by Jayla Jasso
The dark figure below responded by raising a gloved hand in reply.
With a strangled sob, she turned and stumbled across the room, then tore at the latch on the door. She flung it open to rush down the stairs, holding her injured side. She stole into the parlor to check the front guard post from behind the curtains; the guard there was peering off in the direction of the slave huts. She slipped from the house into the humid night air, staying close under the overhang of the porch until she was in view of the orchard around the corner. She looked both ways, then ran as best she could across the yard toward the fruit trees.
She reached the shelter of the orchard seconds later, heart thudding with fear that he may only have been a hallucination, invented by her tormented mind. She moved among the trees, determined to chase this shadowy specter even if it meant she had finally lost her grip on reality.
“Gabriel?” she whispered hoarsely, circling a mango tree. “Gabriel? Gabriel?”
The orchard was quiet save the island frogs and the rustling of heavy, damp leaves in the night breeze. Jolie moved from tree to tree, straining to see in the dim moonlight.
She leaned back against the trunk of an orange tree, panting a little. “Oh, please, God, let him be real.”
Just then there was a movement behind her. She turned just in time to be pulled into his warm embrace. Her breasts were pressed against his steely chest, her lips captured in his hungry kiss. Jolie ignored the pain in her side and wound her arms tightly around his torso for fear he might disappear again.
When he ended the kiss and raised his head to peer down at her from beneath his tricorn, Jolie stared up at the familiar, handsome slant of his jaw in the moonlight. “Is it a ghost come to haunt me, or are you real?”
“I am very much flesh and blood, Señorita,” he drawled.
“Oh, Gabriel!” She strained up on tiptoe for another kiss.
He chuckled and lifted her off the ground, causing her to wince at the pain in her ribs. He set her down, loosening his arms to peer down at her with a frown. “What is wrong with your body?”
“It’s a, ah, I—”
“If that maldito has laid a finger on you, I will rip him apart.” He peered more closely down at her pale, gaunt face in the faint moonlight. “¡Hijo de puta!” Cupping her chin, he turned her head to inspect the ugly purple bruise around her left eye, muttering a string of Spanish curses.
Jolie sought to calm him, divert his attention. She shushed him with a finger on his firm lips and pointed to the corner of the house where an armed guard had just stepped into view and was surveying the yard intently. The guard glanced up at Jolie’s window where the candle on her desk still burned. Jolie hoped he thought she was up there.
“Gabriel, it isn’t safe here. Hauste’s guards are on special alert tonight, and the dogs are out.”
He responded by reaching down and scooping her gently into his arms, cradle-style. “I hope it does not hurt you too much if I lift you like this, but we’re getting out of here now.” He slipped noiselessly through the trees, carrying her away from the house.
Jolie grimaced in pain and tried to think straight as he carried her. “Gabriel, I can’t leave without Vera and the slaves. They have risked so much for me. And you must get the Corazón.”
He continued to put distance between them and the house. “I did not come for the Corazón; I came for you. You are light as a feather, mi amor. You are not well.”
Jolie broke into tears and buried her face against his neck. “Gabriel, stop. Please. I can’t leave them behind. If you only knew what torture we have all been through. I have to help them. I can’t leave Vera. He’ll kill her this time.”
He slowed, then stopped near a large tree deep within the orchard. From this point the house and yard were completely obscured from view. He gently lowered her to her feet and helped her sit in the soft grass at the base of the tree.
“We will rest here. But only for a bit. I am anxious to get you away from this place.” He sat next to her and pulled her into his arms.
Jolie looked at him, stroking his jaw. “How did you get here? The Amatista sank! Or did you save it somehow?”
“Guillarte and a few others dragged me onto a rowboat and we made it to the coast of Jamaica. I was laid up in a hospital for weeks, worried sick about you, and waiting for King Philip to commission another brigantine for us. We named her the Amatista Segunda.”
“Guillarte is still alive? I’m so relieved! And little Joaquin?”
“He talks about you constantly. He cannot wait to see you.”
