He stopped and regarded her with his dark unsmiling visage, his strange light eyes gleaming like steel. His voice was the voice she remembered, a little colder, a little more embittered perhaps, but the same stirring voice she had first heard on the patroon’s boat in New York.
“I think there is something you did not tell me, mistress,” Court said in a hard voice.
Charity’s pulse quickened. She considered the great strapping buccaneer with a thrill of alarm. “And what might that be?”
“You did not tell me that the captain of the ship that took you pretended to be under orders from me!”
Her eyes widened innocently. “And was he not?”
“You have my word that he was not. Now tell me, what flag did St. Clair fly under?”
“French, I think—until they hoisted another. A black one, with some kind of white streak. Dr. Cavendish thought it might be an oar.”
Court’s head lowered a little, like a bull before it charges. “Are you sure?” he growled.
“It might have been an oar,” she said, “but I am not sure now.”
“Not sure?” he echoed, looking at her with contempt.
“It did not interest me!” she flashed. “I was more interested in what they might do to us than what flag they flew!” And then, because she hoped to anger him, she added, “I do remember that Captain St. Clair called after the Gull’s crew in the longboats, 'Tell Charles Towne Captain Court sends them greetings’.”
He ripped out an oath. “And you did not tell me that!”
“Why should I?” she cried. “And how could it possibly matter? Don’t you take ships too?”
“Not English ones,” he said grimly. “I’m a buccaneer, not a pirate. There’s a deal of a difference as Captain St. Clair will soon be learning.”
With that he swung on his heel and made a gesture to the men who had brought in his goods. They trooped out after him, grinning. John Ravenal, watching them, smiled grimly.
“Where are they going?” Charity asked, bewildered. “He just got here. Why is he running out like that?”
“He’ll be looking for Captain St. Clair,” Ravenal said. “And from the look on his face, he’ll most certainly be finding him. I would not wish to be St. Clair at this moment.”
“Why? In God’s name, why, John?”
“Tis proof he has now of what before was only a suspicion,” explained Ravenal. “There’s a price on the captain’s head in Charles Towne now, ye know that, don’t ye? And on Kirby’s as well.”
She shook her head.
“Well, there is. And the reason is that English ships are being taken by French pirates, yet somehow the blame is being thrown on Captain Court. He must have got wind of how they were doing it—and now ye’ve told him what St. Clair said. Captain Court’s not a man who cares to hang for another’s doing. He’ll be carving Captain St. Clair’s vitals for it. I’ll be bound.” Charity shuddered.
Polly was asleep upstairs and Charity had half a mind to go up and wake her, but decided against it. Restlessly she paced the courtyard, listening for every sound from the street. Finally she went to stare out the barred front windows. Cook had dinner ready and it was growing late. Darkness had fallen before Charity, who sat slumped in a chair by then, heard the heavy front door open. She started up as Ravenal’s voice boomed, “Did ye find him?” Court’s deep resonant voice answered, “Aye, but I bungled it. He’ll live, Leeds tells me.”
The man would live and Court said he’d bungled it! Charity waited speechless, half expecting to see him come in with his arm in a sling or a bloody bandage tied around his head.
What greeted her was the same stern faced man as before, who stopped short at sight of her. “Have ye supped?” he inquired.
She shook her head. “I waited.”
“Then sup with me. I haven’t eaten since dawn.” He strode into the dining room, letting her trail after, unfastened his swordbelt and let his rapier fall with a clatter onto a chair.
Charity ate little, but watched with fascination as he demolished a huge cut of beef and drank numerous flagons of wine. “You are very silent,” he remarked, when he had finished. “Well, since you choose not to talk, I’ll say something. You cost me a packet, but in that dress I’m thinking you’re worth it.”
She flushed—and not entirely with pleasure. Something in his voice said I own you and will take you in my own good time.
“I was thinking of the man you injured and my part in it,” she said stiffly.
