Mystic Memories

by Gillian Doyle

  She was wearing the new clothes he had purchased for the occasion, requesting that she don something other than her standard male attire for the wedding. In truth, he could hardly stand before his crew and pledge his troth to a person who looked more like a man than a woman. At a distance, anyway. He would be the butt of jokes for the entire voyage.

  Earlier, when he’d given her the wrapped package, he’d felt compelled to apologize for the humble peasant clothes, knowing that most women would have preferred a bridal gown of satin and lace. Though whatever possessed him to feel guilty, he did not know. She’d thanked him anyway, regretting she had nothing to give him for a wedding gift. He’d dismissed her comment, citing no need to reciprocate his practical gesture.

  Now she stood before him on the deck of his ship, dressed in a soft, creamy-white blouse with a drawstring neckline that curved across her delicate shoulder bones. The blouse was tucked into the waistband of a gathered calico skirt, accenting her small waist. The toes of her new black slippers peeked out from beneath the hem.

  He had never seen any woman so beautiful as Cara with her large brown eyes as deep and dark as twenty fathoms.

  Despite his vow never to touch her again, he offered his arm to escort her to the quarterdeck. They both needed to pretend to be in love or their ruse would never pass the scrutinizing gazes of the crew.

  As they approached the quarterdeck, where Captain Bainbridge and Keoni waited patiently, Blake felt all the eyes of his men following them. No, following Cara. Clearly, they were as stunned as he’d been only a moment ago.

  Keoni moved back to let them by. Blake thought he caught a glimpse of his Kanaka brother winking at Cara. Turning to face the officiating captain, he glanced sideways at his beautiful bride. For a brief instant, he regretted his decision to avoid the consummation of this marriage.

  But the momentary lapse in his sensibilities passed when he saw a conspiratorial look pass between the woman on his arm and his best man.

  Chapter 15

  Cara spent the rest of her wedding day alone in the captain’s quarters while Blake stayed topside with the crew, getting his ship under way. He did not even bother to join her for the sumptuous meal Keoni provided for them. Instead, the Kanaka sat with her, talking about his island home and his adolescent brotherhood with Blake.

  Neither of them dared to speak of their successful bluff three days earlier regarding their own intentions to marry. They had purposely dawdled half the day away, expecting Blake to come after them in a jealous rage, as Keoni had predicted. Still, she had been willing to go through with a marriage to the Hawaiian, if necessary. He had become a good friend and confidant. With his own staunch beliefs in the island myths and legends, he accepted her stories about psychic powers and her other life in another time. Without doubts or questions, he had offered his unconditional respect and devotion. The feeling was mutual. But it wasn’t love. Not that love was required for marriage, she realized reluctantly. Her current situation being a prime example.

  Even though she prolonged her meal to keep Keoni around, he finally had to excuse himself and get back to his duties. “Not look good if da new bride spends more time alone with da cook than with da groom,” he told her with a wink.

  She answered halfheartedly, “Not good if da new bride spends her wedding night without da groom.”

  Keoni reached out and took her hand. “You made a deal with the devil, kaikuahine.”

  Smiling at the Hawaiian word for “sister,” she answered, “I’m afraid Blake may think he’s the one who made the deal with the devil.”

  “You will change his mind soon enough.” He winked. “Pretty wahine like you won’t be alone in that bed for long. I know I would not be able to resist you.”

  “You’re not Blake. Oh, forgive me, Keoni. That didn’t come out the way I meant it. Any woman would love to have you—uh, that is . . .”

  “Say no more. I bruise easily.” The Kanaka laughed, gave her hand an affectionate squeeze and released it. “Now I go and talk some sense into that husband of yours. Not wise to let the men see their captain wandering the deck on his wedding night. Might think something is wrong already.”

  “Yeah, I know—Hoʽomanamana. Superstitious. So go out there and drag my dear, devoted husband home to me, sweet Keoni. I will be here with waiting arms,” she quipped sarcastically.

