Luis Domingo gazed admiringly at the manicured gardens as he waited for the cool drink the young lady was bringing him. Relieved at last to be rid of the huge trunk, he glanced down at the spidery signature on the heavy vellum. Amalie Suub Alvarez must be very old—old and waiting to die. He allowed his eyes to sweep the grounds and the shrouded figure reclining on the cane chair under the spreading banyan tree. He thought he smelled death.
The drink was cool and tart, and Luis gulped it down in two long swallows. He wiped at his brow, aware that his neck and armpits were soaked with sweat.
“I’ll walk with you to your wagon, Señor Domingo,” Clara offered.
Luis looked over his shoulder. “Is she going to die?”
Flustered, Clara stammered, “Wh-who?”
“The old lady. Is she going to die?”
“Ah, no, no, she . . . No, I don’t think so. Tell me, Señor Domingo, what do you carry in your ship? Jewels, spices, silks? My mistress likes me to . . . to tell her little stories. I’ll make one up about you and tell it to her this evening before she goes to sleep.”
Luis laughed, a sound that carried on the breeze across the garden to Amalie, whose eyes popped open. She liked the deep, masculine sound.
“Well,” she demanded peevishly after Luis had left, “what did he say?”
Clara clapped her hands in excitement. “Everything, all manner of riches! He’s so handsome, isn’t he, Amalie? He’s sailing to Java and then back to Spain to sell everything he’s picked up in his travels. Isn’t that romantic? And bringing you that trunk all the way from Spain—and then delivering it personally! What do you think is in it?”
Amalie’s brow furrowed. “It’s probably papers and ledgers of my father’s. I don’t even want to look at it. Have the boys carry it down to the cellar. Now, tell me, when is Señor . . . Domingo leaving for Java?”
“Two days. He said he would sail with the tide.” Clara hesitated. “Amalie, you aren’t . . . you wouldn’t . . . But you aren’t well enough yet!”
Amalie smiled. “In another two days I’ll be fine. Now, Clara, I want you to go to the cove and ask Cato to come here. But first have the boys take the trunk to the cellar. I want it out of my sight.” A trunk full of the trash of her father’s life. Why would the authorities think she would want such a thing? To be rid of it, of course. Chaezar Alvarez had been a blight on the Spanish Crown. Well, she didn’t want his wretched refuse, either. She had more important things to worry about.
Two days . . . just two more days . . .
Amalie set foot on her ship shortly before she gave the order to set sail. She had come aboard with little gear beyond the scanty costume she’d recreated and the high buccaneer boots, which she’d secured in her cabin. She would have plenty of time to don them once Domingo’s ship was sighted, and she had no desire to let her crew see her naked legs before she absolutely had to. Now, looking around at the surly faces of her crew, she knew she was about to make her first concession.
“No seaman worth his salt sails on a ship that carries no name. It’s bad luck,” Miguel snarled. “We don’t care about colors, but we do care about a name.” The others lined up behind Miguel and chorused their agreement, even Cato.
Amalie was on uncertain ground. She knew nothing about naming a ship, but it was obviously a matter that had to be settled immediately or she would have a mutiny on her hands. That she did understand. She struggled to come up with a meaningful name, one that would strike fear in her crew and those of the ships they accosted.
“From this moment on,” she called out, “the ship will be called the Sea Siren! If there’s one among you who objects to this decision, he may leave now.” When no one moved, she nodded. “So be it.”
This was the moment the crew had waited for—the moment she herself had waited for. Could she do it?
“To your posts,” she cried, her hands tight on the wheel, heart beating wildly. Book learning was quite different from real-life experience, she was discovering. She forced herself to relax, the warm salt air a balm to her body. Gradually she began to feel confident and exhilarated.
The frigate skimmed out of the deep-water cove, over the white-capped breakers, and into open water. Amalie caught the smirk on Cato’s face as he faced several of the crew. Obviously a wager had been placed on her capabilities, and she’d come through a winner—as had Cato. She liked the idea that he had not bet against her, and her eyes thanked him before she turned the wheel over to Rego, her first mate.
