Captive Secrets

by Fern Michaels

  The moment breakfast was over, the old priest hobbled to the schoolroom, the children in tow. “Today,” he said in a reed-thin voice, “there will be no lessons. Tomorrow is All Saints’ Day, so you will fashion garlands of flowers for the chapel, and I want to see the biggest, the prettiest blooms in crocks at the foot of Our Lady. Saria will be in charge of the garlands, and Celeste will oversee the chapel arrangements. I’m going into town with Amalie and should return by sundown, but in case we are delayed, Rita is in charge of supper. Hurry now, for it will take many hours to do the flowers. And remember, they must be perfect.”

  Amalie cursed under her breath, words she’d heard in town, words no lady would ever allow to pass her lips. Her best course of action, she decided, was to act as if nothing were amiss. She waited until they were alone and then approached the priest, forcing a note of cheerfulness into her voice. “Do you have the stones, Father?”

  “Yes, Amalie, I do. If you will prepare the horse and wagon, we can leave immediately.”

  He listened as Amalie went off to hitch the old bay to the mission supply cart. He should have told her of his intentions. His conscience demanded she be told. Perhaps on the ride into town, he decided. All night he’d prayed for God to tell him what to do. He’d been a foolish old man, succumbing to the caress in a girl’s voice—a foolish old man who’d thought he was doing the right thing by remaining silent in the face of deception. But she was Alvarez’s daughter, although illegitimate, and nothing could change that.

  The old priest sighed. Perhaps while he was in town he could go to confession. Father Juan would hear his sins and they’d talk afterward. It would ease his mind considerably. And tomorrow was All Saints’ Day—God’s way of giving him a chance to atone. He’d spend the entire day in prayer and fasting.

  “Father, the wagon’s ready,” Amalie said, startling him from his sober thoughts. “Please, allow me to help you.”

  Father Renaldo suffered her touch as she helped him onto the hard, high seat. Before she snapped the reins she leaned over and said, “Father, I—I would like to see the diamonds before we start out.”

  Father Renaldo debated a moment, but only because he didn’t want to touch the hard, bright stones. In his eyes they represented death. In the end he handed over the pouch, crossing himself imperceptibly. He wished he could see the girl’s expression as she shook the glittering stones from their cloth bag into the palm of her hand.

  “I hope they fetch a good price,” Amalie muttered as she dropped them, one by one, back into the little pouch and tucked them away. “Thank you, Father.”

  The old man shook his head wearily. “I deserve no thanks for surrendering you to the forces of evil. Come, child, let us be on our way. I have no desire to travel during the hottest hours of the day.”

  An hour into their journey Amalie noticed that the priest was deep in prayer, his hands telling the rosary with an almost frantic intensity. He’s afraid, she thought with sudden realization. He’s afraid of me. We’re bound together in this deception, and it’s tearing him apart.

  “Father, forgive me for asking, but why are you making this trip?” she asked, breaking the hour-long silence. “I appreciate your company, but the heat will shortly be unbearable, and we still have a long way to go.”

  The priest did not answer her; his lips moved silently in prayer. Amalie didn’t repeat her question; she knew the answer. Father Renaldo intended to reveal the truth to Justice Muab. When she spoke again a little while later, her tone was light, conversational. “The sun today is particularly brutal, Father. And you’re not well. Perhaps we should turn back,” she said softly.

  “No, no, I must get into town.” He turned to her then, his rheumy eyes striving to pierce their prison of shadow. “Amalie, I cannot allow the justice to believe the lie I told him. I was blinded with what I felt was your need. That house, child, will not make you happy. It’s all based on lies, and I compounded those lies. Please . . . I want you to stay at the mission and help with the children. It’s a good, honest life, and you are well suited to it. Forget that grand house and those rotting ships in the harbor. The diamonds are yours, although I feel in my heart they will only bring you misery and heartache. But as for the rest . . . Please tell me you understand,” the old priest pleaded.

