***
“It’s getting late.”
Savarina touched Morwena on the shoulder, drawing her attention away from where Elias and Kit were entertaining guests with an energetic flamenco. “I’ll put your father to bed, Morwena. You go and enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, Sava.” She kissed her aunt, this woman who had so calmly and steadfastly stepped into the role of mother that she had hardly ever noticed.
She stretched her legs, feeling the pull of aching calves. If only she could soak her feet. She did not feel up to dancing, but knew protestations of tiredness would be ignored and someone would inevitably draw her from her seat.
Perhaps a walk in the cool of the evening would help.
Staying at the outer edge of the lamplight, she managed to slip away unnoticed and followed the path that brought her down toward the creek cutting across the bottom of the lawn. The moon illuminated a flat rock at the creek’s edge. She removed her stockings and shoes and perched herself on the edge until her feet and ankles were covered by the chilled water, her insteps caressed by its fast flow.
“May I join you?”
Morwena tried hard to prevent the rumble of Jonathan’s voice touching that place in her heart which she had tried to keep under lock and key.
She could not answer, yet he sat down anyway, cross-legged and faced her.
“I’ve missed you,” said Jonathan.
She looked up at him then, surprised to see the uncertainty in his expression.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she confessed, and as she did so, that door opened a little wider, letting in warmth. Jonathan’s face expressed relief, but he did not move any closer.
“Yeh-nay tahfach, my sweetheart, what are we going to do?”
“I wish I knew. I’ve tried so hard to tell myself I had mistaken love in the gratitude for everything you’ve done for our family over this past year, and if I just gave myself time, my heart would know it, too.”
Jonathan reached forward and took her hand then lifted it to his lips. It raised goose bumps along her arms. She recalled the last time those lips touched hers. She fought the emotion rising oh-so-close to the surface.
“My feelings for you haven’t changed,” he said. Jonathan tugged her hand and she found herself in his lap with her toes just grazing the surface of the water. The tension between them grew, her body silently begging him for a kiss.
Jonathan read her desire and his mouth covered hers. She savored the taste of it, of red wine and coffee, and she breathed in the sandalwood scent from his skin. When their lips parted, she searched his face looking for any doubt, any uncertainty.
“Tell me, Jonathan,” she whispered. “Tell me what you feel.”
“I’m afraid of losing you.”
“What of Mellesse?”
Jonathan’s eyes closed and squeezed tight. “I have already lost her. She’s dead and there’s nothing I can do to change that fact,” he said.
She pressed a hand on his shoulder and gained her feet. “Being afraid of losing me, too, is not the same as loving me. A man will cling to any piece of wreckage to keep himself from drowning.”
Silence fell between them.
Cheers from the reception, wishing long life and happiness to the departing newlyweds reached her. Per cent'anni! A hundred years!
“We should go back,” said Jonathan.
She wondered if his words had more than one meaning.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Have you seen Hardacre? He’s been missing for three days.” Jonathan could not hide the note of accusation in his voice.
Elias stopped sweeping. He mopped his brow and leaned on the broom. He looked equally irritated.
“The last time I saw him, he told me Ahmed Sharrouf had returned to Palermo and made contact.”
Bidatam! Jonathan let the profanity roll around in his head a moment before he verbally vented. “What is that pale-headed idiot think he’s playing at?”
“It’s Kaddouri. Sharrouf has news he would only share with Kit.”
“And you let him go alone?”
“No, I didn’t let him go alone,” Elias bit back. Jonathan took that as evidence of the man’s own concern. “I followed them. Two of Sharrouf’s men jumped me. Now I have a goose egg on the back of my skull for my troubles. Now make yourself useful and grab another broom.”
Jonathan obliged. Soon, both men were scrubbing the deck of the Terpsichore, joining other members of the crew, equally hard at work at making the ship spotless.
“So what’s the plan?” Jonathan asked.
“Kit said to stay put. He left sealed orders to be opened in three months if he didn’t return. In them, he said if there’s been no word from him in all that time, we sell everything and distribute the money to the crew.”
“You opened his orders? I never figured you as a rule breaker, Preacher.”
“I never follow stupid rules.”
Elias glanced across at him at they worked. “Gus is checking records with the harbor master to try to find out which ship Sharrouf came in on. Giorgio has taken a couple of men to scour the taverns for information.
“And while we’re at it, where have you been for the past two days? You never returned with us after Nico’s wedding. I assumed you were staying with Morwena and her family. Yesterday, I found out that she hasn’t seen you.”
“I needed time to think.”
“Did it help?”
“I don’t know.”
And he really didn’t know. Morwena’s accusation that night had cut deep – partly because she was right.
He wanted Morwena with a passion and was swept along by her own. He could think of a hundred reasons why he loved her and only one reason why he shouldn’t.
The ghost of Mellesse came between them still.
More and more frequently in that shadow place of his dreams, he would find himself making love to one woman and waking up alongside another. It did no good to tell himself he was not responsible for what went on in his mind during those nocturnal hours.
