by Mary Martin
Smoke from the fire spiraled in clinging wisps about them.
"A princess of sorts .. . one with a will of steel and a heart of ice who shall soon make you doubt all that you believe... even the proud heritage you seek to uphold."
Scorpio grabbed her by the arm, his cool demeanor shaken. "For love ... or hate . .. ally or enemy? How will this woman come into my life?'
Bettina's head snapped up and her body quivered. "I honestly do not know, Scorpio," she replied, almost fearful. "I can only tell you what the leaves appear to reveal. And that is all that I see. The rest you must seek out on your own."
He released her arm and sat back to stare into the shadows, remembering, unable this time to stop the haunting memories. Images came out of the darkness in a kaleidoscope of spinning, tumbling scenes. Times long past, once so full of happiness, had ended in sorrow. And so unnecessarily. Hate had quickly become his single emotion, and now consumed his life.
From the first, he'd vowed revenge against the man who was responsible and any of his descendants, swearing to destroy them all with the same ruthlessness and cunning as his family had been destroyed.
Life had been very hard for Scorpio in the beginning. He remembered the humiliation of having people whisper behind his back, knowing they were eagerly discussing sordid details and unfounded rumors. Once, he'd almost killed a man for snide remarks made about his mother. That had been the day he'd decided to leave England. A young man disillusioned with life, he'd signed on a pirate vessel and taken to the seas. He'd never returned to his homeland. The young man learned quickly, and soon he'd become master of his own ship. He assumed a new identity, one that could not be linked tg his family.
At sea, he called himself Scorpio, and his ship flew the black flag. Instead of the pirate symbol, however, the sinister curved shape of a scorpion graced the fluttering silk, the symbol "m" representing the eighth sign of the zodiac in script beneath it.
In the years that followed, Scorpio was rumored as deadly as his symbol and became feared by virtually every seagoing man. Yet, if the truth were told, only the ships of one particular salvor from Key West were attacked by his pirate band. His battles with other merchant ships were in self-defense of his own vessel.
Nevertheless, to stay on the safe side, smart merchants charted courses far away from the Florida, Bermuda coasts.
There were those who scoffed at his warnings and deliberately sailed near Antare. Scorpio frowned, recalling those few who'd been foolish—greedy treasure-seekers who'd ventured too far and too near his private island in the lost sea. He was certain they'd heard the reputed stories of the English galleon— rumored to have been sunk years ago during a hurricane, and now lying in a watery grave near his island.
The treasure-hunters allowed their avaricious natures to draw them to the Triangle, where legend claimed the sea, and the ghostly apparition of a lovely woman protected the vast treasure on the ocean's floor. There were reports from some, whether tale or true, of the sea periodically relinquishing bits of gold and jewelry that could be found along the Triangle's beaches—if one dared to try.
Over the years the stories became more absurd, as did the treasure-hunters' greed. Their numbers increased and they ventured more often to the lost sea. The battles to protect his privacy became more frequent and intense. But after a smart exchange of iron, the intruders always scattered like mists before the morning sun, swearing they'd sooner tangle with the devil himself than ever confront the Devil's Triangle, or Scorpio, again.
Antare, a lush tropical island, was Scorpio's oasis from the madness of the world—his self-proclaimed kingdom. He guarded it, and the waters surrounding it, with a fierceness that few dared challenge.
Located in an area of the Western Atlantic between Bermuda, Florida, and the 40th meridian, Scorpio lived within an invisible triangle of danger and speculation. It was virtually uncharted, and respected by wise seamen.
Scorpio did not care that it was the source of many unexplained incidents: the loss of entire ships and crews, the sudden appearance of eerie fogs, violent storms that raged for hours and then abruptly whirled away. It was home to him. He did not fear it, and only felt truly alive when he was at his gracious plantation on the island and far from maddening society.
Shaking off black thoughts, Scorpio looked up and smiled ruefully at Bettina. "When all is said and done, I suppose in the end a man is always alone, isn't he, Tina?'
