by Jayla Jasso
“Joaquin.” Jolie halted him. “Where are your mother and father?”
The boy shifted the tray to make the sign of the cross. “They kill in the war when I had seven years old. The Captain accept me for cabin boy. He good man, Señorita, has good heart. He know about being alone.”
“Both your parents are deceased? As well as the Captain’s?”
He nodded.
Jolie smiled sadly. “My mother and father have passed on, too. They died when I was nine. So we all have something in common, don’t we, Joaquin?”
“Sí.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“Captain teach me. He good with English; he study in university.”
Jolie was surprised. “He went to university?”
“He very smart man.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Jolie’s mind whirled. A university-educated sea captain? He must have come from a family of at least moderate noble standing, then.
“You should talk to him, Señorita, ask him questions. You see how he is smart.”
“Yes, I must talk with him more,” she answered absently, distracted by the re-emergence of the image of him standing there in the cabin, his head barely clearing the ceiling and his blousy white shirt gaping open at the neck.
“I go now, Señorita. Have chores.”
Jolie shook herself back to the present. An idea occurred to her. “Joaquin, when you are finished with your chores, come by the cabin and I shall teach you a story in English. Do you like stories?”
His face lit up. “Sí, Señorita. Yes, ma’am!” He practically hopped out the door, then closed it behind him.
#
Guillarte’s laughter rang out over the noise of the bustling crowd as the three men made their way up the cobblestone avenue. “Oh, Captain, that’s rich! Rich indeed. Snatched the pistol from Joaquin’s hands, you say? And here I thought no man or beast could shake that boy’s dedication to you, especially when it comes to your pistol. Perhaps we should take this young woman with us to battle, if she disarms a man that easily!” He again dissolved into uproarious laughter.
Marcano noticed Belardo struggling to stifle his chuckles as well. He glanced up the street, searching the signs that hung over the walkway. “Where is the tavern on this street? I need a drink.”
“So then what did she do?” Guillarte hooted. “Take on the English fleet? Defeat them single-handedly with a slap on the wrist? This is marvelous. You’ve got your hands full, Captain. I knew this was going to be a great voyage when we left Cadiz.” He gave Marcano a hearty wallop across the back, and Marcano winced as pain shot through his injured arm. “So what did she do with your pistol once she’d snatched it, Gabriel?”
Marcano scowled, continuing to shoulder his way irritably through the crowd. “She hid it.”
“She hid it!” Guillarte turned to thump Belardo’s shoulder. “She hid his pistol! I wonder what else she’ll be wanting to hide, Gabriel?”
Marcano shot his first mate a withering look. “Have the courtesy to shut up, Lieutenant.” He ducked into a shadowy little tavern on the right, and his men followed.
Marcano downed two glasses of whisky before his temper soothed and he felt ready to continue with the chore of buying a gown for the English girl, which was becoming a particularly disagreeable experience with Guillarte and Belardo along for the show. He knew his every move would be regarded as a sign of his supposed weakness for the girl, and that his first mate would derive days of good laughter from the incident.
The thing was, if Guillarte weren’t so hell-bent on teasing him, Marcano wouldn’t mind choosing a dress for the young woman. He had purchased ladies’ clothing before; it wasn’t a completely abhorrent task. He’d actually enjoyed examining the beautiful fabrics and variety of styles before choosing one that would complement the woman’s face and figure; but before, the woman was his lover, the gown was a gift, and purchasing it a pleasure. Jolie was not his lover, and the gown was merely a necessity. He wished he hadn’t brought his first mate along, but Guillarte had insisted that his impeccable taste would be of invaluable service on this mission.
Marcano polished off the last sip of whisky and glared across the corner of the bar where Guillarte and Belardo sat drinking and eyeing him, trying not to look amused.
The captain sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.
#
“How tall is the girl?” Sra. Diaz, the pudgy dressmaker on Calle Magdalena, was all business upon hearing Marcano’s request.
“Yes, Gabriel, how tall is she?” Guillarte stood towering over the tables of fabrics and displays of completed gowns, eyeing everything with great interest.
