The Far Horizon

by Marsha Canham

  Bella walked quickly along the sand, careful to avoid catching even the smallest glimpse of the dead Spaniard, skinned and spread-eagled, nailed by hand and foot to two thick beams.

  She found Molly in the makeshift camp, surrounded by her little pack of children.

  "Do you know what plantain leaves look like?" Bella asked.

  Molly shook her head. "Haven't a clue, mistress."

  One of the little girls tugged on the bottom edge of Bella's corset. "I do. I know what they look like and where they grow."

  Something about the little girl looked very familiar and Bella smiled. Her eyes were the same deep dark blue as Varian St. Clare, filled with a directness far beyond her years. Long, thick hair was braided down her back and while it was not as red as Jonas Dante's, it was close enough to warrant a sibling connection.

  "You must be little Rose."

  "My name is Lily Rose Isabeau Spencer Dante St. Clare," she said with authority.

  "Gracious. That is quite the lovely name."

  The child tipped her head and looked at Bella expectantly.

  "I am Bellanna Baker Wrexworth Harper. But you may call me Bella."

  "And you may call me Rose. But I'm not little. I'm four years old. Homer—" she turned and pointed to a boy standing beside her sucking his thumb. "Homer Pitt is little. He is not yet two years old and I am charged to watch over him and his brother Augustus. Augustus is asleep but Homer is here."

  "So I see. If I promise to watch Augustus, might you… and Homer… show Molly where she can find some plantain leaves? Perhaps even help her pick the best ones?"

  "Homer and I can go alone, it isn't very far. And the Spanish bastards are all gone now."

  Bella blinked at the ease with which the profanity came from such cherubic lips. "All right, then. You can do that if you like. It would be a great help, thank you. And would you happen to know where I might find some wild onion? Or sage?"

  "We can get that too." Rose turned and took up Homer's hand and led him a short distance into a grove of trees.

  Bella looked at Molly, who only grinned and shrugged.

  A groan nearby reminded Bella of the opium elixir and she took the bottle out of the wooden box. Unsure of how many drops "a few" might entail, she dribbled some over the wounded man's lips and let him wash it down with a cup full of rum. His name was Samuel, and within a minute or two there was a visible easing of the rigid tension in his body. The burn was on his upper left chest, caused, he had said, by carelessly spilling gunpowder on himself when he loaded his musket too fast. When he pulled the trigger, it had exploded and caught his shirt on fire. The women had picked out all the bits of black powder they could find, but the resultant wound was red-raw and bubbled in places with yellow blisters.

  Heeding Artemis's instruction, Bella took up a sharp knife and stared at the first blister.

  "S'all right, Miss," Samuel rasped. "N'other cup o' rum I won't feel nuthin' anyways."

  Bella nodded and drew a deep breath. With Molly kneeling nearby with a cloth to blot up the escaping fluids, she pricked each blister, happy to see none of them looked or smelled as evil as Digger's wound.

  Leaving Molly to lightly cover the wound with pledgets—layers of pulled linen threads—she sat on an empty cask and opened the pouch of herbs. "Apparently we have to chew and spit these to make a poultice."

  As brutalized as they were by recent events, several of the women who were huddled around the fire, roused at hearing this and came over to Bella to take a handful of the herbs. Lily Rose and Homer returned in short order with handfuls of sage and onion, and dragging between them an enormous green frond almost bigger than they were. Happy to have something to distract them, the women who were not chewing and spitting set about cutting up the frond into pieces the size of the burned area of the man's chest. By the time they were finished with Samuel, he resembled a Roman general with green armor on his upper torso.

  ~~

  The harbor bustled with activity all through the night and well into the noonday heat. When the Tribute's holds were emptied, men rolled barrels filled with fresh water to the jolly boats, where they were ferried across. The marauders had taken or burned most of the stored foodstuffs, but a few sheep and pigs and chickens that had taken refuge on the upper slopes were caught and caged in the hold.