  Amalie contemplated him coldly. “Of course I understand. Because I do not embrace your faith does not mean I am incapable of understanding. I simply disagree, which is my right. My father was a disgusting, treacherous, lustful man. He used my mother in ways that aren’t fit for your ears to hear. I have a right to avenge her—and to see to it that I do not fall prey to the same fate. I refuse to die a slave, at the mercy of some man’s whims of kindness or cruelty. This is my chance to live the life I want for myself—and neither you nor anyone else will stop me! Now, Father, I suggest you climb down from this wagon and return to the mission. Now. I’ll go into town alone.” Amalie reined in the horse and turned to the old priest with glittering eyes.

  Father Renaldo heard the threat in her voice. Evil . . . He gripped his cane tighter in his gnarled old hand as he struggled down from the wagon. Walking back to the mission was better than forcing the issue now, here. He was no match for this one. Some way, somehow, he’d get word to the justice. His rosary in his hands, he began to trudge along the road, head bowed in prayer.

  Amalie never looked back as she urged the old bay onward, to town.

  Amalie arrived in town during the hottest part of the day without a drop of perspiration on her brow or a hair out of place. For the first time since starting out, she allowed her gaze to stray to the right and to the left as she observed the stately town houses of the rich traders and politicians. She particularly liked the grilled gates, manicured shrubbery, and long, circling drives. One day she, too, would have a town house here, she vowed.

  One day she would ride into this town in a shiny black carriage, and every head in town would turn—the men’s eyes full of desire, the women’s full of envy. One day everyone would know and respect Amalie Suub Alvarez.

  As the wagon clattered down the street, Amalie stared straight ahead; she was in the business district now, and she knew the shops were open, their proprietors lazing behind drawn shades. At the end of the street she tethered the old horse and ramshackle wagon and strode up the south walkway with her head held high. She was Amalie Alvarez—or she would be soon—and the sooner the people in town became aware of her, the better she would feel.

  Her bare feet made slapping sounds on the wooden planks. Soon, she promised herself, she would have shoes to adorn her feet, as did all proper ladies. A splinter gouged her toe, but she kept on walking, her eyes searching for the gilt lettering that represented the jeweler’s establishment. When she found it, she approached the entrance, heart pounding.

  A cluster of bells tinkled as Amalie opened and closed the shop door. Sun ribboned through the windows, bathing her in a golden glow, shining through her thin chemise and outlining every limb and curve of her body. Grasping the small pouch, she walked up to the counter and shook the stones into the palm of her hand. She waited, her beautiful face impassive, for the arrogant-looking proprietor to get up from his chair and walk to the long counter that separated his offices from the entry area.

  The jeweler’s eyes widened at the sight of the girl in her faded, worn dress. He almost ordered her out of his shop—until he saw the stones in her hand. Greedily, he made a move to pluck them from her palm, but the moment he did she closed her hand into a fist.

  “I want to sell these. I know they’re worth a lot; how much will you give me?” Amalie said, fixing him with her cat’s eyes.

  “Where did you get these?” the jeweler demanded. “I don’t buy stolen goods.”

  “I didn’t steal them; they’re mine. Do you wish to buy them or not?”

  “I need to examine them first,” the jeweler said, clearing his throat.

  Amalie opened her hand and gave the jeweler one large sparkling diamond at a
time. She smirked as he licked his lips, eyes aglitter. Obviously he hadn’t seen many diamonds of this quality.

  The man held the jeweler’s glass close as he examined each stone carefully. Amalie waited until he had replaced the last diamond in the pouch. From underneath the counter he withdrew a cash box. The small mound of guilders he counted out shocked her. She hadn’t been prepared for this. Was it enough or not? She didn’t know. Taking a gamble, she shook her head.

  “I want gold sovereigns, and this is not enough,” she said coldly, and waited, hardly daring to breathe. The man replaced the guilders and withdrew another box. Again he laid out a small mound, and again Amalie shook her head. The man added two more sovereigns to the small pile of gold. Again and again she shook her head, until she sensed that the man was nearing his last offer. Should she take it or not? Instinct warned her not to accept. “Add all of the guilders, and I will sell the diamonds,” she told him.