Now it was time to walk about her ship. She’d lied, cheated, stolen, and killed to arrive at this moment. She smiled as she strolled the deck, aware that the crew’s eyes were on every step she took.
The newly named Sea Siren was a sleek, three-masted frigate that was skillfully demonstrating her prowess in what Amalie thought of as her maiden voyage. She sported fresh decks scrupulously scoured and a sterncastle whose varnish was just beginning to dry. And it was all hers. No one was ever going to take it away from her.
Amalie turned and swayed on the rolling deck. She took a deep breath and then another; she couldn’t afford to get seasick, not when things were going so well. Any sign of weakness on her part would be seized by the crew as justification to take matters into their own hands.
Cato appeared out of nowhere, startling her. “It takes awhile to get your sea legs. It’ll help if you eat something. If you like, I can bring a bit of food to your cabin. Miguel says we should sight the Spaniard by nightfall.”
Amalie looked into Cato’s anxious blue eyes. “So soon?” The young man nodded. “Very well, fetch me some fruit and a little bread. I’ll be in my quarters.”
Amalie had never before set foot aboard a ship. It was all a new experience for her, but one she liked . . . very much. Her cabin was small with a bunk, a chair, and several shelves. It was clean and smelled of soap and the sea. The bundle on her bed drew her eye. Soon it would be time to don the costume.
She tested the hard bunk, then sat back with an uneasy sigh. Everything she’d planned was about to happen. What if the men aboard Domingo’s ship put up a fight and she lost her crew? What if the Spaniard captured her and turned her over to the authorities? Her resolve hardened as she recalled the anticipation on the faces of her men. None of them had any intention of backing down or putting up a weak fight. If need be, it would be a bloody battle with no quarter given, of that much she was certain.
Amalie drew in her breath as she buttoned the stark white blouse. She was nervous, unsure of herself, and she didn’t like it at all. Even the sight of the rapier didn’t comfort her, and the cutlass only made her wince. With her injured arm there was no way she could hold it, much less wield it. She could, however, attach the cutlass to the belt at her waist and carry the rapier. Two weapons might even enhance her resemblance to the notorious Sea Siren and force Domingo’s crew to think twice about fighting back.
She pulled on the boots, grimacing as the leather abraded her blistered feet, then hobbled out the door and up the ladder. Once secure on deck, she struck the classic “Sea Siren” pose—legs astride, rapier in hand—and silently dared her crew to comment.
Watching her, Cato drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. She was magnificent. Her long hair streaming behind her in the gentle breeze, the black kid boots cuffed at the knees, the soft white shirt tied in a knot at her waist, those long, slender legs . . . Jesus, he wanted her, as did every man aboard ship, and he would fight to the death for her. He had heard tales of the infamous Sea Siren, and he’d bet a year’s wages that there wasn’t a man at sea who could tell the difference.
Amalie did her best to hold the spyglass steady as she scanned the horizon. She forgot about everything—her uneasiness with the crew, even the stinging pain of her blisters and chafed thighs—the moment she sighted the minuscule speck in the distance. “Sail, ho!” she cried.
“Where away?” Miguel shouted.
“Straight ahead,” came a reply from high in the rigging.
Amalie swallowed pa
st the lump in her throat. “Loosen sail, full speed. I want every minute to count. Remember what I told you—our attack is to be quick and deadly if necessary.” She leapt down from the bow and raced to the stern, where she climbed onto a pile of rigging atop a water barrel. With her legs spread to steady her, she was a Valkyrie, the frigate her Valhalla. She threw back her head and laughed, the sound ripping across the water like the wind.
The Sea Siren drew ever closer to her prey, and Amalie knew the moment Luis Domingo had focused on her with his glass. She read the fear and loathing in his face and laughed again, this time in triumph.
“Make no false moves, Captain,” she called out as the two ships came within hailing distance, “or my men will make short work of you and yours!”
