Taming Charlotte

by Linda Lael Miller

  Patrick was sitting up, his chest bare, his broad back resting against a mountain of pillows. He was gazing out through the center set of French doors, which had been opened earlier to the sea and the fresh air, and he did not look away when Charlotte came in.

  She followed his gaze, saw the Enchantress bobbing on the tide at some distance from shore, her sails pristine against the varying blues of the water and sky. Although the scene was almost unbearably beautiful, or perhaps because of that, Charlotte felt an unaccountable dread.

  “The crewmen—are they recovering?”

  Still Patrick did not turn his eyes from the ship, the “she” he loved beyond all others. “Yes,” he answered. “There have been no more deaths.”

  The room was comfortable with that soft, moist warmth typical of the tropics, but Charlotte shivered all the same. “Then why do you look like that?” she dared to ask. “Anyone would think you’d lost your most cherished friend.”

  “Maybe I have,” Patrick answered, and she saw pain move in the strong lines of his face. Even gauntness and the lack of color could not disguise the aristocratic set of his features. “Maybe I have.”

  Charlotte glanced uneasily toward the beautiful clipper ship gracing the harbor. “What are you saying?” she whispered.

  At last he turned his indigo eyes to her, and she saw despair in them, along with returning health and that innate arrogance she both loved and hated.

  “There will be one more victim of this cursed plague,” he said, in a raspy whisper. Then he looked at the Enchantress again, as though to memorize every line of her, every sail and board.

  Charlotte felt her knees go weak. She put both hands to her face as she recalled Patrick telling her that the dreaded plague had gotten into the very timbers of the ship. “Oh, no,” she said. “No!”

  “She’ll go down after sunset,” Patrick said in a toneless voice, his gaze remaining with his beloved mistress, the graceful ship that had served him so faithfully.

  The rest of the day was tense. Patrick slept and awakened, slept and awakened. Always, when he was conscious, he looked upon the Enchantress, devouring her as hungrily as he had taken Charlotte’s breasts the night before.

  When night had fallen, Patrick dressed himself, at least partially, refusing all help, and staggered out onto the terrace to grip the stone wall in both hands. Charlotte was at his side, ready to break his fall if his strength gave way.

  All day, small boats had moved back and forth between the ship and the shore, carrying charts and maps, bells and fittings, anything that could be saved. Now the little crafts converged on the greater vessel again, alight with torches.

  The Enchantress was boarded; the small patches of fire told them that. She was doused with kerosene from stem to stern, for that had been Patrick’s order, and then set aflame.

  Men scrambled down ropes and even dived, shouting, over the sides as the proud clipper’s decks flared with fire. Charlotte linked her arm with Patrick’s, ignoring his resistance, as crimson flames licked at the masts, danced along the rigging, and finally caught the sails.

  The ship was a sight of glorious tragedy as it burned against the blackened sky, and in its reflected light Charlotte saw a tear slide down Patrick’s pale cheek to lose itself in the dark stubble of his beard.

  “The Vikings used to burn their ships when they could no longer serve,” he said hoarsely, after a long time. The worst of the roaring had subsided; the Enchantress was now a flaming skeleton, barely afloat.

  Charlotte let her head rest against his upper arm, unable to restrain the sob that escaped her throat. “Oh, Patrick, it’s like watching a loved one die,” she whispered. “What will you do without her?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied bleakly.

  The ship burned most of the night, and Patrick refused to leave the terrace until her trial had ended. When she tilted gracefully forward and went under, he uttered a low sound woven of the purest grief, turned, and stumbled back into the house.

  He collapsed on his bed, sprawled sideways, and immediately gave himself over to the solace of sleep. His vigil had left him exhausted, and Charlotte knew his spirit was raw with despair.

  She made an awkward place for herself at Patrick’s side, laid one hand lightly on his back, and closed her eyes.

  She awakened the next morning to find herself in the company of a stranger who only looked like Patrick. The soul, the essence of him, seemed to have withdrawn, leaving a cold void in its place.

