Nightsong

by Valerie Sherwood

  Kells made no comment but he regarded her warily. She thought his lean face wore a sardonic expression. So he had guessed she was in a dangerous mood . . . Carolina tossed her head - at the moment she did not care!

  He suggested they take a turn towards Fort James and stroll past Bradford’s Wharf up Fisher’s Row, where the breeze from the sea would be cooling, but Carolina hated the sight of the turtle crawls, where the huge lumbering creatures were penned - she never saw them but that she did not feel herself to be as much a prisoner of the island as they!

  Still she did not demur.

  Up Queen’s Street they went towards the wharf. The sun hung low in the sky and its golden light turned Carolina’s scarlet dress to sudden flame. From the Foot Passage that led down to Thames Street and the waterfront came a crowd of roisterers who had been imbibing strong rum at Littleton’s Tavern. To a man, they lurched to a halt at the nerve-tingling sight of this sumptuous woman strolling by with her hair and gown both seeming ablaze.

  ‘Look, lads, ’tis the Silver Wench,' hiccupped someone, bumping into his fellows as he, too, came to a halt.

  ‘I’d rather have her than gold,' said a young buccaneer prayerfully. He had lurched against a brick wall and looked about to slide dizzily down it to the sandy street.

  There was a snigger of laughter at this remark.

  ‘Ye’ll not have her, Parks,’ sang out a voice from the rear. ‘For the Wench is guarded by Captain Kells!’

  The warning was heeded. The group fell back a little and quieted.

  Carolina ignored them all although Kells frowned.

  ‘Are you planning to turn up Fisher’s Row towards the turtle crawls?’ he asked her politely when she hesitated. ‘And perhaps acquire something for tomorrow’s dinner?’

  Carolina flashed him an impatient look in the waning light. ‘You know I cannot abide looking at those poor trapped creatures!’

  ‘And yet I have seen you do justice to green turtle soup,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes - well, everyone does,’ she defended. ‘After all, it is a staple of the diet here!’

  ‘At sea as well.’ He turned left on Lime Street and left again, leading her down the High Street towards the great Market Bell and the Exchange.

  The roisterers from Littleton’s staggered after them, keeping their distance but ogling Carolina. Some of their remarks about her beauty were rough enough to bring a frown to Kells’s sun-bronzed face, but he kept his temper.

  Carolina had just heard her hips described as ‘swaying delights that would drive a man mad,’ and her cheeks had grown a trifle pink.

  ‘We are collecting a crowd,’ murmured Kells as several others joined the following group. ‘Was that your intention?’

  Carolina shrugged. ‘I am just out for a little air. And what do you mean, “collecting a crowd”?’

  ‘I mean,’ he said in an undertone, ‘that some of those buckos following us are drunk enough to reach out for you. And that is something I will not permit. Do you want to see bloodshed in the street? Is that your aim?’ He was loosening his sword in its scabbard as he spoke.

  ‘Nonsense, that won’t happen,’ Carolina said loftily, choosing to ignore the drunken group that staggered after them.

  ‘Then why did you wear that dress?’ he demanded, low.

  Carolina took two more flaunting steps before she answered him. When she did her voice was tauntingly casual. ‘Oh, I had understood that your old friend, Captain O’Rourke, was in town, and I thought this dress might stir old memories should we chance to meet up with him!’

  Her remark was the more outrageous because it was in thievery dress that she had once asked Shawn to take her away from Tortuga, away from Kells. Shawn had been dazzled by her. They had come near to killing each other over her that day, Kells and his old friend Shawn, and Kells had not forgot it. Beside her, the grey eyes narrowed and began to glitter.

  ‘No, Shawn is not in town,’ he said crisply. ‘He is rumoured to be in Madagascar. You have been misinformed, Christabel.’

  ‘Really?’ she shrugged an indifferent shoulder. ‘No matter, we shall have our walk anyway.’ And inflame others, her mocking tone implied.

  Blithely Carolina ignored the sudden stiffening of the man beside her. She did take note of his lengthening stride.

  ‘You are walking too fast for me,’ she complained. I cannot keep up.’

  ‘Indeed?’ His voice held a tinge of bitterness. ‘I would have thought few men could keep up with you.'

