Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  All at once, the hot rush of her anger began to seep away beneath a sudden onslaught of joy. Stubbornly, she tried to reclaim her outrage. What he had done was cruel, unforgivable. He no longer deserved her love, only her contempt. But even as her inner voice raged on, she knew all that mattered was that her father had returned to her.

  “Oh, Papa,” she softly cried, and flung herself into his familiar arms.

  She caught but a glimpse of his grateful smile before he pulled her to him.

  “I'm sorry, child, I'm sorry,” he murmured, his voice breaking on a sob, as well. “I never meant to hurt you, and the entire time I kept an eye on you as best I could.”

  “You did?”

  Abruptly, she pulled back to stare at him as realization struck. “Why, that was you on the ship to Savannah...and later, on the Retribution,” she exclaimed with a choked little laugh. “You were the man with the bushy beard and with your hat pulled halfway over your face.”

  “I was rather proud of that disguise,” Arvin admitted. “The only one who recognized me was Christophe, on the way to Savannah, and only because I took my hat off once.”

  “Christophe?” she echoed with a frown. “Then that must have had something to do with why he refused to accompany us the rest of the way.”

  Arvin nodded, then lowered his voice as he explained, “I felt obliged to confess to him and enlist his help. If your Mr. Northrup did not take the bait and follow you on to Bimini, then Christophe had instructions to use whatever means necessary to put him on that boat. You see, I could not risk failure...not at that point.”

  Before Halia could make any reply to that equally unexpected revelation, however, O'Neill broke in on their conversation.

  “Sure and 'tis the: touching scene, this father and daughter reunion,” he said with a chill smile, “but 'tis time now to greet our new guest.”

  Malcolm. Dear Lord, she had almost forgotten him.

  Halia glanced off the side to see the skiff was almost upon them. Malcolm was alone, and one corner of her mind marveled at how well he managed the small vessel for a man who professed ignorance of anything related to the sea. By now, he had maneuvered the boat up alongside them.

  An ungainly thud told the tale that he had overshot his mark and rammed the Golden Wolf’s hull. With a cry, Halia rushed to the side to see if he had capsized.

  “Bloody hell,” she heard him curse in disgust.

  The skiff was intact and, apparently, so was he. She smothered a relieved smile and watched as one of the crew tossed him a line. He had managed to furl the sail and was lashing the tiny craft to the larger vessel.

  By now, a good portion of the Golden Wolf’s crew had sauntered toward the side to watch this doubtful display of seamanship. O'Neill, too, joined her and Arvin at the rail. She noted in some surprise that, rather than taking umbrage at the injury to his vessel, the captain appeared amused.

  “Malcolm, me boy, did you not learn any better all the time we spent together?” he called down as he tossed over a rope ladder. “Sure, and 'tis fair embarrassed I am, to call ye my brother.”

  “Brother!” Halia gasped.

  She stared at O'Neill, wondering if this were some jest on his part. To be sure, she had noted a resemblance between him and Malcolm, but she had chalked it up to coincidence. Never had she suspected that they were—

  “Half-brothers, actually,” Malcolm coldly corrected in his best Sir John accents as he swung a leg over the railing to stand before them. “Our mutual father, the Earl of Northrup, had a way with the ladies, for all that he proved a singularly ineffective parent. Speaking of which—”

  He broke off to glance at Arvin, who had the good grace to look somewhat abashed.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Davenport,” he went on. “You and I have already met outside a tavern in Philadelphia, was it not? I believe there is the small matter to be resolved of five hundred dollars that I paid for a spurious set of coordinates.”

  “Sure, and that's something the two of ye can work out later. Right now, we have more pressing issues to discuss,” O'Neill interjected, his tone lazy though his blue eyes held a chill glint.

  Malcolm matched him with an air of equal unconcern. “Indeed. If I understood your note correctly, you seem to think I have something that belongs to you.”

  “I bloody well know ye have it. I'll be wanting me emerald back, and no more of yer tricks.”

  By now, he and Malcolm had moved away from the rail, positioning themselves slightly apart from the crew as they faced each other like a pair of pugilists. The logical corner of Halia's mind reflexively fell to comparing them.

