Caribbean Jewel

by Jayla Jasso

  Marcano ran up the staircase leading to the quarterdeck, bolts of pain from his injured arm shooting through his shoulder and neck in protest. Jolie might already be injured or dead, depending upon how Flaherty reacted to hearing the gunshots.

  Before he reached the top stair, the door to his quarters swung open and Flaherty pulled the girl into the open in front of him, knife against the slim column of her pale neck. Marcano froze in place on the stairs. Below, his crew watched in tense silence.

  Flaherty’s gaze darted around wildly. “Where’s the Corazón? Where’s Clark?” He spotted his dead companion on the lower deck and pushed Jolie forward with him a couple of steps to see better. She clung to the beefy forearm wrapped around her shoulders, her eyes wide with terror.

  Marcano held his throbbing arm, struggling to catch his breath. “It’s over, Flaherty. Let the girl go.”

  “Give me the Corazón or she dies, Spaniard!” Flaherty gave Jolie’s body another violent jerk forward, the knife at her neck glinting in the moonlight.

  “I don’t have the Corazón, idiota. We never found it. Stop hiding behind a woman’s skirts and fight like a man.” Marcano climbed a step.

  “I’ll cut her, you crazy Spaniard! I’ll cut her, I swear!” Flaherty dragged Jolie sideways toward the balustrade on portside, where he and Clark had left their rowboat. She tripped over his feet, stumbling as they neared the side of the brigantine.

  Marcano followed, still holding his wounded arm, right fist clenched. “Come on, coward. I will fight you with one arm. If she has one scratch, I’ll kill you.”

  Cornered, Flaherty scooped Jolie’s legs up and flung the helpless girl over the balustrade. She flailed in midair, the cloak flapping about her arms and legs before she plunged into the water below. Someone from the crew dove into the water after her as Marcano squared off with the huge red-headed pirate.

  Flaherty frantically slashed his knife at Marcano and missed. Marcano rushed him with the full force of his rage. He grabbed Flaherty’s knife hand, turned his back to the pirate’s stomach, and shoved his elbow into the man’s ribs as hard as he could. Flaherty stumbled back, struggling to hold onto the blade, but Marcano twisted his arm until he released it.

  Marcano had forcibly held his temper in check while they pawed over Jolie, taunted him about his illegitimate birth, and threatened to kill them both, but now his anger erupted fully into violent wrath. He slammed his fist into the startled Englishman’s face, then wrestled him to the deck, managing to shove Flaherty’s head against the balustrade post hard enough to stun him. Marcano straddled him and gripped his throat with both hands.

  “The Corazón de Isabela is also called the Heart of Retribution, you filth.” Marcano squeezed the pirate’s neck tighter. “Every man who has tried to take it for a selfish cause has died in the attempt.”

  Belardo stepped forward and handed Marcano a loaded pistol.

  Marcano looked up at him. “Is the girl hurt?”

  “He must have cut her. There’s a trail of blood on the deck, Captain.”

  Marcano steadied the pistol at Flaherty’s forehead and squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Jolie sank several feet below the surface. Her muscles locked up in the chilly water, panicking her as she tried to thrash about in the murky darkness. The cloak tangled around her arms and legs, and for a moment she feared her lungs would fill up with salt water before she could push herself up for air. She kicked hard, struggling to swim upward. After what seemed an almost endless span of time, warm air hit her face, and she felt a release of the pressure on her lungs. She gasped, sputtering and flailing for a moment before opening her eyes to look for help.

  She heard someone plunge into the water several feet away. He surfaced and swam toward her, and as he got closer she saw it was Lieutenant Guillarte. He reached her and wrapped a strong arm around her waist, buoying her up against his firm chest. She clung to his neck with one arm and feebly tried to help propel them forward with the other. When they reached the side of the brigantine, he reached out for a lowered rope ladder and helped her climb onto it. Her body ached with tension and exertion as she struggled up the ladder, Guillarte helping from behind.

