Juliet caught herself just before she toppled to the main deck. As she flew down the ladder a man's hands came around her waist, lifting her safely to the deck. Before she could even see his face he pushed a towel into her hands and disappeared behind a trail of merriment. There was a great scramble on deck. The men, every last one of fifty-three, disappeared, scrambling like rats in a fire. The men on the lookout pulled in the rope to bring Garrett back on deck.
Juliet raced to the rail as Garrett climbed up, pulled by the ropes. "Hang you all, I will kill. The first man I see meets my fist," he said as he grabbed hold of the rail, and before they could lift him back into the air he pulled off the wide leather belt, then stopped upon seeing Juliet standing there. He agilely vaulted the rail. "Did they fetch you here? So help me God, if they think the sight of you is going to stop me — "
Yet it did. She looked so lovely, her long unbound hair caught in the wind and her wide eyes filled with uncertainty and worry, questions, a hundred or so questions he'd love to answer. He reached a hand to her face to brush away the hair but she retreated, and not, he saw, because his hand was wet. He took the towel she twisted in her hands instead. He wiped his face and chest, where she stared at the now faint line of the dagger beneath the smaller mark on his shoulder.
He was half naked like a savage. Small beads of moisture dripped unnoticed from his muscled frame, and his hair lay flat against his face, accentuating the fine features there. Tonali jumped from the mainhouse roof and approached on quiet cat's feet. She looked down as the great cat began circling her legs but she ignored this to say simply: "You can't do this to me. It's not fair."
"I can do this to you, I have to. And as you know so well, life is often not fair. You can rest your complaints, Juliet, you'll not dissuade me."
"I shall never rest my complaints until you take me back! How long do you think you can keep me here?"
"As long as I want, love."
She stared up at him with defiance, though she felt the magnitude of these words come over her like the iron bars of a prison. Another prison. She held herself tightly, now shivering with the cold.
Garrett read her thoughts and hated them. "Aye, love," he came close, taking her chin in his hand, demanding her eyes as he admitted, "just like your uncle, save for my intent. His was unconscionable abuse, mine is to prevent any more."
His touch felt warm. Despite the moisture falling unnoticed from his tall frame, she felt his warmth surrounding her, spiraling as if by magic, while his tone and expression conveyed the honesty of his words, his intent. She refused it—him-wanting none of it, and she pulled back a bit. " Tis true. You can keep me here as long as you want and I have no recourse short of throwing myself over the side—"
"A dramatic measure," he tried not to smile. "I don't recommend it, that water is cold. Besides, you'd probably get all fifty-three of my men falling in to save you."
She had to have some hope from him. "Yet you can't keep me forever?"
"In all of history nothing has lasted forever."
He was maddening, his clever use of words! She looked away, pausing and bracing in the pause. He could not take everything from her, he couldn't. "Garrett, then will you ... oh please—" She stopped with the trepidation that he might be cruel enough to deny her.
Whatever she wanted, it was with all her heart, he saw that clearly. "Yes?"
"Will you let me write him a letter and will you get it to him. Oh please? I can't bear the idea of his agony, it feels even worse than our separation, however temporary, and no matter what unkind and unfair judgments you've made of him, he doesn't deserve to think I'm dead."
Strange emotions passed through his eyes as he stared down at her, emotions that finally settled to simple irritation. "What he deserves and what he gets are two different things, I see. Write this letter, I'll see that it goes with my posting. Now come. Let's get some supper."
Shock briefly crossed her face upon hearing that last banality. As if she could have a mind for supper when he tore her life from under her! How she wanted to make that perfectly clear to him! Yet how far could he be pressed? "I don't want to go back there alone—" She stopped, nervously focusing on the tips of her slippers, as she swallowed the words she felt certain had gone too far.
The problem was immediately plain to him: the vast majority of her experience with men was with Stoddard, and needless to say, speaking freely met with a most heavy hand. To watch her overcome this would be a singular pleasure.