In reply Luis Domingo brought up his cutlass and lashed out at Amalie’s men as they leapt aboard the Silver Lady. It took all of thirty minutes for Amalie’s cutthroats to subdue Domingo’s nine-man crew. Outnumbered and pinned to the mast by Cato, Domingo could only curse his revenge as he watched his cargo being carried off. His eyes spewed hatred at the beautiful creature on the stern of the ghostly black ship.
An eternity later Amalie gave him a low, sweeping bow, her rapier slicing through the twilight. Luis tried to blink the sweat from his eyes, staring in disbelief as the long-legged creature blew him a gentle kiss with her fingertips.
“I’ll kill you for this!” he shouted. “I’ll hunt you down and rip you limb from limb!”
“You aren’t man enough,” Amalie called out, chuckling. “This little assault was nothing compared with what I could have done if you had angered me. As it is, I’m feeling charitable, so I’m allowing you to keep your sandalwood, your ship . . . and your life. You have much to thank me for, Captain.”
“I’ll die before I thank you, you thieving bitch!” Luis spat out.
“That can be arranged, too.” Once again she offered him a mocking bow. “Perhaps next time. Until we meet again, Señor Domingo, thank you for your generous contribution to my well-being.”
It was fully dark by the time the black ship had melted into the night.
For hours Luis swore he could hear the Sea Siren’s evil laughter as he cursed and stormed about his ship. “All of this,” he snarled, “and not a shot was fired! Pinned to my own goddamn mast! She’ll pay. I swear before God that she will pay!”
“We were outnumbered, Cap’n,” Julian said nervously. “It was like this when she attacked the Spanish Princess. We had no time to react, and we were loaded down with cargo. Only that time the Siren sank the ship. Today she was generous.” He peered out into the night and shuddered. “You don’t suppose she’ll come back and ram us, do you, Cap’n?”
Luis snorted. “She won’t be back. She’s sailing off to dispose of my cargo, God only knows where. Pirating is a handsome business, all profit.” He turned to glare at his first mate. “You’re sure that woman was the same one who struck down the Princess?”
“I swear on my mother, Cap’n. Did you see those long legs and that midnight-dark hair? Her laugh is the same, too. My blood ran cold when I heard it.”
“It’s easy to laugh when you’re victorious, Julian. But she won’t always be victorious; I’ll see to that,” Luis said, his voice so deadly quiet, so ominous, that Julian crossed himself involuntarily.
“Aye, Cap’n.” It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Luis that his father, the elder Domingo, had said the same thing before he died.
“Swab these decks and get me a Bible so we can give the dead a Christian sea burial. . . . Three good, honest, hardworking seamen cut down—I swear I’ll make her pay for this!”
“Ay, Cap’n,” Julian said, sighing as he watched his captain stride away. How did a person exact revenge on a ghost? For twenty years had passed since her attack on the Spanish Princess, and the Siren was still as young and beautiful as ever. No, she was an evil ghost, and mere mortals would never stop her. The only thing to do was pray.
All night long Luis Domingo prowled the decks of the Silver Lady. It was all true, every word the old man had said.
The Sea Siren lived.
Chapter Six
Java
Dawn, Fury thought, was always a happy time for her parents because it signified a new day, a day to be cherished and lived to its fullest. She, too, had come to think like her parents, rising early to watch the sun ascend the heavens. Today, however, she would have preferred the impenetrable mask of night—a Stygian ally to hide her shame and bewilderment. Shame, because somewhere deep inside her she was relieved that the bishop had denied her entrance to the convent. Bewilderment, because now she had nothing to do until her parents arrived. If they arrived. Her parents, she knew, were not creatures of schedules. They could very well decide to stay in the Americas for years.
The early-morning dew soaked Fury’s delicate slippers as she strolled through the garden, but she barely noticed. She gazed about in the soft grayness, knowing that in just minutes the garden would be ripe with color and scent. All around her would awaken to greet the new day, as had she, but to what end? Without a purpose in life, and the means to fulfill that purpose, one day was much like another—empty and joyless. She was sick to death of needlework and books. Prayer, too, had become a chore that rarely soothed the agitation of her mind. It wasn’t that God wasn’t responding to her devotions; it was that she had no patience to wait for that response. Everything was in God’s time. Time . . . How she hated the word. Time could be an eternity. It was entirely possible that she could wither away and die of . . . loneliness, she thought morosely.
