“Excuse me, sir.”
Dekker glanced down, annoyed at the youthful voice that interrupted his thoughts. The cook’s ketelbinkie stood there, the accident-prone Tiy. The boy had just returned from the Heemskerk, where the doctor had to bandage yet another of his fingers. The youth was as clumsy as an ox and about as bright.
“What do you want?”
“The doctor sent this for you,” the boy said, holding up a small pouch. “I told him one of our officers was complaining of aching teeth, and he said you should mix this with your pottage or drink it down with water.” The boy handed over the bag and clasped his hands behind his back. “I believe it’s lemon rind, sir.”
Witt sniffed the pouch and shrugged. “So it would seem.”
The boy bobbed his head and was about to leave, but Witt reached out and caught his shoulder. “Ketelbinkie—did you see the doctor’s wife while you were aboard the Heemskerk?”
The lad’s mouth curved into an unconscious smile. “Ja, sir, I did.”
Witt dipped his head slightly. “Is the lady well?”
A worried, thoughtful expression flitted across the boy’s face, and Witt reached out to pat him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Do not worry on her account, my lad. She and I are old friends. I knew her in Batavia.”
“Oh.” The boy’s features relaxed. “She is well, sir, and painting so much that there is little room to move in the doctor’s cabin. But her pictures are marvelous! I am certain she will be a rich and famous artist when we return. She is a very great lady.”
“Her—a great lady?” Dekker scoffed. “Have you forgotten that a few weeks ago she was a ketelbinkie like you?”
The boy stiffened in dignified outrage. “She wore a disguise, sir.” He glanced quickly left and right, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The doctor explained it to me. His wife is descended from an Irish king and had to masquerade as a boy to escape some bit of trouble in her family’s past. But after they return to Batavia, the doctor and his wife are planning to sail to Europe, where she can sell her art.”
Dekker rubbed his hand over his mouth, hiding his smile of amusement. What sort of story had the wench fed her doting husband? Irish Annie, a princess? This was too rich, too ridiculous to be believed!
“Thank you, boy.” Witt turned toward the railing and lifted his spyglass, searching the Heemskerk for any sign of that Titian-haired royalty. “I cannot wait to congratulate the lady on her bright future.”
One week later, Dekker was on deck when a sudden, cold, lucid thought struck him: He was approaching his problem from the wrong direction. With the old man and the girl dead, he stood to receive ten thousand pounds, payable as soon as he returned to Batavia. But the remaining ten thousand pounds of the girl’s inheritance would undoubtedly find its way into Dempsey Jasper’s purse. Why should that scoundrel profit? He had done nothing, while Dekker had been scorned by the wench, insulted by her husband, and kept from sleep by fretful thoughts of how and when he would kill her. Most trying of all, ever since he’d seen her kissing Sterling Thorne, Dekker had burned for her with an obsessive attraction he could not afford to indulge.
So why not let the vixen live? She was still in disguise, that much was evident from the ketelbinkie’s story. She had found happiness and love with her pious doctor husband, who believed her a well-bred lady. Ha! If he knew the truth, he’d run from her like a chicken from a dog. For Sterling Thorne was every inch an English gentleman, priding himself on his godliness, his sobriety, his proper and courtly behavior. If he knew he had taken a harlot to his bed …
Witt doubled over with laughter. No wonder the good doctor eagerly volunteered to wed the wench! She had not only sold him a cock-and-bull story about her origins; undoubtedly she’d given him many happy nights as well.
“It is so simple,” he whispered, inhaling deeply to catch his breath. “How blind I have been! How irresistibly delicious the answer is!”
Dekker threw back his head and exhaled a long sign of contentment. He would spare Aidan O’Connor’s life. She would inherit twenty thousand pounds soon after they arrived and the old man’s estate was settled. Witt could take his ten thousand pounds from her and demand another thousand pounds per month for the rest of his life. Why kill a charmed goose when one could collect the golden eggs? If she truly was as talented as everyone said, he could grow rich along with her.
And he would follow her. To England, to Ireland, wherever she went. He was a man of the sea, accustomed to travel, without a home of his own. But her money could buy him a nice slice of life in any port town, and if she truly loved her noble husband, she’d pay anything for Witt Dekker’s silence.