"Only because he chooses to be, Scorpio," she returned, watching him closely. Her expression abruptly softened as her eyes caressed his rugged face. "I feel there is one last thing I must tell you, for it might prove important."
Scorpio was surprised at the tender look on her face. She could be just as cold and calculating as he, but at this moment her innermost feelings were plainly visible.
"Go on," he murmured thickly.
"Only this. Look to their eyes, and you will know."
They sat silently. Scorpio trembled visibly, seeing violet eyes in the purple shadows. Then in one smooth motion he came to his feet and regained his self-control.
"I appreciate your concerns, and your words, Bettina. However there is no magic involved in what I am seeking to do. I have known for some time now where it is I must go. And prophecy or no, come first light, I set sail."
Bettina stood and watched his tall form move along the beach toward the longboat that waited to take him out to his ship, the Tempest, that was anchored in the bay. She'd known he would only shrug off any of her warnings, for he was not one of them, after all.
It was sometime later, just before the break of dawn, when the wind at last ceased howling about the island and crept away to linger in swaying palmettos, that the Tempest prepared to set sail.
The crew scrambled to their assigned positions, each of them no stranger to his task. The mainsail was quickly run up the mast where it fluttered to life in the morning breeze. At a command from their captain, thirty-two men bent their backs to the capstan bars on the quarterdeck to haul the anchor cable through the hawsepipes. Scorpio stood watching, his keen eyes observing their practiced motions. As the cable was withdrawn from the sea, several sailors hurried forward with broom and buckets to scrub the line clean of sand and mud. They had heard their captain say many times how even the slightest bit of mud on the deck could send a man sliding into the ocean, and death's jaws. The crew did not doubt his word. Dedicated, they worked swiftly and efficiently.
Moist tropical breezes blew steadily across the Tempest's quarterdeck, drying the sweat from the men's brows and bare backs as they worked feverishly to get the ship under way. Their grunts and soft snarls drifted on predawn winds to where Scorpio stood, long legs braced against the rolling motion, observing their precise movements. Admiration shone in his eyes. They were all good men, loyal and true. But then, that was to be expected; after all, he'd hand-picked each one himself. And he would trust any one of them with his life if need be.
Faint shafts of purple-gold light pierced through lingering shadows, silhouetting their muscular forms through the billowing folds of the ship's wind-whipped sails. The sun peeked over the horizon. Anticipation wavered in the breeze. The huge ship shuddered, then caught the crests of the waves and began gliding toward the open sea.
The men shouted joyfully. Hoots and whistles echoed in the air. Mugs of rum were passed among them and quick toasts proposed.
"Tis free as a bird, we are!"
"T England . . . and me darlin's own sweet arms."
T me doxy, Lula May," another chimed in, "and heaven here on earth."
Everyone laughed good-naturedly. Scorpio fixed his point of vision in the direction of the English coast. He knew now where his destiny lay. In four weeks he would confront it. He stared out at the endless sea for several seconds before glancing down at the broadsword he held in one hand.
They were sailing smoothly over the water now, charted on a definite course, unhindered by anything but God and nature. With a wide smile, he suddenl
y wielded the gleaming blade upward, swinging it overhead in a fiery arc of brilliant silver and gold. As always, the weapon felt good in his hand, like it had been created just for him. Chased in intricate detail, it was a cherished weapon that had been passed down through his family from the famous English buccaneer, Henry Morgan.
"To England!" he shouted before his men, "and revenge ... sweet and long coming!"
The coastline of Torquay, England
"Race with the wind, Abra." Starlin Cambridge urged her mount through the stable doors and out into the concealing darkness of night. She leaned low over the mare's sleek white neck whispering words to spur the horse onward.
The animal's ears twitched in acknowledgement of the girl's command, and after sailing smoothly over the stone wall which encircled the Cambridge estate, the leggy mare stretched out into a rolling gallop across the isolated shoreline, her dainty hooves sending bits of shale and wisps of seagrass flying from beneath pounding hooves.