Marcano held his free hand up to his chest, just below his collarbone. “She comes to about here.” He waited for Guillarte’s lewd remark which was certain to follow—something along the lines of, So you’ve…
“…stood that close to her, eh, Gabriel?” A rakish smile spread across Guillarte’s face.
Sra. Diaz busily measured the space from the floor up to the Captain’s hand with her tape. She straightened and read the tape through the spectacles perched on her nose. “She’s five feet, five inches. And her waist?”
Marcano frowned at Guillarte before answering. “About twenty-two inches.”
Guillarte opened his mouth to say something, but this time the dressmaker shushed him, her small black eyes glaring up at him. “If you would be so kind as to keep your remarks to yourself, sailor, perhaps we can go about selecting some clothes for the poor girl sometime in this century.”
Marcano gazed gratefully at her round face.
“Now, Captain,” she continued, “did you happen to obtain her bust size?”
Murderous looks from both Sra. Diaz and Marcano forced Guillarte to maintain silence. Marcano searched for a way to convey the size of the English girl’s chest.
“She’s—ah—about…well...” Conjuring up the image of her sweet little breasts outlined beneath the thin material of the nightshirt, he held up his good hand as if he were cupping one of them. “Well, about like this, or so,” he faltered. “Maybe…thirty-two, thirty-three inches around?”
“Good enough.” The dressmaker scribbled a few notes and turned to make her way to a table closer to the back of the shop. “I do have a selection of gowns that will do, but most of them will need a few minor alterations.”
Guillarte followed her eagerly. “Let’s see them.”
Marcano and Belardo came up behind them, eyeing the pile of gowns with much less enthusiasm than the first mate. Sra. Diaz carefully laid several of the gowns aside before gathering up a burgundy-colored silk gown with a lace-trimmed bodice and sleeves. She held it up for the men’s inspection. “It will need to be taken in at the waist, but I can have it ready in a few hours.”
Three pairs of male eyes raked over the rich silk before Marcano spoke. “It will do fine. Have it ready this evening. We sail tonight.” He turned to go.
“Wait, Captain!” Guillarte halted him. “Surely you don’t mean to purchase only one gown! What’s the girl to wear while this one is being laundered? She needs day gowns, undergarments, stockings—and what about shoes?”
“Yes, Captain, the girl has no shoes,” Belardo spoke up. “Last night, her toes were poking out of her ripped stockings, and you could see her—”
Marcano whirled about, swearing in Spanish. “For God’s sake, no more about her ripped stockings!” He saw Sra. Diaz’ hawkish eyes narrow on him, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Yes, of course, let’s see a few more gowns. And some shoes.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The sun drifted down into the magenta-purple haze just above the ocean’s horizon. Marcano gave the command to set sail, then took his post on the forecastle and stood peering through his spyglass toward the mouth of the harbor. All was clear and tranquil; it looked to be a beautiful evening for sailing.
He folded the spyglass and walked over to lean on the balustrade, wondering how his passeng
er had spent her day. No doubt cabin fever was starting to set in, and she’d probably spent the day pacing and cursing his name for measuring up her breasts, possibly searching for more pistols to hide in order to get revenge. Marcano chuckled to himself, remembering the shocked look on her face when he’d sized her up that morning.
I always have nightmares, she’d said, about Lord Hauste or the slaves.
Marcano’s smile faded. Ethan Hauste’s cruelty was well-known in Puerto Rico, and he could only imagine what horrors Jolie had witnessed on that cane plantation. But what could a defenseless young woman have done to provoke Hauste’s murderous fury? Marcano had heard that a slave thief the locals were calling “El Vencedor” had been hitting Hauste’s plantation pretty hard. Could it be that Jolie knew who he was and refused to reveal his identity to her guardian? Perhaps she had even collaborated with this thief in some way. El Vencedor had been eluding capture for months. If I could learn to be as slippery as that renegade, the Caribbean would be ours for the taking.
