Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  Her yellow and crimson shift was wrapped sarong-like over her lush curves, the gleaming fabric an exotic contrast to her coffee-colored skin. She wore her black hair twisted into Medusan braids that were, in turn, adorned with glass beads of every hue. Gold bangles the size of small saucers swung from her earlobes in tinkling counterpoint to the loops of gold that adorned both her wrists and throat.

  She was handsome, rather than beautiful. Her thickly chiseled features bespoke an undiluted African heritage, though she had been born in that melting pot that was the Caribbean. Halia had never been quite certain of the other woman's age—though she must have been well into her middle years—for hers was the smooth, unwrinkled skin that many black women possessed and which any female might envy.

  As always, Lally gave no indication that she heard or saw anything untoward. Whether her reaction was prompted by sheer pride or simple disinterest, Halia never was entirely certain. Lally's demeanor was that of a princess set among peasants and, indeed, she often claimed descent from tribal royalty. Halia had little doubt that the woman spoke the truth, especially at such moments.

  Halia was unable to disregard the boorish behavior of other passengers. Indignation flared in her breast on behalf of the woman who was not so much employee as friend. Why, Lally had been like a second mother to her, had all but raised her after her own mother had died.

  What difference did it make that her skin was of a darker hue and her clothing of decidedly flamboyant cut? She had as much right as any other passenger to be seated in the dining room, given that she held a first class passage.

  With an effort, Halia returned her attention to Lally's words of a moment before.

  “Trouble,” she echoed with a small sigh. “I presume you are talking about Mr. Northrup. Has he tried another escape, then?”

  ”Dat man, he better not be tryin' to get by me.”

  Lally's generous lips curved into a chill smile that boded ill for the man—or woman—who crossed her. Idly, she toyed with her glass of Chablis before her cool expression of amusement gave way to a heated frown.

  ”Dat trouble, it be for you. My spirits, they be tellin' me this.”

  “Really, Lally, you know I don't believe in spirits.”

  But the other woman did, Halia knew. Lally had never bothered to conceal the fact she was a voodooienne...a practitioner of that spirit worship practiced in the Caribbean islands. For her part, Halia took pains to be respectful of the other woman's religion; still, she suspected that Lally's success as a voodoo priestess had less to do with supernatural intervention and more to do with the force of her personality.

  Halia considered the matter a moment longer while her friend busied herself with the bowl of clear broth before her. She had witnessed several of Lally's public rituals—melodramatic blends of primitive superstition and solemn Roman Catholic liturgy. She could see how persons less attuned to the forces of logic than she might succumb to the power of such diversions. For herself, she admired the other woman's theatrical flare but gave no credence to the results.

  It was only in the name of scientific zeal, she assured herself, that she would delve more deeply into this particular message from the beyond.

  “Very well, what sort of trouble do the spirits claim that Mr. Northrup will cause us?”

  ” You, ” the other woman corrected again. “It's you dat be gettin' the trouble. The spirits, they say you not to be givin' your heart to him.”

  “Giving my heart to him?” Halia echoed, feeling a blush steal over her cheeks. “Why, you make it sound as if I were considering Mr. Northrup as a suitor. Be assured that the only thing about him that interests me is his ill-gotten gains.”

  “You be tellin' yourself dat now, but my spirits, they know better. They know he be havin' designs on you, and you on him. Trouble, dat's what he be bringin' you.”

  And the rest of us.

  Halia read those unspoken words in Lally's expression. The woman elaborated no further, however. She merely turned her attention back to her wineglass, as if the straw-colored liquid held the answer to this troubled vision. Halia felt her blush deepen, even as she chided herself for letting Lally's words have any effect on her.

  She did not believe in voodoo prophecies, she sternly reminded herself. The fact that she experienced an odd flutter in the pit of her stomach whenever she was in the Englishman's presence was hardly a sign of tender feelings. More likely, it was the result of nervousness over what was to come...that, or an indication she did not yet have her sea legs.