Was he ready to remarry? Part of him cried yes! Another part was afraid – afraid to give his whole heart, his whole life to another, only have it brutally and cruelly ripped away from him again. If he were to lose Morwena as he had lost Mellesse, he would not be able to bear it.
“Hey! Mr. Afua!”
Jonathan stopped sweeping and looked up to find young Marco, the cabin boy, waving a piece of paper in his direction.
“You’ve got a letter, Mr. Afua. There’s funny writing on it. It must be from your home.”
Home. Even that was a debatable proposition.
Jonathan thanked the boy and handed him the broom in exchange for the letter. He headed below deck, glancing at the front. It was from Osman. Unable to wait, he broke the seal with his thumb and unfolded the letter.
Dear Tewodros,
I have received word from your brother, Azmera. Several years ago, Hamid Addisu had sounded him about who he supported as regent. Azmera said he told Addisu he had pledged loyalty to Ras Wold Salassie as his father had before him. Addisu left and your brother thought nothing more of it.
On receiving your letter, he made inquiries and learned as Enderase, Salassie had Hamid Addisu executed for treason a year ago for trying to help Balambaras Asserat stage another rebellion against Emperor Egwale Seyon. No more is known about his fate than that. I am sorry. I know you hoped to learn more. In the light of what little we do know, I have myself wondered if perhaps Addisu sought to warn your brother he was loyal to the “wrong” side by aiding in your kidnap. I may be wrong but it seems as good an explanation as any.
And I do think Selassie is an excellent ruler. He is keen to develop more trade with the Europeans but, as you know, Gugsa has created tremendous difficulties, having removed many rival nobles from their lands.
Cousin, I wish to thank you for your introduction to your friend, Miss Gambino. She has written and increased the order for coffee fourfold. I like her very mu
ch, although I’m sure not as much as you do. Perhaps it is time to make her a part of our family, although it is not for me to tell you your business.
In the memory of your father and my father, who are brothers, I wish you Godspeed and blessings,
Osman
Jonathan had finished reading the letter by the time he’d reached his cabin. He conjured up Addisu in his mind, slit his throat and watched in satisfaction as the man slipped to the ground, his life’s blood pouring out like water.
And he said, What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground. Except it was not Abel’s voice that cried out, it was that of Mellesse and their daughters who, it seemed, had been killed just so Addisu could make a point.
Jonathan’s rage erupted. He punched the wall – and nearly doubled over with agony. His knuckles screamed with the violence of it, fiery tendrils of pain shot up his arm and into his shoulder.
Black spots appeared before his eyes and Jonathan sank to his cot. He held his crippled hand and slowly stretched out his fingers, testing them and remonstrating with himself. What was the point in hurting himself? A damaged hand risked being unable to play the violin – another pleasure in his life stupidly taken away.
He closed his eyes. Now the only man left who knew the entire story was Kaddouri and, thanks to Kit Hardacre, fate seemed to be charting them on a collision course.
Some time passed and Jonathan must have dozed, because he awakened with a start at a sharp rap at the door.
“Our prodigal son has returned,” said Elias, standing in the doorway. “And he looks none the worse for it. But he is in a mad tear to see Lord William. I persuaded him he wouldn’t get forty feet inside his villa looking like he does at the moment. Tomorrow, when he’s rested, washed and shaved will be soon enough. But he wants you to go with him.”
Jonathan swung his feet to the floor but kept his throbbing right hand close to his chest and hoped Elias wouldn’t notice.
“Why me?”
Elias simply shrugged.
Jonathan returned to the deck to find Hardacre stripped of his clothes and settling into a tin bath as Marco poured another ewer of hot water in. The captain sluiced his face. Water dripped from a three-day growth of beard. He seemed none the worse for wear but he was in one of his exuberant moods.
He was speaking rapidly, giving orders as he bathed. Jonathan came into his line of sight and he was waved over.
“Marco, get Mr. Afua some paper and a pencil.”
The boy ran off to do his bidding.
“Are you looking for a secretary now? You’ve called on the wrong man.”
Hardacre flashed him a look but otherwise didn’t halt his ablutions. “We have two weeks to pull this together. We don’t have time for a pissing match.”
Jonathan was about to reach out to take the writing implements Marco offered when he remembered his hurt and swollen hand.
“Just tell me, I’ll remember.”
“Suit yourself. Get Morwena working on this immediately.”
Hardacre rattled off a list of supplies. “That’s not going to be a problem, is it?”
Jonathan gave him a level look. “None at all, Captain.”
“Then get going.”
Resentment fueled Jonathan’s walk from the dock to the via Ballaro. He was Jonathan Tewodros Afua, son of a noble family. He was not a slave, not a servant, not an errand boy – and yet here he was…
Sometimes, he resented Hardacre.
He wanted revenge.
He needed Hardacre.
What he didn’t want was the cool, disinterested look in Morwena’s eyes when he barreled through the door of the shop.
“You’re early this month, sir,” she said loudly and somewhat theatrically. “The shipment of nails is not expected in until next week.”
Another couple of men were in the store, mulling over a sample of the porcelain dinnerware that Gambino’s now sold. One of the men placed an order and they left.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, speaking now in her normal voice. “Is anything amiss?”