  Carolina’s silver eyes began to flash resentfully. So he was going to take that attitude, was he? That she was in the wrong? Perversely she ignored the fact that she very obviously was in the wrong and like as not to cause a riot, garbed as she was in her present attire. It took a brave man to walk beside her through the gathering dusk of Port Royal.

  But at the moment she could feel only tingling malice towards the tall man who strode beside her. She would make him afraid to leave her here!

  But this boisterous group did not fit her plans. It must be someone more . . .

  Suddenly her lips curved into a wicked smile. There just ahead, strolling towards them with a slightly swaggering gait, was exactly what she was looking for: their neighbour, Louis Deauville, whom Kells insisted was a renegade from his native country, seeking refuge here against being imprisoned for his debts in France.

  ‘Monsieur Deauville.’ Happily, Carolina greeted the Frenchman’s exaggerated bow. ‘How nice to see you walking out this evening. You must tell me, is that coat you are wearing the latest thing from France?’

  ‘You must be suffocating in it, Deauville,’ Kells observed unsmilingly.

  Beneath Carolina’s obvious approval, Louis Deauville’s yellow brocade chest expanded beneath its thick crust of gold embroidery. ‘I was fortunate to find it here in the town,’ he said.

  ‘The buccaneers’ market is a good one,’ remarked Kells.

  Carolina ignored the implication. ‘It is too bad there are no fashion dolls for men,’ she said gaily. ‘I can rarely persuade my husband here to buy himself a new suit. But those cuffs are a miracle! Perhaps you will be good enough to let me borrow your coat so that my husband’s tailor may copy those cuffs in grey and silver while my husband is gone?’

  ‘Ah, I was not aware the gentleman was leaving?’ Deauville glanced speculatively at Kells.

  ‘My plans are uncertain,’ murmured Kells, looking down on Carolina’s bright head with obvious displeasure. Around them their drunken followers stood about, shifting their feet and mumbling to each other.

  Louis Deauville smiled ingratiatingly upon Carolina.

  ‘My entire wardrobe is at your disposal at any time,’ he said with a slight bow that rippled the golden curls of his periwig. ‘As am I!’

  ‘I shall see that you make good that remark, Monsieur Deauville,’ Carolina said recklessly.

  ‘And your lady will need an escort to the governor’s ball while you are gone.’ Louis Deauville turned again to Kells. ‘I understand another one is planned while his visiting cousin is here.’

  Kells’s teeth ground slightly. ‘If my lady attends the governor’s next ball in my absence, she will attend it alone, Deauville. Consider it sufficient if she does you the honour of a dance.’

  ‘Oh, I should hope for somewhat more than that . . .’ The Frenchman’s caressing gaze passed over Carolina.

  ‘Indeed you shall come to dinner next Wednesday merely for having so handsomely offered to escort me,’ declared Carolina.

  Kells frowned down at her. This obvious coquetry - and with a man he did not trust - infuriated him.

  ‘Deauville,’ he said, ‘my lady is overtired. She does not wish me to leave her - you understand?’

  ‘Indeed, I understand very well,’ purred the Frenchman. ‘Mon Dieu, a beautiful lady must have an airing from time to time. I will be the good neighbour while you are gone, Capitaine, and keep your lady from getting lonesome.’

  Carolina was laughing inwardly. It
was going better than she had hoped. She could almost feel Kells’s irritation boiling up in him. If only she could make him jealous enough . . .

  ‘We will talk about it all next week, Monsieur Deauville,’ she said with a slanted look.

  The Frenchman looked delighted - too delighted, Kells thought. ‘You will understand, Deauville, that my lady implies much more than she means,’ he said sternly. ‘It is a bad habit of hers,’ he added with a frown at Carolina.

  Deauville returned him a catlike smile. ‘What a lady means is always open to interpretation,’ he responded suavely.

  ‘She invites you to dinner as thanks for sending her the fashion doll from Paris - it was very good of you.’

  ‘Oh, I will be much more good,’ chuckled Deauville. ‘I will keep your wife entertained while you are gone!’

  It was too much. Kells had a sudden instinct to seize Deauville by the lace at his throat and shake some decorum into him and then to turn this wild wench at his side over his knee and pound some sense into her as well.

