Caribbean Jewel

by Jayla Jasso

  “She couldn’t take her eyes off you, Felipe.” Belardo’s tone was a bit envious.

  Trujillo grinned happily in return.

  Guillarte exhaled a thin stream of smoke. “Trujillo’s hazel eyes melt the señoritas like creamed butter. She must not have noticed the captain’s yet.”

  Marcano ignored that and stared mutely at the candle on the table. He knew it was odd for him not to join in their playful banter, especially when the topic was a pretty serving girl. He worried that his feminine cabin mate was affecting him more than he wanted to admit. The massage she’d given him last night, her soft, firm touch, the smell of that blasted soap in his bed…

  Guillarte sipped from his tankard. “Gabriel, what’s bothering you?”

  Marcano tossed back his shot of rum and set the empty glass down with a thud. “Nothing. I was just thinking about King Philip’s orders to the chancellor.”

  Trujillo tore his gaze away from the tavern girl. “What did the chancellor say about the King’s orders? Something for the Amatista?”

  Thankful for the change of topic, Marcano straightened up a bit in his seat. “Philip has a job for us. English privateers robbed a Spanish merchantman of a large, expensive cargo, mostly silks and coins from the Main, and the chancellor had a tip that it is being held in Kingston awaiting transport to England. The king wants us to get it back before it ships out, teach the English a lesson.”

  Belardo shook his head. “The Amatista sustained serious damage in that pirate attack. We need a few days in port first for repairs.”

  Trujillo broke in. “We used much of our ammunition defending ourselves last night, Captain. I am not sure the supplier here in Santo Domingo has enough to restock us completely.”

  “Amigos.” Guillarte waved his hand impatiently. “If Philip wants the cargo back, we will get the cargo back. That is all there is to say. The king was not making a suggestion.”

  “Guillarte is right,” Marcano interjected. “We will get the stolen goods back. But I am thinking of a plan that will not require any kind of fighting or ammunition.”

  Before the men could reply, the serving wench appeared with their wine. Trujillo gave her a suggestive wink. “I hope you won’t forget my request tonight, Señorita.”

  She smiled, then glanced up to see Marcano looking up at her. She blinked, staring back at him, and blushed.

  “It seems she has forgotten already,” Guillarte murmured, taking a long drag from his cigar. “What she needs is a tree with stiffer limbs to keep her attention.”

  Marcano shot Guillarte a stern glance, then addressed the woman. “Forgive my men, Señorita; they forget their manners at times.”

  The woman flashed him another shy smile and hurried away, leaving Marcano’s three crewmen staring at him. Guillarte jammed the tip of the cigar into an ashtray. “Gabriel, you are not yourself today. You reprimand me for a remark that you would have made yourself a week ago without hesitation.”

  Marcano frowned. “We don’t have time to flirt with the serving wench. There is work to be done before we sail for Kingston.”

  “The men need some time off, Captain,” Guillarte countered. “I hope you will allow them a night ashore before we rush off to salvage Philip’s injured pride.”

  “They will have their time off tonight. We sail the day after tomorrow,” Marcano replied evenly.

  Guillarte folded his arms across his chest. “And what of this plan of yours, Captain? How do you propose we recover that cargo without a fight?”

  “Very simple, Lieutenant. We ask for it politely.” Marcano grinned and toasted him with his goblet of Madeira.

  Guillarte raised an eyebrow. “If that’s your plan, Captain, I hope there is a back-up strategy just in case.”

  “But of course.”

  “Captain,” Trujillo spoke up, “I hope you are joking with us, sir.”

  “My dear master-at-arms, I couldn’t be more serious. You all forget that we have an educated, literate Englishwoman aboard.”

  Trujillo shook his head. “That is definitely an asset to us, Captain, but I don’t know that I’d wager my life on the help of a simple girl.”

  “Your reservations will disappear when you see how smoothly my plan works,” Marcano assured him. “But for now, I want you to keep quiet about it. You will all have your assignments when the time is right.”