He looked astonished. “Oh, so that’s what’s bothering you, is it? I’d remind you that that same St. Clair, whom I carved but a little, plucked you off your ship and would, I’m told, have bought you as a gift for his crew. I’d not waste time grieving over him, were I you, mistress.”
Charity shivered. In this safe comfortable house, in these fine silken garments, she had somehow forgotten that. But now a cold wind brought it back to her.
“Will ye take wine?” he asked.
She nodded soberly and he filled a flagon for her. She sipped it, wishing she could understand him.
“You were with Monmouth, were you?” she asked suddenly.
He looked at her sharply. “What has Kirby told you?”
“That you were in England on personal business and got caught up in the uprising. You were captured together and escaped.”
“That is true,” he said. “I had sought shelter in a friendly house when the soldiers came. I had other things to do that seemed more pressing, so instead of hiding I tried to fight my way out. It was a mistake; there were too many of them. When they searched the house, they found Kirby too. I hadn’t known he was there, hadn’t met him till then. Later, when our captors broke into our host’s wine cellar and were the worse for drink, we managed to make our escape.”
“He said you were there because of... a lady.”
His eyes grew keener. “So you wish to hear about that?”
She waited in silence.
“Tis the story of my life you’re asking for,” he said slowly. “Well, there’s no reason you should not hear it—and from me, rather than in bits and pieces, dragged out of Kirby.”
She flushed, but he had got up and was pacing about the room, head lowered, hands behind his back.
“Mine was a seafaring family in Plymouth,” he said. “My father owned two tall ships. My betrothed did not like the sea—she was of the landed gentry though her father had fallen on hard times—and so I made shift to leave it. I sailed away on one of my father’s ships as second in command to its captain, intending to establish myself as a merchant in the Colonies. I never reached the Colonies. We were attacked by a Spanish warship and taken as prisoners to Spain, where the files were ransacked and much was found against our good captain—piracy and I know not what else. He was sentenced to death. As was I and the rest of the crew.”
“Why?”
“For keeping bad company, I suppose. Because of my strength, my sentence was commuted to life in the galleys and I served two years chained to an oar.”
She shivered. “At Daarkenwyck they chained me.”
He gave her an inscrutable look. “So we both remember chains. . . .” He returned to his pacing. “A storm broke the galleon apart off the Irish coast and by good fortune my chains were broken. Others were not so lucky. It seems I was meant to live and not to die. I clawed my way ashore, nearly drowned, and made my way in rags to England—where I arrived unfortunately at the height of the Monmouth Rebellion. My mind was not on rebellions but on my betrothed, who believed me dead. I was too late. Her father had insisted that she would not spend her life waiting for a dead man, and forcibly married her off to a “better catch.” When I discovered that she was lost to me, I struck out for Plymouth—but was caught as a Monmouth supporter and would have been hanged had I not managed to escape. When I reached Plymouth I found that my father and brother were both dead, our fortune gone.”
Raging from his treatment at the hands of the king’s men, his ve
ry soul blackened to frenzy by the loss of the girl he loved, he had signed on incognito for Barbadoes. There, with a picked band of cutthroats, he had taken a ship and roared into the Caribbean with so much hell in his heart that, as Charity knew, his very name had become a legend and ballads were sung of him in the taverns of Tortuga and the dens of Port Royal.
He had sacked Spanish towns, Court told Charity, his voice level and cold. His brass-hilted rapier had drunk deep of Spanish blood; he had caught more than one rich treasure galleon by surprise and sent a warning shot across her bows; he had boarded Spanish merchantmen and taken their rich cargoes, sold their men into slavery—even as had been done to him—sent his gold to French banks, to Dutch banks, anywhere but England. He was now a rich man with a handsome house in Tortuga, several ships in addition to the Sea Witch, and many shares of stock in the Dutch East India Company.
But, she realized, he is still a renegade, a man with a price on his head. He can never go home to England.
And the woman he had yearned for in the long hard months when he had strained naked at the oars, burned by the sun, lashed by the whip, dreaming of vengeance . . . that woman now belonged to another. She would never father his sons or walk beside him at eventide in the fair English countryside.