  Not knowing if or when the Spaniards might return, it was deemed necessary to take all of the survivors on board, leaving no one behind. Dante was not pleased with the thought of having so many women and children on his ship, but the alternative—sailing away and leaving them behind and vulnerable—was unthinkable.

  As for the other immediate problem…

  "The alternative is death," Jonas said pointedly. He was standing over Digger with a full jug of rum. "The leg has to come off."

  Digger moaned and looked to Bella or Molly for help, but they were too frightened themselves and had none to offer.

  "We're likely going into battle in a few days, you great bloody fool, and I need a doctor. A real doctor. If you have one leg or two, it matters not."

  Digger moaned again and clutched at the sheet covering his bony body. Sweat was beaded across his brow. His hair was soaked with it, his neck and face shiny. Even with the aid of rum, he could no longer control the shudders that wracked him.

  Jonas turned expectantly to Bella and she lost a few degrees of color in her face.

  "Good God, no. I… I can't do it," she whispered, horrified.

  He said nothing for a moment, then called Young Pitt over. "Get a fire going in the brazier then find the carpenter, Isaiah. Fetch the Turk as well; he won't mind scraping the rotted flesh off the bone before we cut through it."

  Molly fainted.

  Bella caught her before she hit the floor, but the girl's limp weight almost sent them both sprawling onto the boards. Jonas crooked a finger at two crewmen who took Molly between them and carried her out of the cabin.

  "Go with her," he told Bella. "This will be no sight for tender eyes."

  She was unsure if his words bore an underlying hint of sarcasm, but at that moment she did not care enough to argue. She hurried out into the darkened corridor and followed the men with Molly. By the time they reached the cabin, Molly had regained some of her senses. A very strong cup of rum helped the rest return.

  "I'm ever so sorry, mistress. A right fool, me, to faint like that."

  "I most likely would not have been far behind you had I not left the cabin."

  Molly's dark gaze lifted from her lap. "I kept seeing that horrid man at the house. Lugo. And the way he…he…"

  "Sweet Jesus." Bella rushed to her side. "How could I have been so thoughtless!"

  "I have tried, mistress, to push the memories of poor Hendricks out of my mind."

  Bella took Molly's hands in hers. They were ice cold and she rubbed them gently, knowing that she too had been trying to keep all memories of Lugo, Dimcock, and Liam well out of her thoughts. She hadn't seen what had been done to Hendricks, thank the good Lord above, but she had seen enough of Lugo's handiwork to formulate an image… one not unlike the flayed Spaniard hanging on shore.

  "Come now, drink up. I am certain the captain and the others know what they are doing and will take good enough care of Digger to ensure that he feels as little pain as poss—"

  The surgery was located two decks below the great cabin, yet the agonized scream that stoppered the words halfway up to Bella's lips sounded as if it came from right outside the door. She took several deep swallows from her own cup of rum, barely feeling the heat of the spirits as they travelled into her belly. In the lengthy silence that followed, she encouraged Molly to get up onto the berth and despite the girl's protests, it only took moments for her eyes to close. Bella sat beside her until she was soundly asleep, then tiptoed out of the cabin and, not knowing where else to go, walked the few paces to the captain's quarters.

  She had not been inside the great cabin since the petty argument they'd had on deck. There were remna
nts of a forgotten meal on the table and she found a biscuit that was not yet hard enough to break her teeth.

  She went over to the sideboard and poured a cup of strong red wine, not troubling to worry if it would mix well with the rum she had already consumed. She'd been awake, like everyone else, since dawn of the previous day and was simply too tired to think. It was all she could do to unhook the constricting corset and discard it along with her boots and breeches. After sponging the sweat and grime from her body, she found a relatively clean shirt in Dante's sea chest to replace her own. She opened two of the gallery windows to let out some of the stifling heat, then plopped herself down in the captain's chair. She would have liked to crawl into Dante's big berth but somehow that felt like the wrong thing to do. Dante and the others were just as tired but they were down below cutting off Digger's leg.