  The men nodded. Marcano felt his usual good spirits returning as he thought about his own cleverness and his men’s bafflement. He relished being a step ahead of them.

  Guillarte leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “Speaking of the English girl, I would like to discuss a personal matter, Captain. Now seems as good a time as any.”

  “Speak, man.” Marcano tipped his glass of wine to his lips and waited for Guillarte to continue.

  “I wish to ask your permission to court Jolie.”

  The mouthful of Madeira went down the wrong pipe. As Marcano coughed and sputtered, Belardo pounded on his back.

  “I’m all right!” He halted Belardo’s blows with a raised arm, then set his glass down and rubbed a hand over his face. At length, he met Guillarte’s gaze, but found himself at a loss for a reply.

  Guillarte leaned back in his chair. “I know you probably feel I don’t need your permission since you have already expressed your disinterest in her, but I just wanted to make sure you haven’t changed your mind.”

  Marcano’s good cheer disintegrated. What could he do? Deny Luis’ request, and admit that the little princesa had gotten to him? In front of Belardo and Trujillo, no less? But the alternative was equally grim—giving his friend the go-ahead to turn all his Guillarte charm on the poor, unsuspecting English girl. Marcano wouldn’t stand a chance against Luis’ suit. Luis was not only an extremely handsome man, but he also had generations of family honor, inheritance, connections, and prospects to offer Jolie.

  The silence at the table grew uncomfortable as the three men stared at him, waiting.

  Marcano coughed once more and found his voice. “What are your intentions, Luis? Marriage?” There, he thought smugly. That would throw his friend off his mark.

  “Perhaps,” Guillarte answered, to everyone’s surprise. Marcano felt his darkening mood turn pitch as his first mate continued without missing a beat. “She is a well-bred, educated, polite young woman of exceeding beauty and charm. Any man would be proud to have her for a wife. I have need of heirs. A man begins to think of these things when he reaches two-and-thirty.”

  Marcano felt an uneasiness in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t disagree with his friend’s assessment of Jolie’s pleasing qualities, but Guillarte’s reasons for marrying seemed to leave something to be desired. He waved a hand in protest. “She is completely unsuitable as a wife for you, Luis. While it is true that she does possess a certain charm, and yes, above average intelligence, she’s an orphan with no family, no connections or wealth for a dowry. And she doesn’t speak Spanish, nor does she understand our customs. I doubt if your father would approve.”

  “I am perfectly willing to accept her without a dowry, and have no need to marry for position or connections, Gabriel. As far as learning our language and customs, I am certain she will be an avid pupil, and I shall take pleasure in teaching her. I appreciate your friendly concern, but I assure you I am completely convinced of her suitability for me, and I am certain my father will agree as soon as he meets her.” Guillarte smiled confidently. “Now, since the role of guardian to her has necessarily fallen into your lap, I felt the proper thing to do was to ask you if I could court her during our voyage. What is your answer, Captain?”

  Marcano glared at his friend, feeling defeat crushing down upon him. The situation was impossible. As if in a waking nightmare, he imagined Guillarte asking he perform their marriage ceremony aboard the Amatista so that she could move to his cabin. The thought of Jolie accepting marriage to Luis and sharing his bunk filled him with such nauseating envy that he began to feel physically ill.


  When he made no response, Guillarte’s smile faded. He studied Marcano’s face, eyes narrowing. “Why the hesitation, Captain? Are you trying to tell us you have already become a little weak in the knees for our English guest, and are planning to keep her all to yourself? Or have you already sampled the merchandise, and you are avoiding admitting to me that she’s no longer unsullied?”

  Marcano grabbed the front of Guillarte’s vest with a swift movement, sending an empty tankard tumbling to the floor. He brought his first mate’s face within inches from his own. “You have crossed the line with me, Luis.”

  Trujillo and Belardo gaped at the two of them in disbelief.

  Marcano fought to gain control over his anger and released Guillarte’s vest, but he jabbed a finger at his first mate. “For the sake of our friendship, I will pretend you did not say that.”

