by Jane Jackson
She rinsed and wiped her hands on a scrap of towel, fitted extra guard rails round the stove top to prevent the pot sliding off, then peered out of the doorway, clinging to the frame.
The seas were white and breaking. The topsails had been taken in, so had the aft gaff. The schooner was running with the reefed foresail and the staysail.
As the bow reared, two figures, oilskins slick with rain and spray, struggled to loosen the foresail halyards. The wet ropes had contracted and were wire-taut. The schooner climbed, the reefed sail filled with a deafening clap, and the staysail split.
Feet pounded forward along the deck. In the flying spray Caseley could just make out two figures releasing ropes and hauling in the tattered sail while a third unlatched the scuttle to dive below to the locker for the spare.
Salt stung her eyes and burned her face. Petrified, she could only cling to the doorframe. How long could Cygnet take such punishment?
A mountainous sea toppled aboard just in front of the mainmast and washed down the foredeck, swirling round the windlass in a welter of foam, reaching the knees of the men working frantically to free the torn sail.
One of the men slipped and fell, hitting his head on the windlass as he went down. Caseley’s hand flew to her mouth and she choked back a scream of panic.
Working with desperate urgency to free the split sail so a replacement could be bent on, the man in front hadn’t noticed. His mate lay face down in the water that streamed across the deck and out of the scuppers.
Another huge wave broke over the side, sweeping the unconscious figure against the gunwale.
Heedless of the danger, Caseley dashed forward. Icy water filled her shoes and soaked the bottom of her skirt and petticoats.
‘Caseley! No!’
She heard the roar of anguish, fury and warning but kept going. Rain beat down and within seconds her hair was a wet, straggling mass. Her jacket offered little resistance to the spray-laden gale and before she reached the foredeck she was soaked to the skin. But all her thoughts were focused on the man sprawled against the gunwale.
Gasping against the force of the wind, she staggered along the deck, grabbing whatever offered a handhold, until she reached him. Crouching, she turned his head. It was Jimbo. A cut above his ear oozed blood. The swelling had spread to his temple and was already beginning to turn purple. His eyes were closed, his face pinched and white.
The tough, chirpy little man who amused them with his tales and had pitched into the vicious fight with no weapons but his callused hands, looked shrunken, vulnerable, and suddenly much older.
Nathan turned, his arms full of torn canvas. His eyes widened in horror. ‘Get back! Get away! It isn’t safe here,’ he yelled against the howling wind.
‘I can’t leave him,’ Caseley cried. ‘He’ll drown.’
Another wave crashed over the gunwale driving the breath from her body as the achingly cold water cascaded past, soaking her to the waist.
She clung desperately to the windlass with one arm and Jimbo with the other, holding his head above the foam. As it drained away through the scuppers, she clasped her hands under his shoulders and began to drag him backwards towards the companionway.
Hammer emerged from the fo’c’sle with the spare sail, slamming and latching the hatch behind him. His jaw dropping as he saw Caseley, he lunged forward, ready to help.
‘No,’ she panted. ‘I can manage.’
‘Come on, Hammer,’ Nathan bawled. ‘We’re losing way. If she broaches to, skipper’ll be mad as hell.’
Caseley choked on a hysterical giggle. If they turned side-on to these seas, Jago Barata wouldn’t have time to be furious. He’d be drowning with the rest of them. She wasn’t ready to die. She had only just started to live.
The schooner nose-dived once more and she had to strain to prevent Jimbo’s dead weight dragging her back towards the bows. Her fingers kept slipping on the wet oilskin. Her back felt as if it was breaking and her arms were being torn from their sockets.
Cold to her bones she sobbed for breath. Black spots danced in front of her eyes and she bit her lip to stop herself screaming as she felt her fingers slip. She adjusted her grip once more. Then as Cygnet’s head came up she managed to drag Jimbo a few feet further.
Hammer and Nathan staggered along the deck.
‘Where shall us put ’n?’ Hammer was asking. ‘Mart’s just coming up, bleddy fo’c’sle’s awash.’