  “He will not be able to hold out too long, kaikuahine. Trust me,” he said, grinning wide as he took her empty dishes and left the cabin.

  For a few hours she passed her time reading one of the precious few books that Keoni had borrowed from a scholarly old salt in the forecastle. While she sat at the table using a candle for added light, Bud slept on her bare feet, literally. His warm body served as a toasty comforter. The Lab was doing pretty well, all things considered. He probably wouldn’t be very good company for a while yet, but she was certain he’d come around eventually.

  Unlike his master.

  She turned the page of the book while muffled noises filtered down through the ceiling. The men sang out, hauling lines to the tune of some sea chantey, as much a sound of the sea as the wind and waves. The ringing of the bell told her it was nine o’clock, or twenty-one hundred hours in ship time.

  When she could not stifle the third big yawn, she gave up her attempt to stay awake for Blake’s return. Obviously, he wasn’t planning to spend the night in the honeymoon suite.

  She scooted back the chair, slipped her feet out from under Bud, and walked over to the drawer that had been cleared out for her meager collection of belongings. With money from Blake, she had been able to go ashore with Jimmy to purchase a few necessities, such as a nightgown and a hairbrush. Speaking with the proprietor’s wife, she had also acquired strips of muslin for her menstrual cycle, which would begin soon, though she had only a vague idea of how to handle the daunting chore of laundering the cloth in the confines of a small cabin on a ship full of men.

  Standing at the open bureau, she unfastened her skirt and let it drop to the floor. After doing the same with her drawers, she pulled her blouse off over her head and reached for the clean, new gown.

  Suddenly the door opened behind her. Fumbling with the folded material, she looked over her shoulder.

  “Blake!” She gasped as he closed the door. She kept her back to him while she struggled to get the nightgown over her head. “Turn around! Can’t you see I’m naked?”

  “No kidding,” he deadpanned. She was getting really tired of this running gibe between them, especially when it was at her expense. The billowy nightdress whispered over her bare skin, draping into soft folds until it touched the floor.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” She searched for the armholes and slipped her hands through. “Why didn’t you knock?”

  “It’s my cabin. And you should have locked the door.”

  “How were you supposed to get in if I was asleep and didn’t hear you knock?”

  Closing the drawer, she noticed her nipples outlined beneath the white cotton cloth. She folded her arms over her chest and pivoted about to see him standing in the same place, watching her with a predatory gaze. She felt her pulse race.

  “The point is—” Slurring his words, he removed his jacket and walked toward her. “You are not asleep, now, are you, Mrs. Edwards?”

  She didn’t bother correcting him. “You’re drunk.”

  “Ah, now, that I am. It seems my men felt a need to give me a condolence—that is, a wedding—gift of some fine brandy.”

  “Condolence” was probably the right word, considering what Keoni had told her about the superstitions the crew had regarding a woman on board.

  “Well, as you can see, I was about to go to bed.” She leaned over to scoop up her clothes from the floor. His footsteps came closer until his boots stopped in front of her. When she straightened with the skirt, underdrawers and blouse clutched against her breasts, he stared at her lips until she had an uncontrollable urge to wet them with her tongue.

  His b
lue eyes darkened. A flutter started in her stomach and traveled lower. She silently cursed her body’s instantaneous reaction to him. She wasn’t about to have sex with him when he was soused. With her luck, he would no doubt blame her for his intoxication!

  “Yer in m’ way,” he muttered. Certainly not the words she’d expected to hear. “Unless y’ want to fe-fetch me a bottle out of the cabinet over there.”

  “I’d probably choose the wrong one.” She stepped around him, draped her clothing over the top of a chair and climbed into bed. “Good night.”

  “I’m stayin’ up a while.”

  “I didn’t ask you to come to bed.”

  “And I’m not offering to join you. Remember—no sex.”

  “I don’t need to be reminded.”