  O'Neill, she decided, was the embodiment of the beast from which his ship, the Golden Wolf, had taken its name. She could sense in him a barely checked ferocity that, once loosed, surely could not be readily calmed. With the pack that was his crew at his command, he would prove a formidable enemy.

  As for Malcolm, he had the sleek lean grace of the panther that walked alone, by choice. Cunning, rather than ferocity, would be his watchword...though whether he could prove a match for O'Neill, she could not guess.

  Now, Malcolm shot his half-brother a wry look. “Even if I did have your bauble—and I'm not saying that I do—suppose that I'm not inclined to give it up?”

  “Then yer pretty young friend will be paying the price.”

  Before Halia could react, O'Neill spun about and caught hold of her, the crook of one arm tightening around her throat as he drew her in front of him like a shield. With his other hand, he whipped out his knife and pressed the tip of its blade to her cheek.

  She stiffened in his grasp, all other sensation lost in the feel of cold steel against her tender flesh. Vaguely, she was aware of her father's cry of protest, quickly cut short. What Malcolm's reaction was, she could not tell. If she shifted enough to meet his gaze, the blade would surely draw blood.

  O'Neill's breath was warm against her ear as he softly said, “I'll not be wishing to harm her, but I will if ye won't be doing as I ask.”

  “Not to tell you how to conduct your business,” Malcolm lightly countered, “but it seems you've taken quite a lot for granted, here. What makes you think I care a bloody fig for what happens to the chit?”

  By way of reply, O'Neill increased the pressure on his blade, so that the tip nicked her flesh. Halia bit back a reflexive cry of pain and tried not to flinch when she felt a warm drop of what could only be blood slide down her cheek.

  ”Ye may not care for her, me boy,” came the pirate's equally cool reply, “but I know ye've a weak stomach. Sure, and I don't think ye'll care to stand by and watch me slice her pretty face to ribbons. Now, tell me, what have you done with Poseidon's Tear?”

  “Ah, well, let me think.”

  His tone held deliberate challenge, so that she nearly swooned in panic. Why was he taunting the brigand, when her very life might be at stake? Had she been wrong, and Malcolm had no feeling for her, after all?

  She sensed rather than saw the two men's gazes lock, felt rather than witnessed the almost palpable tension. Brothers or not, no love was lost between them…of that, she was certain.

  Her fear now was that, caught as she was in the middle of this long-fought battle between them, she might prove to be the ultimate victim.

  Finally, Malcolm broke the stalemate.

  “Indeed, it has just occurred to me that I do have the emerald, after all,” he carelessly conceded. “I suppose I might be persuaded to give it up for a fair price…say, twenty thousand American dollars. And perhaps you might throw in Miss Davenport, for good measure.”

  “'Tis no time for jests, me boy,” the pirate softly countered, even as Halia, mindful of the blade to her face, choked back a sound of outrage. Throw her in, indeed! “Ye'll give me the emerald for the girl, and no dickering about it.”

  Malcolm lifted a wry brow. “If that's your best offer, then I suppose I must accept it. Why don't I just take the skiff and—”

  “Sure, and ye don't think I'l
l be letting you sail off, just like that? Ye'll wait here aboard the Golden Wolf while yer man Wilkie goes back to Savannah for the emerald.”

  “Actually, it won't be necessary to send anyone anywhere. It just so happens that I brought Poseidon's Tear to Bimini with me...for luck, you might say.”

  Surprise—or else certainty that he had gained Malcolm's cooperation—caused O'Neill to drop his knife from Halia's face. Though he kept his grip firmly about her throat, she was able now to watch the proceedings.

  ”Ye mean, yer carrying about a bloody king's ransom in yer waistcoat pocket?” O'Neill demanded.

  Malcolm gave the ghost of a self-deprecating smile and shook his head. “Not exactly. The stone is back at the guest house—and hidden quite well, I might add.”