No wonder his eyes grew cruel at times, Charity thought. He wanted to make the world pay for his ruined life.
CHAPTER 35
Polly was very upset when she learned that Court had arrived and that she had been allowed to sleep through dinner. “He’ll be thinkin’ me ungrateful,” she cried. “Not to greet him after what he saved me from!”
“Maybe we’d better wait and see what he’s saved us for,” said Charity tartly, and Polly looked bewildered.
“He’s a fine gentleman,” she insisted. “Dr. Kirby did tell me all about him.”
Not quite, thought Charity grimly. But she kept silent for she thought it not too wise to upset Polly, who was still weak. “Leeds said we weren’t to disturb you when you were sleeping,” she said. “He wants you to regain your strength.”
As she left Polly’s room, Charity met Court.
“It is December 23rd,” he said gravely. “Tonight I shall expect you downstairs, dressed for dancing.”
She stared at him. Was he making some joke?
“Ah, I see your memory is even shorter than your temper,” he said whimsically. “On a night in December last year, I made you a promise that if I lived, I should find you and dance a dance with you on the anniversary of our meeting.”
She was startled. He had remembered her foolish words, so lightly spoken!
“I ended hating you that night,” she said.
“I am aware of that.” He bowed slightly. “But now that we have exchanged the story of our lives, is it too much to hope that we could begin again?”
“I . . . will be there,” murmured Charity, as he strode past her and was gone for the day.
In the afternoon Kirby dropped in for his usual glass of wine.
“How is St. Clair?” she asked him.
Kirby shrugged. “As good as may be. He’ll lie abed for a few months, but he’ll recover.”
“Isabel and Timothy?”
He laughed. “Happy as turtle doves. Tim and his Spanish bride haven’t even left the house—though I presume he will now that Jeremy’s back. Twas the first voyage Tim’s missed since he signed on. Love does evil things to a man!”
Charity was still thinking about that remark, later in the evening, as she dressed for dancing. Polly—also dressed in her best—joined her and they went down the gallery stairs to supper. Both wore shawls clutched about them, for it had begun to rain and the air was damp and cold. Gloomily Charity surveyed the dripping palms and wet hibiscus, streaming water. It was hard for her to believe that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve.
For the occasion, Court had dressed in the Spanish style. Tall and stern he looked, dressed in his coat of heavy lustrous black silk trimmed with silver, black silk knee breeches and stockings, and a silver brocade waistcoat. He stood at ease, as the court gentlemen did, with his plumed hat under one arm.
Charity introduced Polly and, as if they were duchesses, he made a leg to them both. “There is a fire in the dining room, ladies,” he said and escorted them there, gravely taking their shawls and depositing them on a chair while they warmed themselves at the fire.
Charity was first to turn to him. She wore a sweeping copper-velvet dress, full-skirted, tiny-waisted, its color deepening to flame in the glow from the hearth. The reflection of the flames seemed to race down her sumptuous velvet-clad figure and along her white throat to caress the tops of her breasts, turning her skin to iridescent peach and gold. Firelight deepened her pale hair to shimmering gold and danced in her topaz eyes.
“All Tortuga would be dazzled could they see you now,” Court said gravely, and Charity thanked him with a deep curtsy. His eyes flickered for a moment as they rested on Charity’s neckline. Inclining his head, Court said, “I have brought gifts for you both and I will not wait till Christmas Day for I may have business that takes me away. Ella and cook already have theirs. Mistress Polly, I will give you yours now, and Mistress Charity’s after we have danced a turn.”
On the table lay two identical carved wooden boxes. Court picked one up and opened it, took out a letter sealed with sealing wax.
“The Swallow sails for England ten days hence, weather permitting,” he told her. “Dr. Kirby says you will be well enough to travel so I have arranged for your passage.” He handed her the letter. “When you arrive in Plymouth, Mistress Polly, take this letter to George Cotter at the address given here. Give it to no one but him. Should he be out, wait for him at a decent inn. He will arrange for your return home and see that you have enough money to be able to marry the man who is waiting for you there.”