"Is there another place I might stay?" she asked in a soft whisper on the heels of their silence.
"This is not a passenger ship, and though I trust my men with my life, you are another matter entirely." With some humor, he asked, "You can't be innocent enough to imagine you'd rather sleep with a group of men?"
"I can't imagine the difference 'twould make when both are against my will."
Admiration came into his eyes; he had an idea of the courage it took to say that. "The difference is profound, one you shall not know, love. Shall we?"
She stood at a loss, struggling to comply. She supposed he'd carry her if she refused, and what choice did she have? What choice did she ever have?
Juliet and Garrett received many interested stares as they crossed the distance back to his quarters. It was obvious the lovely young lady hardly liked her circumstances, even less Garrett's hand on her arm. Ripples of amusement followed them, it being the first time anyone had ever seen Garrett fail to melt the skirts off any woman—the common joke being that women's skirts lifted like rows of saluting flags as Garrett passed the fairer sex.
For Garrett's abilities with women were as famous as his heroism. Leif was fond of telling how it was bad enough that three of his four daughters fell under his spell, but then Garrett got the juices flowing in his eighty-year-old grandmother, hard of hearing and blind to boot. Garrett had had as many mistresses as most men have dreams, and these were but a small sample of the hundreds he had charmed.
As Garrett and Juliet disappeared down the captain's steps, bets were placed on how long it would take him to win her heart. The bets increased dramatically as Leif came down from the lookout and said that far more than innocence separated Juliet from the multitude of Garrett's other women. "At last, I fear, Garrett is in trouble."
"Well hell," Jordan reminded everyone, "has the man ever lost before?"
"There is, as Garrett himself would remind you, always a first time."
Later that night Juliet sat on the couch with her back to the table where two men set about serving supper. Garrett, Leif, and Gayle sat at the table. Garrett's presence was taxing enough, but what had sent her to the farthest corner of the room was the presence of the young man Gayle. Leif introduced him as his son. Leif s son! There was a resemblance in looks, though not in countenance. Leif had shown her the only kindness, first by trying to tell Garrett he had made a mistake and stopping Garrett when he might have hurt her, while his son Gayle had fixed that potion, a drink that sent her to hell with the drugged happiness of a child on Michaelmas. A hell in the deceptive form of heaven. She would never live a day spared the pain of remembering how he had made her welcome his touch as if it were a favor, as the earth welcomes the touch of the sun. She closed her eyes to shut out the memory as, against her will, she remembered—
Once the two men left, Garrett interrupted the conversation to ask, "Juliet, will you come to the table?"
Such a casual question interrupting a memory that was anything but casual, tossed like a crumb to a starving person ... yet she would sooner starve than condescend to pretend she was his willing guest. She shook her head by way of answering.
"Juliet, I won't let you play this game, let alone win it."
"Please," Gayle stood up, " Tis me she minds. I can see it in her eyes. I won't tax her by forcing my company on her. If you'll excuse me—"
"Don't be a fool, Gayle."
Polly flew to Garrett's shoulder and squawked, "What a bloody fool, I say—"
&nb
sp; "Hush, Polly. I'm trying to talk-"
"Hush, oh yes, bawk. Hush, love—"
Garrett gently clamped Polly's beak shut before any more could be said. "Gayle, Juliet is wise enough to know nothing that happened to her was your fault, past easing her pain. I'm sure if she thought about it, she would remember I ordered you to fix that potion and I made her drink it. I am culpable, Juliet, there is no one else to blame. Please love, don't play a child's game with me. It will incite me to do the same and I will find myself stooping to say things like . . . well, let's see: If you want that letter sent, and so on. Please, come sit at the table and have some supper."
Silence filled the room as she grasped his threat. Of course, he would hold the letter around her throat like a noose. Again!
Juliet rose quietly, each step a moving display of her dignity, until she stood by the table. Gayle pulled a chair for her, and as she sat down she was made to see the depth of sympathy in the young man's eyes.