  “Patrick?” Charlotte said, sitting up, alarm thick in her throat.

  He was sitting up against the headboard, regarding her as though she were a troublesome stranger, and not the woman he had fought with, loved with tender fire, and gifted with his child.

  “Go away,” he said coldly.

  Charlotte sat up, sleep-rumpled, confused, and thoroughly wounded. “Patrick—”

  He leveled his lethal, ink blue gaze on her. “I said go away,” he growled.

  Determined that one of them should be rational, Charlotte rose, with dignity, and kept her chin high and her voice even. “You need to grieve for the Enchantress in private,” she said, “and I can understand that.” She reached out to touch his face, but he turned his head to avoid contact. Still, she found the courage to finish, “When you realize that it’s a real woman you need, with a mind and a heart and hands and breasts, and not a wooden one with masts and sails, I’ll be nearby.”

  Patrick said nothing, nor did he so much as glance in her direction.

  Charlotte straightened her shoulders and walked out without looking back.

  17

  HAVING NO DESIRE TO REMAIN IN THAT ROOM AND ENDURE Patrick’s moody silence, Charlotte decided to explore her surroundings.

  Downstairs, in a large, sun-filled kitchen, she found Mrs. McFaylon arranging sliced bananas in a pie shell. The dour housekeeper gave Charlotte a thorough once-over before asking, “How is himself today, then?”

  Charlotte sighed. “The man would have to cheer up to be melancholy,” she said, and thought she glimpsed the merest hint of amusement in Jacoba’s eye.

  “It’ll pass, miss,” the older woman said gruffly. “The captain loved that ship better than any of his women, and he needs to grieve for her for a time.”

  Suspecting that the phrase “any of his women” had been dangled before her like bait, Charlotte refused to rise. “I’d like to explore the house and grounds a little,” she said, being careful not to sound subservient. She did not ask if Mrs. McFaylon had any objections, but simply turned to walk away.

  “See you don’t go wandering in the sugarcane, miss. There be poison snakes there.”

  Involuntarily Charlotte shuddered. She would indeed avoid the fields, but she looked back over one shoulder and spoke with lofty disdain. “I doubt that any serpent could be more venomous than Patrick Trevarren in his current mood,” she said. Again she saw the shadow of a smile in Jacoba’s stern countenance.

  The downstairs portion of Patrick’s house was spacious and elegantly simple in both structure and decor. The rooms were flooded with light, and the windows offered sweeping vistas of sloping lawns, tropical foliage, and turquoise seas. Charlotte was stricken by the beauty of her surroundings, and by the way the indoors and outdoors seemed to blend with each other.

  A sense of homecoming possessed her, and she felt tears sting her eyes. She had never been to the island before, and yet her soul remembered the place, and had yearned for it.

  She found Patrick’s study, which boasted walls and walls full of leather-bound books, along with expensive Persian rugs, leather furniture, and a marble fireplace. The massive desk was made of fine mahogany, expertly carved, and Charlotte sat in the matching chair for some time, just absorbing the personality of the room—which was purely Patrick, of course.

  The very atmosphere gave her new hope, reminding her by its very essence that the captain was a strong man, physically and mentally. He would be himself again once the loss of the Enchant
ress had settled itself in his mind.

  Restless, Charlotte let herself out through the French doors on the opposite side of the room and entered a quiet garden. Here, there was a patio made of ancient gray stone, and a gracious marble fountain, dappled with moss. Profusions of bright tropical flowers nodded in the sunlight, brazen as dance-hall women in their reds and pinks, yellows and oranges, pale blues and deep violets.

  Charlotte approached a bush burgeoning with orchidlike blooms of the most flagrant pink and sniffed one of the blossoms, only to find that it had no fragrance. She was troubled by the discovery, and frowned as she walked away.

  Beyond the garden were the lawns, then the snow white beach, then the sea, with its spattering of glittering daylight.

  Charlotte put all thought of the flower’s deception behind her, lifted the skirts of her cotton dress, and headed for the shore.