  With a decisive shake of her head, she dismissed Lally's doleful predictions.

  “So long as we keep him securely in his cabin, I fail to see how Mr. Northrup can be a problem. After all, we will be rid of him by tomorrow afternoon, when the ship makes port in Savannah. I assure you I am well able to guard my heart for that small space of time.”

  “The spirits, they be knowin' better.”

  With that final, sour warning, Lally reached for her utensils. She attacked her portion of beef with such vigor that Halia suspected the woman was picturing a certain Englishman being served up before her, instead. The mental image drew a reluctant smile from her.

  Malcolm Northrup might be an accomplished swindler, but his suave manner would be no match for Lally and her voodoo spells.

  ###

  “Here, lad, come a bit closer,” Malcolm coaxed in his best Sir John tones. Doing his damnedest to ignore his throbbing head and the unsettling pitch of the ship, he arranged his features into an expression of benign supplication. “I do promise I won't bite you.”

  The lad in question, an overweight boy of perhaps ten years, remained where he stood and eyed him doubtfully. Clad in a miniature version of the white sailor suit and jaunty beribboned cap worn by members of the ship's crew, the lad had spent the past half hour since breakfast racing about the upper deck and generally annoying his fellow passengers. Having apparently tired of that particular sport, he had gallumped his way down to the main deck in search of new diversion...and unwittingly become the possible means of salvation for Malcolm.

  “My momma says you're a crazy man and I'm not s'posed to talk to you,” the boy finally declared, planting pudgy fists upon his hips. “She says she doesn't know why the captain even let you on board. She says it's a wonder you haven't murdered us in our cabins yet. She says—”

  “Ah, but your dear mother has been sadly misled,” Malcolm hastily cut short any further words of maternal wisdom. “I am hardly a lunatic and certainly no threat to anyone, least of all you.”

  “So why are you tied up?”

  At the blunt question, Malcolm felt a muscle in his right cheek begin to twitch. Bloody little beggar could use a good caning, he sourly determined and swept his gaze about the deck to see if perhaps more sympathetic assistance lay within hailing distance. As it was, however, the other passengers were giving him wide berth, presumably warned off by his ersatz cousin, Miss Halia Davenport.

  Halia.

  At the thought of the little green-eyed baggage, he bit back an oath. No matter how this unpleasant episode finally ended up, he would make her pay for the ignominy he had thus far suffered, particularly this latest bit of degradation. He spared a glance at his bound wrists, lashed by a yard's length of cord to the ship's wooden railing. Then, again schooling his features into a pleasant expression, he returned his attention to the boy before him.

  “In answer to your very perceptive question, my dear lad, that is precisely why I am appealing to you. You see, I am no villain but am the victim of a terrible crime. It is the young woman with whom I am traveling who is not quite well. Indeed, she and her servants have taken me captive for nefarious purposes.”

  ”N-Nefar—what?”

  “Nefarious. It means vicious...immoral.”

  The boy gaped, bemusement and suspicion warring across his flabby features as he struggled with the unwieldy words. Finally, with a child's unerring reduction of matters to their basics, he blurted, “You mean,
they're the bad ones?”

  “I fear that is so,” Malcolm confirmed with a sober nod. “Moreover, you are the only person on this entire ship to whom I have yet dared confide my plight... and you are the only one who can help me prove the truth.”

  ”M-Me?”

  With that squeak of a word, the boy moved a half-dozen steps closer. Malcolm nodded again, suppressing his own triumphant response as he sensed that victory was, quite literally, almost within his grasp.

  “The first thing we must do is cut me loose,” he went on. “Perhaps your mother has a pair of sewing scissors in her valise that you might fetch, or else you might slip into the galley and borrow a knife.”

  “Henry Robert Peterson, get away from that madman, at once!”

  The frantic female screech from the deck above caused him and the aforementioned Henry to give a guilty start. As one, they jerked their gazes upward to see a plump, middle-aged matron in gray striped bombazine waving a parasol.

