“We can’t let Father know about this,” said Morwena. “Especially if Pietro is involved.”
“You think this is Pietro?”
“You followed the man. Didn’t it look like him?”
Nico’s shoulders slumped. “It did, I suppose. I... I guess I didn’t want to believe he was that far gone with these criminals.”
She rested a hand on his shoulder. “I know. But he’s played his hand. All of his fine words about wanting to be part of the family again are the lies we know them to be.”
“You go and board up the window. I’ll talk to our neighbors and let them know what’s happened.”
***
The tall, slim figure standing on the dock looked out of place. Not just because he was African and not just because everyone around him was rugged up in thick coats of black and dark blue while he wore a white tunic over which a red cloak rested.
It was because he stood stock still while everyone around him bustled.
“Osman!”
Jonathan didn’t wait for the lines to be secured before he vaulted over the side, ignoring the rebuke of his knees and ankles. He clasped his cousin’s hands in greeting and grinned from ear to ear.
“When did you arrive?”
“Three days ago. It’s good to see you, Cousin.”
Osman was aged in his forties and only the steel grey of his hair gave any hint of his years.
“So where have you been staying?”
“A place not far from here, Hotel de France,” he answered. “You didn’t mention where you were living.”
“I just sailed in on her.”
Osman looked over his shoulder to the Terpsichore and laughed. “Oh, if only your brother could see you now.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“You mean that floating coffin? I suppose she’s seaworthy enough for a couple of days’ travel, but to live on her?”
By now, half the crew of the Terpsichore was on the deck, peering over the side – and Kit Hardacre was among them.
“I wouldn’t say that too loudly. Those men up there are proud of their ship, particularly their captain.”
Jonathan pointed and, as though he knew, Hardacre jumped up, balanced on the rail and called down.
“Invite your friend aboard, Mr. Afua.”
Osman shrugged his shoulders casually, his amusement still evident. “Of course, of course – I wouldn’t insult our hosts.”
Then he paused, studying Jonathan closely, his expression now serious. “You’re looking well. Very well, in fact.”
“Did you expect anything different?”
Osman shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen you in European clothing. That’s going to take a little getting used to... and you have been through an ordeal. I’ve known of men who have suffered less and been destroyed by it.”
Jonathan tuned out the shouts and yells of the dockworkers and the Terpsichore crew as the ship was secured. Instead, he concentrated on what his cousin was saying. Osman was an understated man. What he didn’t say often meant more than what he did.
He would have to sharpen his observations once again to pick up the subtle mannerisms that would reveal Osman’s true thoughts. Jonathan had become habituated to the plain speaking of the Sicilians – everyone seemed to wear their hearts on their sleeves – particularly Morwena.
“Perhaps, you have found something here, as well as Divine mercy to help you,” he said.
Yes. He would have to be particularly careful around Osman. But he could obfuscate with the rest of them. He extended his arm, directing his cousin toward the gangplank.
He introduced Osman to Kit and Elias, then the other members of the crew. While they unloaded the cargo, Jonathan gave his cousin a tour of the ship and ended up in the cabin he shared with Elias.
“My house slave has a room bigger than this,” he remarked, glancing at the two bunks and hesitating over which one to sit on. Osman correctly guessed by virtue of the fact that a half-finished toy – a Nile crocodile on wheels whose jaw would snap open and closed when pulled – lay on his bed.
“If you’re trying to make me homesick, it’s not working.”
Osman smiled. He picked up the toy and played with it, idly. “Your mother and your brothers miss you.”
“Trying to make me feel guilty won’t work either – they are long since used to my sojourns. There is no life for me in Ethiopia any more – there is a world for me to explore.”
“But you have not abandoned everything,” Osman countered, holding up the toy. “Belkis, she would be three, wouldn’t she?”
“Nearly five,” Jonathan answered, his voice hoarse.
“And yet, you still make toys for them.”
His cousin was on dangerous ground. His memories of Mellesse and his girls were precious, he kept them tightly to his chest, but he was afraid. Afraid that with the passage of time he would forget the scent of myrrh and cinnamon on Mellesse’s skin, Debre’s ceaseless curiosity, Belkis’ sweet nature, and Hagos’ giggles.
In his trunk, there were mementos from his travels on the Terpsichore; he kept up a habit of fifteen years in collecting a keepsake from every place he roamed – a finely embroidered scarf, a lion carved of stone, a shell necklace – all gifts for his girls.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Osman put down the crocodile and rose to his feet. Once more, Jonathan felt the evaluation – the judgment – of his cousin.
Two sharp raps on the door frame were a relief. Elias stood in the doorway.
“Kit’s suggested one of the quality ristorantes to dine tonight – we don’t have much to serve our guest until we reprovision.”
Jonathan breathed out. “Good idea. I never complain about Giorgio’s cooking, but the man can’t create something out of nothing.”
“The one at Piazza Conte Federico?” Elias suggested. “It’s just a short walk from Morwena’s place. Perhaps, she would like to join us. We’ll have a lot to catch up on.”