For a long while she did not see or taste her food. She did not listen to the conversation, which did not concern her: speculations on the war with Napoleon, mostly concerning the likelihood of Austrian involvement—which Garrett thought was very likely—then the likelihood of American involvement, Jefferson this and Jefferson that. She sought comfort in memory instead and thought only of Tomas, searching for the things she would say in her letter, forming and reforming it in her mind.
Midway through the meal, a knock came at the door and a man entered. "A fine bit o' schooner sailing off starboard," he announced. "Can't see her colors in the darkness, of course, but Duke thinks she's a Dutch freighter-"
"Not a slaver?" Garrett asked.
"Nay, but-"
"No, absolutely then. We are already five days late, six with the fallen mast. Tell my lusty bastards, God knows, there are plenty of battles ahead without looking for them on open sea."
The man left with a smile. Juliet looked at Garrett with a question. "What are you late for?"
"A rendezvous with another ship."
The information meant nothing to her, past a sudden understanding that she knew nothing. So consumed was she with all that had happened, she hadn't had a chance to ask the obvious questions. "Is this a merchant ship?"
Cutting a piece of the succulent fish, Garrett shook his head. "No, love, it's not."
"Cargo then?"
"Occasionally."
She looked at Leif, who pretended to be interested in his food, then back at Garrett. Very carefully she asked: "Well, what manner of shipping enterprise is this?"
"One that involves many different things."
She stared back at him, alarmed as she put two and two together—thinking of this ship, streamlined for speed and outfitted for battle, then the uncommon men found on it, lusty bastards looking for battles with Dutch freighters, and Garrett himself. "I ... I don't even know your full name."
"Isn't Garrett enough, love?"
She stared at him, just stared, as his name echoed over and over again in her mind. Garrett . . . Garrett . . . Garrett, with the single word no following the pronouncement.
Up until a year ago—before her uncle caught her at it—she used to sneak into the kitchen before the house awoke and in the dawn's early light, Bess would let her read the paper that came all the way from London once each week on Mondays. She savored every line about Parliament's battles with the king, the king's position on this and that, the news from the colonies and as far away as the new Americas, Napoleon's accession to power, the increasingly disturbing news from France, Italy, and Prussia. In this news she began reading with increasing frequency the name Black Garrett, one of the world's most notorious pirates.
She had read of a Captain Black Garrett and his famous crew and ship time and again, how they sailed the Mediterranean waters to the dark continent with the sole intent of terrorizing British military ships—how, she remembered reading once, they were responsible for the destruction of two men-of-war as well as of countless British trade vessels—all of it said to be a favor to Napoleon. She once read Admiral Nelson's rather lengthy public explanation of why Black Garrett's ships alone—by luck and magic—kept managing to slip through the British blockade of French naval forces at Toulon to freely sail the Mediterranean waters. She remembered a brief article that linked Garrett's name with the American president Jefferson and the statesman Franklin, an association that cast considerable doubt on the integrity of those two men, suggesting it was Garrett who had convinced Napoleon to accept the American offer to buy the Louisiana territories, thereby giving Napoleon the monies for his campaign against England and the rest of the civilized world. This alone made Garrett one of England's greatest enemies of state.
The idea that she sat in the company of the famous pirate Black Garrett was impossible, of course. It simply could not be so, she assured herself at once. True, these last years had been a nightmare, filled with pain and fear and torments, and true, while her uncle had at last been put to rest, her circumstances had little improved—one might reasonably argue her circumstances had worsened—but throughout it all God gave her the unwavering faith in an ultimate triumph over adversity. So she knew one thing and one thing only: as cruel as fate was, life could not be so terrible as to make the man sitting there the infamous Black Garrett.
Then why was her heart pounding, her pulse racing, and her breaths quickening? She nervously broke eye contact, wiping the small beads of moisture lining her brow.
