Caribbean Jewel

by Jayla Jasso

  CARIBBEAN JEWEL

  JAYLA JASSO

  Caribbean Jewel

  Copyright © 2013 by Jayla Jasso

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or by other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Crab Island, Puerto Rico - January, 1734

  “You’ve betrayed me, Jolie.” Her guardian’s lips were inches from her forehead, curled back to reveal clenched teeth. “You’re a traitor. And a whore.”

  Jolie flinched, her pulse pounding in her ears, her palms sweating. She didn’t dare look up. Her voice came out in a near whisper. “I might be a traitor, sir, but I’m no whore.”

  Lord Hauste threw back his head and laughed before fixing his hate-filled eyes on her face, no doubt contemplating her punishment. He opened his mouth to resume the verbal lashing but was interrupted by a knock at the door to his study.

  “A problem on the grounds...” Jolie overheard; Hauste stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him to confer privately with his hired man.

  That was her chance. She wrenched open the window and jumped several feet to the bushes below, the fall knocking the air from her chest for a painful moment before she forced herself to get up and run.

  Just as she entered the cane field, she heard him bellowing out of the window in rage, “Jolie! I’ll find you! Traitor, faithless wretch! I’ll find you!”

  Sweet Christ, help. Jolie tore her way through the thickly planted sugar cane, her hands stretched before her in an attempt to protect her face. The tall, splintery stalks seemed determined to hold her captive, ripping at her dress and flesh, clawing at her struggle toward freedom. At last she broke through the final row and stumbled up the embankment toward the fence, out of breath.

  Three of Lord Hauste’s African slaves arrived at the fence seconds behind Jolie. Their strong hands hoisted her high, toward the jutting points of the sharpened stakes. She climbed over the top, snagging her skirt on a spike and hearing it rip as she leapt to the other side. She landed with a grunt, tumbled to her side, then scrambled to her feet. Turning to the fence, she gripped the posts and peered through them at the slaves, fretting about what would happen to them once she was gone.

  The shrill barking of Lord Hauste’s hounds sounded in the distance.

  “Go!” Nwoye whispered to her as he and the others backed away from the fence.

  She continued her flight into the darkness. Soon she plunged into the thicket between Hauste’s plantation and the French House lands and began forcing her way through the broad-leafed trees and twisted vines, her ears filling with the noises of island insects and coquí frogs thriving there. On the other side was a large, open field, and beyond that lay the road to the northern port; if she could make it the seven miles to the docks and stow away aboard a ship, there was a chance for survival.

  Don’t lose hope, she told herself, pushing through the branches.

  At last she burst into the clearing, panting. Bending over to brace her hands on her knees, she gasped for air for a few seconds, then forced herself to run again, half stumbling across the uneven terrain. She had crossed a good portion of the field when her flight was abruptly cut short.

  “Madre de Dios!” came a muffled exclamation from somewhere in the darkness, just before she collided head-on with a firm wall of solid muscle. Jolie tumbled ungracefully into the stranger’s arms. She caught her footing and immediately tried to jerk away from the darkly clad figure who held her in his firm embrace, blocking her flight.

  The sound of wildly yelping dogs in the distance pierced the balmy night air.

  “The hounds!” Jolie tried to twist away and run past the stranger.

  He jerked her back. “¡Cálmate! Why are you fleeing, muchacha?”

  She pushed both fists against his chest, again trying to free herself, to no avail. “Either haul me in and collect your reward or let me go! The hounds are coming!”

  He tightened his grip. “Reward? You are a fugitive?”

  Panic coursed through her body as she envisioned the dogs ripping at her flesh. She’d witnessed the horror of death at their jaws before when Hauste had released them on a slave. She changed tactics, softening her tone. “Please, sir; I don’t want to be eaten alive by dogs. Decide quickly!”

  The stranger muttered something harsh in Spanish under his breath, then grasped her hand. “Come with me.”

