that sentence commuted to life imprisonment in the galleys. For two years he rowed, a naked galley slave; it is a living death.”
“How did he escape?” she asked, shuddering.
“The ship broke apart in a storm off the Irish coast. A spar snapped the chain that bound him and he made it ashore clinging to some wreckage and staggered down the coast to freedom.”
“And you?” she asked. “Were you a galley slave that you hate Spain so much?”
His lean face grew very set. “I have personal reasons for hating Spain. I was betrothed to a young lady from Somerset. I had fled the Monmouth debacle unscathed, had settled on Barbadoes and had written her to join me. The ship she came out on was attacked by the Spaniards.” His jaw turned to stone. “She was never seen or heard from again. I could never find out what happened to her. At that point I joined the Brethren of the Coast—which suits me admirably,” he added, regaining his jauntiness. “So you see, Jeremy and I have a score to settle with Spain, and we exact a toll from Spanish ships when they pass through our waters!”
Now Court had exacted from Spain yet another toll and he was back. Nervously, Charity waited for him to arrive.
He came in like a great wave breaking green across the deck, sweeping all before him, his serviceable rapier clanking beside him. Behind him came a straggling line of husky men: the first carrying the back and breast of steel and
the Spanish headpiece that he wore in battle; the second and third staggering under large sea chests, and four others carrying kegs of what appeared to be wine. In long strides Court crossed the distance to the courtyard and indicated to Ravenal that the big man should supervise carrying the sea chests and battle gear upstairs, while he saw that the kegs were hefted out to the kitchen and storerooms.
Halfway across the courtyard stood Charity, wearing—on a reckless impulse—the white and gold bridal gown she had found lying across the foot of her bed the first morning she had waked in this house. Her pale gold hair shimmered down her shoulders and she stood as erect as he and faced him boldly.
She felt that she was armed with knowledge for a change—she knew much more about Court now. Kirby had told her enough so that she saw Court more clearly. The fires of hell had tempered this man. The cruel forge of fate had shaped him and the sharp files of loss had honed him and sharpened him into a dangerous weapon. His heart, she felt, was a stone, his morals, nonexistent. He had become a scourge of the seas, a killer of men—and he looked the part.
Gone was the scintillating gentleman she had met at Daarkenwyck. Gone was the great periwig that had somehow softened that hard face. Gone were the satins and velvets that bespoke the dandy. Gone were the affectations of tall silver-headed cane and jeweled snuff box, the decorous courtly pace.
Here was a man who took stairs three at a time, a man whose straight hair fell dark and gleaming to his shoulders and swung as his tanned hawkface turned, keen light eyes appraising each new circumstance. His was not the body of a dandy, but of a warrior; lean and bred for stamina and strength. That arm that she remembered in its deep cuffed velvet coat was a mighty arm to swing a mighty sword and carve his enemies in half.
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