Chance the Winds of Fortune

by Laurie McBain

  “Hungry? Not as hungry as I am, I’ll wager,” Rhea told him, glancing around the gangway to see the two men still sitting there, their pipe smoke rising slowly into the cold afternoon air.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I—” Rhea began, looking down to where her furry companion had been. But he had disappeared. With a sigh of disappointment, she settled herself down for a long wait, thinking that those men might sit down there for hours.

  But the cat had not abandoned her, for a second later she heard the padding of his feet across the deck, then his low meow, this time slightly querulous as he moved up against her persuasively. Then he walked away from her again, halting at the head of the companionway. And there he stood with an expectant look on his face, his long tail twitching in irritation at her lack of understanding.

  “So, you are as hungry as I am,” Rhea said, giving in to his wishes as she crawled toward him on all fours. The cape hindered her slow progress across the deck, but when she felt the first big raindrop, she hurried the final few feet, making her way, with the help of the cat’s guiding meows, along the companionway. She found him standing in obvious annoyance before a closed door.

  He meowed impatiently, scratching against the door as she stood there indecisively. But she heard no movement coming from within, and finally with a show of confidence she didn’t really feel, she opened the door. The cat rushed past her into the cabin as if he owned it.

  Rhea glanced around the shadowy cabin, noting the mahogany paneling and fine furnishings polished to a high gloss. Beyond the stern windows Rhea could see that the rain was falling in earnest now, and that the waters were growing choppy in response to the oncoming storm.

  As Rhea stood there thinking about what she should do, she became aware of an incredible odor. Her nostrils flared as she glanced around, her eyes hypnotized by a blue-checkered cloth draped across something bulky on the table. Swallowing the saliva that was forming in her dry mouth, Rhea reached out a timid hand, then snatched the cover from the plates set on the table.

  She stared in absorbed fascination at the turkey drumstick sitting squarely in the center of one of the china plates. She licked her lips; for a moment her sight was clouded by faintness. Then the persistent growling of her stomach swayed her toward an act of thievery, and with no further hesitation, she reached out and grabbed the drumstick with a shaking hand, her teeth tearing into the succulent meat. She could barely swallow fast enough to satisfy her appetite as she devoured the first decent morsel of food she’d had in what seemed an eternity.

  A thick wedge of cheese beckoned to her from another plate, as well as several slices of ham, freshly baked bread and newly churned butter, and even a generous piece of apple pie. A feast, Rhea told herself with a grin as she claimed all of the food on the table as her own.

  But she had been mistaken, for while she stood there satisfying her hunger, she felt the cat pressing up against her, his meows becoming worried as he saw his coveted dinner disappearing.

  “Here, boy,” Rhea said. She pulled off a couple of pieces of meat and handed them down to the cat, who was weaving around her legs, his purring growing louder as he quickly dispatched his share of the booty.

  Unable to eat more than a small portion of the feast, Rhea glanced around the cabin wondering if she might find something to drink, for the cheese and bread were sitting queasily high in her throat. Looking inside a small cupboard, she discovered only rolled-up charts and navigational equipment. A sea chest sat in one corner, but she didn’t think there would be anything to drink in there, so she ignored it and wandered instead to another cabinet. A triumphant smile lit her face when she saw a dozen or so bottles lined up against the back, a metal bar holding them secure. With little deliberation, she selected the dustiest-looking bottle, thinking it would be the least likely to be missed.

  Carrying it back to the table like a prized possession, she made herself comfortable in the captain’s chair and began to pry loose the cork. It took most of her strength, but after she struggled with it for a minute, it popped free.

  Holding the glass up to the bottle, she began to pour; then her eyes widened with dismay as sand filled the glass instead of wine. Peering inside the narrow neck of the bottle, Rhea noticed something there, and with a slender forefinger, she reached inside and coaxed out a piece of rolled-up parchment. Curiously, she unrolled it and stared down at an elegantly sketched map.