  He swore an oath under his breath as he pulled out a bottle, uncorked it, and poured a full glass. Unwilling to watch him drink himself into a stupor, Cara rolled over and faced the inside of the berth, pulling the covers over her shoulders. Maybe he would pass out at the table, saving her the discomfort of his warm body pressed against her back.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the night in the tiny cave when the limited space forced them to curl up together. There had been some good parts about that night. And that following morning. If only it hadn’t all ended so disastrously, she thought wistfully.

  Blake was stone-cold sober, but he’d be damned if he would let on to Cara. Oh, he’d had a small drink or two topside with Keoni but not enough to lose control.

  After walking in on her a few minutes ago, he was glad to have kept his wits about him. The view of her firm, round bottom had immediately aroused him. For the briefest instant, he’d been tempted to come up behind her and claim her swiftly and effortlessly. She would have let him, too. The invitation had been all too obvious by the coquettish manner in which she’d pretended to struggle with her gown. She was quite the actress, he’d give her that. She had wanted to display her nudity, showing him what he had turned down. Yet he’d refused her seduction, even when the tip of her pink tongue had moistened those luscious lips, inviting him to kiss her, enticing him to lose control again.

  But, by damn, he hadn’t given in.

  He sat down at the table, sipped the liquor, and stared across the small cabin at the woman lying in his bed.

  My wife.

  He could not even begin to address her as such. It still seemed too strange to his own ears. And the arrangement itself could not have been more peculiar either. What could he have been thinking? Ah, that was the crux. He had not been thinking properly when he’d permitted her to live in his cabin or when he had agreed to matrimony. Though both had been decisions for her own well-being, his vow to abstain had been a decision for his own safety. Or, more appropriately, his sanity.

  He remained in the chair for at least an hour. Bud got up and scratched at the door, prompting Blake to take a brief circle of the deck with his dog. When he came back, he was relieved to see Cara had been perfectly safe behind the unlocked door in his absence. Perhaps he did worry too much about her well-being. Struck by the notion that he could still worry over her, he was not comfortable with the idea that she had worked her way under his skin despite all his efforts to be rid of her.

  As Bud settled down for the night in his favorite corner of the cabin, Blake poured another glass of liquor. He wasn’t ready to bed down next to his wife. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. The floor was beginning to look like the best option. He took a drink, then stared at the amber liquid as he felt the numbing effects drift to all parts of his body. All parts, that is, except one.

  He gulped down the last drop, and started to pour another, then stopped, not wanting to be drunk in her presence, awake or asleep. As it was, he felt a nice warm glow, nothing more.

  Returning the bottle to the cabinet, he heard an uncomfortable moan coming from his berth. He glanced over to see Cara gasp and sit up, staring at something beyond the end of the mattress, her eyes wild.

  “Bl-ake!” she screamed.

  Every protective instinct he possessed reared up. He was across the room before he even gave it a second thought, and grabbed her by the shoulders.

  She blinked, finally seeing him, then buried her head in his chest, murmuring repeatedly, “Oh-God, oh-God, oh-God.”

  “Shush, now. It was just a dream.” His palm on her back felt her pounding heartbeat. Oh, how good it felt to hold her in his arms again.

  “No . . .”

  “Yes, it was. Look at me, Cara.” He pulled back and cupped her face in his hands. She was a strong woman, maybe too strong at times. To see her so vulnerable touched something inside him. “I’m here. I’m real. Nothing bad is happening.”

  She shook her head tentatively. “Nothing is what it seems, Blake. It’s all an illusion.”

  “You’re talking nonsense,” he soothed, taking her in his arms again. Her whole body trembled like a leaf. As much as he wanted to convince himself that she was staging the entire act, he knew in his gut that she was deathly frightened. And, God help him, he wanted to protect her, to save her from the monster in her dreams.

  “I couldn’t stop them from hurting you, Blake.”

  “Who?”

  “Three men—Captain Myers and two others he called Landers and Barney,” she answered, describing them with detailed accuracy.