  How long did a thing like that take?

  She did not know.

  Would he come back to his cabin when the deed was done?

  She did not know.

  Would he expect her to be here? Would he even want her to be here?

  She did not know.

  By the time she finished mulling over a dozen more questions in her mind, her eyes had drifted closed, her chin had sagged down and the cup had tipped enough in her uncaring fingers to spill half the remaining contents onto the plank floor.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  It was always a nasty business, working in the dankness of the surgery. Dante had seen his share of horrendous wounds, of limbs shredded and bones crushed too badly to be saved. He had been pressed into wielding the carpenter's saw more times than he cared to remember, and the screams of the men still echoed in his ears. Digger was no exception. When the blade had drawn across his flesh for the first stroke, all the opium and rum-induced bravado had vanished and the crusty old curmudgeon had screamed himself into unconsciousness.

  The Turk, a tower of bulging muscles who rarely spoke more than two words a day, did the cutting. The ship's sailmaker was there to sew the flap of skin over the open wound and wrap the stump in rounds of rum-soaked linens. Digger's fate was in God's hands now. Hopefully they had not waited too long to do what they all knew had to be done.

  Weary as hell, Dante had made one last circuit of the ship, ensuring the survivors were all on board and as comfortable as the cramped spaces belowdecks would allow. He had the helmsman ring the ship's bell until their ears nearly bled to be certain there was no one left on shore before the anchor was winched on board.

  Removing only his boots, Dante jumped over the side fully clothed to wash off the sweat and grime and stink of blood. He dove under the water to inspect the condition of the hull and knew, under better circumstances, she should be careened and scraped free of the barnacles she had collected crossing the Atlantic. But he could not spare the time. The encrustation would take a knot or two off their top speed, but that could not be helped.

  With the anchor raised, the Tribute glided toward the passage to make her exit. Dante stood with the others in the stern and in absolute, oppressive silence, bid farewell to the ruins of the only home he had ever known. If Juan Pedro Recalde could have seen Dante's face at that moment, could have seen the intense, terrible promise of revenge in the amber eyes, he might have run a blade across his own throat in terror.

  As soon as the ship entered the shadowed passageway, Jonas moved to the bow and focused on getting his ship past the swirling waters, through the channel in the coral reef, and out into the open water. The mood on board was somber and determined, for every man in the crew knew where they were bound and what the coming days would bring. They had all lost friends or family on Pigeon Cay and each man ached for revenge. They knew Dante would not rest until the Spaniards had paid and paid dearly for the attack on their home.

  With every scrap of canvas set to catch the wind, Jonas knuckled the grit out of his eyes and went below to his cabin. It was only a guess that Recalde would take the captives to Havana but it was the only guess he had that made any sense. And the only one that gave him a shred of a chance at finding them. The pinnace he had dispatched to Gull Cay was light and fast and would meet them in a pre-arranged rendezvous a few miles down the coast from Havana. The Dantes had had previous dealings with the temporary governor, Jerome Quero, and Jonas knew him to be a pompous, greedy bastard with an affinity for shiny objects. Plundered gold and silver bars bore too many official stamps and markings to offer as a bribe, but rubies, emeralds, and diamonds could make an avaricious man's head turn full circle.

  Hopefully Hobson Grundy would retrieve enough treasure from one of the buried caches to make Jerome Quero's head spin like a dervish.

  When there was nothing left to do on deck, Jonas went below hoping to catch a few hours of much-needed sleep. Being mid-afternoon, there were no candles lit and the cabin was thick with shadows. A glance at the empty berth brought on a twinge of disappointment that sent him over to the sideboard. It was only then, when he was pouring himself a cup of rum that he noticed the figure slumped in the chair behind his desk. Her hair was loose and spilled to the side. Her head was tipped over so far her ear was almost touching her shoulder.