Fury wiped at her eyes, certain the tears shimmering on her lashes would spill over. She knew she was indulging in self-pity, and determined at once to make every effort to change her empty days and evenings. Today, for example, she would go into town to visit with Father Sebastian and offer her services to the parish. It was the least she could do.
By now it was full light, the slight breeze warm and flower-scented. Fury drank deeply of the early morning; in a short while, the air would be heavy and hot. But she was getting used to that. In the month since her arrival, she’d found herself adapting to her old home with ease. Boredom was her only problem. There were simply too many hours in the day.
Her arms full of fragrant blooms, she made her way back to the house to change and by midmorning was ready to leave for town. The sun beat down upon her as she climbed into the flat wagon and nodded to the djongo who would take her to Father Sebastian’s rectory. She was dressed simply in a yellow-sprigged muslin dress with long sleeves, her ebony hair pulled back and swirled on top of her head. She knew she should be taking a hat or at least a parasol to ward off the fiery rays, but she loved the way they tinted her fair skin to a rich honeyed hue.
By the time they’d reached the village, Fury was limp with the heat and soaked with perspiration. But at least here the air was slightly cooler, and a gentle breeze blew in off the village quay. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the tang of salt air.
The village was small and laid out along the tiny waterfront. Many of the gabled rooftops were tiled, giving them a sense of permanence. This village, crowded as it was between jungle and water, seemed to have a timelessness about it, unobtrusive in its surroundings. As the wagon rounded a bend in the dusty road, the hamlet disappeared. The small parish church was nestled at the end of the long, narrow street, and to its right sat Father Sebastian’s house. In another minute she would be there.
They were just passing the Dutch East India offices when Fury gasped in horror. The djongo turned his head, startled.
“What is wrong, missy?” he queried.
Luis Domingo . . . here, in Java? It wasn’t possible! Yet there he was, going into the Dutch East India offices. “Faster, Ling, make the horse go faster,” Fury ordered. He can’t see me like this, she thought wildly. Dear God, what must I look like?
“Horse hot, missy, no go faster.”
“Yes, yes, I know. I’m sorry. . . .”
“Much look, strange look, on man’s face,” Ling reported. “Man still looking,” he added a moment later when he turned for a second look. “Padre’s house, missy. You wait, I help you down. Horse need water and shade tree. I wait over there,” he said, pointing to a small lot on the opposite side of the road.
Fury almost swooned as the old priest led her into his cool study. Concerned, he immediately ordered a cool drink and then had his housekeeper lead her upstairs to “freshen up.” The child needed to talk to him, that much was obvious; but why now, he wondered, wringing his hands in agitation, why at this particular time of day? Luis Domingo would be arriving within minutes. And Domingo, unlike the delicate young lady upstairs, was in a murderous frame of mind and hell-bent on revenge. And he knew why. Father Sebastian peered out the window nervously. The moment he’d heard about Domingo’s experience with the infamous Sea Siren, he’d personally canvassed the town until he’d found Jacobus—who was now, this minute, secure in the rectory sleeping off his last jug of wine. God alone knew what would happen if Domingo accosted the old sea barnacle now, in his current state. Better to keep them apart, at least for the time being.
“Merciful Father,” the old priest murmured, fingering the beads of his rosary, “grant me the wisdom to help Señor Domingo, and show me the way to protect Jacobus ... and,” he added, eyes twinkling, “if You have the time, allow me a little insight into Miss Furana.”
The priest started when the garden bell tinkled and Fury reentered the room at the same time. In a matter of minutes Luis Domingo would walk through his door.
“There’s no time for explanations, Furana,” he said hurriedly. “Go upstairs immediately and stay there until I call you. Señor Domingo will walk into this room in a few seconds, and I—I doubt he will take kindly to your presence at this time. He’s rather . . . overwrought.”
Captive Secrets Page 13