  The jeweler snorted. “Ridiculous! They aren’t worth that much. I have to be able to sell these at a profit. This is my last offer.”

  “What would you offer for me?” Amalie asked quietly.

  “Why, I . . . I’m a respectable man and run a respectable business. I—”

  “Have a wife.” Amalie’s yellow eyes flashed. “But would she do the things to you I would do, Mynheer Jew-elder?”

  The jeweler licked his lips again. “What . . . what kind of things?” he asked in a quivering voice.

  She smiled. “Things to remember . . . things you’ll take to your . . . grave.”

  Slowly, seductively, Amalie leaned across the wooden counter, her cat’s eyes dark brown now and moist with heat. The jeweler tore his hungry gaze from hers and looked down the front of her dress. He nearly choked at the sight. Amalie’s smile promised untold delights as her tongue snaked out from between her teeth. She allowed it to caress first her top lip, then her lower lip. The jeweler moaned.

  “All of the guilders, Mynheer. A larger pouch. Now . . . before-”

  “Lock the door,” the jeweler said hoarsely as he stuffed the gold into her pouch.

  “No,” Amalie said, walking around the counter. “You will find what I do to you much more exciting if you fear . . . the unknown.”

  “Yes, yes, hurry. This is unbearable,” he said, unfastening his trousers. He was suddenly shy, muttering under his breath, “I’m . . . I’m not very . . .” His face reddened miserably.

  “I can see what you mean, Mynheer. I know how to remedy your problem,” Amalie said with a hint of sardonic laughter in her voice. “Trust me, Mynheer, you will never want to bed your sensible wife in her sensible bloomers and corsets again.” A deep growl of pleasure ripped from her mouth as she lifted the chemise over her head and stood before him naked in her splendor. The jeweler’s eyes rolled back in his head as Amalie pulled him to the floor.

  Several minutes later, sweat dripping from every pore in his body, the jeweler squealed like a pig going to market. “What . . . wha . . . oh!”

  “Shhh, I am about to remedy . . . your problem, Mynheer.”

  Amalie’s touch was light, almost playful as she caressed, tickled, and prodded, her strong, muscular thighs contracting against the jeweler’s flabby limbs. Her face, however, was impassive as she recalled other times when she had been used and abused by some of the white plantation owners. Because she was tall and long-limbed, those men had thought her impervious to pain and had not been gentle. She’d promised herself that someday she would be as cold and brutal with fat Dutchmen and foppish Spaniards.

  Barely audible moans and squeals of delight from the man beneath her brought her back to the job at hand. Her fingers stiffened as they moved downward to the patch of fair hair, and then lower still. With a lithe movement she slid between the man’s spread legs, her knees closing and then widening against his manhood. When he yelped with pleasure, she intensified the pressure.

  Long, velvety hair fell over her face, a veil to hide from the jeweler the contempt she bore him. She crooned soft words, words pleasing and sensual to the prone man beneath her.

  “You’re hurting me!” the jeweler gasped.

  “But it feels good, doesn’t it?” Amalie cooed as she pressed her knees against his throbbing testicles. When she released the pressure, the man sighed, and Amalie almost laughed. She waited a moment and then brought her knees together with such force, the jeweler’s head jerked backward in pain. The palm of her hand shot forward and upward against his chin in a single, savage thrust. His eyes widened in disbelief, then glazed over as his life drained quickly out of him.

  When Amalie had slid the chemise over her shoulders, she returned to the man lying on the floor. Working quickly, she pulled up his underdrawers and trousers, then dragged his body over to the chair he’d been sitting in. She continued to struggle with the man’s enormous weight until she had him propped in the chair. Next, she scattered all his books and papers about the floor. Finally she came to his cash box. Without a qualm, she emptied it of all but a few gold coins, then jammed the lid so that it looked as though someone had tampered with it. She savored the feel of the pouch in her hand. Weight meant money, power, and leverage.