  Guillarte readjusted his vest stiffly, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

  Marcano gulped down the last of his wine and set the goblet on the table with a thud. “You may court the girl, but if it interferes with your duties aboard the Amatista, I will ask you to leave my crew.” He stood, shoving his chair back with a loud scrape against the floorboards. “And so that your concern for her purity can be assuaged, the answer to your last question is no. I have not touched her.”

  With that, he turned on his heel and left the tavern, leaving an uncomfortable trio of men staring after him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Jolie finished dressing for the evening meal and stood at the bay window of the captain’s cabin, brushing out her hair. According to Joaquin, most of the crew was ashore, drinking and romancing, so she figured it would be quieter than usual on the Amatista tonight. After the previous evening’s unexpected ruckus, peacefulness would be a nice change.

  The sun sank low on the horizon, the warm, red glow around it blending into a purple-azure color reflected over the darkly glittering waves. Jolie hummed to herself, an African hymn she had learned on the plantation, and found her mind drifting back to the life she had so abruptly left behind. Vera the housekeeper would hum that tune while working the water pump in the backyard, filling up pails of water for the evening dishes. A pleasant memory, but one that also brought to mind the dreaded sound of pounding hoof beats as Lord Hauste returned from town, followed by the slapping of his horsewhip against his thigh as he made his evening round of inspection through the orchard and around the grounds. After helping Vera prepare dinner, Jolie would often rest on the back porch swing listening to Vera’s humming and the calls of the island frogs in the twilight.

  “Jolie!” barked Hauste’s voice from inside the house, startling her.

  She leaned over to look around the corner of the porch and saw that Hauste’s lamp was lit in his study upstairs, casting a square patch of yellow on the lawn. She could feel Vera’s pensive stare as she rose and turned to enter the house. Vera resumed humming, and Jolie knew it was for her, so that she would feel more at ease. Maybe it was nothing serious. Maybe he only wanted a glass of whisky brought upstairs.

  He sat behind his desk, holding his riding crop out over its polished mahogany surface; a blue handkerchief tied in a knot dangled from the end of the small whip. Jolie stared at the scrap of fabric and swallowed.

  “If memory serves me,” he said, “that sickly little wretch in Fava’s cottage wore this rag around his neck.”

  “Akila,” Jolie whispered, feeling cold all of a sudden.

  “What? Did the little starveling have a name?”

  “His name was Akila.”

  Hauste rose to his imposing height, still holding the soiled little handkerchief on the end of his whip. “And why, pray tell, was this filthy rag in your night table drawer, Jolie?”

  She made no reply.

  “Don’t try to mother the little starvelings, Jolie.” He drew a flint from his tinderbox and struck it. Holding her gaze, he lit Akila’s handkerchief; the dry cotton material blazed immediately.

  Jolie was helpless to do anything but watch as the glowing flames became blurry in the watery irises of her eyes.

  “Jolie?” Marcano’s voice interrupted her trance.

  She returned to the present, reminding herself that she was safe in Captain Marcano’s cabin, sailing far away from Crab Island on his ship, watching the sunset and brushing her hair.

  He again rapped on the door. “Jolie, are you all right?”

  She swiped at the tears with the back of one hand and whirled to face the door. “Yes, I’m fine; I need a few more minutes to finish my hair.”

  “We will be waiting for you in the great cabin.”

  #

  Marcano entered the great cabin and shut the door behind him.

  Guillarte rose to his feet. “Captain, I wanted to—”

  “Apologize? Or do you think I owe you an apology?” Marcano strode to the sideboard and poured himself a shot of black spiced rum.

  “You and I have been friends for many years, Gabriel. It pains me to see us fighting like schoolboys who have cast our lots for the same girl.”

  Marcano emptied the shot glass. “We are not fighting over the same girl, Luis. She is yours, without a fight.”

  Guillarte came up behind him at the sideboard and poured himself a glass of Madeira. “I assumed you meant what you said about not having the slightest interest in her.”