  ‘You will not entertain my wife while I am gone,’ he said evenly.

  ‘Indeed?’ The Frenchman did not lack for valour. ‘But while the cat is away, Capitaine, what may not the little mice do?’ His tone was insolent, for he liked not the way this tall fellow was scowling at him. He had sent men to their graves for less! For in France Deauville was accounted a swordsman and a dangerous one. His lace-cuffed hand was creeping towards his rapier even as he spoke.

  Carolina did not catch the gesture.

  ‘While those two fight,’ came a chilling mutter from someone who had joined the drunken group behind her - a mutter that sent sudden shivers down Carolina’s spine as she heard it, ‘we could spirit the girl away.’

  But Kells had caught the remark, too.

  ‘Deauville,’ he said between his teeth, ‘you and I may have our differences and I will give you satisfaction at any time you may desire - but this is neither the time nor the place.’

  ‘Indeed, I see what you mean,’ the Frenchman declared amicably, flashing a set of white teeth in Carolina’s direction.

  And now, thought Carolina, this wicked-looking Frenchman would blandly agree that they must not leave a lady unattended in the wilds of the Port Royal night, they would all stroll home together and on the way he and Kells would become the best of friends - and all her plans to make Kells jealous would have come to naught!

  She spoke quickly. Before she had time to think, her voice rang out. ‘I accept your invitation to squire me to the governor’s ball, Monsieur Deauville.’

  Kells swung around. ‘You will not!’

  Deauville chuckled and swept Carolina a magnificent bow - so deep his golden curls almost brushed the sandy street. ‘I stand in readiness to escort you, ma beauté!'

  ‘Back off, Deauville.’ Kells’s voice had gone crisp. ‘I have already told you that my wife will not accompany you.’

  Deauville was determined not to appear irresolute in the lady’s eyes. He frowned upon the buccaneer. ‘Capitaine, that decision is madame’s alone,’ was his insolent reply, and with the words he stepped backward and slid his long rapier from its scabbard.

  Carolina realized she had carried the game too far. She had never intended to provoke a fight - she had only wanted to arouse flaming jealousy in her lean buccaneer. Panic surged over her.

  ‘Kells,’ she cried. ‘I - ’

  But her voice was lost in Deauville’s fierce, ‘En garde!' and Kells’s swift, ‘Get behind me, Christabel,’ as he drew his own basket-hilted blade from its scabbard.

  There was a roar from the drunken sailors of ‘Give the lads room to fight!’ Men shoved each other back to form a rough circle around the combatants. The pack who had been following Carolina had by now forgotten all about her, for they were faced with the new and enjoyable spectacle of a fight between Kells and this insolent Frenchman, who looked wiry enough to be a swordsman himself.

  Ordinarily, Carolina knew, men about to duel removed their constricting coats and their boots and fought barefoot and shirted on the sand. But this affray had blown up suddenly and neither man was in a mood to pause and doff his boots. In England, in such a case, a challenger would have flung down his glove before his opponent or lightly slapped his face to begin hostilities; in England an appointed hour would have been set, preferably dawn; in England there would have been seconds and rules and decorum. Here in Port Royal there were no rules. Here two lean and formidable men circled each other warily in the fast-falling tropical night. They moved catlike, seeking opportunity, their long swords snaking out restively, each man testing his opponent’s will.

  Then the Frenchman lunged, the blades clashed, both men sprang back - and Carolina quivered. She had been a fool to provoke this - it could end in tragedy.

  It was darker now. Torches had been brought, and the long blades glimmered gold by their light. Lunge and parry, lunge and parry - though their fighting styles differed, they seemed evenly matched. The Frenchman had flair - his sword flashed dramatically and he cried 'Voila! with each thrust. Kells had a deadly accuracy - he fought silently, moving with tireless grace. The torchlight gleamed on their sweating faces. Carolina could see how intent they were, how neither gaze wavered from the other.

  By now, running feet were coming from all directions as word spread that Captain Kells was fighting a Frenchman over the Wench. Men were of no mind to miss the battle, for Kells’s fame as the best blade in the Caribbean was legendary. There was jostling all around, and Carolina felt herself being thrust back against a door.

