Joelle mustered a smile. “No one.” The date on her marker was the same as her father’s. When he died, so did the secret whereabouts of his daughter. She may never have all her answers, but finding her family left her with a sense of peace.
“What about the rest of the riddle?” Valeryn asked.
Was there more to discover? There had to be. There was a key, after all. She finally looked up to Sloan. Would he know?
“‘For under the beard there you’ll be.’” He did not unlock gazes with her.
“You have it solved,” she said matter-of-factly.
“I have.” He smiled and it seemed she’d been waiting an eternity for that special quirk of his lips reserved just for her. “The fig trees that grow on this island have roots that grow from the branches instead of underground. The trees grow very large and these roots are like a thick, hairy canopy, like a bearded tree.”
On the western edge of the cemetery stood a massive bearded tree. Brown hairy vines hung from high in the leafy branches to the ground below. Some of the roots had grown together, becoming smooth trunks. Under the gigantic fig tree, two such trunks grew over one another, creating a hollow at the base.
Joelle pocketed the emerald and trotted to the tree. She stuck her hand into the hollow, feeling nothing but cool dirt. Sloan pulled a small spade from his knapsack and gave it to her. The spade awkwardly fit into the hollow, but she managed to dig into the dirt, swiping it out of the hole in clumps.
The shovel clunked against something solid.
Tossing the tool aside, she frantically clawed at the dirt until she pried a box, nearly identical to her small strongbox, only larger, from the hollow.
She blew off the moist dirt. What lay inside? Please. Not another map.
Her friends stood by, respectfully quiet. She slipped the key easily inside and the lock popped open.
Joelle’s breath caught in her throat. Gold coins and loose gemstones glittered in the sunlight. She wiped her filthy hand on her trousers and lifted a gold and amethyst encrusted necklace that caught her attention. Gorgeous. She’d never seen anything so lovely. Matching earrings lay atop an ivory portrait miniature of her mother. In the portrait, Riva wore the jewelry. She was so beautiful, so youthful. Joelle could see her own resemblance in her mother’s lively eyes, her mouth. Memories of her mother rushed back—her melodic laughter as she’d tickled Joelle’s toes, the way they’d danced around in the kitchen as she made supper, her brushing Joelle’s long curls each night.
She’d missed Mama more than she realized.
Other gold and silver items littered the inside of the box, including rings. One ring stood out above the others. She replaced the portrait and picked up the ring. A dark red ruby set into two crossing swords. Olive branches and snakes intertwined on the band.
“I’ve seen a ring like this once before,” she said to no one in particular. “A little-known group of men wore the ring, a league of spies and assassins. The confederation supposedly disbanded after the Acts of Union between Scotland and England. Truth be told, they simply went deeper underground while the Irish parliament tried to overcome the unfair trade practices and win higher favor with England.” She might question how her father came by the ring had it not been for his initials on the inside of the band.
Seemed she would get answers after all. At least some.
Now she could hazard a very good guess at why they had fled Ireland to the Caribbean. And why he’d left her with Mother Lotte at the orphanage in Montserrat. Joelle remembered hearing a tale in an Irish tavern of how members of this league began to mysteriously vanish or were found slaughtered. As if they were being eliminated one by one. Speculation had been ’twas a cleansing of sorts, a show of good faith between Ireland’s parliament and the new Great Britain. Her father must have been compromised somehow and did what he could to protect his family.
She might never know what had happened to her family, but they were together. And that brought her comfort.
A light wind cooled her wet cheeks. She hadn’t realized she’d been crying. Peace, whole and complete, washed over her. With a heavy sigh, a burden lifted.
Though the tinge of grief for her dead family lingered, her spirit began to soar.
Her mystery was over.
She stood, wiped her tears, and faced her friends. “I’m all right. Everything is all right.”
Valeryn gathered her into a hug. Henri shared his flask with Sam. And Sloan, Sloan wore a tight smile.
She broke from Valeryn and took Sloan’s hand. “Thank you.” Tears shimmered in her vision again. Curse it. When had she become such a milksop?