  “And so I did.” Marcano turned to face his first mate. “My rudeness to you this afternoon was due to the fact that I never thought you the marrying type, Luis. You caught me by surprise.”

  “Is that to be taken a kind of apology, my friend?” Guillarte raised his glass to his lips.

  “It is the best one you are going to get from me tonight, amigo.”

  The door opened and Jolie appeared, eyeing them timidly as she came in. Marcano’s gaze raked over her form in the soft green muslin dress. It was a simple design that revealed the upper swell of her small breasts and the creamy expanse of her throat and shoulders. She had swept up her golden-brown hair loosely, and long tendrils escaped the pins to lie softly about her neck and collarbone. He noted her bandaged left forearm as she glided forward to accept the chair he offered on his right. As she seated herself, he pushed in her chair, bringing his nostrils close enough to detect the scent of the heather-rose soap on her hair and skin.

  Its heady sweetness only served to darken his mood.

  #

  Jolie eyed Guillarte’s handsome, smiling face as he stood next to her chair, pouring a glass of Madeira for her. “How lovely you are this evening, Jolie.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled, holding her bandaged arm protectively in her lap. She didn’t trust his compliments for one second, not after reading the captain’s journal about how he was prone to teasing and tormenting Marcano. Guillarte was a good-looking man but he was too confident, too smug for her liking.

  Jolie glanced behind her. Captain Marcano was pouring himself another drink, his back to the table. He was dressed in slim black trousers and a tucked-in white blouse, his hair lying in its usual queue between his broad shoulder blades. When he seemed to linger at the sideboard longer than necessary, she reluctantly turned her attention back to the smiling Guillarte, who had seated himself across the table from her.

  His dark eyes studied her face as he sipped his wine. “I hope that your stay with us has been comfortable so far, Jolie. Perhaps we will have the opportunity to take you ashore tomorrow evening for a bit of music and dancing. You must be weary of the captain’s cabin by now.”

  “Well…” Jolie glanced over her shoulder at Marcano, whose back was still turned. “Actually the captain’s cabin is quite accommodating, and I...ah…” What’s wrong with Captain Marcano?

  “But surely you would like to see the flamenco dancers, perhaps even participate in a couple of steps?” Guillarte pressed.

  “Well, if the capt—I mean, if Gabriel doesn’t mind.”

  “Oh, I am certain he does not mind; do you, Captain?” Guillarte shifted his gaze from Jolie�
�s face to address Marcano.

  Jolie turned in her seat to hear Marcano’s response. He finally turned to face them, leaning back against the sideboard, and crossed his tall boots, holding his goblet of wine aloft in his long fingers. Jolie’s gaze traveled over the open neck of his shirt up to his ocean-blue eyes, which were regarding her coolly. He drained his glass and set it down. “You are free to come and go as you please, Jolie.”

  Something in his tone disappointed her.

  Guillarte spoke again. “How is your arm, Jolie? Are you having much pain?”

  She turned back to the first mate. “Oh, no, the pain is very mild. I think it will be fine.”

  “How fortunate we are those devils did not harm you in any other way.”

  “Yes,” Jolie agreed, again wishing Marcano would join them.

  A steward appeared at the door with their dinner, and the captain finally took his seat at the head of the table. Jolie watched him from beneath her lashes as he busied himself with his napkin rather than striking up a conversation with her. He looked weary. Perhaps that explained his distant manner; after all, he hadn’t had many hours of sleep in the past forty-eight hours, thanks to her intrusion in his cabin, on his ship, and in his life.

  She cleared her throat to ask him the question that had been on her mind all day. “Captain, pray tell, what is this Corazón the pirates were looking for? Some sort of treasure?”

  Marcano picked up his knife and fork. “Yes. The Corazón de Isabela, it is called in Spanish, or the Heart of Isabella. It is a nugget of gold big as a man’s head. It was found in Puerto Rico over two hundred years ago and named after Queen Isabella of Spain.”