  “But Momma, I—”

  “Come here now, young man! And as for you”—she pointed her furled weapon threateningly in Malcolm's direction—“you are a monster, daring to accost my innocent son like that...”

  She trailed off into a wordless sputter and clasped one plump, gloved hand to her equally ample bosom, which was heaving like a twin bellows. Young Henry, meanwhile, thrust out his lower lip in protest but moved to comply.

  “Got to go now, mister,” he muttered and clomped off in the direction of the stairs.

  With resignation, Malcolm watched the redoubtable Mrs. Peterson reclaim her offspring and then scurry off, presumably in search of the captain. No doubt she would render a hysterical account of her child's presumed near abduction, after which Malcolm would find himself subjected either to constant scrutiny or total ostracism.

  With a sound of disgust, he turned and propped his elbows atop the railing to gaze out over the gray water. He'd always been a poor sailor, prone to seasickness on even the calmest water, and his injury made him more vulnerable than usual to the ship's pitching. Still, even incipient queasiness could not dampen his enthusiasm for the sight before him.

  Land…and more importantly, freedom.

  “And not a bloody way to reach it,” he muttered, swallowing back the salty taste that had risen in his mouth. Longingly, he gazed at the Eastern shore, a rolling rise of green-ridged white sand separated from the steamer by a smooth expanse of glittering blue water.

  The shoreline lay a quarter of a mile away, he judged, perhaps a bit more. A strong swimmer could make the crossing handily. Unfortunately, he could not paddle a stroke.

  “Enjoying the view, Mr. Northrup?”

  At the sound of Halia Davenport's cool voice behind him, Malcolm spun about, only to be jerked back against the rail again as he stretched to the limit of the rope securing him. The rasp of hemp against bare flesh was another indignity that further soured his foul mood.

  “I am sorry if I startled you,” she apologized, though her chin was raised in a challenging gesture that robbed the words of much of their sincerity, “but I fear we have a few matters to discuss before we dock.”

  “Do we, now?”

  Malcolm shot her a defiant scowl, reflecting as he did so, that it was bloody lucky for the chit that she was out of reach. Otherwise, his fingers would be wrapped around her slim throat by now, choking some sense into her. Indeed, he had pictured that very scene in vivid detail a dozen times over the past four-and-twenty hours that he had spent tied to his berth following his abortive attempt at escape yesterday morning.

  Halia must have read something of his thoughts in his expression, for she took a prudent step back and chose a different tack.

  “I am relieved to see you up and around,” she began again in a composed tone, as if she habitually conversed with fettered gentlemen. “Lally said that your health was much improved this morning, so that she saw no harm in allowing you up from your bed to take the air. She is quite the healer, is she not?”

  ”A bloody miracle worker,” he replied through clenched teeth as Halia was momentarily distracted by the approach of a grim-faced crew member. A look of distress marred her cameo profile as she swiftly made her way toward the seaman. Certain their discussion would entail his recent encounter with young Master Peterson, Malcolm shrugged and let his thoughts drift back to earlier that morning.

  Though Lally's foul ointments did seem to have hastened his healing, he was in no mood to sing the woman's praises. Not when his pride—and certain other portions of his anatomy—still smarted from his other treatment while in her care. Hell, the bloody female had not so much allowed him from his bed as dragged him from it by the ear! Deterred from protest by the glowering presence of Christophe beside her, he'd had no choice but to let her tie his wrists before him and march him up on deck like a naughty schoolboy.

  Malcolm's frown deepened at the memory. Once on deck, he had managed to twist free of Lally's crablike pinch long enough to take a step toward freedom, only to be felled by her well-placed kick to his hindquarters.

  Dat be teachin' you, had been the Haitian woman's only comment, but her triumphant expression spoke volumes.

  Head spinning, he had not even struggled when Christophe hauled him to his feet again and dragged him to the railing. Then, while the scattering of passengers gaped in interest, Lally had used a second length of thick cord to secure his bound wrists to the railing. Save for his brief encounter with young Henry, he had spent the next hour alone and in fair imitation of a cart horse awaiting its master's return.