  The sand there was fine, very different from the heavy, coarse, brown stuff of Puget Sound, where Charlotte had played as a child. It was warm and dry, too, prompting her to take off her slippers and walk barefoot, the breeze playing in her hair.

  The serenity Charlotte had found in Patrick’s study grew as she walked, listening to the music of the tide and the spirited, raucous cries of the birds hidden in the lush foliage. After about fifteen minutes had passed, Charlotte came to a small cove, a piece of Eden, a place so beautiful that she had to sit down on a large, flat rock to take it all in.

  While she sat watching the water, knees drawn up under her chin, an odd-shaped, shiny head suddenly jutted up out of the water, just a few yards from shore. The creature made a cheerful gibbering sound, and Charlotte laughed in delight, then cautiously approached the sea, wanting a better look.

  The dolphin greeted her with laughter of its own, rose partway out of the water, and skidded backwards with effortless grace.

  Charlotte clapped her hands, unable to contain her pleasure. “Show-off!” she cried good-naturedly.

  The shimmering, pearl gray beast chattered a response, and then, as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone again.

  “Come back,” Charlotte whispered, crestfallen, but she knew that such magic could not be summoned at will. She rested her chin on her knees for a minute or so, hoping the dolphin would choose to show itself just once more, but it did not.

  Eventually Charlotte went on.

  She marveled at the trees lining the beach, some heavy with coconuts, others with ripening bananas. Charlotte helped herself to one of the latter, which had fallen to the sandy dirt. As she was pulling back the thick yellow peel, a bloodcurdling screech sounded high in the leaves of the great tree.

  Charlotte stopped, curious and alarmed at one and the same time, and looked up to see a small, furry brown face peering down at her. The monkey shrieked again, bouncing on its branch.

  The message could not have been clearer had the little animal actually spoken.

  Charlotte took a resolute bite from the banana, bringing on another round of banshee-shrill cries, and then placed one hand on her hip.

  “Try to put this into perspective,” she told the monkey. “It isn’t as if you’re going to starve without this one banana, you know. The trees are full of them, and you can have all you want.”

  The wiry little beast shinnied partway down the tree, then dropped at Charlotte’s feet with as much drama as a pirate in a cheap music-hall production.

  Smiling, Charlotte lowered herself to her haunches. “Hello, there,” she said, offering her free hand.

  The monkey looked petulantly at her partially eaten banana.

  “Oh, all right,” Charlotte said, holding out the fruit.

  “Mathilda,” an unexpected female voice put in, “that is no way to treat a guest.”

  Charlotte looked up in surprise and saw a very pretty young woman, with bright violet eyes and blond hair, standing just a few feet away. She wore a simple brown dress, clean and of sterling quality.

  “Hello,” Charlotte said, feeling a strange fear as well as joy at encountering another female of approximately her own age. Jacoba was too prickly and inscrutable for her presence to be a comfort, but this person wore a receptive smile. “I’m Charlotte Trevarren.”

  The other woman paled slightly, it seemed to Charlotte, but recovered quickly. Her smile never faltered. “So he’s married, then,” she said, with a sigh. “Well, that was to be expected, I guess. My name is Eleanor Ruffin, but I like to be called Nora.”

  Charlotte felt an impulse to explain the complicated relationship between Patrick and herself, but did not give in to it. “Do you live near here?”

  Nora nodded, indicating a place somewhere behind her right shoulder. “Just down the beach. My friends and I are caring for the sick ones from the Enchantress in a cottage there. You’d best go no closer.”

  The monkey was tugging curiously at Charlotte’s skirt and eating the extorted banana, “The men haven’t gotten worse, have they?” she asked, worried.

  Nora shook her head. “No,” she said, with a little laugh. Her accent was a rhythmic Scots burr. “Patrick and Mr. Cochran have both ordered that the crew must be kept in relative isolation until we’re sure the infectious period has passed, that’s all.”

  Charlotte would have liked to see the first mate again, and Tipper Doon as well, but she was willing to wait. She smiled down at the monkey, whom Nora had addressed as Mathilda. “Is this a friend of yours?”