  The legend was written in a foreign tongue, which she guessed was Spanish, as she traced with her fingertip the beautifully executed, flowery script. Delicately drawn tropical birds, seashells, and palms decorated the corners. One Gorgonesque face blew a gust of wind from a northeast direction, and another, which was equally ugly, blew from the southwest. A painted ship sailed the seas, which were filled with sea monsters lurking in the crested waves. An elaborately drawn X had been placed among some straggly-looking islands at the base of a larger land mass.

  Rhea continued to stare with interest at the map; then, as she felt the continued dryness in her throat, she began to roll the map back into the bottle. But her hands were so stiff with cold that she couldn’t seem to roll it tightly enough to fit inside the narrow mouth.

  She paused, thinking she heard something on deck, but it was only the rain. Glaring at the unrolled parchment, she left it and went back for another bottle of the captain’s wine, vowing she’d get that map back inside the bottle if it took her the rest of the afternoon. Selecting another bottle from the rack, she held it to the fading light to make sure that it did indeed have wine inside. Satisfied, she uncorked it and poured herself a liberal amount of dark red wine. She shuddered slightly as she swallowed half of it, her thirst making her greedy for its soothing wetness, but as a warming glow began to spread through her body, she began to sip it more slowly.

  She walked over to the big, square stern windows and sank down on the narrow seat beneath them. From there, she stared out on the sullen waters of the bay, wiping at a tear clinging to her lashes and sniffing back any more that might have fallen. Needing comfort, she reached automatically for the locket hanging around her neck, the possession that was her only remaining link with her family. It had been a constant reminder during that long voyage that she was Rhea Claire Dominick, and that her home would always be Camareigh. She had kept the locket secret even from Alys. She knew she should have shared it with her, even though nothing could be seen in the darkness of the hold, but still, she had wanted to keep it to herself. For inside the locket were painted miniatures of the Duke and Duchess of Camareigh.

  It was gone! Rhea’s fingers felt about her neck, searching for the familiar feel of the gold metal, but it was not there. With a low moan, she realized that she must have lost it in the struggle with Daniel Lewis, or perhaps when she’d run along the docks.

  With a sob of despair, Rhea curled up on the seat, her tears falling freely while she thought about all that she had lost, and wondered if she would ever return home to Camareigh. She wondered about Alys, the girl’s cries for help still echoing in her ears. She had promised her she would take her back to Camareigh with her, but she had failed, just as Benjamin Haskell had failed to fulfill his promise. But in the end, Rhea thought as a numbness spread through her body, he had given his life for her, and that was something not many people would have done. But it had all gone for naught, for if Daniel Lewis were to be believed, then all of Charles Town would think that she had murdered the captain of the London Lady.

  Crying silently, Rhea slumped over in defeat. She was so tired. All she wanted to do was go home. She was startled by something touching her thigh, and opening her eyes, she stared down into the pale green eyes of the big tabby. When she picked him up, he kneaded her lap with his paws and purred comfortingly, and Rhea buried her face in the warmth of his soft fur.

  Rhea rested her cheek on her drawn-up knees, the cat cradled in between. The wine and the gentle rocking of the ship began t
o lull her into a fitful doze, her dreams taking her back to the gently sloping countryside surrounding Camareigh…

  * * *

  Dante Leighton was late returning home that night. After having finished the complimentary drink of Sir Morgan Lloyd’s, he and Alastair left the White Horses Tavern and called in at several others, testing their skill at cards and dice as the hours disappeared with the rising of a full moon. By the time Alastair and Dante left the last tavern, the moon was riding high in the clear night sky, the thunderstorm having moved inland toward the high country.

  The air was cold and crisp, almost as heady as the rum punch they’d been drinking, Alastair thought as they walked through the quiet town. Their hired carriage had been dismissed long ago, and Alastair was enjoying stretching his legs, when Dante suddenly flagged down an empty carriage that happened to be passing. Once inside, the door had barely swung shut before Dante ordered the driver to get his team moving.

  “What the devil, Captain?” Alastair demanded as he was flung back against the seat, his hat flying onto the floor.

  But Dante was not listening. As he stared out the window, he saw his ever-present shadow start into a run, having realized Dante’s move too late. As Dante sat back against the leather cushions, his low laugh filled the coach.