Jonathan nodded, doing his best to keep his expression neutral.
Elias left, completely oblivious to the rising tension. Jonathan watched to see if Osman was similarly unaware.
“Mor-wen-a, an unusual name,” Osman remarked. “This woman is the one you wrote me about? Who is interested in selling our coffee?”
Jonathan nodded. If there was one thing that could throw this hunting dog off the scent it was the distraction of commerce.
“Her father owns the ironmongers store. She runs it and we have employed her as our quartermaster.” Jonathan was rather pleased with that explanation. It was simple, elegant and true. Osman could discuss their mutual interests to his heart’s content and never once guess he was beginning to have feelings for her.
“Come,” he continued, his hand scrubbing at a three-week-old beard. “After nearly a month at sea and only salt water to wash with, I’m no fit company, and there is an excellent Turkish bath two blocks away.”
There was that look in Osman’s eye again, the one that suggested he knew more than he would let on. Jonathan met it directly and held it.
Search my eyes, Cousin. See if you know me as well as you think you do.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
It was cold, but Morwena could care less.
She hadn’t realized how much she missed Jonathan until she received the invitation to dine with the crew of the Terpsichore at the nearby ristorante.
There, he introduced her to his cousin, Osman. She liked him, although they had to work hard to talk to one another. In the end, each knew enough lingua franca to discuss trade. They agreed to meet again in the next couple of days so she could introduce him to some wholesalers she knew.
He didn’t seem at all surprised to learn she was in trade. In fact, he was quite fascinated. They talked about profit margins and record keeping. He asked about her family and she learned that Osman was Jonathan’s cousin on their fathers’ side.
As much as she lov
ed the high spirits of her “brothers” of the Terpsichore, Morwena hoped to spend some time with Jonathan alone. It came when he offered to walk her home.
They started out walking shoulder-to-shoulder down the now quiet streets and laneways wet with rain from a passing shower. She brushed her hand against his and he took it. Skin touched skin and, after a moment, her fingers were threaded through his. The heat of his body at her side warmed her from within.
Perhaps he would kiss her again.
The thought brought a tingle to her lips.
They rounded the corner into the via Ballaro. She could see the windows of her home. She stopped mid-stroll.
“What’s wrong?” Jonathan asked.
“There are no lights on.”
“Perhaps there is no one home.”
“There should be. Father was going to make a start on the books tonight and Nico was going to prepare the inventory for a customer to collect tomorrow.”
“It’s late, perhaps they turned in.”
Out of habit, Morwena rattled the door knob on the front door of the shop. To her surprise, it opened.
“Nico knows better than to neglect locking up the shop...”
She glanced at Jonathan; his posture was already alert. He stepped through the door ahead of her. It was silent in the shop and dark.
“Where do you keep the lamps?” he whispered.
She took his hand in hers once again and led him to the counter. She felt under the shelves and pulled out two candles, a flint and a striker.
Nothing was obviously missing from the shop shelves. While Jonathan took a careful walk around, lighting the lamps, Morwena cast her small light along the shelves under the counter. The small strongbox with the daily cash float was missing.
“I will kill Nico when I see him,” she breathed out harshly. “Of all the irresponsible –”
“Shhhh!”
Jonathan placed a finger to his lips and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where the apartment was overhead.
She heard it, too, the sound of a soft thump. Jonathan cautiously drew a crowbar from several in a barrel and headed toward the curtain that separated the shop from the rest of the house. Morwena followed. Light spilled in across the floor where the main door stood ajar.
“Morwena, go to your neighbor’s house and stay there.”
“This is my house, I’m –”
“Don’t argue!”
She heard as well as felt her jaw snap shut. By now, Jonathan had edged closer to the stairs and peered up.
There were more sounds from up there.
She started to back away as the thought occurred to her. If Nico and Thomasso were upstairs, why hadn’t they called down to her? Why were there no lights on upstairs? She and Jonathan hadn’t been so silent their presence would not have been known.
Jonathan put his foot on the first tread and looked back at her.
“Morwena, go.”
Then he climbed another step.
She went back out into the alley. A bitterly cold wind gusted through, whipping her cloak around her legs. There were lights on above the stationer’s shop just a few yards ahead.
A figure stepped out and blocked her path. She spun on her heels to run the length of the alley but made only two yards before she was grabbed. She let out a muffled scream, her mouth filled with wool from a gloved hand.
“Morwena, you’re back at last. You don’t know how I’ve worried about you.”
Another face loomed out of the blackness and leered at her.
“Let’s take her with us.”
“No,” answered Pietro. “Not yet. Sister needs to run a few errands for me in the morning. Tie her up and lock her in the storeroom, I’ll finish the business I came here for.
***
Morwena started awake to the sound of steady rain. She’d shed no tears. Her anger wouldn’t allow that, but the frustration at her own helplessness had given her a headache. At least she’d worked the gag from her mouth.
Pietro! Bastard!
