Caribbean Jewel

by Jayla Jasso

  “Tonight you are desperate, but tomorrow you may regret your decision to come with me.”

  She turned to look back at him. “Are you trying to warn me about yourself, Captain?” She lurched toward him a bit with the roll of the boat, and her head swam pleasantly. “Are you…dangerous?”

  He was silent, and there was only the sound of the waves lapping against the small boat and the shhhh of the vast sea. Finally, he spoke again. “I am certain that with time you will come to your own conclusions about me, muchacha, and I would prefer it so.”

  Soon they drew near the underbelly of the huge craft. A rope ladder dropped over the side, and the captain reached to grasp the bottom rung. He stood and helped Jolie to her feet with his good arm.

  “Put my cloak on, muchacha,” he ordered.

  She picked it up and drew it around her shoulders, sliding her arms into the armholes and fastening the front hook-and-eye. His fingers curled around her upper arm, and she grasped his elbow for support.

  He moved the ropes toward her. “Take the ladder. Go up, and don’t look down. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Jolie felt for a wooden rung with her stockinged foot and grasped the ropes with both hands. She hoisted herself up, her head swimming a bit from the rum. Marcano held onto the ladder to steady it as she climbed.

  Soon she felt his weight on the ropes as he started up after her. “Keep going, Jolie. You are doing well.”

  She nodded and continued to climb. Below her, the captain grunted softly, swearing under his breath in Spanish as he struggled along with his one good arm. Even though he’d said not to look down, Jolie couldn’t resist peering over her shoulder at him. High over the water, she marveled at the vast, rippled expanse of it. It was beautiful; never in her life had she imagined she’d find herself escaping Hauste and scaling the side of a Spanish brigantine at midnight. She was eager to write every detail of this journey down, if she could find paper and ink aboard his ship.

  At the top, strong hands grasped her arms and waist and hoisted her up. She was set on her feet and glanced around at the curious expressions of the Spanish sailors’ faces as they clustered around her. Lamps illuminated their faces as well as the immediate area in its warm glow, and Jolie took in the carved balustrades, towering masts, furled sails, and polished deck with admiration.

  There was a commotion behind her. She moved out of the way as some crewmen leaned over the railing to assist the captain. When he was dragged onto the deck and caught his footing, he was cradling his right arm, head down, and breathing with difficulty.

  He leaned heavily on the sailor to his left. “Call for Velez.”

  Someone took off running into the shadows.

  Marcano glanced around. “Where’s Joaquin?”

  “Aquí, Señor.” A lad about eight or nine years old appeared, dressed in knee breeches and an oversized shirt. He gazed expectantly up at the captain.

  Marcano gave the boy a series of instructions in Spanish which seemed to pertain to Jolie. She stood squirming uncomfortably under the stares of the crewmen, until at last, Marcano turned his head to look at her. His face was suddenly illuminated by the light of a lantern, and Jolie blinked, taken aback by the sight.

  “Forgive my men,” he muttered to her in English. “They haven’t seen a woman in two months.”

  Jolie stared at him. His deep-set eyes were as light crystal blue as the Caribbean waters, framed by seductively dark lashes, and were a startling contrast to his smooth olive skin, dark eyebrows, and midnight-black hair. Her gaze traveled over sensual lips, a firm jaw, and a well-muscled chest clearly visible through the opening of his torn shirt. Her mouth felt dry; she realized it was open, and closed it.

  The cabin boy moved forward and grasped her hand to lead her away. Dazed, she allowed him to pull her into the shadows, across the main deck, and up a staircase to the quarterdeck. The wind plucked at her half-dried hair, and Marcano’s cloak billowed around her shivering, still-wet body. At the top of the staircase, she turned to look over her shoulder at the main deck below. In a circle of yellow lamplight, Captain Marcano sat slumped on a wooden stool while his ship surgeon stripped his ruined shirt away from his muscular torso to examine his wounded arm.

  Well. I do believe he’s the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on.