“Yes. No,” Jonathan shook his head. “Quick, write this down before I forget it and Hardacre has my hide.”
He rattled off the list, battling against the throbbing pain in his hand.
Morwena did so without argument, then told him to wait before disappearing into the back of the shop. She returned a few minutes later with a bowl, a bandage and pungent herbs he couldn’t identify.
“Put your hand in this. It’s just cold water, it will make it feel better.” Her voice was soothing and he found himself falling into it. The water felt wonderful, too, and he chanced a wiggle of his fingers. It had been several hours since he punched the wall so idiotically. At least now he was reassured his hand wasn’t actually broken. He gave Morwena an enquiring glance.
“I saw you favor your right hand,” she said.” When Pietro was young, he got into a fight with another boy. Mama put his hand in water to reduce the swelling and used an aloe and basil ointment to reduce the pain. May I?”
Jonathan removed his hand from the bowl. Morwena gently dabbed it dry, keeping her eyes on his, no doubt looking for signs of discomfort.
“Did you want to massage the ointment in yourself? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You do it.”
A slight color rose in her cheek which enchanted him. Despite the hard road ahead of them, he knew Morwena still cared, still felt something for him. Her touch was tentative at first, the ointment sliding down each finger. Even as sore as his bruised hand was, another part of his body began to ache.
Morwena turned his hand over, cradling the back of it in her own while she massaged the palm with her other hand.
“You won’t hurt me, press harder.”
The thumb to the center of his palm was agony and ecstasy at once. Water pricked behind his eyes, so he closed them. Morwena halted. He placed his good hand on hers and she continued.
He breathed deep, filling his lungs with the aromatics of herbs, now conscious that Morwena’s forehead nearly touched his as she massaged his bruised fingers, healing them. Healing him.
“I’m a broken man,” he whispered. “Help me, Morwena.”
***
“What the hell are you two doing here? How did you get past my adjutant?”
Bentinck glanced at Jonathan, who kept his expression impassive. Kit, on the other hand, wore such an arrogant smirk that the governor quite rightly vented his ire at the Terpsichore’s captain.
The redder Bentinck became in the face, the more delighted Kit seemed to be.
“Get out!”
“Surely not, my lord, especially when we bring you a gift.”
Jonathan raised his arms at the same time as Hardacre did, offering, in total, four bottles of very expensive, high quality Madeira.
Bentinck fought a smile. “You just bought yourselves a minute a bottle, gentlemen. What do you want?”
“A small amount of information.”
“What makes you think I have any to give you?” Bentinck parried.
“Because Admiral Fremantle’s ship, The Milford, has just returned, General,” Jonathan added. It was time the Englishman realized there was more than one man to reckon with here.
“Might I suggest you could do your cause a deal of good here by offering a show of force to the Bey of Tunis along with your petition to release the Sicilian captives? And we are in a position to provide you with the latest intelligence without you tipping your hand.”
“So what do you get out of this deal?”
“Just allow us to tag along,” Kit answered. “Fremantle has eighty ships at his disposal. No one is going to notice an extra schooner. There is one rat in particular that we want to flush out.”
“This Kaddouri character, eh? You never did get around to telling me about your special interest in him.”
“Would one dead slaver make a difference to you, if it could mean the return of nearly
four hundred men?”
“It depends, Hardacre. Would it make the Queen of Naples more kindly disposed to me?”
“You may not be able to win the regard of a queen, but you can do so much more for the people,” said Jonathan. “People can only thrive when they have certainty. A man has a right to hold what is his own – his property, his livelihood. No one has the right to own his fellow man. Each soul is sovereign and, in the fullness of time, becomes answerable to God. Every man has the right to justice and equality before the law.”
Bentinck’s full attention settled on Jonathan.
“You seem to be well versed in the concept of English Common Law.”
“Common law is a common right – or at least it should be – for all people. I know what it is like for a king to take away everything one owns, and the evil that lingers when there is no recourse to justice.”
Jonathan paused for a moment before continuing. “Bring those captives home, General. It will send a powerful message – to the people of Sicily and to the corsairs of the Barbary Coast that Great Britain brings peace and the rule of law, not the rule of tyranny.”
“If only there were more people as progressive as you, Mr. Afua.”
Jonathan inclined his head in acknowledgement of the compliment, his pride further burnished by the fact Bentinck remembered his name after only having met him once before, and that in the shade of his captain’s overblown performance.
The English aristocrat turned to Hardacre.
“I have Napoleon prodding my arse, the slings and arrows of a truculent Bourbon monarch, bloody barbarians nipping at my heels, and carrion back in Westminster waiting to pick over the corpse of my political career. Do what you have to do – but I don’t want to know about it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Bagrada
Jonathan’s stomach soured.
Even though it had been more than a year since his captivity there, the very sound of its name reminded him there was work still to finish, a past that could not draw to a close until he had answers.
“Bagrada. Are you sure?” Elias asked. “We’ve sailed by several times over the past six months and there’s no noteworthy activity there.”
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