“My Jack?” gasped Polly. “But how do you know about him, sir?”
“Kirby told me. Merry Christmas, Mistress Polly.” She burst into tears and, dropping to the floor, hugged him about the knees. “Oh, sir,” she sobbed. “Nobody’s ever been so kind to me ever. I’ll say my prayers for you always, that I will. And my Jack will too!”
“Faith, I may need them,” he muttered, leaning down and gently disengaging her arms. “Drink deep of English air for me, Mistress Polly,” he added on a somber note. “For tis a draught I’ve missed of late.”
Her eyes abrim with tears, Polly nodded.
Charity felt her own throat constrict at Polly’s happiness. Her eyes met Court’s and she gave him a gentle smile. He turned swiftly away as if he could not bear it and poured them both some wine.
“Your health, Mistress Polly. And yours. Mistress Charity.” He drained his glass.
Polly, silent and happy at dinner, had a withdrawn air about her, as if she was already back in England with her Jack in a little cottage all their own. Charity picked at her roast goose. In a way she envied Polly, whose problems could so easily be resolved with a little largess.
The other gift box lay unopened on the table, piquing her curiosity. She supposed it too, contained passage money, that would send her back on the Swallow with Polly. Court’s mood was mellow. He drank and talked of Christmas in Devon, and she recalled Christmas in Torquay and in Bath. Lifetimes ago ... a world of mistletoe and holly. She remembered the twelve days of Christmas she had spent visiting Priscilla Walsingford in Hampshire, and the boy from Oxford who had proposed and whose guardian had taken him away because she wasn’t good enough for him. In England at Christmas Yule logs were burned and carolers made their rounds through falling snow.
Here in Tortuga it was raining, the hard-pelting rain of the tropics, gushing out of the skies like a million tears. Already the courtyard was soaked and rain beat against the windows. It was not really cold but the excessive dampness in the air made it seem so. Under the battering sheets of water, the palms in the courtyard swayed and bent.
So much had happened to her here. ... It would seem strange to go back to
England—for she did not think that Court would send her to Barbadoes. He was not a man, she thought ruefully, to do anything halfway. To England she would go. She felt a certain disappointment about leaving, and told herself that was because Alan Bellingham would be far away across the water, even more unreachable than he was from Tortuga.
Sadly she realized that in spite of all the terrible things that had happened to her here, she would miss the New World.
After they had eaten, Polly, who had been tired by the events of the evening, asked to be excused. Dr. Kirby had told her to retire early to ensure her recovery.
Charity and Court were left alone in the firelight.
She started as she heard the front door open, the scrape of boots. He watched her.
“Ravenal’s let them into the hall,” he said. “Musicians. To play for us.”
She was touched. All this time he had remembered his promise to dance a measure with her. From the hall drifted in the plaintive sound of guitars.
Court rose and bowed. “Mistress Charity, will you do me the honor?”
She rose and took his hand and whirled with him light-footedly across the floor. As the music throbbed, she found she was far too aware of Jeremy Court, of his touch, of his pale intent gaze. After a while, in an effort to shake off the sheer physical pressure of his nearness, she closed her eyes and imagined they were dancing at a great ball at Magnolia Barony. The raindrops pattered a steady accompaniment to the guitars.
“I think you are not with me,” he murmured. “Your mind is elsewhere.”
She opened her eyes and smiled dreamily. “I was imagining we were dancing at Magnolia Barony,” she said. “They gave a great ball there, but I was not allowed to attend.”
Something changed in his face. Now his light eyes flickered with malice. “Perhaps the mistress of the manor felt you would distract her husband,” he suggested.
“Oh, no,” objected Charity. “He adores her. In Charles Towne they are called ‘the perfect couple’.” She was thinking of Marie’s perfidy, of her many lovers, but said no more.
“You have mentioned this perfect planter before,” he said coldly. “What is it that so ennobles him to women? His wealth?”
This Loving Torment Page 37