  Without a backward glance at the jeweler, she let herself out the rear door of the shop into a deserted alley full of refuse and empty barrels. No eyes looked on her as she walked through the alley, her head high, her back ramrod stiff. She started to sing under her breath, a silly little tune the old priest had taught the children. She felt victorious. She had all but a few guilders of the jeweler’s money, and she still had the diamonds.

  Her next stop was the justice’s office, where she stood waiting in respectful silence until he raised his head from the papers on his desk.

  “I can see why you would be impatient after all these years,” Muab said, nodding. “I affixed my seal to this proclamation earlier today, thinking you would soon come into town. As of now all of your . . . father’s property and possessions, those that remain, are yours.” He handed over a packet of papers and wasn’t surprised to see the beautiful girl’s hands tremble as she accepted it.

  “Thank you, sir, for your time and trouble,” she said quietly.

  “Hrumph, yes, yes. You are now Amalie Alvarez. I’ve sent a letter off to the . . . to your father’s superiors, informing them of this action. It is entirely possible they will respond, but unlikely. Give my regards to Father Renaldo,” the justice said, dismissing her.

  “I will tell him you send your regards.”

  The justice watched the tall girl walk through the door, wondering what she would do now. His stomach churned. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but . . . he no longer cared. He’d gone by the evidence, and in the end that’s all that mattered. He wished the girl well.

  The blazing sun boiled downward, but Amalie paid it no mind as she walked toward the harbor, shoulders drooping and head down in a subservient manner. For once she desired anonymity and knew full well that in her present posture the scurvy few at the harbor would virtually ignore her until she raised her head and challenged them with her yellow eyes.

  The harbormaster was no stranger to Amalie. He’d always been civil when she appeared and asked to see the ships that belonged to Chaezar Alvarez. She also knew that he was a friend of the justice’s and would now know that she was entitled to her father’s property.

  A monstrous banyan tree surrounded by thick greenery at the side of the road beckoned with promise of shade, and Amalie was drawn toward it. She needed time to think, to rest a moment, time to massage her aching, callused feet.

  As she lowered herself onto a mossy patch beneath the old tree, she was suddenly assailed by doubt. Perhaps she should wait to visit the harbormaster, buy some clothes and shoes and come back another day. Those she would deal with now would regard her as a slab of meat, a slave’s bastard child dressed in a worn, thin chemise that left nothing to the imagination. Would the gold in the pouch she held in her hand garner respect?

  Her head snapped
upward as another thought struck her. What would be the outcome in regard to the jeweler’s death? Was there anyone who knew how much money he kept in his cash box—his wife, some family member, a shop owner? Had she left enough coins there to satisfy the authorities that burglary had not been the motive for his death? It had taken all her strength to snap the man’s fat neck, something some men wouldn’t be able to do. Certainly no one would suspect a woman. No, a simple crime of passion, a murder—probably at the hands of one bent on vengeance—would be the verdict rendered by the . . . justice, the same justice responsible for giving her her new life.

  Satisfied that her interpretation of the incident would be shared by the authorities, Amalie rose to her feet in one effortless movement. She’d had all the rest she could afford, and as inviting as the tree looked, she had to move on. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the harbormaster’s quarters.

  Hans Wilhelm was a crusty old man with twinkling eyes and a hatred for soap and water. On his desk were two guns and a saber that he used or threatened to use on a daily basis. He was so fat he was grotesque, and his twinkling eyes were merely a trick of the light filtering through the wooden shutters. He was a hard man to deal with, and his only priority in life was to gouge as much money as he could from the owners of the trading vessels he dealt with.

  Wilhelm leaned back in his chair, his belly jiggling with his effort. His coarse shirt was stained with weeks of sweat, and he reeked of himself. Amalie breathed through her mouth as she entered his office and waited for him to speak. He knew why she was there; she could see it in his beady eyes. His voice, when he spoke, came from deep in his belly, gruff yet hollow-sounding.

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Amalie, my dear.”

  “I want to know if you’ll take the brigantine, the galleon, and the sloop and trade me a frigate.” Amalie forced herself to sound casual, indifferent, as though she really didn’t care one way or another what the harbormaster’s answer would be.