  Adding both servants to his growing list of malefactors, he turned his attention back to Halia. Her murmured exchange of words with the sailor ended, and Halia gave him a nod and rejoined Malcolm.

  “I fear, Mr. Northrup, that you have caused no little distress among some of the passengers,” she rebuked him, her full lips drawn into tight lines of disapproval. ”A certain Mrs. Peterson claims you seized her child and threatened to cut his throat.”

  “I did no such thing!” Malcolm shot back and drew himself up with injured dignity. “I merely asked the bloody little...lad to bring me a knife so I could cut myself free.”

  “Oh.”

  He noted in grim amusement the flicker of relief that passed over her features before she resumed her disapproving air.

  “Be that as it may, Mr. Northrup, you have proved that I cannot trust you to remain unattended under any circumstances. The captain has requested—and I really must concur—that you should remain tied to your bunk for the duration of our journey.”

  The muscle in his cheek began to twitch again as he favored Halia with a smile that verged upon a sneer.

  “You must forgive me, Miss Davenport, if I do not greet your announcement with any great enthusiasm. The fact that I have already spent a day and a night lashed to a narrow berth atop a mattress no thicker than the London Gazette has quite soured my spirits. Besides which,” he finished with a gesture at his bandaged forehead, “I am surprised that you would give no better consideration to someone who has suffered an injury such as mine...and at your hand, I may add.”

  ”I-I am quite sorry for that.”

  With those contrite words, her green gaze flickered away to leave him with a view of her delicately chiseled profile. He noted in satisfaction the swift flush that stained her golden cheek, along with the slightest trembling of her full lips that bespoke consternation.

  And you bloody well should feel guilty, he thought with a trace of self-pity, for the gash along his temple continued to pain him. His wince as he settled back against the rail again was not entirely feigned. Neither was his impatience as he demanded, “So when are we due in Savannah?”

  “By noon, or so the captain has assured me.”

  She turned back to him, her features composed once more. Not for the first time, Malcolm allowed that had the circumstances been different, he would have been tempted to seduce the chit. He had always had a weakness for green-eyed, blond sirens, no doubt due
to the fact that his first lover—a woman of five-and-thirty to his fifteen years—had possessed hair the color of spun gold and eyes the color of emeralds.

  Malcolm suppressed a wry twist of his lips that could not quite be called a smile. The woman in question had been as cold and hard as a cut gem, too...just as had all of the women with whom he had carried on prolonged affairs over the years. Most had been married, and none had wanted any sort of commitment from him, save for his undivided attention during the hours they had spent together in bed.

  Swiftly, he revised his assessment of Halia, deciding that she would not have suited, after all. She was an unsettling combination of cool logic and heated emotion, as changeable as sea foam on the waves. He required of his women the same characteristics as he sought in his whiskey—smoothly aged, obscenely expensive, and sharp-edged enough that he was never tempted to drink more than his fill.

  She, on the other hand, would demand far more of a man than a quick tumble. That did not mean, however, that he could not extract some measure of enjoyment toying with the chit until such time he escaped her clutches.

  “So tell me, Miss Davenport,” he blandly asked, “can you suggest a way I might enjoyably pass the next few hours, given the fact I am to be confined to my bed?”

  He raised a sardonic brow and waited for her gasp of mortified outrage at this not-so-subtle innuendo. Instead, she coolly surveyed him from head to foot for a long moment. Then she favored him with a slow smile of promise that sent instinctive anticipation humming through his veins.

  “Indeed, Mr. Northrup,” she softly replied, “I know just the thing to occupy you for a time...but I must warn you that it will require the removal of your clothing.”

  ~ Chapter 5 ~

  “‘In the interior of the temple the roof was of ivory, adorned everywhere with gold and silver and orichaleum; all the other parts of the walls and pillars and floors they lined with orichaleum.’ ”