The storeroom behind the shop was musty, but soft, grey light filtered through the transom windows which were, sadly, too narrow for her to climb through. And the door was locked.
Of course, it was locked.
Even that would not have been so much of an obstacle had she not been bound hand and foot. Her only advantage was her older brother had underestimated her. If she could reach the box where she stored the chisels, she could use a sharp blade to free her hands and feet.
That was the hard part.
Patience was a virtue which Morwena did not readily possess. And she saw the chisels on the shelf at shoulder height. How on earth was she going to get it? Teeth ground against teeth.
Pig’s Misery!
Perhaps, she could dislodge the box by knocking the shelf. She squirmed in as close as she could and pushed up. Pain radiated across her collar bone but nothing moved. She screeched her frustration and kicked a barrel. Now her toes hurt.
Outside, thunder rumbled. No, that wasn’t thunder. That sounded like someone was falling downstairs.
“Pietro? Pietro! Have you fallen on your arse? Let me out of here!”
What if it wasn’t Pietro?
She should arm herself. How? Just getting to her feet was struggle enough.
“Hey! Get me out of here before I...”
What exactly?
“Shut up little voice,” she grumbled to herself.
Thud!
Something hit the thick, timber door.
Thud!
Pietro had the key, why would he bashing down the door?
“Jonathan?”
The banging stopped and Morwena could hear a rough, panting voice from the other side of it
“Morwena?”
She sank to her knees in relief as he answered.
“Morwena!”
She started, then realized she hadn’t answered him back.
“I’m here! I’m all right!”
The banging at the door started again. She rolled toward it.
“Jonathan.”
“I’ll get you out of there, sweetheart...”
“Jonathan, stop! Before you hurt yourself – and break perfectly good hinges. Turn around and look at the staircase. Go to where it meets the wall. There’s a small panel sitting flush below the stair tread, push it in. There is a spring behind it that should push out a little drawer. There will be a ring with duplicate keys.”
She strained her ears and heard an acknowledgement of surprise and the scrape of wood as he pulled the hidden drawer out.
“Ingenious! How come Pietro didn’t know about this?”
“Nobody knows about it. I made it when Papa was going through one of his absentminded spells. He would lose the keys to everything and panic. He would tear the house apart looking for them. So I had a second set of keys made and built the secret drawer.”
His voice came close to the door. “You work with tools?”
She heard the jangle of keys and gained her feet, grimacing at the dust on her skirts. She couldn’t even make herself look respectable.
“One doesn’t grow up in an ironmongers shop with two brothers and not learn something of use.”
She sighed and propped herself up against a barrel to listen as Jonathan tried another key.
“So what other useful things do you know?”
“I know I am going to kill my older brother when I see him.”
“Hmmm.”
“Why don’t you just hurry up and get me out of here?”
“Patience, my dear. It is one of the virtues and, besides, perhaps you’re safer in there until your temper cools.”
“Get me out or I will kill you and my brother.”
For a moment, she wondered if he was stifling a laugh. Yes, she did have a temper, but it wasn’t as dark as all that. If she could make him laugh, then that was a good thing. It was good for both of them right now.
The door opened, bathing the storeroom in light. She blinked against it
. Jonathan’s arms encircled her for a moment then he dropped to his knees and untied the rope at her feet. His hands, large and strong around her scraped and bruised ankles, felt like a warm balm. He stood and then his hands were gently turning her around to free her hands.
She rested her head against his shoulder. She hadn’t realized how cold she was until he was near.
She looked up at him. There was a cut on his brow. Was he bruised? She couldn’t tell, but there were abrasions around his wrists where he had been bound.
“Don’t worry about me, I’m not too badly hurt,” he said in answer to her searching look. “A blow to the back of my head, but I managed to get a couple of good punches in first.” He stretched out and curled his fingers in proof. His smile faded.
“Morwena, you said Pietro was here. Well, there’s no sign of Thomasso or Nico anywhere in the house. I’d just finished searching upstairs when I heard you below. Can you think of anywhere they might have gone – or been taken?”
Morwena shook her head.
“While I was a bit dazed, I thought I heard someone mention a villa-something...” Jonathan frowned suddenly and started to sway on his feet.
“You’re not well! Come sit down. Can you make it upstairs?”
She slipped her arm around his back and, together, they hobbled up the stairs and into the sitting room where Jonathan eased himself down onto the sofa, bringing Morwena with him.
“What are we going to do, Jonathan?” she whispered. The fire of her anger had now cooled to ash.
“First of all, we talk to your neighbors and find out when they last saw your father and brother.”
“There’s something more you should know,” added Morwena. She told him about the brick through the window and the accompanying threat.
“Our neighbors want this to end. It’s not right, these thugs who threaten hard working people. These criminals take money they haven’t earned and make people afraid to stand up to them. It has to stop.”
The distress became too much. She rested her head on Jonathan’s shoulder and wept.
***
Morwena was the strongest woman he’d ever met, but even someone as strong as she had her limits.
Shadow of the Corsairs Page 19