  He took off running, jerking Jolie along behind him. She struggled to keep up with his long-legged pace. He probably hadn’t been hired by her guardian to capture her, she decided—Hauste hated Spaniards and would be unlikely to collaborate with one. According to him, they were untrustworthy, deceitful, arrogant bastards, but allowing the tall stranger to help her escape seemed the only way to avoid being torn apart by the bloodhounds.

  They ran across the field for several minutes, the dogs seeming to gain on them every second. Jolie’s panic-constricted chest heaved desperately for air. The muscles in her legs gave way; she tripped on the uneven ground and fell, hearing the skirts of her gown rip further as they snagged on a root. She tried to catch herself with her free hand, angry at her own clumsiness.

  The Spaniard almost dragged her forward before managing to halt himself. Whispering another indecipherable oath, he reached down, scooped her up, and tossed her unceremoniously over his back. A soft “oof!” escaped her lips as her belly hit the broad expanse of his shoulder—barely missing a beat, he resumed his flight toward the road, carrying her. Jolie peered back at the silhouette of palms now receding against the velvety-black night sky. The dogs’ barking became louder and more distinct—it sounded as if they had cleared the thicket and were in the open field now.

  Frightening minutes passed, until finally the stranger stopped and set her down. Her feet had barely touched the ground when he vaulted himself into the saddle of a snorting, sidestepping horse, then leaned over to help her up behind him. Jolie clung to his powerful arm to hoist herself up, struggling with her skirts and clenching the horse’s hindquarters awkwardly between her shaking knees. The horse skipped around and reared, and she threw her arms around the stranger’s waist to cling to him for dear life.

  And then they were in flight. The humid wind whipped at her skirts and hair. She felt the Spaniard’s strong fingers clamp over her forearm and hold it tightly against his hard stomach. The horse leapt over a small ravine, suspending her in the air temporarily, held fast by the stranger’s grip on her arm. As they resumed a full gallop, the taut muscles of his abdomen slid up and down beneath her fist with each stride of the horse.

  They rode hard, in silence save the sound of the horse’s hooves hitting the soft earth, for several minutes. Thankfully, his route seemed to be taking them to the northern coast of Crab Island, where the major docks were, just a few miles away. The sound of the bloodhounds’ barking eventually died out, and Jolie breathed a sigh of relief against the back of the stranger’s damp shirt as they continued their flight.

  At last the lights of the port town appeared dimly in the distance. Jolie’s arm was still wrapped tightly around the Spaniard’s waist, and somewhere along the way, she had balled up a section of the front of his shirt in her sweaty fist. Cheek pressed against his muscular back, she squeezed her eyes shut and waited for the harrowing journey to end. When they drew near the edge of town, he slowed the horse to a trot, and the damp January wind
began to chill her sweat-soaked clothes against her skin. The Spaniard’s body was warm, and she shrunk herself behind him, nestling against his torso.

  As they entered town, Jolie watched as tiny houses, thatched huts, and taverns slid past her view. He continued heading directly for the docks; Jolie knew them well. They reminded her of the mortifying experience of accompanying Lord Hauste to the slave market and standing among the crowd of plantation owners while they inspected and purchased downtrodden-looking men, women, and children, shackled and dressed in filthy rags.

  As the stranger slowed his horse to a gentle walk, Jolie tried to block thoughts of Hauste and his slaves from her mind, to no avail. Witnessing the hard life of cruelty these people faced on his plantation had driven her to find a way to help them escape. She had dreamed up “El Vencedor,” the fictitious Spanish renegade who had been mysteriously stealing slaves for months. Jolie was, of course, the first person to claim to have seen him as he rode off in the darkness, but over time he became a common subject of tavern talk on Crab Island. Others claimed to have sighted a cloaked bandit riding in the night, and eventually any slaves who went missing were attributed to “El Vencedor’s” thieving exploits.