  When she neared the top, several hands stretched down to haul her up and set her on her feet. Jolie leaned against a crewman, feeling dizzy and weak. Another sailor grabbed her left arm and pushed back the sleeve of the cloak to show the others, and someone shouted in Spanish for Velez.

  In a daze, Jolie looked down. Her forearm was covered in watery blood, which was dripping down the front of the cloak and spattering on the deck. With a soft “oh!” she collapsed into someone’s burly arms, her world becoming completely black and peaceful.

  #

  Marcano peered down at Jolie’s pale face, waiting for Velez to finish treating the cut on her arm. The girl started to regain consciousness and struggled to wrench free from Velez’s hands. Marcano clamped down on her wrist and her shoulder, pinning her arm to the mattress.

  “Coño, Capitán.” Velez clenched his teeth. “If you don’t hold her still, the stitches will tear and the bleeding will start up again.”

  Marcano frowned. “I’m doing the best I can. She always sleeps restlessly.”

  “I’ve just about got it wrapped. See that she doesn’t move around much tonight.”

  “Ill-bred barbarians! They died too easy a death.” Marcano swore forcefully in Spanish as Velez continued to work on the bandage.

  “You will have to get these wet clothes off her as soon as possible, Capitán.”

  Marcano’s gaze swept down the length of the wet gown she wore, which now clung greedily to every inch of her slender body. He couldn’t help but stare, and as his gaze traveled slowly back up, he saw that her eyes were open, and she was watching him quietly.

  He softened his voice, switching to English. “Relax, muchacha. Lie still.”

  Velez spoke to him again in Spanish and turned to gather up his supplies and leave. When he was gone, Marcano turned to Jolie and held her wrist down with his hand. “Velez said you must not get up. You lost a lot of blood.”

  She raised her head to peer at her ripped-open sleeve and bandaged forearm.

  Marcano saw her look of apprehension, and pressed a hand to her shoulder. “You will be all right, muchacha. It was only a scratch.”

  #

  Jolie rested her head on the pillow and gazed up at the captain’s face. He looked exhausted; his tangled hair hung limp around his shoulders, his face and neck were smudged with black powder and grime, and his once-elegant captain’s frock coat was torn and dirty.

  He released her arm and moved away from the bunk, returning a moment later with a clean nightshirt in his hand. “Let’s remove your wet gown. I will help you.”

  Jolie felt a sudden surge of strength to protest. “No!”

  His expression darkened.

  “Please let me do it myself.”

  Marcano pressed his lips into a taut line. “All right, if you insist. Let me help you up; you can change over there by your cot while I remove these wet bedclothes from the bunk.”

  Jolie sat up, head reeling a little, and lowered her feet over the side of the mattress.

  Marcano reached for her arm. “Careful, muchacha.”

  She grasped his arm and pulled herself up to standing. The loss of blood had made her dizzy, and she swayed on unsteady legs. The Spaniard caught her against his warm, hard chest.

  “No, I can walk.” Jolie pushed away from him, not wanting to give him any excuse to help her change her clothing.

  He finally let her go, and she took the nightshirt from his hand, forcing her legs to move forward until she reached the cot. She sank down onto it and looked up. The captain was watching her from across the cabin with an annoyed expression. Jolie met his gaze and defiantly raised her chin, holding the nightshirt in her folded arms.

  Marcano kept staring at her.

  “Turn around!”

  He turned
to rake off the bed coverings, which were wet from her soaked body as well as soiled by the filthy pirate’s lounging around on them. She could hear Marcano muttering in Spanish under his breath as he worked.

  Jolie struggled out of the wet nightgown. Once naked, she glanced quickly up at Marcano’s back—he was ripping the pillowcases off the pillows with an impatient jerk of his good arm and flinging them to the floor, dutifully keeping his back turned. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of the nightshirt, poked her head through the neck, and pulled it down over her chilled body, then stood briefly to allow it to swing down over her legs. She sank down wearily onto the cot, watching as he drew fresh bedclothes out of the armoire and moved back to the bunk without peeking at her.