“Oh, Gabriel.” Jolie’s eyes filled with tears, and she buried her face against his shirt. He smelled of clean sea air, his familiar, masculine scent such an unbelievable balm to her soul. “I never thought I would see you again. I’m scared I’m dreaming.”
He stroked her back, his hands warm and soothing to her aching body.
She sighed. “But I cannot leave with you tonight. The slaves are planning to try to kill Hauste tomorrow night and escape. They are desperate. Even if they succeed in killing him and all his guards, they have nowhere to go. There are about twenty of them, plus women and children, and there is no ship that would give that many Africans safe passage all at once. If I leave now, Hauste will notice tomorrow and be enraged. I would leave them to their deaths, and I could never live with that knowledge.”
Marcano pressed his lips gently against her temple. “Querida mía, how can I release you and allow you to return to that beast’s house? Now that you are in my arms again I cannot let you go. Do not ask me to do this.”
“Gabriel, you could help them. Tomorrow evening you could get some of your men and surround the house—I could distract the guards, make sure the dogs are penned—”
“You are in no shape to be El Vencedor tomorrow night. You have suffered enough. I will take you to the ship now and come back for your slave friends myself, later tonight.”
Jolie shook her head. “No, the slaves aren’t expecting you, and you’ll be caught trying to round them up. But if I sneak back now, Hauste will never suspect a thing. You would take him totally by surprise. He won’t beat me again before then. He is planning to wed me to his nephew in a couple of days, and they want me to look normal for the wedding. But if I turn up missing tonight, he’ll kill Vera, the housekeeper. She is like a mother to me. He beat us both last night for sneaking away to talk to the slaves; he injured my ribs, and she’s coughing up blood. He’ll kill her, Gabriel. He’s lost his mind.”
“This beast hit you in the ribs?” He felt lightly around her midriff.
“No—he, ah, kicked me.”
Marcano drew back, disgust in his eyes. “¡Por el amor de Dios! What kind of barbarian would kick the fragile body of a defenseless girl? The bones could be broken, mi amor. You must see Velez, now, tonight.” His hand continued to explore her bruised side gently. Without asking permission, he began unbuttoning the front of her dress.
Jolie didn’t want him to see the large dark purple and green bruises on her ribcage—it would only infuriate him even more. She tried to forestall his hands.
“Don’t argue,” he said, finishing the last button and pulling the bodice aside, off her shoulder. He felt her ribcage through the thin material of her shift, tracing the ridges of each bone. Jolie shivered as he felt along the ribs below her left breast, until eventually he came to the bruised one, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the pain. He pressed around the area carefully.
“It isn’t broken; just badly bruised, I think.” Marcano leaned his head back against the tree trunk and pressed his fingers to his eyes. When he raised his head, he swiped at tears spilling down his cheeks with his shirt sleeve. “Hijo de puta, maldito desgraciado... I will kill this bastard with my bare hands. I will not rest until I see him dead.”
Jolie was stunned at seeing him cry, and tried to soothe him by caressing his cheek, touching his shoulder. “I’ll be all right, Gabriel. I’ve had worse.”
“Worse,”
he muttered, shaking his head. He tugged her dress back up over her shoulder, then pulled her into his embrace and held her close. “This is crazy, just sitting here while the guards crawl all over this plantation. Let me take you back to the ship. I need you with me tonight.” He pressed his face into the curve of her neck. “Por favor, mi querida. I need to hold you all night tonight. Don’t ask me to let you go back.”
“Gabriel, I want to go with you right now so badly...but I can’t. I tell you, Hauste will go on a rampage when he finds me gone. And there are little children, Gabriel. I can’t do this to them. Let me sneak back to the house. Get your men and make an ambush tomorrow night when the slaves make their move.” Tears streaked down her face. “I promise I’ll be fine until then, but I must get back before Hauste returns. He went to his nephew’s house, and he’ll be back soon.”