  The boy tugged at her hand and opened a cabin door, motioning her inside. Jolie followed, hoping the captain would be all right.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Jolie sat on the edge of the bunk, bumping her stocking-clad heels against the wooden baseboard, while the cabin boy filled a large tin washtub with steaming water from the galley. She surveyed the captain’s cabin with interest. It was surprisingly large and well-furnished. The bunk was wide and comfortable, covered in a lush burgundy velvet spread trimmed with gold braid. On the floor lay a thick Turkish rug of purple, gold, red, and azure wool. A built-in ceiling-high armoire of solid oak, its doors ornately carved with an ivy and rose design, faced the foot of the bed. A wooden trunk situated against the foot of the bed provided even more storage. She glanced down at his borrowed cloak and her toes poking out from the holes in her ruined stockings. Too bad I barely have anything to wear, much less store in a trunk or armoire.

  At the rear of the cabin, a large bay window overlooked the stern, and before it sat an oak table with clawed feet flanked by two chairs. A lantern swung gently above the table, casting its warm glow about the room as the brigantine sailed along in the sea, carrying Jolie farther and farther away from Crab Island. Along the far wall stood a washstand with a looking glass and shelves lined with books and trinkets. A recessed alcove in the corner contained a desk and chair. She surveyed everything with satisfaction, feeling decidedly comfortable in his well-appointed cabin. It was masculine but cozy, and was far more luxury than she’d expected as lodging for an escape voyage. Judging from his taste in furnishings, this Captain Marcano was more of a cultured gentleman than he had first appeared.

  And he was handsome as the devil, heaven help her, with eyes as blue as the Caribbean sea. She felt small in his cloak. She gathered up the front of it and buried her nose in the soft leather, closing her eyes to inhale deeply. It smelled of the sea, of foreign spices, and of masculinity. She rubbed the leather folds against the salt-water-chapped skin of her cheeks, then opened her eyes to find the boy staring at her, big brown eyes illuminated with innocence and curiosity. She allowed the cloak to slide back into place and cleared her throat.

  “I go for more water, Señorita.” He exited the cabin and left her to her thoughts.

  My men have not seen a woman in two months. That meant Captain Marcano possibly hadn’t, either. She padded across the cabin to the washstand mirror along the far wall. A bedraggled reflection peered back at her. Her hair lay in a damp, tangled mass about her shoulders, a few of the wet strands clinging to her forehead and cheeks. Her face was pale and exhausted-looking, her lips and cheeks devoid of color. Well, he’s not seeing me at my finest hour, that’s for sure.

  The boy knocked discreetly at the door.

  “Come in.”

  He entered carrying another steaming pail of water, a towel, and a small wooden box. He set the towel and box down and poured the water into the tub. His quiet, all-business manner reminded her of Akila, one of the precious little African boys on the plantation. Before he’d died of pneumonia, Akila had been hard-working and intelligent, too, and so full of optimism. Jolie averted her gaze to the rug at her feet, swallowing.

  The boy’s voice broke her reverie. “Captain Marcano say give to you.” He held out the box he’d brought.

  Jolie reached out to take it. He sent me something? “Captain Marcano—is he—ah, how is he? His arm, I mean?”

  “He strong, healthy. Nothing hurt him. You not worry, Señorita.” He went to the armoire at the foot of the bed and withdrew a white linen garment from a drawer. When he shook it out, Jolie saw that it was a man’s nightshirt. “This for you. Bath is ready now. If you need
me, knock on the door; I be right outside. Buenas noches.” He collected the pail and turned to leave.

  “Good night,” Jolie murmured as he closed the door behind him. She latched the hook on the door, then opened the little box. To her delight, it contained a cake of expensive-looking scented French soap. She set it beside the tub, slipped Marcano’s cloak from around her shoulders, then folded it neatly and laid it across the back of a chair. Her wet underclothes came next; she peeled them layer by layer from her clammy skin and sank gratefully into the tub of hot water, a heavenly balm to her aching limbs. She lathered the soap in her hands and inhaled; it smelled of heather and roses. She slid down in the tub to wash her hair, reveling in the soap’s lovely fragrance.