  He made the bed somewhat awkwardly with his injured arm, pulling the sheets over the mattress and tucking them in. She waited in silence until he had re-covered each of the three pillows and pulled a gold-colored velvet coverlet over the bunk. Finally he straightened to his full height.

  “Are you ready?” he demanded over his shoulder.

  Jolie spoke softly. “Yes, Captain.”

  He whirled about to glare at her, and she gave him her most angelic smile. He shrugged out of his coat and flung it to the pile of soiled bedclothes on the floor. “Velez said you should be resting, not sitting up looking around and smiling.”

  Jolie wiped the smile off her face, pulled the nightshirt around her clammy legs, and stretched out on the cot, eyeing him as her head sank into the pillow.

  A knock sounded at the door. Marcano barked, “Adelante.”

  Velez strode in, talking urgently in Spanish; he spotted Jolie lying on the cot, frowned, and said something insistent about her to the captain.

  Marcano scowled and turned to Jolie. “He says you should sleep in my bunk to rest better, and get under extra blankets to keep warm.” He didn’t look pleased by the idea of giving up his bed to her, Jolie thought.

  Velez stood waiting, arms folded, so she got up from the cot, holding the blanket to her chest, and padded quickly across the cabin to the bunk. She peeled back the captain’s freshly smoothed covers to crawl beneath them. She settled back and pulled the blankets up to her chin, eyeing the two men.

  Velez appeared to be satisfied and Marcano annoyed. The tension in the room was interrupted by a light knock. Guillarte’s voice came through the door. “¿Capitán, estás allí?”

  “Sí.”

  Guillarte opened the door and conversed in Spanish with Velez. While they talked, Marcano reached across himself with his left hand to fumble with the torn, blood-stained, dangling bandages around his right arm. Velez moved toward him and said something that sounded like an offer of help, but Marcano waved him away irritably.

  When Velez left the cabin, Guillarte stepped fully inside and shut the door. He glanced pointedly at Marcano’s naked chest, then at Jolie snuggled in his bunk. “Well, I see you are preoccupied, Captain.”

  Marcano gave up on the bandage and gave the first mate an angry look. “What is it, Luis?”

  “The crew is asking about you. But don’t concern yourself; I am taking care of everything while you are busy, Gabriel. I must return to the men. Con permiso.” He turned to go.

  “Coño, Luis!” Marcano swore, stepping in front of him. “I am still captain of this ship. I will see to the crew; you check the damages to the deckhouse, Lieutenant.”

  Guillarte gave Marcano a curt nod, then left.

  Jolie lay very still in the bunk.

  Marcano looked back at her, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You stay right there and don’t get up, or I swear te voy a tirar al mar yo mismo.”

  Whatever that was, it didn’t sound pleasant, so Jolie nodded meekly.

  He grabbed a clean shirt from the armoire and stalked out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.

  Jolie lay listening to the creaking of the swiftly moving brigantine as they continued to put distance between themselves and the site of the wrecked, sinking sloop. She watched the flicker of the lamplight making shadows against the far wall, thinking about how guilty she felt for taking the captain’s bunk. After all, he was injured too, and looked completely exhausted.

  There was a light tap at the door. “Señorita?” Joaquin’s voice.

  “Yes, come in.” She was anxious to see whether he was all right after the skirmish with the pirate sloop.

  The boy opened the door and shuffled inside. He looked upset, tears brimming in his dark eyes. She pushed herself to a sitting position, gave him an encouraging smile, and held her arms out to him. He rushed forward into her embrace for a moment, then pulled back to point at her bandaged arm.

  “You hurt.”

  “It’s only a small cut, dear. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “I was in the enfermería helping Señor Velez. They say the pirate hold knife on your neck. I suppose to protect you!” Tears streaked down his cheeks.

  Jolie smoothed his hair. “Oh, no, Joaquin, it’s not your fault. Really, I am fine now.”

  He hung his head. She continued stroking his hair gently. “Joaquin, what happened was not your fault, and I simply won’t have you blaming yourself. The entire horrible event is over now; thank goodness we are alive and well.”

  “Captain say you my responsibility,” he mumbled.