  O'Neill stood silent a moment before allowing himself a bark of a laugh. “Only ye, me boy, would be so bold, or else, so foolish. But ye've saved us a good deal of time, for all that. Ye'll send word for someone to bring it, while ye wait with us here.”

  “I suppose I could. Still—”

  He broke off to glance heavenward. Halia followed his gaze, the small sigh of relief she'd allowed herself at regaining a bit of her freedom dying on her lips.

  The sky was completely overcast now, she realized with a frown. Moreover, so preoccupied had she been these past minutes, she had not noticed the breeze strengthening into a wind that now was tugging at her skirt and ruffling the loose wisps of hair about her face.

  She decided with a flicker of unease that a storm was definitely moving in.

  ”—would suggest you let me go back for the emerald, myself,” Malcolm was saying. “Otherwise, I would first have to get a message to Wilkie. He, in turn, would have to track down the gem and then find some way to bring it out to the ship. We might well be in the midst of a nasty gale by that time.”

  “Sure, and ye think I would trust ye not to make a run for it?”

  “But where would I go? This is an island, and you've seen for yourself that I am no sailor. And one more thing,” he persisted in a reasonable tone when the pirate remained silent, “given the poor luck you've had of late, even if Wilkie could manage his way out here, he might end up being washed overboard—and the emerald, with him—if the storm hits early.”

  “'Tis a valid point, and one that bears thinking on,” O'Neill replied with a careless shrug of his own. “Ye'll not be trying to take the skiff back to the mainland in these conditions—not if ye value yer hide the way I know ye do.”

  “Then do we have a deal?”

  ”Ye have two hours. I'll meet ye ashore, at the west entrance point to the harbor. Come alone with the emerald, and we'll make our trade there—the gem for Miss Davenport. But keep in mind that, if ye don't show up, the girl will suffer for it.”

  Malcolm briefly consulted his gold timepiece, and then carelessly tucked it away.

  “Fair enough,” he conceded, “if you agree that it will be just the three of us ashore. I don't care for these odds”—he gave a dismissive gesture toward the gathered crewmen—“and I'm bloody well not going to give you the chance to make off with the emerald and Miss Davenport, both.”

  “Malcolm, me boy, do you think I'd do me own brother that way?” O'Neill softly replied in a tone of mock injury. Then, with a shrug, he finished, “Just the three of us...and Poseidon's Tear.”

  Halia found herself suddenly freed as, with that decisive reply, the pirate released his grip and carelessly thrust her in the direction of her father. Arvin, who stood near the railing, reached to steady her.

  “Don't worry child,” he murmured, his fatherly embrace reassuring. “O'Neill is harsh but, to this point, he's been a man of his word. You'll be safe enough, I warrant—that is, if Northrup makes good on his part of the bargain.”

  But what if he doesn't? a quavering inner voice asked as she clutched at her father for reassurance. What then?

  For she had no idea of Malcolm's true feelings for her. Though her own emotions had undergone a change since their first meeting, she had no guarantee that his had, as well. For all she knew, those few moments of shared passion that night in the courtyard had been but an aberration on his part. It could well be that he would have no qualms about keeping his emerald and leaving her to her fate.

  Then, for the first time since O'Neill had seized her, Malcolm glanced her way. She saw with a sinking heart that his dark gaze was expressionless ...the bland, unsettling look of a man with no stake, one way or the other, in the outcome.

  Even as she vowed not to let either of them see her fear, Malcolm had crossed the few steps back to the railing, where the rope ladder still was tied. He paused before her, and then drew his handkerchief from his pocket.

  “Nice gown, luv,” he murmured as he lightly dabbed the trickle of blood from her cheek, “but a bit formal for this time of day, don't you think?”

  Then, tucking the silken square back into his jacket, he swung a leg over the side and began climbing down the rope ladder.

  “Mind ye, two hours and not a moment more,” O'Neill called down to him as Malcolm shoved off in the direction of the harbor again. Then, turning back to Halia and her father, he shrugged. “'Tis fair aggravating, having a brother that'll steal ye blind, given the chance.”