“I know. I was listening outside the window while he had supper. I climbed the trellis up to your room and wrote in your journal while he ate.” He sighed and bent forward to kiss her lips again before re-buttoning her bodice. Then he stood up and pulled her slowly, gently, to her feet. “Good sense dictates that I take you with me right now, forcibly if necessary, but I know that you will grieve and mourn Hauste’s slaves from now on if they are harmed before I can rescue them. You might even grow to resent me for leaving them defenseless, and I cannot risk that.” He rubbed an agitated hand over his face. “Let’s get you back to the house before it is too late,” he muttered grimly, grasping her hand in his.
Together they slipped back through the trees of the orchard, and just before they reached the yard, he pulled her into his arms and buried his face against her neck.
“Ah, Jolie, my heart is aching,” he whispered hoarsely.
Fresh tears stung Jolie’s eyes and she clung to him, not wanting to let go, but unable to conceive of leaving the slaves and Vera behind now. She stroked his shoulders. “Gabriel, I love you so much.”
He lifted his head. “If anything happens to you tonight I will never forgive myself.”
“By the grace of God, I will be fine. I must go now.”
“Go to the window when you get up there. If everything is all right, get your brush and begin brushing your hair.”
“Yes, I’ll do it.”
“If I don’t see you there in five minutes, I will come after you.” He hugged her gently against his torso and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “Otherwise, I will wait and come for you tomorrow night. Be ready.”
“I will,” Jolie sniffled against his shirt. “I love you.” She reached up to touch his cheek. It was wet with tears.
“Go, querida. Go before I change my mind.”
When he released her, she took off running, holding her side. She burst from the cover of the trees, darted across the yard toward the shadows of the house, skirted the edge of it, and crept up onto the front porch without looking back. The inside of the house was still dark; Jolie tiptoed about, checking through the parlor window again before hurrying to the staircase.
Just as she started up the stairs, there was a movement behind her, and she whirled around, heart in her throat.
Vera jumped back. “Lord, Child, you scare poor Vera to death!”
“Oh, Nana, thank God it’s you.” Jolie grabbed Vera’s hand. “Quickly, come up to my room. Hauste isn’t back yet, is he?”
“No, but you been traipsing around outside, haven’t you, Jojo? Have you lost your mind? If Master catches you—”
“Shh! Come on.” Jolie pulled her up the stairs. They stole into Jolie’s bedroom and latched the door.
“Lord help us!” Vera gasped, holding her side. “What is going on, Jo?”
“Quiet; come here.” She drew Vera toward the desk where her candle still burned and peered out the window, scanning the orchard for any sign of Gabriel.
“What you looking for, Jo? You feeling all right?”
“Get my brush, Nana.”
“What? Your brush?”
“Get it, quick!”
Vera retrieved the brush from the top drawer of the dresser; Jolie grabbed it and began to run it through her hair, watching the fruit trees the entire time. At last she thought she saw a movement in the shadowy grove.
“There! There he is!” She could faintly make him out as he stood concealed by the shadows of the mango and orange trees.
“Who? What—”
“I can’t point at him, but look there, to the right of the big mango tree. It’s him. It’s Captain Marcano.”
Vera blinked at her in confusion, then stared out the window from behind her. “The blue-eye? How...?”
“I was down there with him just now. Look, he wrote in my journal to let me know he was here.” Jolie showed her the page.
“Sweet Lord!” was all Vera could say. “You were out there with him? Why didn’t he take you away from here, Jo?”
Jolie gazed at her surrogate mother for the past eleven years. “I couldn’t leave again without you and the others, Nana.”
Vera’s eyes misted over.
Jolie wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “It’s going to be all right, Nana. Gabriel is going to get us out of here tomorrow night. He has a new ship. He can take everyone.”
“Lord answered our prayers.”
Jolie nodded and they turned back to the window. He was still there, just watching.
Vera shook her head. “He ain’t moving. He sure worried about you, Jo. His love strong.”