“I never imagined what this map would lead me to, what it would mean to me, or how much,” she said. “Thank you, Sloan. There is nothing I could ever do to repay what you’ve given me.”
“My freedom.” His tone still held that angry edge, though his eyes conflicted with softness. “Declare my freedom.”
Joelle was taken aback. She’d completely forgotten about the arrangement. “Of course.”
“In writing.”
Did he think she wouldn’t honor her word? Anger winged through her. After all they’d been through, his distrust stung. “You doubt me? How dare you.”
“I’ve not the luxury,” he said pointedly. “I need the assurance.”
She reeled in her emotions. She must remember she, herself, had never been a slave. She never had her freedoms, her will, her dignity, stolen from her. Sloan had not once, but twice. And she had partaken in his subjection. How could she be so selfish to be offended by his simple request—his peace of mind—especially now that she had hers?
“Certainly. My apologies for my quick temper.” She moved to his side and faced her crew. “As of this moment, I declare, by the witness of these men and God, Sloan Ricker a free man.” She took Sloan’s hand once more. “I will compose a writ confirming so when we return to Rissa.”
He nodded, satisfied with her answer.
“We are done here,” she said. “Let us leave straightaway.”
The men turned to leave, but Joelle took one last look at the cemetery. She didn’t know when she’d return, for surely she would, and she wanted to memorize the serene graveyard, the quaint church, the lush bearded tree.
“Again,” she whispered. “I will visit here again.”
She was about to step out from under the fig tree’s canopy to catch up with the boys, but hesitated at the sound of a twig snap.
The smell of burnt hair besieged her nose. Before she could turn, someone snatched her. An arm lifted a pistol straight up and out in front of her. The blackened and raw hand aimed and fired.
She flinched.
Valeryn dropped.
The hand discarded the spent flintlock then snatched Joelle’s gun from the sash at her hip. She struggled and, without any resistance from her attacker, broke away. Cradling her box, she spun, drew her cutlass, and stared down the barrel of her own pistol.
Leviathan.
“Surprised, puss?”
Hell yes, she was surprised. You’re supposed to be dead. “The Devil’s whim hardly surprises me anymore.” ’twas a feat to keep her voice steady, confident.
Leviathan’s long black hair and beard was gone, scorched off. Only sparse, singed locks remained. A scarf wrapped around the dome of his head was stained, not of sweat, but of seeping blood. Chunks of his charred flesh hung from his face, arms.
He was a repulsive walking corpse.
“All the same,” Leviathan said, “ya thought ya killed me. Ya must be a mite disappointed.”
“Aye, you might say.”
“Put down your weapon, puss. Still and patient, now.”
Her sword thudded to the dirt.
“Stay back.” Leviathan cut his bloodshot eyes past her.
“You’re a fool for coming here,” Sloan growled. Joelle didn’t dare look from Leviathan, but she gauged Sloan to be a few feet behind her.
“Nay, boy,” he wheezed. “Heaven,
Hell, the bottom of the sea, there’d be no other place I should be. Got unfinished business, I have. Eye for an eye, and that.” His hand shook, as if the weight of the gun was too much for him. “I knew that damned map would bring ya back to Barbados, puss. It’s always been Barbados. Just needed to wait and watch. Like a good restless soul, ya didn’t keep me waitin’ long.”
“You won’t get out of this alive,” Sloan bit out.
Leviathan’s blistered lips cracked into a smile. “Don’t intend to.”
“But you will take me with you.” Joelle had seen the crazed look in his eyes before. He was a madman, in unspeakable physical pain. By all accounts, he was dead. Each ragged breath he drew, each beat of his cold heart, was out of sheer vengeance to kill her.
“Together, in purgatory, puss.” His abrading gnarl would give her nightmares, if she lived that long.
Her mind whirred. Point blank. Even in his weakened state, she would not be faster than his pull of the trigger. Bollocks!
Leviathan’s deadlights shifted back to Sloan. “Come at me, boy. I beg of ya.”
Joelle threw a glance over her shoulder. Sloan had moved within arm’s length.