  As she soaked, Jolie smiled to herself. Salty English sea dogs reportedly took their wenches in any old condition, but these Spanish rakes had to have them washed and perfumed, no doubt. She wondered if he’d storm in and ravish her this very night—he did have a wounded arm, lame from the bullet he’d taken from the mess she’d gotten him into. Perhaps his repayment would have to wait until he recovered. After all, he did have the length of the complete sea voyage to ravish her in. A little smile curved her lips as she admitted she felt extraordinarily resigned to the situation.

  At last she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in the large towel, then pulled the nightshirt over her head and threw her underclothes in the soapy water to launder them. After squeezing all the water out, she hung stockings, shift, and petticoat from various hooks in the beams of the ceiling of the cabin to dry. Then she searched about the cabin for a comb; finding none, she went to the door and opened it. A candle lit the small foyer, and the boy sat on a cot at the far end, examining a large pistol.

  Jolie’s eyes widened. “Young man!”

  His head jerked up.

  “That pistol is not a child’s toy! You put that thing down this instant!”

  He stared at her.

  Jolie opened the door fully and stepped into the passageway, hands on hips. “Does Captain Marcano know you’re playing with a pistol?”

  He held it up. “Señorita, is Captain Marcano’s gun; I clean for him.”

  “Oh, no, no, no! I see that you were trying to do the captain a favor, but guns are dangerous, my dear.” She moved closer, reached down, and plucked the pistol from his hands. Holding the weapon awkwardly between her forefinger and thumb, she reached out with the other to smooth the unruly ebony hair across the top of the boy’s head.

  He blinked up at her from under her hand, his expression contrite.

  Jolie gave him a reassuring smile. “How do you pronounce your name, young man? I’m afraid I didn’t catch it before.”

  He swallowed. “Joaquin, Señorita.”

  “Joaquin,” she repeated softly, resting her hand on his head a moment more.

  Eventually his face broke into a shy grin, and Jolie turned to go back into the cabin. She hid the pistol under some parchment in the top drawer of the desk in the far alcove, then went to the door again.

  “I almost forgot why I wanted to speak with you, Joaquin. Do you suppose you could find me a comb?”

  The boy scrambled to his feet, followed her into the cabin, opened a drawer in the armoire, and produced a comb. He handed it to her with another bashful smile then closed the door and left her to her own devices.

  #

  Jolie sensed a presence in the room and saw a dark shape hovering near the bunk. The figure sat on the edge of the mattress next to her. It was a blur of shadow, a fuzzy silhouette of a large man.

  “Captain?” she heard herself ask, her voice floating into the hazy darkness. From the distance a faint strain of music drifted into the cabin. Jolie glanced in the direction of the sound and realized one of the windows was open. She looked up at the shadowy figure bending over her bunk. “Captain Marcano?”

  He leaned closer, and the darkness increased as his broad shoulders blocked the dim moonlight. So he had come to ravish her after all. His face hovered above hers, but his features were obscured, like before in the rowboat. She reached up languidly, feeling a heaviness in her limbs, and tried to touch his jaw, but his face was a blur.

  His lips touched hers, feather-light; her hands floated up to stroke his hair, but instead of the sleek, smoothly tied hair she’d expected, his hair was gnarled and brittle. Her eyes flew open; Lord Hauste’s sneering face hovered above hers, laughing wickedly. The music became discordant, garish, and loud. Memories of his putrid, forceful kisses flooded back to her.

  “Let me go!” she shouted, awakening herself with a jolt. She sat up, anxiously clutching the velvet bedspread in her lap; all was silent in the cabin save her breathing.

  Someone tried to open the door. It was latched. Then she heard pounding... Jolie shrank back into the bunk, perspiration forming on her brow.

  “Señorita!” Joaquin’s muffled voice came from the other side of the solid oak. “What is it?” He pounded on the door again.

  Jolie shook off the last hallucinatory effects of the dream and leapt out of the bunk to unlatch the door.

  Joaquin stood outside holding a candle, his worried young face peering up at her in its glow. “Señorita, are you all right? You were shouting.”

  “Yes, Joaquin, I’m all right.” She forced calmness into her voice, a weak smile. “I had a bad dream. I’m all right now.”

  “In my country gypsies say bad dream is evil spirit. Do you think is true?”