  Since Hauste’s plantation was hit the most, he had placed a bounty on the Spaniard’s head. El Vencedor always seemed to know when Hauste was away; he magically appeared at just the right time to free slaves from stockades or open gates and guide escapees in the direction of the docks where they could stow away on a ship. Jolie had drugged the bloodhounds, distracted guards, and planned slave escapes in detail. Eight people had gone free from bondage; never had she been suspected until tonight. And should Hauste capture her now, she had no doubt he would release his vicious hounds on her and enjoy the spectacle as they tore her to pieces.

  Envisioning that ghastly death, Jolie shuddered against the stranger’s back. In response, he caressed her arm almost imperceptibly—or was it her exhausted imagination?—and guided the horse onto the sandy beach next to the dock area. As he headed toward the shelter of a thick copse of palms and broad-leafed plants overlooking the shore, Jolie looked out to sea. In the lighthouse’s glow, she made out the dark silhouettes of two merchantmen and a brigantine anchored in the bay; all appeared quiet and serene.

  The horse slowed to a stop within the shadowy overhang of the palms. Jolie’s torn petticoats and skirt were soaked with her own and the animal’s sweat. She leaned back to study the Spaniard’s profile, faintly outlined in the dim light of the lighthouse as he stared intently out to sea as if searching for something. Even in the shadows she could see that beneath his tricorn he had high cheekbones, a proud nose, and a square jaw. His dark hair was tied back into a queue that lay between his broad shoulder blades.

  Well, he’s certainly not foul looking. Jolie reminded herself not to let her guard down; he’d likely take payment for his trouble by trying to seize her virginity at the first opportunity. Lord Hauste had often assured her that all Spaniards were rakehells bent on seducing innocent virgins by the dozens, and that she should stay as far away from the crafty bastards as possible.

  He spoke over his shoulder, his voice like deep, silky velvet in her ears. “I must ask why you are running away, and who is chasing you, muchacha. I will not let the dogs kill you, but I cannot help you if you do not tell me the truth.”

  Jolie swallowed. “My guardian is chasing me because I betrayed him, sir.” That part of Hauste’s accusation was the truth. “But I’m no whore.”

  “This man—he is not your father or husband?”

  “No sir. My father is dead, and I have no husband.”

  “You have no family?”

  Jolie thought of Vera, the slave housekeeper, and her daughter Noni. Lord, protect them from his wrath. “No, sir. My parents were killed at sea when I was nine; I am an only child. I was placed into the custody of...an English plantation owner here.” She thought it best not to mention his name or that he was technically also her great uncle by marriage.

  “What will this Englishman do if he catches you?”

  Jolie suppressed a chill. “He’ll kill me.”

  The Spaniard paused. When he spoke she detected disbelief in his voice. “Do you think you have angered him to the point of murder, muchacha?”

  “No one dares defy him, and what I did—he’ll never forgive.”

  He released a sigh. “All right. Now is not the time for detailed confessions.” He swung himself to the ground and turned to reach for her waist. Jolie braced her hands on his shoulders as he lifted her off the horse and set her on the sand, then caught her arms, helping her steady herself.

  She found her footing and looked up, trying to make out his features under the shadow of his tricorn. “What are you going to do with me?”

  “I will take you aboard my ship as kitchen help. I assume you know how to peel potatoes?”

  “Peel potatoes?” Jolie’s brow furrowed in suspicion. Exactly what kind of “potato-peeling” services would a ship full of Spaniards expect once she was aboard their vessel with nowhere to run? It was one thing to be ravished by one Spanish rakehell, but trapped on a long voyage with a whole shipload of them? She would rather stow away on an English vessel and remain in hiding for the journey if possible.

  The Spaniard waited for a response.

  She folded her arms. “Oh, no. No. I’m very grateful that you saved my life, but I’ll not be a—a ‘kitchen help’ on your ship. Can’t you just, ah, take your own payment in private, now, and be done with it?”

  “¿Cómo? Take payment?”

  Jolie pursed her lips. “Well, if I have to explain it to you, you can just forget it. I’m a proper lady and I certainly don’t want to peel your ‘potatoes.’ I am capable of taking care of myself.” She spun on her heel to leave. I don’t care if you have a muscular back and a silken voice, you Spanish scoundrel.