Witt rubbed his nose and leaned against the rail, suddenly eager to return to Batavia. Ten thousand pounds could buy a lot of pleasure in that port.
In the midst of sketching a caterpillar she’d seen on the Friendly Islands, Aidan heard voices on the sea. She leaned toward the porthole, cautiously peeking to see which of the Zeehaen’s seamen was coming aboard. She had been delighted to see Tiy recently, though the lad had come with another nasty cut on his finger. She had listened to him prattle for several minutes while Sterling stitched up the cut, then lost herself in her painting and nearly forgot the boy was there.
The barge was too close to the ship for her to get a good look, so she put down her sketch board and pencil and thrust her head through the porthole. The vessel rode the crystal clear water below, and a shirtless seaman lay across one of the benches. Even from this distance she could see that one of his arms lay bent at an unnatural angle. His face was as pale as paper, his long hair wet with sweat.
“Sterling,” she called, pulling her head back into the cabin. “The Zeehaen has sent a barge, and there’s a wounded man aboard. He doesn’t look good.”
“What is it, a cut?” Sterling moved to the porthole and rested his hand upon her shoulder with easy familiarity.
“A broken arm, I think.” Aidan picked up her sketch board again. “He’s still in the boat, but his mates have come aboard.”
A sharp knock interrupted her, and Sterling pushed the door open. Aidan felt a cold hand pass down her spine when she saw Witt Dekker standing outside.
“We need a doctor,” he said simply, nodding to Sterling. “There’s an injured man—”
“How dare you show yourself in front of my wife?” Sterling demanded, a thread of warning in his voice. “It’s bad enough we must meet. I had hoped to spare her the sight of your face for the remainder of the voyage.”
A grimace of pain crossed Dekker’s face, as if someone had unexpectedly slapped him. “I beg your pardon, Doctor,” he said,removing his hat, “but necessity compels me to seek you. And while I am here,” his eyes shifted to Aidan, and he bowed slightly, “I thought to take this opportunity to humbly beg your wife’s forgiveness and pardon. I am not certain what happened so many days ago at the Friendly Islands, but I know I behaved abominably.”
Aidan cut a glance from Dekker to her husband. Sterling blinked, but his features had hardened in a stare of disapproval. “Unless my wife wishes to see you—”
Dekker laughed gently and held up his hand. “Doctor, I’m afraid our meeting is unavoidable. And lately my conscience has been troubled. I know you have borne me ill will ever since that disgraceful day, and I have come to apologize. I was out of my mind with fever and I had drunk too much.” He lowered his head in an attitude of shame. “I know it is not a worthy excuse, but it is a reason. And though I do not fully recall what happened, I know that I vexed you, sir, and I am certain I frightened your gentle wife. And for that—” His gaze caught and held Aidan’s. “—I most sincerely do apologize and beg your forgiveness. I would not harm such a gentle lady for all the world’s treasures.”
Sterling did not answer, but looked toward Aidan, awaiting her response. Flustered, she dropped her pencil and reached for it on the floor, grateful for an opportunity to shield her face from both men’s prying eyes. What did they want of
her? Sterling, she knew, would welcome Dekker or cast him off, depending upon her wishes, but could she afford to be hostile toward a man who knew her secret past? And why had he threatened to kill her? She had done him no harm, she could not even recall meeting Dekker at the tavern.
She straightened in her chair and slowly lifted her gaze to Dekker’s. His dark brown eyes were soft and dreamy, as cloudy as a March sky, with no sign of malice or hostility. Sterling would honor her wishes, but Aidan knew he would be pleased if she could forgive, for peacemaking was part of his nature.
Perhaps she had heard the rum talking that horrible day.
“You are forgiven, sir,” she said.
“Ah.” Dekker thumped his hat against his breast in gratitude. “Thank you, Mejoffer. I was beginning to fear that of all the men aboard this ship, I alone would feel your rancor. All the other men speak of your kindness, and I feared I would never know your smile—”
“Didn’t you come on behalf of an injured man?” Sterling interrupted pointedly.