  “I don’t suppose he’s had such a long night on the town in years. I wonder if Bertie will reimburse him for his expenditures.”

  Alastair frowned. “Who exactly are we speaking about, Captain?”

  “One of Bertie’s hirelings. They’ve had me under surveillance for two months now, so I thought I’d have a little fun with them tonight,” Dante explained.

  “Lord, but it will be good to get out of Charles Town. This waiting is worse than foundering at sea any day. I’m glad your ribs are well healed, and the Sea Dragon refitted, for I don’t think I could stand another week of these townspeople. I’ve never had so many friends, or casual acquaintances, offering to buy me drinks, not to mention other things,” Alastair said contemptuously, remembering the brazen woman of the day before who had openly propositioned him. And this woman was the wife of a well-known captain who had dined with them often. Alastair shook his head in bewilderment, thinking how some people would resort to any means to get what they wanted.

  Dante smiled in understanding. “Pity you didn’t accept,” he said.

  Alastair stared at his captain through the lantern-lit gloom. “Did you?” he asked bluntly.

  Dante laughed. “I deserved that. But in answer to your question, no. Not out of any special courtesy to her husband, though, for I suspect he was behind her sudden generosity,” Dante explained. “I just didn’t happen to care for her looks. I’ll get out here,” he said, tapping on the roof.

  Halfway out of the carriage, he added with a grin, “Cheer up, Alastair. If our luck holds, we’ll have the Sea Dragon’s sails trimmed and filled by the morn, day after tomorrow.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Alastair responded with a wide, pleased grin, his good spirits restored once again as he thought of sailing the Sea Dragon away from the confining atmosphere of Charles Town. Then, with a contented sigh, he settled down for the rest of the ride to his lodgings.

  When Dante entered his silent house, only one candle still flickered in the wall sconces, its feeble light barely reaching the first step of the stairs as he made his way up them. He had untied his stock, the lacy-edged scarf dangling loosely in front of his leather waistcoat. Yawning widely, he entered his bedchamber, eyeing with appreciation the good-sized fire crackling in the hearth, thinking Houston Kirby was indeed a man to be treasured, for the little steward thought of everything.

  Dante glanced over at his bed, ready to slip beneath the neatly folded-back covers. Then he stared in unblinking incredulity at the dark head on his pillow, and at the bare shoulders just visible over the covers of his bed.

  A slow anger began to burn inside of him as he walked closer to the bed and gazed down on his uninvited guest. He breathed the pervasive fumes of liquor and stale perfume, saw the pile of discarded cards strewn across the coverlet and carpet, and the crumbs of food caught in the rumpled sheets. A look of distaste crossed his face as he realized his bedchamber resembled a bawdy house.

  “Helene, get up. I have had enough of your games,” Dante said harshly to the woman in his bed.

  But Helene did not respond. With a sigh of impatience, Dante bent over her and started to shake her shoulder, but when he heard her light snores, he drew back, preferring to leave her undisturbed in the arms of Morpheus. He glanced over at the half-empty crystal goblet and the open bottle of Madeira on the table beside the bed. A tray carrying several plates of picked-over food was set aside on another table, while in a chair near the door was a disorderly pile of discarded clothing.

  Dante glanced at the cozy fire, then at the naked woman sleeping soundly in his bed, then at the tray of cold food, and a smile of cruel amusement curved his lips as he speculated on Helene’s attempt at seduction. The only problem was that the guest of honor had never arrived for her private midnight soiree. And in her boredom, she had consumed almost a whole bottle of Madeira and amused herself with his playing cards, before the wine and warmth of the fire had lulled her into a comfortable stupor.

  With a half-muffled curse on his lips, Dante turned his back on the bed and Helene Jordane. A second later, the bedchamber door had closed softly but with restrained violence on his departing figure.

  Dante made his way unhurriedly down the stairs he had climbed just moments before, but instead of going out the front door, he turned and made his way into the kitchen in the back of the house.

  “I thought you might be around,” Dante commented to the little steward sitting at the big, well-scrubbed block table in the center of the kitchen. Kirby was holding a mug of steaming coffee cupped in his hands.