  The Spaniard grabbed her arms, jerking her around to face him.

  “Diablos, woman, if your guardian is determined to find you, those hellhounds will arrive soon, you can be certain. Don’t be foolish. You will be caught before dawn if you do not come aboard my ship.”

  Jolie tried to wrench herself from his grasp, yelling, “I’m not coming with you, so leave me be!”

  “Lower your voice!” He held her arms in a steel grip. “Surely you do not believe you can hide for long on this tiny island.”

  “I said leave me be, you—you Spanish bastard! I’ll not have your rough handling—”

  He pulled her up until her nose was a mere inch from his. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her face; his warm breath fanned her cheek as he spoke against her earlobe through gritted teeth. “I do not care for the term ‘bastard.’ I will offer to take you on board one last time. Accept now, or be gone.”

  In response, Jolie pushed at his chest and forcibly jerked away from him. He let her go, but she heard him muttering under his breath in Spanish behind her as she clambered up the hill toward the town, her torn skirt trailing in the sand.

  She reached a narrow street and followed it as fast as she could between houses and shops, out of the view of the Spaniard. As the lane narrowed and curved around a hill, she glanced back, but he was nowhere in sight. Relieved he hadn’t followed her, she left the street and searched around the small shacks and shop fronts for a hiding place. Music, laughter, and voices shouting in Spanish emanated from the nearby tavern.

  She spotted a small stable nestled among the shanty houses that backed up to the beach below. The door was not padlocked or barred, so she swung it open and ducked inside. It was a small, thatched affair, containing one rather disinterested-looking donkey. Jolie patted his nose before settling down on some musty blankets in the corner. She curled up as tightly as she could, resting her head on her bent forearms, emotionally and physically exhausted. An unexpected twinge of guilt hit her for escaping her reluctant rescuer in such an abrupt manner, as well as for not having any means to reimburse him for his trouble, but she couldn’t fat
hom boarding a ship full of Spaniards. Before daybreak she would stow away on an English merchantman if she could find one, and hopefully end up in London in a few weeks.

  Clinging to optimistic thoughts, Jolie drifted off to sleep.

  #

  Marcano sat pensively in the shadows of the palm trees, turning a stone over and over in a hand resting on his knee. At last a lone rowboat skimmed toward him through the dark waves and glided quietly to shore. The crewman laid the oars aside, stepped into the water, and pulled the boat onto the sand.

  Marcano signaled him. “Belardo.”

  Belardo located him in the shadowy copse. “Saludos, Capitán—did you find it?”

  Marcano flung the stone with a mighty heave into the waves. “I was thwarted. I’m afraid we will have to return in a few weeks.”

  “Sí, Señor.” The sailor didn’t ask him to elaborate.

  “Belardo.” Marcano sighed. “Do you have any liquor in that boat? I feel the need to drunken myself at the moment.”

  “A bottle of spiced black rum is hiding for you under the seat, Capitán.” Belardo held out a hand to hoist him up.

  Marcano dusted the sand off the seat of his leather trousers. “Take Redondo to the stable-house, water him and brush him down, and meet me back here.”

  Belardo grasped the horse’s reins and led him away. Marcano walked down to the water’s edge, climbed into the rowboat, and settled himself in the floor. He leaned back against the side, uncorked the bottle of rum, slid it lazily to his lips, and paused to toast the moon.

  “Here’s to crazy English females.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jolie awoke to the sound of shouting in the street outside, not knowing if she’d been asleep for minutes or hours. It was still dark. She scurried on her hands and knees to the door, opened it a sliver, and peeped out. Down the hill, a carriage was parked diagonally across the road, and her heart leapt into her throat as she recognized Lord Hauste’s large frame standing atop it. The sight of his shoulder-length silver hair, thickly curled lips, and massive torso struck terror in her heart like no other image could. Hauste aimed a musket down at a dark-headed man while one of his henchmen held a pistol to the man’s neck. Another henchman sat on horseback, holding the pack of bloodhounds in check as they strained on their leashes toward the captive.