  Blake felt his palms go clammy. Nausea roiled in his stomach. He knew Myers was a name she’d heard him say before. But she could not have known the moniker of the bulky seaman Landers who had been the mate aboard the Emery, the ship from which he’d escaped. The second man was Barnsdall, or Barney. Blake had not remembered their names until she spoke of them. And yet now, everything about those men and that voyage—the horror, the sickness, the depravity—came rushing back to him as if it were only yesterday when he’d been a twelve-year-old cabin boy.

  He couldn’t seem to stop himself as images and words pounded through his mind like caged beasts desperate to be set free. For the first time in sixteen years, he spoke of those days of enslavement . . . enslavement to a sadistic, perverted captain. His own deep voice sounded distant and unfamiliar, the story wrenched from him without will.

  “I was beaten and whipped within an inch of my life many times,” he said quietly, the clamminess becoming a cold sweat. “The first few times, I prayed to live. After that, I prayed I would die and be done with the pain and the . . .”

  He could not bring himself to say the rest, mortified by the sudden, vivid, ugly remembrance of the things that had been done to him. Cara’s hands reached for his, holding him, becoming his anchor.

  “For many months I endured their abuse. I lost all faith in anyone or anything that would save me from the hellish service to those vile bastards. When I was too weak or too battered, they took other boys from foreign ports of call, leaving them behind when we sailed again. But never me. They never left me behind no matter how much I prayed. I was their favorite . . .”

  Gulping great gasps of air, Blake broke away from Cara and shoved himself off the bed. He staggered to the table and braced his hands on each side, curling his fingers around the edge. The memories of his violation slammed into him with renewed pain and torture. Deep, wrenching sobs broke through as a vivid scene unfolded in his mind.

  “There was a boy . . . He was younger than me . . . I saw—” He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands gripped the table. “I saw Landers and Bamsdall murder that boy, smothering him in the midst of—” Crying in anguish, he hung his head in shame, feeling responsible for not being able to stop the violence. “Th-that child died because he hadn’t pleased the captain.”

  A roar of outrage erupted from his lungs. Lifting a chair and heaving it to one side, he screamed, “THOSE GODDAMN BASTARDS!”

  Blindly, he bellowed and swore and lashed out, slamming his fist into the bulkhead, then smashing another chair against the door. Wood splintered and flew. His tirade escalated as he ranted at his abusers. He saw nothing but black fury. Someone burst through th
e door and grabbed at him. He swung and felt the satisfaction of his knuckles smacking into flesh and bone with a crack.

  A punch caught him square in the stomach, doubling him over and knocking the wind out of him. He gasped for air, then came back with another animal roar, ramming his head into his assailant like a bull with horns. He punched wildly, both arms pumping blows into the belly of the beast.

  A fist clipped his temple. His head whipped to the side. His knees started to buckle. Hands grabbed his shoulders from behind.

  “Not again!” He cursed, fighting against two now, instead of only the one. “Never again!”

  His arm swung back to ward off the person in back of him. As his elbow struck hard, he heard a woman scream, distracting him for a mere second. Long enough to take a hit under the jaw. He reeled backward and went down.

  Through a red haze of dissipating anger, he saw Cara and Keoni kneeling on each side of him, leaning over him. The Kanaka cupped his hand over one eye, swearing at Blake in his native tongue.

  Cara was wide-eyed with a dazed yet concerned expression. Grasping his left hand, she brushed her fingertips across his forehead. Her gentle touch cleared the ugly, debilitating mist of his past. When she grazed his temple, he winced. More from humiliation than from any physical pain.

  “I warned you,” he growled at her. Misery and degradation suffocated him. “I didn’t want to remember . . . Now I understand why.”

  “It’s better to have had it come up now.” Her voice was achingly gentle, filled with an emotion that sounded a lot like love. She attempted a weak smile of reassurance. “At least you took it all out on your furniture . . . and a friend who won’t hunt you down and kill you for a few fists in the face.”

  Blake pushed himself up to a sitting position, then looked up at his friend. “I’m sorry you had to walk in at the wrong time.”

  “Better me than her.”