‘My cabin,’ Nathan said, rain and spray dripping off his chin. ‘All right, my bird, we got ’n.’ He had to prise Caseley’s fingers loose.
Dimly she heard Jago shouting to Hammer to take the wheel. Painfully she straightened up, clinging to the smooth heavy frame of the skylight. Every muscle ached and she was shaking violently.
There was movement around her, scuffling and grunts as Jimbo was manoeuvred through the hatch and down the stairs. Then a hand closed around her upper arm.
Blinded by rain and spray she raised her head, blinking to clear her vision and felt her heart wrenched as she focused. There were dark shadows beneath Jago’s eyes and lines of strain she had not seen before. His lips were bloodless, his expression chilling.
Silently he guided her ahead of him down the stairs, his firm grip holding her up when she would have fallen. As they passed the mate’s cabin she heard the rustle of oilskins, Jimbo moaning, and Nathan berating him for having two left feet.
They reached the day room just as Martin clattered down the stairs wearing oilskins two sizes too big for him.
‘Make a pot of tea, now,’ Jago ordered before the boy could speak.
‘Aye, Cap’n.’ The boy whirled round and raced back up again, slamming the hatch door.
‘Get those wet clothes off.’ Shutting the door Jago pushed her towards the sleeping cubicle. Stripping off his waterproof and sodden coat, he crouched in front of the stove, his wet shirt clinging to his broad back and muscular shoulders, and began to set a fire.
Cygnet pitched and Caseley collided with the door frame, sliding slowly down the wall. She wasn’t even cold any more. She just wanted to sleep.
Jerked to her feet, she was shaken roughly.
‘Open your eyes. Damn you, Caseley Bonython, look at me. You are going to get undressed and into dry clothes.’ He shook her again. ‘Do you hear me?’ His fingers dug into the tender flesh below her shoulders.
She felt her face crumple and hot tears seeped through her lashes and slid down her face. ‘I’m tired.’
Cursing under his breath, Jago held her up with an arm around her waist and unfastened the buttons on her jacket. Water dripped from her skirts onto the floor in a steadily widening pool. Pulling the jacket off he tossed it aside and reached for the waistband of her skirt.
Vaguely aware of what was happening, Caseley struggled weakly.
‘Keep still,’ Jago snapped, pushing the heavy skirt and petticoats down over her hips.
‘Leave me alone.’ She tried to fend him off, fighting the lethargy of cold and exhaustion that had sapped her strength.
‘And let you die of lung fever? Not on my boat.’
‘It’s not your boat,’ she mumbled.
‘While I’m master she is. Now get the rest of your clothes off.’ Releasing her, he reached into the cubicle, took one of the blankets from the bed, and shook it out. ‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, I hear you,’ she flung back. ‘But I’m – I can’t –’ She could feel her face burning. ‘Please look the other way.’
‘For God’s sake,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘I’ve seen naked women before.’
‘No doubt you have. But I’m not Louise Downing.’ The moment the words left her lips she wished them unsaid. He held the blanket out to her and, as she took it, turned away.
‘No, you aren’t. There is no comparison.’
Stiff and cold, her fingers dug into the rough wool as she tore her gaze from the wet cotton clinging to his broad back and fumbled with the buttons of her blouse.
Sh
e had walked onto the knife and he had twisted it. He had only been using her: first his house, then the letters she had written for him here on board. Had she been a challenge?
He had blackmailed her into obedience and she had completed her own destruction by falling in love with him. He had never lied. She wasn’t important enough for that. He knew she knew about Louise and had made no secret of his desire to get back to Falmouth as quickly as possible.
‘Are you done?’
Blinking back scalding tears, she clenched her teeth determined not to allow a quivering chin to betray her, and hastily tore off her remaining garments. Gathering them into a bundle she tossed them onto her skirt.
‘Yes,’ she whispered, wrapping the blanket around her.
‘Then come over here by the stove.’ His voice was rough as he picked up her shoes from where she had kicked them and set them to dry. He went into the cubicle again, this time bringing her towel.
‘Turn around.’