The truth was, upon hearing tales of El Vencedor’s exploits, Marcano had silently cheered him on. One of Hauste’s slaves, aided by El Vencedor, had sneaked aboard the Amatista while they were docked at Crab Island a few months back. Marcano knew the slave was hiding on board, but said and did nothing for days except to make sure food was “inadvertently” left out, ordering his crew to pretend not to find their uninvited guest. Eventually the man gave himself up, evidently prepared to suffer the consequences. That was when Marcano had first learned of El Vencedor, and the extent of Hauste’s vindictive cruelty toward his slaves. Patesí had proved to be an able worker and an apt crewman; along the way, he and Marcano had become friends. Marcano had carried Patesí safely to Europe and wished him well in his search for a new life.
But Patesí never mentioned his master had such a pretty ward.
Marcano descended the staircase to the main deck, strode the length of it, then ascended to the quarterdeck and entered the door to his foyer. Standing within the darkness outside his cabin door, he paused, hearing voices coming from inside. He placed his ear to the oak.
“...what the prince brought to Cinderella’s door?” Jolie’s voice.
“Glass—sleeper?”
Intrigued, the Captain listened further, a smile stealing across his face. He’d never known Joaquin to have an interest in girlish fairy tales.
“Glass slipper, that’s correct. It looks like this: let me draw it for you.”
A pause.
“Oh, is a zapato!” Joaquin’s voice was full of wonderment.
“It is a shoe, a lady’s shoe.” The girl’s tone was encouraging. “Repeat, ‘it is a shoe.’”
“Iss—”
“It is.”
“It is a choo.”
“Good, Joaquin!”
Marcano opened the door, relieved to see that the array of tattered lingerie had been removed from the rafters. He strode inside to find two figures reclining on the rug in the lamplight. Jolie sat cross-legged, leaning over a piece of parchment paper with several sketches drawn on it. Joaquin lay on his belly facing her, chin resting in his hands as he gazed down at the drawings with rapt attention. The two of them looked up, and Joaquin immediately scrambled to his feet. Jolie’s gaze moved up from the toes of Marcano’s boots over his slung, bandaged arm, finally resting on his face before she stood up.
Marcano bowed his head to her slightly. “Forgive me for disturbing your storytelling.” He turned to Joaquin. “Go find Belardo. He needs your help.”
The boy rushed off.
The brigantine dipped gently to one side. Marcano reached up with his good arm to brace himself on a rafter and motioned to the chairs at the table. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
She moved to sit at the table, and he seated himself across from her. “I hope your day was not too unbearable.”
“It was quite pleasant, actually. I was just helping Joaquin with his English. I hope you won’t forbid his taking lessons from me.”
He leaned back and rubbed a finger across his bottom lip, studying her eyes; the irises glowed like liquid amber in the lamplight. “You are a curious young woman, Señorita. I suppose Joaquin may take as many English lessons as he likes, so long as he completes his chores.”
A pleased smile spread across her face, and the right-cheek dimple appeared. Marcano reminded himself that he hadn’t come to stare at her dimple. He looked away and cleared his throat gruffly. “Jolie, I would like to talk about our sleeping situation.”
#
He was finally bringing up their sleeping situation? Jolie felt heat rush into her cheeks. This was it, the Big Ravishment. The Inevitable Foreclosure. The Spanish Siege. He wanted to share her bed. She hadn’t imagined he would want to sit at the table and be so chatty about it. She’d pictured more of a scene in which he burst into the cabin in the middle of the night and took her guarded virginity with sweaty fervor and uncontrollable passion in the veil of darkness. She was hoping for the veil of darkness, anyway.
“Although I want to be a good host, I don’t intend to give up my bunk for the entire voyage,” he said. “We will need some other place for you to sleep.”
Jolie blinked. Some other place for her to sleep? That didn’t make sense.
“I have come up with only one solution. You cannot, obviously, sleep in the hold with the men, since you need privacy and they cannot be trusted to leave you alone. So we will place a cot here in my cabin for you. I will be out most of the day, so you will have the cabin all to yourself during waking hours.”
“Oh,” she breathed, embarrassed. So he wasn’t about to ransack her feminine charms. “Are—aren’t there any other cabins on the ship?”