Starlin wrapped long slim legs tightly about Abra's middle and entwined her fingers in the flowing mane. Horse and rider became a blur of motion as they tore over the expanse of beach that bordered the wild craggy bluffs and pounding sea near the Cambridge country estate, Laurelwood.
Starlin loved this place, loved its wild natural beauty and even the fierce storms that blew in off the ocean and raged sometimes throughout the night—keeping her wide-eyed in her bed for hours envisioning how the sea would look as it lashed back in furious protest.
She enjoyed prowling the isolated coastline bordering Laurelwood, particularly late at night when everyone else lay sleeping. At nineteen years of age and having just been released from a stuffy, girls' finishing school, Starlin Louise Cambridge was madly in love with life itself. Possessed of intelligence and spirited daring, she was given to unconventional behavior that tended to explode into unsuppressed rebellion on nights as wild as her mood. If it suited her, she did it, if it hinted of danger, all the better, for she was a born adventurer, and was particularly fond of the sea. It was so mysterious and totally free. Something that the granddaughter of the Earl of Eaton could never totally hope to be. She glanced out at the tumultuous ocean as her mount carried her swiftly along the foam-dashed edge.
There was something about its raging beauty during a storm, such as the one now threatening, that filled her with awe. The sea, all powerful and unhindered, symbolized to Starlin everything that she longed for, and could not have. For she was a Victorian woman, after all, and as such, could not expect to do anything more with her life than marry well and produce fine children.
However, tonight she thought she could take on any role, act just as she pleased, for there was no one here to place any restrictions on her—not one single soul.
Starlin knew she was a young woman given to impulse if it suited her purpose. And that most of the time it did. At the prim finishing school in Liverpool, she'd been reprimanded often and more than any other girl, yet had adamantly refused to bend to dictated rule. It was not that she was a featherbrain, or did not seriously consider a situation before acting, she mused. It was just that she made up her mind quickly and reacted with a bit more vigor than her peers. More than one instructor had told her she simply feared too little and wondered altogether too much.
Feeling the blue velvet ribbon tear free of her unruly riot of black hair—and not caring a fig—she had to agree that it was probably true.
The one thing she had considered most gravely before she'd slipped from her room were the consequences should it be discovered that she'd left the house. She was well aware that the household would be in a dither if Miss Eggie awakened and went to Starlin's bedroom to check on her and discovered her missing. The incident would be reported to her grandfather just as soon as they reached London next week. And for certain, she'd be in for another of his firm lectures on the proper behavior of young women from respectable families. Poor Grandfather, lucky for both of them that he had gone on ahead to oversee matters at the London house, for he just did not understand his impetuous granddaughter. Having some time to himself after their long summer together would do him a world of good.
Pushing aside her thoughts, she leaned into the biting wind, reveling in the salty spray that blew across her face and whipped her midnight tresses out behind her like a glorious sable cloak.
Starlin had promised herself this one last ride to her special place before leaving to begin her new life in the city under her grandfather's rule. Not that the earl was an ogre, or that she didn't love the old bear. She did, immensely. Without him, she had no one, and it had been her grandfather who had come to Key West after her parents' death and confronted her stepbrother with a revised will naming the earl as her guardian.
Ah well, she thought, one last venture, Starlin, and then you will have to resign yourself to the whirl of the London season that is fast approaching. She knew it was expected of her, and it was final.
"Isn't everything, where we women are concerned?' she yelled bitterly over the roaring of the crashing breakers. "And it's totally unfair!"
To forever live one's life under a husband's rule, without freedom, without excitement, why it is just too horrible to even contemplate, she thought. And soon she'd be spending every day cooped up in Grandfather's rambling old house. She'd be expected to wear long, fancy gowns that forced you to walk just so—or one would find oneself hopelessly entangled in yards of silk—just to sit and exchange subtle banter with foppish dandies and worry over her every word. It was enough to send the headstrong girl into a fit of outright rebellion this night.
She didn't wish to marry! she fumed inwardly. She had dreams! She wanted to savor every drop of life until there was absolutely nothing left to experience. Perhaps when she was thirty, and old, she might wish to settle down. Yes . .. perhaps then.