‘I –’
‘Your hair is dripping. It will soak the pillow.’ He turned her firmly around and removed the slides and net.
As the heavy coil fell loose down her back, Caseley heard his soft intake of breath, felt his fingers brush her neck and shoulders as he lifted the wet mass to wrap the towel around her head and squeeze the water out.
The crackling stove radiated heat and now she was free of her saturated clothes, the aching cold was gradually ebbing. Though scratchy against her bare skin, the rough blanket offered comfort.
He began to massage her scalp through the towel, his strong fingers soothing. The tautness at the base of her skull started to ease. Her eyes closed, then flew open again as she realised what was happening. Not only was she falling under his spell once more, his quickened breathing told her he knew it.
She whirled round, careless of the pain as she wrenched free. Her bronze-gold tresses tumbled over her shoulders and the towel fell to the floor between them. She glimpsed hunger in his eyes before shutters came down and his features hardened.
‘Leave me alone.’ What she had intended as an angry demand emerged a weary plea. Backing away she caught her heel in the blanket, bumped against the table, and fell onto the bench seat. Could she possibly look any more awkward and ungainly? No comparison. It was a blessed relief to sit down.
About to speak he clamped his mouth shut and turned away, raking a hand through the wet curls plastered to his scalp. He spun round, making her jump.
‘Had I left you alone, do you really believe Antonio Valdes would have been so polite? Do you imagine he would have stopped at seduction, or even rape?’ His tone was brutal.
‘He would have thrown you to his thugs, watched while they had their sport, then left you to die in the gutter. You have a lot to answer for, Caseley. Your lies might have cost me the Cygnet and my crew.’
‘I never –’ she flinched and fell silent as he raised a warning finger.
‘There was no contract.’ His scorn was withering. ‘Ricardo Spinoza has as much interest in iron ore as I have in dressmaking.’
She gaped at him. ‘You knew?’
‘From the moment you stepped on board.’ His words fell like stones into a pool, the ripples spreading ever wider.
Caseley swallowed. ‘How?’
Jago slid onto the seat opposite, rested his forearms on the table. As he placed one hand over the other she saw grazes and bruising on his knuckles. He had hit Antonio and fought the Basques to protect her.
‘Your Uncle Thomas is a frightened man. My guess is he’s in deep financial trouble. Not only is he scared, he’s bitter. All it took was a couple of drinks, a little sympathy, and he was telling me how much he resented your father checking his every move. Especially when he found out a contract had been drawn up for a company your father admitted did not exist. A contract that was a cover for a special assignment that would make all your father’s years as a consul worthwhile.’
Caseley closed her eyes. He had sworn her to secrecy, trapped her in a web of deceit. No one must know, he had said. But aware he had little time left, he had been unable to resist the temptation to tell Thomas, as proof he was still a man of consequence.
She opened her eyes, saw him watching her, and looked away.
‘Sam mentioned the package from Mexico,’ Jago went on. ‘He was fascinated by the stamps and seals. My father’s last letter spoke of aid from ex-patriots supporting the restoration of Alfonso to the Spanish throne. Toby warned me to expect a passenger who had urgent business in Spain.’
‘Señor Valdes?’
‘Having followed the package from Mexico, he called on Thomas. Smoothing your uncle’s ruffled feathers with liberal doses of charm and money –’ he raised one eyebrow and her protest remained unspoken. ‘He extracted the information he needed. Guessing you would be carrying the package as your father was unlikely to trust anyone else, Valdes allowed me to think he was the person I had been told to expect.’
Caseley clutched the blanket tighter. All she could do was listen.
‘Then you turned up with that ridiculous story. Had the contract been genuine, I would have dealt with it on your father’s behalf. So the pieces began to fall into place.’
Bitter anger swelled inside her. What a blind fool she had been. ‘You knew. All the time, you knew.’ Suddenly she recalled incidents whose significance had escaped her at the time.
He had never asked her why Valdes would go to such lengths to capture a contract. He had not asked because he already knew. He had warned her off the Spaniard, but never said why. And she, unused to dissembling, had dared not call his bluff and ask, for fear of letting something slip.