“Run me through with that sword ya hold,” Leviathan taunted.
When Sloan didn’t move, Leviathan blew out a gurgled sigh and rolled his eyes. “Very well.” He took a truer aim at Joelle’s head.
Panic fluttered within her chest like a caged raven.
This was it.
* * *
Instinct, raging and blind, swallowed Ricker. He dove for the ground, tucked and rolled before Leviathan. The action caused the wretch to hesitate before discharging the gun. Ricker swept his leg out catching at Leviathan’s shins and knocking him off his feet. Without pomp and circumstance, without any honor, Ricker punctured the bastard’s chest with the blade of his cutlass.
Leviathan’s charred lips twisted and he chuckled, a sound as thick and dire as a tar pit. He coughed, gurgled, then expelled his final wet breath.
Ricker crawled to Joelle lying on the ground. “Are you hit?” he asked as she sat up.
“Nay. I jumped away in time. Here’s luck.”
“Thank God.” He pulled her into a tight hug, relishing her hold upon him, her breathing against his ear.
Damn! How many times can one man nearly lose his woman? Not yours. ’twas just as well. Valeryn likely was used to Joelle’s reckless, near-death exploits. Ricker was the lucky one. He just needed to convince himself of that.
Reluctantly, he pulled back. Her eyes were spellbinding, drawing him in to her sweet mouth. Closer. Closer. He shouldn’t do this. ’twould only be torturous. His perdition.
What the hell. One last kiss to put him six feet under.
Something in her eyes veered wild and dangerous, her coy grin vanished.
Damn it! What was he doing. Not yours.
She reached into her boot, shoved him aside, and fired a pocket pistol. He scrambled around in time to see Leviathan—Joelle’s cutlass in hand and a bullet in his forehead—collapse to the ground.
“Bastard just won’t die,” she mumbled.
“I’d wager he’s dead now. Nice shot.”
A groan drew their attention to the others.
“Valeryn!” Joelle sprang up and ran to the first mate lying prone in the grass, blood oozing from his leg.
Ricker gathered up her treasure box and weapons and joined them.
“You’re hurt.” She fussed over him, ripping open his trousers at the thigh. She gingerly touched his leg for the severity of the wound. His flesh was scored deep, but the bullet went clean through.
Ricker wished she’d touch him that way too. Perhaps he should shoot himself in the foot. Christ. What is wrong with me? Valeryn is injured. Think of him, not yourself.
“Ho there, Jo.” Valeryn, with a ridiculous lopsided grin on his mug, rubbed his head.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Lad got shot,” Henri grouched.
“He hit his head on t’at t’ere root,” Sam answered. “Knocked ’imself clean out.”
“You keep fondlin’ my thigh, love, and you’ll have my jolly roger hoisted and my timbers shiverin’.”
“Hit his head hard, I’d say,” Joelle smirked and dropped his leg.
“Ow!” Valeryn hollered. “Whaddya do that for? I’m a wounded man, a dying man, Jo. Don’t ya want to ease my suffering?” There was a twinkle in the rake’s eye.
Criminy.
“We’re the ones sufferin’ listenin’ to you whine like a spoiled bantling.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t whine if you’d share your rum, Henri.”
“Ain’t sufferin’ that bad.”
Ricker laughed. He really had grown fond of these eccentric tars.
“You’ll live, V,” Joelle said. “So long as you don’t get infection. But we need to get you some help.” She hoisted herself up.
“We won’t be able to get him to Rissa the way we came,” Ricker pointed out.
“Right,” Joelle agreed. “We’ll get him to the church and find out where we are. See if there is an easier way back or a better shore to rendezvous with Rissa. Henri and I will stay with V. Sloan, you and Sam will go back to the ship.”
Ricker hated the idea of separating. He wanted a chance to talk with her. He wanted to listen to her melodic voice. Wanted her to share her emotions with him, tell him what it was like to finally find her family, her peace.
’Twas for the best. ’Twasn’t his place for such. ’twas Valeryn’s. Valeryn needed her.
The sooner they headed out, the better.
“Should we bury ’im?” Henri thumbed at Leviathan’s corpse.