With a firm hand the girl reined the mare toward a lofty cove high in the cliffs where she might look out upon the wind-tossed sea and wish for that certain someone who might take her away to a special place to share her hopes and dreams. Someone like herself, who understood how very precious freedom of thought and deed was to man, or woman.
The breeze whirled about her with a wistful sigh as Abra topped the first jutting sand bluff and was brought to a skidding halt. The mare stood tossing her regal head, impatient to be off again. Starlin held her close as her gaze roamed over mist-covered cliffs. She knew she'd have to search carefully for the narrow opening, since it had been difficult enough to find even in daylight.
The moon peeked out briefly from behind a murky cloud bank, a shaft of piercing light dancing along the granite walls as if indicating the way. The girl smiled and urged Abra slowly along their base, the delicate scents of flowering vines entwined about the rocky crevices tantalizing her senses. Then, she saw it.
The jagged fissure was before her. She slid from the mare's back, tied off the reins, and walked over to sit cross-legged upon the very edge of the cliff. She smoothed her white muslin skirt over her knees and stared out from her lofty perch, her nerves tingling with awareness. Looking at the bewitching sight before her, Starlin knew she could never have imagined the absolute savage beauty of this place at night. She was glad now that she'd taken the risk to come.
Silvery sea grass far below did a graceful wavering dance above the sand drifts. Rain threatened, and thunder continued to rumble. The wind howled unexpectedly through the honeycombed passages behind her, as though pining for a long-lost lover. Gooseflesh quivered on the girl's bare arms, yet she refused to leave. Lightning, so bright it nearly blinded her, charged through the heavens plunging into the soaring whitecaps, and took Starlin's breath away. Ghostly tendrils of fog weaved steathily in and about huge angry waves like the slithering tail of some fearsome sea serpent bent on ensnaring its awesome power. Undaunted, the breakers hurtled against the shore eliminating anything that dared to stand in their way. It was stunning to behold, and Starlin was to think later that perhaps that was why she had not immediately noticed t
he ship heading in from the ocean toward the calmer bay. Her attention had been drawn to the fury of the elements and not the distant horizon.
At first, when it finally caught her eye, she was confident that it must be a figment of her vivid imagination, for surely no one, not even the best of seamen, could have guided a ship so well amid the ocean's fury. She rose to her feet, just barely able to make out the great hull of the vessel plunging in and out of the choppy water, riding high each crest with graceful ease. She marveled that it didn't capsize or become dashed upon the reefs so dangerous in the area.
It was like nothing she'd ever witnessed before, this battle between sea and vessel, and it left her trembling with emotion and envious of the confrontation. "Where did it come from so suddenly?' she pondered out loud, thinking in the back of her mind that it appeared Zeus had somehow sent it up from the bottom of the sea to do battle with mighty nature.
The full moon appeared once again, and she saw that the ship was as black as night, for only the billowing white sails unfurled in the wind could be easily discerned. Starlin was breathless and did not move—for how long she wasn't certain—but it came as a jolting shock to suddenly realize that the ship had been maneuvered into the sheltering bay below her lofty perch and was now weighing anchor.
Her captain must have decided to seek shelter from the approaching storm until morning, Starlinassumed, and agreed with his wise decision—until she noticed the swaying beacon of light from high atop the ship's rigging, and felt the cold hand of fear slowly clutch her in its wake. Back and forth, back and forth, the flashing light came: some sort of signal, she felt certain. She was unable to take her eyes off it. And then she realized why they'd come!
"Smugglers!" she gasped, "coming to this cove to meet someone!"
Heavens, but hadn't she heard countless stories of such goings-on in this isolated area where few dared venture, save fearless pirates and one foolish girl? A thrill of excitement shot through her. Then, glancing down at her white blouse and skirt swirling about her in the breeze like a beckoning banner, she dropped quickly to her stomach. She could only hope that they hadn't been drawn by the sight of her white clothing. Oh, dear! Had she been the one to draw them to this location?