  The steward glanced up at his captain, a look of approval evident on his weathered face. “Aye, I was hopin’ ye’d be down right fast. Didn’t want yer coffee to cool,” he said matter-of-factly as he got up and handed the captain his mug, which had already been filled to the brim with the hot brew.

  “You are very certain of me, Kirby,” Dante retorted dryly as he accepted the proffered mug, not certain he cared to be quite so predictable.

  Kirby sniffed. “No, ’twas mostly wishful thinking on my part,” he admitted. “Figured if I went ahead and poured it, well, ye might just show up. Reckon I’ve never had a contest ’tween my coffee and a shameless woman before.”

  “Speaking of which,” Dante began, only to be silenced by Kirby’s snort of derision.

  “Reckon there’s no stoppin’ that woman now that’s she caught scent of yer title. Worse than a coonhound, she is. Reckon we gotta get that garden gate fixed,” he said, shaking his graying head.

  “I gather that she did not stoke the fire, nor prepare her own meal?” Dante asked as he finished off his coffee.

  “Reckon not, although I was goin’ to refuse if she’d asked me to unfasten her gown,” Kirby declared. “A man’s got some pride, he does. I figured,” he added with a straightforward stare at his captain, “’twas yer place to be settin’ young madam on her beam-ends, not mine. Probably would’ve tried to box me ears anyway,” he speculated. “Outweighs me, as well.”

  Dante grinned, watching his steward rinse out the mugs, then spread the cooling coals in the hearth.

  “I’ll sleep on board the Sea Dragon tonight, or, for what’s left of the night,” he amended.

  “Aye, thought ye might be of that frame of mind. Reckon ye’re not takin’ any chances of bein’ compromised by young madam, though, I reckon she might have thought just her bonny eyes would be enough to ensnare ye again,” Kirby stated, openly contemptuous of such a ploy.

  “I suppose you will be following shortly?” Dante asked, turning at the door, his expression enigmatic.

  Kirby’s eyebrows
rose startlingly. “As fast as me short legs’ll carry me, m’lord. Ye won’t find me stayin’ alone in the same house with that she-wolf,” he proclaimed vehemently. “No, sir, I’ll be along as soon as I can gather up a few things. Reckon when young madam awakens to an empty bed and empty house in the mornin’, she’ll be fit to be tied,” he predicted. “And I don’t want to be anywhere hereabouts.”

  “As you wish. I’ll see you on board the Sea Dragon, then,” Dante said. He was gone just as quietly as he’d arrived, leaving the little steward to clean up his kitchen.

  Dante walked swiftly along the now deserted streets, his steps bringing him closer to the docks with each passing moment. He breathed deeply of the moisture-laden air, its cold sharpness clearing his head. As he neared a narrow lane cutting between two buildings, he became aware of footsteps echoing his. Stepping into the dark shadow of the building, Dante waited. He smiled when he heard the footsteps quicken as his own were silenced. As they grew loud, he stepped out into the path of the man who’d been following him all evening.

  The man had little chance to avoid a collision with the broad shoulders suddenly blocking his path, nor time to speculate about the intent of Dante Leighton, for the bunched fist of the captain of the Sea Dragon connected at once with his jaw. The painful impact sent the man flying backwards into the gutter, where he lay and watched dazedly as the tall figure disappeared into the darkness.

  “Who goes there?” called out the sailor on graveyard watch as Dante climbed aboard. The sailor’s voice was more threatening than questioning.

  “Captain Leighton, Webber,” Dante called out, pleased that the young man had been so alert, for he wanted no prowlers on board the Sea Dragon.

  “Oh, Cap’n, sir.” The young sailor sighed, partly in relief and partly in disappointment at not having the chance to challenge the trespasser, for the night had been boring and quiet thus far. “Didn’t know ye was comin’ back on board, Cap’n. Only me, and I think Jamaica, on board the Sea Dragon. Though I couldn’t swear to him bein’ on board. Haven’t seen him in hours. Mr. Kirby’d said the cat was stayin’ on board. Said to leave the ol’ buzzard to his tomcattin’,” Webber said with an approving grin.