“No!” Joelle wheeled around. “That bastard will not share scared ground with my family.”
“Sam and I will take care of it,” Ricker offered. Sam nodded at the task.
She blinked a few times, and then slowly consented. “So be it.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, Rissa anchored off the shore of a fishing village. Ricker took comfort knowing Joelle, Valeryn and Henri would have an easier time—a mere hour’s walk to Crab Hill—meeting up with the ship in the morning. He sat on the quarterdeck and let his feet dangle off the side, watching the sun knit into the horizon. A veil of gold lingered in the sky, tugging along the blanket of twilight. Trade winds faded. Flocks of birds flew overhead to roost inland. The sunset was like any other he’d seen.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, the sun set on the latest passage of his tragic story.
He was happy for Joelle and he didn’t once regret having her in his life, having her as—he chuckled—his master. Though the paper in his pocket proclaimed him a free man, she would always own his heart.
Ricker finished off the bottle of rum and chucked it into the water. He conjured up her beautiful face, perplexed as he insisted she sign the declaration at the church, in front of the priest. ’Twasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He did. But he needed the paper for what he was to do come morning.
Ricker exhaled a long, deep sigh and got up in search of another bottle of strong liquor.
Chapter Eighteen
“What do you mean he’s gone?”
“Just what I said, lass,” Willie replied. “The boy’s gone.”
Joelle’s gut knotted. All the joy she’d finally been allowing herself wilted. She was sinking, helpless. Sloan had been angry with her yesterday, but she hadn’t gotten a chance to ask why. What happened? What had she done?
He had his freedom. There was nothing to keep him on Rissa. He had not signed her Articles, had not sworn a fealty to her as his captain. Her selfish heart ached. Wasn’t she enough? Didn’t he want to stay with her? Didn’t he want her?
She swallowed back a sob. “Where did he go?”
Willie shrugged. “No one’s seen ’im since last night.”
Damn him! “He didn’t even say goodbye,” she mumbled.
“Who?” Valeryn hobbled onto t
he deck with an old, worn crutch Hacker had fashioned and kept around.
Henri toddled alongside with his cane. Two insufferable hamstrung culls doddering together, both exaggerating their injurious legs with an extra sway and bounce in their slow strides. If her chest hadn’t become so constricted and numb, she might have laughed at the pair.
“Ricker,” Willie answered. “He took leave.”
“Ricker? Gone?” Valeryn frowned.
“Whaddya do, lass?” Henri squinted, giving her the eye.
“I...I don’t know.”
Except give him his freedom.
She tried to ignore a niggling thought, tried to pass it off as her general mistrust of people, but the idea persisted. He’d used her, seduced her to ensure she signed the writ. And why not? A few swives and freedom to walk way—the perfect arrangement. Funny thing was, if she were in his position, she’d have done the same, and enjoyed every bit of it. Blast it! She never meant to fall in love. Now that her open heart had been crushed under the heel of Sloan’s boot, she wanted to do something rash. Like kill his sorry arse.
“I know that look, Jo.” Valeryn leaned onto his crutch. “Killing the man you love isn’t the answer.”
“Love?” Henri wrinkled his bulbous nose.
“Why are ya always the last to figure that out, Henri?” Willie packed a fresh wad of tobacco under his lip. “Ain’t ya ever been moon-eyed for a woman ’fore?”
“This bloody ship is cursed, I say,” Henri grumbled. “We keep losin’ capt’ns to that damned disease.”
“He used me, V,” she said. “He got what he wanted and now he’s gone.”
“You’re probably right. He did use you. All the same, he fought hard to win you from me, Jo. Whatever his initial intentions were, in the end Ricker was genuine.”
Could Valeryn be right? Her mind flashed to their last dalliance. His rapturous kisses, his enamored, heavy-lidded blue eyes, his tender, needy caresses, his sweet whispers were unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She hadn’t imagined it in her own haze of bliss. No one, not even Sloan, could have faked that kind of passion.
“What did ya say that made him run off?”
Mutiny of the Heart Page 23