“He remains in the barge.” Dekker gestured toward the starboard rail. His lips curved in an expression that hardly deserved to be called a smile. “I will let you precede me, Doctor, for two of us will upset the boat, and you are the one with the expertise in these matters.”
Sterling stepped through the doorway, then hesitated. He glanced back at Aidan, who sat stock-still in her chair, and gave her a fleeting smile. “I’ll return in a moment,” he said, his gaze shifting back to Dekker. “I will not be long.”
“Of course not.” Dekker airily waved him away. “And I have other business on board.”
Aidan picked up her sketch board and pencil again, sighing in relief when she heard the heavy clump of footsteps moving away. The first mate’s apology might have been sincere, but she would never feel at ease around him. She moved her pencil over the paper in a downward slant, then nearly jumped out of her skin when Dekker’s voice sliced through her thoughts.
“My dear Mejoffer—”
Aidan felt a lurch in her stomach, the scratch of fear upon her spine as Dekker stepped into the cabin and closed the door.
“What do you want?” She clutched her sketch board to her chest. “Get out now, before I scream through the porthole. A score of men are working right outside this window—”
“I would not harm a hair on your pretty head,” Dekker answered, settling himself comfortably upon Sterling’s bunk. “I have come here today to discuss business. And because I am certain your husband means to come back quickly, I will be brief.”
“What business could I possibly have with you?” Aidan spoke calmly, but with the eerie sense of detachment that comes with an awareness of impending disaster. This man could not possibly bring good news.
Placing his two forefingers together, Dekker pressed them against his lips, his eyes twinkling like dark stars as he studied her.
“You should know, Mejoffer,” he said, folding his hands together in a comfortable gesture, “that the old gentleman, Heer Van Dyck, rewrote his will before departing Batavia. Upon his death, which unfortunately has come, you will receive an amount of several thousand English pounds. Upon your return to Batavia, you will be a prosperous heiress—but perhaps you already knew this.”
Aidan stared at him, feeling as though he had punched her in the stomach. Heer Van Dyck left her money? Why? He had already given her so much—his time, his thoughts, the benefit of his experience. His estate belonged to his children; it was inconceivable that he should leave such a sum to her.
“Why—who—how would you know that?”
Dekker shrugged. “Before we departed, a gentleman called Dempsey Jasper offered me five thousand pounds to kill you. It seems that Van Dyck’s children—”
“They want what is rightfully theirs,” Aidan stammered in bewilderment. “And I don’t blame them. I never asked Heer Van Dyck for money.”
“The children want you to go away,” Dekker countered softly, mockingly. “They do not want it known that their father consorted with a barmaid. They are far more concerned with their reputations than with the money—that is why, I suppose, I was to be so well paid for killing you. Though, of course, Dempsey agreed to double the amount should the old man die too.” A cold smile twisted Dekker’s face. “So I suppose they are not entirely unconcerned with their own inheritance.”
“By heaven, no—” Shock blocked the words in Aidan’s throat. Dempsey Jasper wanted both her and her master dead? Could he possibly hate that much? He had always been the picture of a perfect gentleman, the dutiful son-in-law.
Then another thought careened through her brain. Appearances were not what they seemed. Witt Dekker was lounging across from her now like a perfect gentleman, but his hands had once twisted her neck while he threatened to kill her.
“You really did mean it, didn’t you?” she whispered. “Back there on the island—you really would have killed me.”
“But of course.” His thin mouth curled in a one-sided smile. “And I would have escaped scot-free, too, if that lovesick husband of yours hadn’t been so besotted that he couldn’t stay away an hour.” He must have seen the rising terror in her eyes, for he held out his hand in a gesture meant to be reassuring. “But as I just told you, I wouldn’t harm a hair on your head for all the treasure in the world. I have had time to reconsider, and I hear that your art—” His eyes flickered over the paintings and sketches scattered about the cabin. “—holds great promise. There is a handsome profit in art, particularly in the Dutch ports.” Dekker’s gaze fell upon one of Aidan’s favorite paintings, a watercolor of Sterling standing by the rail at sunset, and his voice softened: “The Dutch are such fools for art.”
“I scarcely believe you care so much for art,” Aidan spat out.