"Garrett," Gayle's voice came with urgency. "You are scaring her more. Tell her—"
"Tell her what, Gayle?" Garrett leaned back, addressing Juliet with his eyes if not his words. "That I am not who she supposes I am? Or that I am not as terrible as my reputation would have me be, that reputations are things of lies, built on inference, hearsay, rumors, things having little to do with facts; that my reputation is no different except that it was built carefully to shadow the truth? Tell her again that I wont hurt her? Tell her what, Gayle? Do you imagine anything I could possibly say now will soften the light of fear in those eyes?"
Fear turned to fury, and before Garrett drew his next breath she lost what little control she had left. "Oh how I hate your clever way with words! I used to be able to read the news from London, and if only a fraction of what I read was truth, a fraction, then nothing can ease my fear unless you tell me it's not true, that you are not that notorious man. And if you do I will believe you. I will believe you because it's too terrible to believe otherwise. Because I can not ... I simply can not believe this is happening to me."
Silence came as a collective answer and Juliet rose slowly from the table, shaking her head as she looked to each face, seeing them in this changed light. She backed slowly away from the table. Leif cursed softly as Gayle's look still implored Garrett to say something more. Yet Garrett was right: words would not carry her from the shock of her discovery.
Garrett chuckled when she looked at the door. "You won't get far, love. And believe me, I've no desire to rescue you from the sea. Rest easy, I will quit your company for your comfort. Gayle, fix the telescope. Unlike words, the planets have never failed me."
Gayle rose angrily to do his bidding.
"Garrett, you are in trouble," Leif told him, watching as her small fists clenched as if in preparation for a fight. "You have noticed that hair of hers?"
"Often."
"I know it well. The red-haired descendants of Mars and Hera, it marks my whole family: the joining of passion and fury, suppressed in the young lady by a sadistic hand, but only for the while—"
"Destined to emerge again to bring me trouble, I know Leif. My anticipation of it makes me come again to the one thing not woven into my destiny."
"Ah, I can guess what this is," Leif grinned. "Besides failure and the God-given humility that comes with it, it must be boredom. You shall never know a day of it, and Garrett, my dearest friend," he laughed, "I envy you that."
Long after midnight, Garrett quietly opened the door. He pushed his l
ong fingers through windblown hair and stood in the doorway as he searched the space to find her. A single lamp shone over the couch where she slept at last. Shutting the door without a sound, he stepped soundlessly to the spot and for a long while he stared down at a beauty more compelling than the very light of eternity.
Thin arms cradled her head. The long ropes of her hair curled on her lap. A troubled look marked her face even in sleep. Kneeling before her, he remembered the feel of soft curves beneath him, curves made to accommodate a man's desire, and how her eyes changed with passion. For the space of a night, she had been his.
He gently traced a finger along the line of her lips, remembering all too well a taste sweeter than spun sugar, more potent than wine. He was in trouble, indeed. Never had he had to exercise restraint with women, any woman, and considering the force of his desire, the lesson would be hard won indeed.
He struggled with his passion as he gently took her slippers from her feet, then with more trouble, her stockings. He lifted her, leaning her against his chest to get at the buttons of her dress. Like a child, she did not stir. He untied the bow, noticing, not for the first time, the girlish modesty of this dress, an unnecessary reminder of her innocence and age. The buttons came off easily. He pulled the dress off her shoulders to her waist, an unveiling that made his breath catch. The rounded fullness of her breasts pressed against the thin fabric of her chemise, temptations all the more pronounced considering her contrasting slenderness.
The dress dropped to the floor as he lifted her to his arms to take her to the bed. He smiled when she did not wake as he gently laid her there. Managing to control the monster of his desire only with thoughts of her extreme vulnerability, he lay down beside her. A miracle. Careful not to wake her, he took her small hand in his and brought it to his heart, his mind filling with images of her: this hand, the fear that could change the shape of those eyes, and Leifs words: "And, Garrett, you don't know what longing is until you've seen her sitting at the window staring off at the distant horizon to a place where she dreamed she'd be safe."
Jennifer Horseman Page 13