“I love him so much, Nana. It was hard, not leaving with him tonight. He begged me to, with tears.” She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and continued to stare down at him. He remained immobile, hidden in the shadows.
Jolie reluctantly moved away from the window and allowed Vera to help her dress for bed. Though she doubted she would be able to sleep much, she didn’t want anything to appear out of sorts to Hauste when he got home. Vera blew out the candle and helped her under the covers.
“Good night, Nana. You’d better get some rest. We escape tomorrow night.”
After Vera was gone, Jolie couldn’t resist slipping out of bed to peer out the window again. He was still there, watching. Jolie’s heart ached to be with him, but for now she would simply have to make do with watching. And waiting.
#
Marcano stood frozen, waiting until Jolie at last appeared in her window. The slave woman was with her. He released a tense sigh of relief, then inhaled slowly, trying to calm his pounding heart. She is fine. Everything is all right, he repeated to himself over and over, like a litany. It took every bit of strength he possessed to restrain himself from kicking Hauste’s front door in and running up to her room to carry her off, with no stopping this time.
Even after she extinguished her candle, he could not bring himself to leave. For long moments he stood rooted to the spot, his gaze glued to her window.
At last he came to a decision. He could not wait until tomorrow night to rescue her. He would go back to the brigantine, rouse his men, and storm this plantation tonight—taking every last slave as well as his beloved girl.
This plan gave him the strength to walk away. He went slowly at first, picking up speed as he neared the last few trees of the orchard.
A movement in the darkness stopped him in his tracks.
A guard with a musket stepped from behind a tree, his barrel leveled at Marcano’s face. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
Marcano was silent, eyeing the man carefully.
“Fletcher!” the guard yelled loudly. “Come ’ere!”
Marcano glanced past him, looking for the second guard, and moved his hand to the hilt of his cutlass.
“Nope, best hand over that big knife o’yours, politely.” The guard moved forward and placed the tip of the musket against Marcano’s nose. “Master Hauste don’t care if you’re dead or alive, just as long as he can tell everybody he got El Vencedor.”
The other guard reached them, and looked Marcano up and down. “You got him. Bloody hell,
Maxwell, you got El Vencedor!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Lord Hauste was surprised to see two of his men rushing up to meet him as he rode into the yard.
“Sir, we got ’im! Rascal tried to ambush us early, but Maxwell and Fletch got ’im!”
Hauste reined in his stallion, frowning. “Who? What—”
“El Vencedor! They’ve got the Spanish bastard tied up in the stable!”
Hauste stared at them in confusion. “You caught him alive?”
“Yes, sir; come take a look!” The two guards motioned him toward the stable.
Hauste dismounted and followed. Lamplight emanated from the stable door, and voices were joking and laughing inside. He handed the reins to the stable boy, then ducked through the doorway.
His guards stood grouped around their captive, their leering grins illuminated by the lamp hanging nearby as they taunted the Spaniard, snickering and enjoying their victory. From outside the circle of men, all Hauste could see of El Vencedor was a bowed head. He ordered his men to clear back a little. They shuffled aside, revealing their prey for Hauste’s inspection.
The Spaniard stood sagging slightly against the pole, his muscular arms stretched back and tied securely around it, his head lowered so Hauste could not see his face. He was dressed all in black, and even in his defeated pose, Hauste could see that he was a tall, powerful man, every inch the epitome of the legendary slave-thief.
Hauste grinned. “At last we meet, Vencedor.”
Vencedor lifted his head and fixed his brilliant blue eyes on Hauste’s face. Blood trickled from a cut near his right eye where someone had cuffed him. His face and neck glowed with perspiration. “Not exactly,” he drawled, straightening to his full height. “We have met before, Englishman.”
Hauste stared at him, a deep frown creasing his brow. “Marcano! You bastard, I thought I’d finished you off back there at sea! Are you El Vencedor, after all?”
The guards glanced in confusion from the Spaniard to Hauste.
Maxwell spoke up. “He’s El Vencedor all right, sir. We found him creeping about the orchard, spying on the plantation.”