  To her dismay she saw that they were attracting a large crowd, and as the eager onlookers from the rear surged forward against those in the front, one tipsy sailor lost his footing and fell towards the combatants, lurching awkwardly against Kells’s back. He was immediately seized by his friends and roughly whisked away, but Kells’s slight stagger when the fellow catapulted into him had cost him something. In that moment Deauville’s sharp blade had pierced his sleeve and grazed the flesh beneath.

  ‘Oh-ho, I have pinked you!’ crowed the dancing Frenchman, drawing back a blade that was red on the tip, and Carolina moaned.

  ‘Not deep enough,’ growled his opponent, ignoring the little trickle of blood that dripped down his sleeve to stain the basket hilt of his sword. ‘You will have to do better.’

  Carolina was near to fainting. ‘Oh, stop, stop!’ The words burst from her. ‘I promise I will not go to the ball with anyone!’

  ‘Ah, but you will,’ carolled the Frenchman, delighted that he had managed to draw first blood. 'You will go with me. I, Louis Deauville, insist upon it!’

  The words were not out of his mouth before Kells lunged forward in silent fury. Carolina’s hands were clenched as the two male bodies almost crashed together. The swords clashed with a ringing sound that brought a hoarse roar from the throats of the rapt onlookers. Carolina wanted to cover her eyes with her hands but she could not. Her terrified gaze was riveted on the fighting pair. She saw them stagger apart - she could not tell if either was hurt. And now they were lunging again, they were dancing to the side, the pace of the battle had become lightning-fast - they were here, there, everywhere, so that the crowd was giving way before them. Oh, God, one of the sailors, intent on the spectacle before him, had let a bottle drop from his careless fingers. It was rolling forward under Kells’s feet. Kells had slipped on it, he was falling, Deauville was rushing in - indeed he had a mind to kill his man and make all Port Royal echo to his name. A single thrust would do it!

  9

  A wild scream was welling up from Carolina’s throat - but it was never uttered. It was choked off by a huge hand that snaked around her and slammed down over most of her face, quenching all sound. The door behind her opened, she was jerked through it and it closed again - almost in a single motion.

  So abruptly did it happen that it took Carolina’s breath away. Her mind was awhirl . . . The blood pounded in her head. In that moment she did not know whether K
ells was alive or dead. All she could hear was the wild roaring of the crowd outside, the rattle of cutlasses. But she herself was helpless in the grip of a huge arm that dragged her inside and kept her pinioned with her back forced against the barrel chest of the man who had seized her.

  Over his rough hand, she could see that they were in a small low-ceilinged room. She guessed she must have been pulled into one of the small houses occupied by prostitutes that dotted this part of the street. The room itself was dingy and sparsely furnished, containing a wooden table, two benches, a cupboard and an untidy bed from which the room’s only other occupant, a floridfaced woman with brightly hennaed hair, clad only in a black laced corset, fancy red satin garters and high-heeled shoes, now leapt to her feet.

  'Gor'! she cried. ‘What’s this, Trott?’

  The man Trott, who had dragged Carolina inside and was having some difficulty holding on to his wildly struggling burden, answered her with a growl. ‘This here’s our fortune, Emmy.’

  Peering closer at Carolina, Emmy shrank back. "Tis the Silver Wench! Captain Kells’ll kill us!’ Beneath the red ochre smeared upon her cheeks her face paled, and even her big white thighs began to shake, sending the ribands on her red garters dancing.

  ‘No, he won’t!’ snapped Trott. ‘Kells is outside fightin’ with a Frenchie, and the Frenchie just downed him. Nary a soul saw me pull the Wench in, they’s all watchin’ the fight. And when they do miss her, they’ll think she’s run away somewheres. Now where can we hide her, Emmy? Think quick, woman!’

  But Emmy had no need to think quick - no opportunity even. Behind them the door burst open, propelled by a booted foot, and Kells himself, blade out and flashing at the end of a long arm, leapt into the room. He looked dishevelled and a little trickle of blood ran down his swordarm to soak in red the lace at his wrist, but he seemed otherwise unhurt. The burning gaze of his grey eyes made them look like hot embers in his dark face as he advanced menacingly upon Trott.