He had expected the ambush. He had been carrying a knife, and had sent Nathan, Jimbo, and Hammer on ahead because he anticipated trouble.
He had known which was Señor Spinoza’s house. Shocked and anxious after the attack, she had not noticed when he led her to a concealed side entrance instead of the front door.
Though neither of them had given any sign of knowing one another, the silver-haired Spaniard had accepted Jago’s presence without question, even during her handover of the documents. Not once had Jago asked about the second envelope.
‘You –’ her entire body burned with rage and mortification. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘Why didn’t you?’ he countered immediately.
‘My father swore me to secrecy.’
‘Some secret.’ His contempt had the sting of a whiplash. ‘I daresay half Falmouth knew.’
Caseley’s chin lifted even as her lips quivered. ‘Not from me.’
‘No. You kept your word to a sick old man, and nearly got yourself and the rest of us killed.’ He passed a hand across his face. ‘Why wouldn’t you trust me?’
‘Trust you?’ Her voice cracked on a laugh that was half sob. Hadn’t she yearned to do just that? Hadn’t she ached to confide in him, draw on his strength, and share the awesome responsibility? But she had given her word. Oh Father, how could you?
Yet she could not find it in her heart to blame him. He was old and ill. He had seen so many of his hopes destroyed. Even this, his last and most important task as consul, he’d been forced to delegate. Jago Barata had known all this, and had said nothing.
‘What reason have you ever given me to trust you? You barged your way into my life, bullied and blackmailed me to get me to do what you wanted.’ Her breath hitched. ‘You made me think … made me hope … What sort of a man are you?’ She hurled the words like missiles, desperate to hurt him as he had hurt her. ‘You have a mistress in Falmouth you can’t wait to get back to, yet that didn’t stop you forcing your attentions on me.’
Had she not been so devastated by his revelation, so hurt by his duplicity, she might have recognised the tightening of his features and swift turn of his head as the guilt and self-contempt they were. But in her misery she saw only impatience, the arrogance of a pirate who accepted no terms but his own, who had always taken what he wanted, heedi
ng neither refusal nor rebuff.
He started to reach across the table.
‘Keep away,’ she warned. ‘Don’t touch me.’
He let his hand rest on the table. ‘Or what? You’ll scream? Who would hear you?’
Fear crawled along her nerves. He was right. While Cygnet was fighting for survival in the teeth of a storm, the crew, his men, had their hands full.
He lifted a handful of her damp dishevelled hair, closing his fist on it. ‘I haven’t known a moment’s peace since I first laid eyes on you. And for that you will pay.’ Opening his fingers he let her hair spill over the grey blanket like liquid bronze. ‘But not here, not now.’
Gathering the remnants of her dignity, she tilted her chin. ‘Spare me your threats.’ Her knuckles gleamed white as she drew the blanket close. ‘I owe you nothing. There was a time when I thought we might be friends.’
Her throat tightened and she swallowed to clear it. ‘I was wrong. Once we reach Falmouth your problem is solved, for I never want to see you again. Until then, I will keep out of your way and you will oblige us both by ignoring me. I am not your responsibility.’
She slid out of the seat and crossed to the cubicle.
‘Do you really hate me so much?’ he asked quietly.
She paused in the curtained doorway, digging her thumbnail hard into the pad of her index finger. It was a trick she had used before. Inflicting a small pain to hold off the larger one about to engulf her. She glanced over her shoulder, willing her voice steady.
‘I do not hate you, Captain Barata. To hate someone they have to matter.’ She walked into the cubicle and pulled the curtain across. Curled into a ball on the bunk she closed her eyes in silent, desperate agony.
Chapter Twenty
The storm passed, leaving in its wake a heavy swell and an exhausted crew.
Kept busy repairing damaged sails or splicing and whipping frayed and broken ropes, the men did not linger over meals. Instead they took every opportunity to catch up on sleep. They had all appreciated the stew. But Caseley had been unable to swallow more than a couple of mouthfuls.