  Dante stared, recalling the touch of her hands as they cradled his face, the gentle caress of her lips as she kissed away his tears the previous night. She had held him and comforted him and he had not done a single damned thing to stop her or push her away. If anything, he had not wanted her to let go. He had wanted to stay there, wrapped in her arms, listening to her whispers, feeling her heart beating against his until she had taken away all of his pain.

  Which was foolish, of course. He was no mewling lovesick calf, nor had he any inclination to become one. He had seen the devastation on Varian's face, heard it in his voice when he saw what had happened at Pigeon Cay. And he remembered his father, Simon Dante, the indomitable Pirate Wolf, sitting by his wife's bedside when she'd lost her arm in battle, weeping openly and pleading with God to spare her.

  Jonas had vowed never to be rendered that defenceless.

  Gabriel Dante was the poet and lover. Gabriel, Geoffrey Pitt… even Artemis Franks, for pity's sake, who was mooning after the dark-eyed Molly like a schoolboy… they had no difficulty accepting their vulnerability, exposing themselves to the hazards of love. And yes, love was a hazard. In Jonas Dante's world where the smallest distraction might well alter a man's choice between life and death every day, it could be fatal. Love was a weakness and he could not afford to be a weak man.

  And yet…

  Her eyes, her lips, the touch of her hands, the feel of her body straining urgently into his, melting around him, drowning him in sweet oblivion… the images and remembered sensations crept into his thoughts when he least expected them. How many times during the night had he sent Young Pitt to check on her? How many times had he wanted to go himself?

  Dante emptied the half-filled cup in a single swallow. He thought he set the cup down quietly enough to avoid waking Bella, but he saw her head come up and her body shift upright in the chair. She looked around a moment, disoriented, then turned and saw him standing in the deeper shadows.

  The light from the gallery windows was behind her, creating a bright nimbus around the tousled mane of her hair. He could not see her face clearly, but when she stood, the loose folds of her shirt—his shirt—were rendered practically transparent, revealing the shape of her body beneath.

  Despite his best efforts to remain unaffected, his blood responded to the sight, surging through his veins, pounding into his chest, swelling his manhood to an insistent hardness. He fought the desire to take a step toward her but failed. A second and third step followed and suddenly she was scooped up in his arms and he was carrying her to the berth.

  Without a word passing between them, he stripped off her shirt and laid her down on a cloud of inky black hair. His hands worked feverishly to tear at his own clothing, and within moments he was naked, he was lowering himself over her, pushing his straining flesh between her thighs. Ther
e was no resistance, only mutual desire as he felt her hands digging into his shoulders, then clawing into his hips as her body rose up to meet him. He was blinded, driven by the need to feel something other than despair and anger, and when he felt the greedy tightness of her muscles closing around him, he arched his head back and thrust and thrust and thrust until the white-hot explosion of ecstasy pulsed from his body into hers.

  Locked together, they rocked and twisted until every gasp, every shiver, every last twitch and spasm of pleasure was drawn from their bodies.

  ~~

  When Bella opened her eyes again, the dusky shadows in the cabin seemed even darker, the light coming through the gallery windows was so pale as to suggest the sun had sunk below the horizon.

  She was curled into Dante's warm body, her head tucked under his chin, breasts and bellies touching, legs twined together. His arms were around her and hers around him and for a moment she wondered if they were still joined elsewhere, having been fused so tightly together they could not break apart.

  Oddly enough, the thought did not distress her. She had never been one to cling to a man after making love and Dante, for the most part, had always rolled off her and barely left an arm under her head for a pillow.

  This time was different. This time it was as if they both needed to maintain the contact of flesh on flesh if only to prove they were still human enough to feel something other than fear and despair.

  His breath ruffled her hair and she could hear the occasional soft growl in his throat that indicated he was in a deep sleep. Her left arm was numb, however, and as carefully as she could she began to slide it out from beneath him. The extrication caused a general shifting of their positions and Dante turned onto his back, bringing her along with him so that she ended up above him with her legs straddling his hips.

  His eyes were open and the hint of a smile played across his lips.