  The other woman laughed. “Yes. Mattie has adopted us, for reasons known only to herself. She’s a pest—and much too wild to suit as a pet—but we love her.”

  “We?” Charlotte asked. Along with interest, and natural curiosity, she felt a certain uneasiness, remembering Jacoba’s reference to “the others” only too well.

  Nora folded her arms and leaned back against the trunk of a tree. Her pale hair fell loose around her shoulders, and a creamy white flower was tucked behind her right ear. “Patrick hasn’t told you about us, then,” she said, with resignation but not rancor. “I guess that’s not surprising, considering that he’s a typical man.”

  Charlotte thought Patrick was anything but typical, but this was no time to argue. “No, he hasn’t mentioned you,” she said, with dignity. “But I’d like to know everything.”

  Nora frowned, thinking. “There are four of us,” she said, “besides Jacoba, of course. Stella, Jayne, Deborah, and I. We’re all hopelessly in love with Captain Trevarren, not that it does us a great deal of good.”

  The sand seemed to shift violently beneath Charlotte’s feet, but she kept her balance, outwardly at least. “Patrick—keeps the four of you?”

  The pretty blonde laughed again. “I guess that’s an apt description of the situation, but we’re not exactly a harem.”

  The very word “harem” stung Charlotte, for she under stood firsthand what such an arrangement entailed. She swallowed hard, overcome, then, without another word to Nora, who must have been perplexed, turned and rushed back toward the house.

  Charlotte did not go directly to Patrick with her questions and concerns about Nora and the others, but instead sat on the stone bench next to the fountain in the garden until she’d managed to calm herself.

  When she was breathing evenly again, and her angry, fearful heart had settled back into its normal meter, Charlotte smoothed her hair and skirts and entered the house. She went to Patrick’s room and found him sitting in the center, on a great chair, looking as imperious as a king on a golden throne.

  He wore a pair of fawn-colored breeches and nothing else, and Jacoba was barbering him with a pair of shears.

  Charlotte loved Patrick’s luxuriant hair and gave a cry of dismayed protest.

  Patrick fixed her with a searing look. “I thought I told you to go away.”

  Charlotte was no stranger to conflict and confrontation, having come from a large, energetic family, and she held her ground. “Everyone else on this island may jump when you snap your fingers, Captain,” she said coldly, “but I’m not afraid of you.”r />
  He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward slightly, while Jacoba continued to clip and snip. “What do you want?”

  Subtly Charlotte bent and picked up a lock of dark hair from the floor, tucking it into her pocket. “I want,” she answered tartly, “to be treated with a modicum of courtesy, if you don’t mind. After all, I am ‘sort of’ your wife, and I am carrying your child, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  Patrick’s gaze dropped to Charlotte’s still flat middle for a moment, then he raised a despotic hand and Jacoba promptly left the room.

  “Has the child moved?” Patrick asked, when he and Charlotte were alone.

  A new understanding came to Charlotte in that moment. Patrick was afraid for the baby, as she was herself, and it seemed likely that at least a part of his attitude stemmed from a need to distance himself.

  “It’s too early for that, Patrick,” she said gently. The lock of his hair, hidden in her pocket, felt silky as she rubbed it between two fingers, “The baby is still very small.”

  He scowled and turned his head, and Charlotte waited in silence as he grappled with this information. Finally he looked at her again.

  “I’m sorry, Charlotte,” he said.

  The apology terrified her. “Why?”

  “How can you ask that?” Patrick countered, sounding exasperated. “You’ve been through hell because of me.”

  Charlotte nodded toward the window, where the sea and sky and sand were framed in all their magnificence. “It looks like Paradise to me,” she said.

  Patrick sighed. His hair lay sleekly against the sides of his head, and Charlotte longed to plunge her fingers into its richness. “You don’t belong here, any more than you belonged in Khalif’s harem or on board the Enchantress. “

  “Fine,” Charlotte agreed. Her voice sounded even and calm, which was strange because she felt like weeping and raging in frustration and fear. “Where is it, exactly, that I do belong?”