  Jolie sighed. Such grown-up burdens on such a young back. An idea came to her. Perhaps an errand would get his mind off the pirate attack and make him feel he was making up for the neglect of his duties.

  “Well, if I’m your responsibility, you know, I certainly could do with a nice pail of warm water right now.”

  The boy looked up, his face brightened. “I get it for you right now!”

  He pulled away and left the cabin. Jolie settled back onto the pillows, happy to see the child’s grieving relieved. And surely the captain would be gone for at least an hour or two, giving her plenty of time to sponge bathe and be back in bed when he returned to the cabin. She was eager to get the saltwater off her skin, along with any memory of the grimy touch of those repulsive cutthroats.

  Joaquin returned shortly with the pail of heated water and a fresh towel and sponge. Before he left, he collected the wet clothes and discarded bed coverings lying about the cabin.

  Jolie latched the door when he was gone, shrugged out of the nightshirt, found her little box of heather-rose soap, and began to sponge bathe quickly, standing near the large pail. She took care not to disturb the bandage on her left forearm; the laceration burned under it but there was also a soothing sensation from the ointment Velez had applied to the wound. When she had thoroughly washed herself, she decided to rinse her hair in the pail as well. She knelt before it and bent over to immerse her tangled locks in the soapy water.

  She had slipped back into the nightshirt and was busily running a comb through her damp hair when someone tried to open the door, cursed, then banged on it.

  “Why in el nombre de Dios is this door locked?” Marcano’s exhausted, irritated voice came through the oak.

  Startled, Jolie tossed the comb aside and hurried to unlatch the door.

  He swung it open, forcing her to stumble backwards out of his way. Slamming the door behind him, he took in Jolie’s wet, combed hair, then the water pail, with a sweeping glare. Without saying a word, he reached forward, swung her up into his arms cradle-style, and strode across the short distance to the bunk.

  Jolie was too surprised to do anything other than circle her arm around the tense muscles of his shoulders and hold on for dear life. He reached down with the hand under her legs to throw the covers back, sending her comb clattering to the wooden floor, and then placed her on the mattress—rather gently, she thought, for a man who was one livid, twitching muscle from head to toe at the moment. He yanked the covers over her, then stood up straight, hands on hips.

  His eyes darkened to royal blue, glittering like hard gemstones. “I believe I told you to stay in this bed, Señorita. It was not a suggestion.”

  “
I asked Joaquin to bring me some water so I could—”

  “Joaquin brought you the water? I will throttle that little niño as well.”

  “No, Captain! You’ll do no such thing! The boy feels badly enough about my mishap; I sent him for the water to give him something to do to take his mind off it.”

  “Mishap? Mishap?” He bent down and pulled her sleeve back to expose the bandaged forearm. “You call this a mishap? Muchacha, those English cutthroats could have killed you, or worse!” Jolie swallowed, glancing up at his chest and abdomen exposed by the open front of his shirt as he leaned over the bed.

  He paced in a circle on the rug, punctuating his rant by pointing an accusing finger at her. “First of all, I told you not to leave this cabin when they attacked. I told you to lock the door and stay out of sight. You left the cabin despite my warning and put yourself in danger. When I should have been fighting alongside my men, I was chasing after you.” He raked an agitated hand over his disheveled hair. “Then, I told you to stay in this bed and rest while I was gone. It was a simple command. You lost a lot of blood from that knife wound. But I come back to find you have bathed, washed your hair, and pranced all over the cabin!”

  “Pranced? All over the cabin?” Indignation clogged her throat. “Of all the thankless—I left the cabin during the attack because I was trying to warn you about those pirates, to prevent them from taking you by surprise, you ungrateful brute! And you most certainly were not obligated to ‘chase’ after me; if you feel so put upon by it, perhaps you should have just let them do as they pleased!” she yelled.

  “Keep your voice down, jovencita,” he warned through clenched teeth.

  “Oh, by all means, Captain. I wouldn’t want you to lose any authority in front of all of your precious! Crewmen!” She shouted the last two words as loudly as she could.