  “No, my dear, no. Nightmares are simply scary thoughts floating around in our heads.”

  “You safe with Captain Marcano now, Señorita, so no more scary thoughts.” He smiled and turned to go back to his cot.

  Jolie closed the door, made her way back to the bunk, and climbed under the covers with a heavy sigh. An evil spirit indeed, the most evil she’d ever known. Perhaps Lord Hauste’s fury was so great that his spirit would haunt her the rest of her days. She tried to think about something good. Her life had been spared, thanks to Captain Marcano; that was a good thought. Her mind wandered back to the image of his olive-skinned face, his brilliant blue eyes. That was an even better one. She pulled the velvet coverlet up to her chin and snuggled into his pillows.

  #

  Marcano looked up as Guillarte strode into the great cabin the next morning to join him.

  Guillarte’s gaze traveled over his bandaged, slung arm. “Velez says you shouldn’t be up.”

  “Velez means well. But I am not an eighty-year-old man, Luis.” He motioned Guillarte to a seat at the long mahogany table in the center of the room. “I am fine.”

  “You did not get the Corazón, I assume?” Guillarte sank into one of the leather-cushioned chairs. “We will not have another chance for weeks, Gabriel. I should have gone with you.”

  “Don’t lecture me about what you should have done!” Marcano rose and paced toward the windows, then turned back to face his first mate. “I had to make a choice involving life or death.”

  “Our only mission in Puerto Rico was to retrieve the Corazón and carry it back to Spain, Gabriel. How could you ignore that?”

  “The girl came running into my arms at the exact moment I was crossing the French House lands, with bloodhounds right behind her. Would you have left her there to die? If you say yes, Luis, you are not the man I thought you were.” Marcano sank wearily into the armchair at the head of the table, irritated.

  Guillarte grinned. “The men told me she is beautiful.”

  Marcano waved a dismissive hand. “They exaggerate. They are charmed by any fair-skinned wench, no matter how plain. Besides, I had no idea what she looked like when I rode away with her. It was pitch black.”

  “They said that her eyes are like dark amber, her hair the color of honey.”

  Marcano scowled and leaned back, eyes fixed on his first mate’s face. “They said this?”

  “Aye, and that her feet are lovely too, that her bare toes were poking out of her ripped stockings.”

  Marcano shifted u
ncomfortably in his seat.

  “They said the smooth skin of her shapely ankles and calves looked creamy enough to taste, and—”

  “Enough of these lust-ridden fools’ descriptions!” Marcano interrupted. “They greatly exaggerate, I tell you.”

  “Well, I haven’t met her yet, but I’m eager to find out just how exaggerated the reports are.” Guillarte leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “What are your plans, my friend?”

  “We shall dock in San Juan today and then continue on to Hispaniola, as planned. The Corazón will wait for us until we pass by Crab Island again on the way back.”

  “I meant the girl. What are your plans for her?”

  Marcano cleared his throat. “I intend to give her safe passage to Europe. Hauste is alive, and he seeks her life.”

  “What if Hauste snoops around and finds out more than we would like him to know? He builds barbed fences around his property and hires armed guards. We would never lay eyes on the Corazón again. You should have killed him when you had the chance.”

  “I prefer to deal with Hauste in my own time, amigo.”

  Guillarte sighed. “And so the girl will work in the galley to earn her keep?”

  “After hearing the way the men are talking about her, I don’t trust them enough to let her roam around the ship. I have a more useful job for her. She will be my scribe; I need someone who can write English.”

  “What if she is dull?”

  Marcano snorted. “She had the cleverness of mind to escape Ethan Hauste’s iron hand; that is enough for me. I tell you, this young woman is not easily bested.”

  “Nor easily seduced, I presume?” Guillarte gave him a sly smile.

  “I wouldn’t know; I have not tried to seduce her.”

  “Of course you haven’t. Seduction is the last thing on your mind.”

  Marcano waved his hand irritably. “She is a spoiled English princess, pale, thin, and plain. I prefer warm-blooded lusty Spanish and Puerto Rican wenches.”

  Guillarte’s smile broadened. “This English high-brow is not at all your type, then.”