“Well there is money to be made in it,” he said, tilting his head to examine another piece. “And therefore I care a great deal. Enough to offer you a proposition that will enable you to remain happily married and paint for as long as you like.”
With effort, Aidan looked up at him. “What sort of proposition?”
“A simple one.” He gave her a narrow glance, then smiled. “You will collect your inheritance when you return to Batavia, and you will give me the ten thousand pounds I would have earned by killing you. That is only fair, my dear Aidan.”
She flinched at his familiarity. “And then?”
He shrugged. “Then you shall go your way with your husband, but where you go, I shall go.” He bent one knee and propped it on the bunk, then smiled broadly. “That’s part of a poem, isn’t it? Whither thou goest, I shall go?”
“It’s from the Bible.” Aidan gritted her teeth. “Not that I would expect you to read it.”
He laughed as if sincerely amused. “Touché, my dear. In any case, where you go, I will follow, but in the shadows, of course. Your husband need never know I am near. And once a month you shall set aside a thousand pounds for my personal use.” His steady gaze bored into her in silent expectation. “Thus shall we be joined till death do us part.”
Aidan felt everything go silent within her as his mocking words registered in her brain. She looked down at her hands and clasped them together when she realized they were trembling.
“If I do not agree?” she whispered.
Dekker shrugged. “Then I shall have to tell your husband the truth, at the very least. I shall tell him you were one of the barmaids at the Broad Street Tavern, that your mother is one of the oldest procuresses in the wharf district, and that you yourself were a harlot—”
She lifted her chin and met his icy gaze straight on. “That’s a lie!”
His features hardened at her angry retort, and his voice was sharp and cold when he resumed: “It won’t matter. I’ll give him enough truth to make him run back to England without you. And you know I’m right, or you would not have filled his head with that stuff and nonsense about being descended from Irish royalty.”
Aidan brought her hands to her cheeks as color flooded h
er face. How did this man know so much? He held far too much power over her. He might be bluffing—but he hadn’t been pretending when he held her down and promised to break her neck. If Sterling had been only a few moments late, he would have found her lying still and quiet amid the flowers in that hut, just like he found Orabel.
As if he had read her thoughts, Dekker grinned. “You are quite right, lady, to take me seriously. I will tell your husband anything, truth or lie, but if I make up my mind to ruin you, you will be ruined. And if you report this exchange to the authorities in Batavia, I may kill your husband … or even you.” He grinned at her, then reached under the kerchief at his neck and pulled forth a gold chain. Perplexed, Aidan watched in silence until he brandished the ornament upon the chain in her direction. A golden cross hung at the end of the chain, an unmistakable Celtic cross that had once been her father’s … and Orabel’s.
“No!” she moaned. The image of her murdered friend floated across her field of vision. Orabel had been wearing the golden dress Dempsey Jasper had last seen on Aidan, but the cross was missing from the girl’s bruised and broken neck.
“Yes, I killed your little friend,” Witt said, his features suffused with an expression of remarkable malignity. “She wouldn’t tell me where to find you, and at the time I had no idea you had made up your mind to go to sea. But after you revealed yourself at Assassin’s Bay, I knew we’d have this meeting.” His gaze shifted, and his icy demeanor thawed slightly as his eyes focused on her lips. “You should be nicer to me, Irish Annie. I can be a very patient person … if persuaded by the proper inducements.”
Aidan braced her hands on the seat of her chair and looked across at Dekker, whose image had gone slightly blurry. “What is to stop me,” she whispered, scarcely able to form the words, “from killing you?”
The devil threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Do you think,” he said, struggling to contain himself, “that you could?” He paused, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes with the back of his hand, then gave her a hideous smile. “Be assured, lady, that we are linked in life as well as in death. If, by chance, I come to some untimely end, my last breath will be spent whispering your name. If you do not send my money each month, I will confess to any and all that you and I are linked by love. Every woman I kiss will know that she could not possibly compare to my lovely Aidan. So—if I die, when I die, the story of our adulterous love will be whispered in every alley and served up with every round of drinks in the taverns. And because I will remain in your shadow, your husband will undoubtedly hear of it.”
The Golden Cross Page 35