  Halia made no reply to his facetious observation, for her gaze was focused on the departing skiff as it inexpertly mastered the choppy waters. Though Malcolm's tending to her nicked cheek had seemed a gesture of concern—or even tenderness—the mocking words that followed had cut just as surely as had O'Neill's knife.

  “Come, child,” Arvin gently insisted, interrupting her uneasy thoughts as he took her by the arm. “We'll wait in my quarters until it is time.”

  She nodded, sparing another look for the skiff and then glancing O'Neill's way once more. The pair of them seemingly forgotten, he had turned back to his crew and was issuing curt orders to counter the changing winds.

  Surely he would not harm her over a gem, valuable as it might be, she reassured herself as she and her father started toward below deck. His chilling words had been just a threat, but a means to bend Malcolm to his bidding.

  Then the pirate's cool blue gaze settled on her once more, and she knew she was wrong. Should Malcolm not show, O'Neill would dispatch her with the careless ease of a man ridding himself of a pair of boots that pinched. As for her father, chances were he would suffer the same fate.

  A chill sense of hopelessness washed over her. She could not begin to predict which role Malcolm would take in the next two hours—that of savior or scoundrel. All she knew with any certainty was that her fate lay in his hands and that she simply would have to trust him to do what was right.

  ###

  She was counting on him to do what was right, Malcolm wryly realized as he guided the skiff back toward the slip where Wilkie and Rolle were waiting for him. What a bloody joke that was, considering how he'd spent the greater portion of his years doing the opposite. And in this case, the right thing meant trading his hard-won emerald for Halia's release from his brother.

  Thoughtfully, he plucked his handkerchief from his pocket and studied it. The snowy white cotton was marred by a crimson smear of blood. Halia's blood.

  His reaction to that bit of drama on Seamus's part had taken him by surprise. He'd needed every ounce of self-control he could muster to remain calm as he watched the pirate nick her golden skin with his blade. It had been the sight of that single drop of blood tracing a tear-like path down her cheek that had almost been his undoing. In that moment, he could have easily murdered Seamus with his bare hands, half-brother or not.

  “Fool,” he muttered, though whom the word was meant for, he was not certain.

  Christ, he didn't even know what his true feelings for Halia were. For all he knew, Lally's voodoo spell still had him in its grip, so that this odd emotion that held him might be nothing but an illusion. Should he give up the emerald, he might well find he had sacrificed a fortune of a gem for a woman who, when the po
tions wore off, he might learn he despised.

  On the other hand, he might realize after the fact that he'd had it in his power to rescue the woman he truly loved but had done nothing to save her, after all.

  As the skiff reached the pier and Rolle caught the line he tossed, Malcolm grimly made his decision. One day, he might regret taking such a course; still, he could not concern himself with the hazy future.

  What he had to do, he would do...and as for the consequences, he would just have to live with them.

  ~ Chapter 20 ~

  “Sure, and I knew I was fool to trust him,” O'Neill said in disgust as he flipped shut the cover of his pocket watch. He rose from the flat rock where he'd made himself comfortable to spare a glance at Halia. “’Tis a quarter hour past the time we agreed upon. It seems my brother has made his choice, and yers for ye.”

  “But maybe he's just been delayed,” she protested as a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool rising wind that now swept her. “Give him another few minutes, and I'm sure he will come.”

  But would he?

  Clenching her hands together to still their trembling, she rose from her perch on a driftwood log. Barefooted still, she padded a few steps from the shoreline off which the Golden Wolf lay anchored and surveyed the area before her.

  O'Neill had landed his ship's dinghy on the island's southernmost point, a broad sandbar dotted with limestone outcroppings and littered with broken conch shells. She guessed that under normal conditions it would be a peaceful spot. Today, however, pewter-colored waves slapped at the shoreline with uncommon impatience, sending white foam splattering onto the beach.

  Clumps of scrubby, dark green vegetation interspersed with patches of anemic-looking grasses bravely resisted the onslaught. A few yards inland and past the high-tide line, the white sand gave way to an almost forest-like vista of mangroves and vines. Malcolm would have to negotiate his way through that maze, surely no easy task for someone on foot.