“Only my first mate’s quarters, and it adjoins the crew’s sleeping hold. You cannot stay there. No, I think you and I will be forced to be cabin mates for the remainder of the voyage.”
Jolie peered at him; she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He sounded put out.
“Don’t worry, muchacha, I promise not to touch you. As I said, I will be out most of the day. You will be asleep before I come in at night. You will be afforded every comfort and privacy.”
Jolie was prevented from further comment by a knock at the door.
Marcano turned and called out, “Adelante.”
Joaquin strode in, bearing an armload of packages. The captain rose to his feet, saying something in Spanish, and the cabin boy deposited them on the bunk then left to retrieve a second armload. Jolie stared at the growing pile of boxes and paper-wrapped parcels, wondering what it was about.
When Joaquin finished bringing things in, Marcano turned to her. “I hope you find everything to your liking. We will have dinner in an hour in the great cabin. Joaquin will show you the way.” He gave the cabin boy a couple of final orders in Spanish and left, closing the door behind him.
#
Jolie fluffed the billowy, royal blue taffeta skirt around her legs. The bodice was made of rose-colored taffeta, with royal blue panels on either side which formed a V across her breasts and down the midriff. The gown’s neckline left her shoulders completely bare, but was attached to a pair of long sleeves made of the royal blue fabric. It was the fanciest, most daring thing Jolie had ever worn, and she relished the giddy feeling it gave her.
“All right, come in, Joaquin.”
Joaquin opened the door and gaped. “Is very pretty!”
“It is. It is very pretty,” Jolie corrected him gently.
Joaquin smiled. “It is beautiful!”
“It must have cost a fortune,” she sighed, twirling around. She moved to stand before the looking glass on the washstand, trying to see as much of the gown as possible. How could the captain have been so extravagant? She hadn’t expected any evening gowns at all, but there was a second one of elegant burgundy silk, plus three day gowns, a plain muslin dress, a new pair of stockings, a new pair of slippers, a petticoat, two shifts, a brush and comb set, hairpins, and a rose-colored silk night
gown with pearly buttons down the front and full sleeves gathered at the wrists.
Joaquin interrupted her thoughts. “Is almost time for dinner, Señorita.”
She turned around to search for her new brush. “If you could put the new things away in the trunk while I arrange my hair, I would appreciate it very much, Joaquin.”
The boy scurried about, folding the clothing and placing everything carefully inside the trunk while Jolie braided her hair and coiled it atop her head. She pinned it with the hairpins and then slipped her feet into her new shoes. Joaquin gazed up at her with a pleased, proud expression before offering her his arm.
#
Standing at the head of the table, Marcano held out his goblet in a toast. His five officers also stood, raised their goblets, and waited.
“Long live España,” he proclaimed.
“Here, here!”
“May we once again reach her safely when our business in the islands is finished,” Marcano added. He and his officers drank heartily.
“And may we be greeted with fame, riches, and plenty of lusty wenches,” Guillarte chimed in, provoking a chorus of chuckles and more calls of “Here, here!”
“Yes, and may Guillarte find a wench as ugly as he is,” Marcano teased.
The cabin still echoed with laughter when the door swung open. Marcano’s chuckle died in his throat when he saw their feminine guest in the doorway, dressed in the gown he had personally preferred over all the others, the one Guillarte argued she wouldn’t care for because the colors weren’t in vogue.
Marcano’s good arm hung frozen in midair while he stared at her, his goblet inches from his lips. The cabin was silent save the creaking of the swaying brigantine and the faint flapping of the sails from above. A breathtaking vision stood before him, her bare shoulders pale and shapely above the blue and rose taffeta, the slim, unadorned column of her neck accentuated by long, honey-colored strands of hair escaped from the braid which lay coiled atop her head like a crown. Her haunting, whisky-colored eyes were bewitching in the flickering lamplight.
Marcano suddenly realized he and all his comrades were standing around the table gawking at her like love-struck schoolboys. “Ah, gentlemen, our guest has arrived,” he announced in English, lowering his glass and bowing to her. “Señorita Scarborough, we are honored to have you join us.”
