Captive Secrets

by Fern Michaels

  She smiled again, grimly this time, when she thought of the price on her head. She knew in her gut there wasn’t one among her crew—save, perhaps, Cato—who hadn’t speculated on turning her in. That amount of money, plus all the cargoes, would make them rich for life. The whole fine mess was taking its toll on her, and she knew it. She slept little, and when she did, it was lightly. The least little sound woke her. Most of the time she was irritable and angry with the crew’s sly looks and open greed. She knew she was going to have to do something soon to set an example, one they wouldn’t forget.

  Minutes later Amalie snapped the ledger closed and signaled her men that it was time to leave. She was last in line to slip and slide down the steep incline that led to the small harbor where her ship was anchored. Cato was directly in front of her. The tension between her shoulder blades told her that something was up. Miguel and some of the others must be plotting to waylay her, she reflected, or, worse yet, kill her so that all the cave’s contents and her ship would be theirs.

  “Cato, look at me,” Amalie said. “This damned crew is planning something, aren’t they?”

  Cato kept his eyes fastened to the scrubby terrain and treacherous vines. “I’m not sure,” he answered, his voice low.

  Panic swept through Amalie. She needed these men, needed them desperately. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried to speak normally. “I’ll cut out their gizzards, yours, too, if you align yourself with them.”

  Still, Cato did not respond. Desperate now, Amalie tried a different tack. “Cato, do you recall the conversation we had on deck one night while the others were sleeping and you were on watch? I meant every word I said. When my father’s house is finally restored, I will live like a queen—and a queen needs a king. You and I could be very happy ... as long as you don’t cross me and do something foolish that we’ll both regret.”

  Cato turned at last to speak to her—and in doing so lost his footing. Amalie reached out, her grip on his arm like a vise, and pulled him upright. “There now,” she said softly, releasing his arm, “you’re steady on your feet. Remember, I want to know your decision before we sail.”

  Cato nodded, his young gaze full of admiration. Amalie’s strength and stamina never ceased to amaze him. But he’d be a fool to side with the woman against Miguel and his cutthroats. She would be sadly outnumbered, of that he was sure. He would tell the others, his friends, that they would be princes, and because he would be king he would grant them whatever they desired. She hadn’t said anything about crowns, though, he worried. A queen and king always wore crowns and elegant robes. His spirits soared almost immediately when he remembered seeing the trunk with its heavy lock and emblem of the Spanish Crown. Crowns and costly robes would be kept in such a place. His spirits plummeted. His young, curious voice carried back to Amalie. “Where will you get a throne?”

  Amalie chuckled deep in her throat. “I already have . . . two of them. They belonged to my father. Solid gold,” she lied. “In need of polishing. It will be your first . . . kingly duty.”

  It never occurred to Cato that kings didn’t do manual labor. He smiled in the darkness. Already, he could feel the costly robes about his shoulders. He would have to give some thought to the crown and how it would stay fastened to his head. Gold was heavy, and if the crown were studded with priceless gems, it would weigh even more. Wearing a crown was probably something one had to get used to, he thought smugly. He racked his imagination to come up with something he could tell the others princes wore. Possibly neck cuffs studded with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. He almost choked on his own saliva when he thought of the others as his loyal subjects. He knew at that moment he would do whatever Amalie wanted him to do, even kill.

  In her cabin Amalie changed from her coarse dress to the abbreviated costume responsible for Miguel’s slobbering mouth. Cato was so young and probably no match for Miguel and his cohorts. She had doubts about her own abilities but refused to dwell on them. The impending confrontation was inevitable, had been from the start. Miguel’s greed exceeded only her own. It would happen in open water, of that much she was sure, which didn’t give her much time to prepare for the onslaught. An hour, perhaps two at the most, before the crew made a move. Her heart pumped madly in her chest with the realization the crew would openly attack her and try to kill her. How she defended herself and how victorious she was would set the precedent for her reign at sea. The previous altercations were what she considered necessary exercises to prepare her for the really important attacks like the one she was anticipating today.

  Amalie flexed her injured arm. Daily she’d exercised with the heavy cutlass until she thought she would drop with fatigue. She was confident that she could outfight any man bent on attacking her.

  The attack, when it came, was stealthy and deadly.

  Amalie swiveled, cutlass in her hand, at the precise moment Miguel raised his arm to strike her down. The seaman’s body had reflected off the shimmering water when the glass was to her eye, which gave her the split second she needed to square off against the hateful cutthroat. All about her were shouts of outrage and curses of rebellion as she brought up her arm to fend off Miguel’s wicked blade. Up and down, to the left and to the right, she feinted, her agile body dancing away to thrust and jab.

  “Kill me, will you?” she cried. “Not likely, you pig!”

  The surprise and a quick moment of fear showed in Miguel’s eyes as Amalie’s lightning-fast movement sent him reeling backward. She pressed her advantage, parrying with an expertise he’d not known she possessed. His eyes widened when her blade sliced down, then upward, ripping not only his trousers, but his filthy shirt as well. The sight of his own blood brought obscenities spewing from his mouth. His own cutlass sliced through thin air as Amalie danced backward and then to the left, her cutlass whacking his arm at the elbow. She laughed when his ugly face contorted in pain.

  “Whore!” Miguel roared, his blade lashing out at Amalie’s scarred arm.

  “Son of a whore!” Amalie countered as her blade sliced upward, ripping Miguel’s ear from the side of his head. “You swore your allegiance to me and turned mutineer, and for that you and the scum that follow you deserve to die!”

  Miguel’s eyes were murderous with rage as he swung his cutlass, missing Amalie’s own ear by a hair. Amalie thrust blindly, off balance as the seaman tried to pin her against the railing. Curses and dark mutterings rocked in her ears as she thrust the cutlass straight out, piercing Miguel in the middle of his stomach. She heaved mightily, ripping the blade upward toward his chest. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.

  Amalie whirled then, her eyes glittering as she faced the circle of men that had formed around her and the unfortunate Miguel. She crouched, her hand beckoning the next volunteer who wanted to do battle. “Now, do it now, or from this day on you’ll never know a moment’s peace,” she cried, “for I no longer trust you. I’ll kill you when you sleep, when you’re high in the rigging, when you’re sotted with ale, or when you’re playing a game of cards. I’ll come up behind you and slice your head from your neck.”

  When no one moved, she straightened to her full height. “I see that wisdom has struck all of you suddenly. From this moment on you will never again question my authority. You belong to me now, body and soul. You will do what I say when I say it. And the first man who looks at me crossways will find himself shark fodder like Miguel,” she warned them. “Now get rid of this vermin and scour these decks till they sparkle!”

  The silence roared in Amalie’s ears as she strode to her quarters. The moment the cabin door was closed and locked, she rushed to her bunk and buried her face in the pillow to muffle her cries of triumph.

  She’d won. She’d won! She was now in total control of her ship and the men aboard. There wasn’t one who’d have the guts to start a fight with her. Over and over again she played back the scene with Miguel. The exhilaration was overpowering, running like fire through her veins, until she realized what it was she wa
s experiencing: the need to prove herself even more. And the only way she could do that was with a man.

  Cato. Cato, with the young, strong body and dark, burning eyes. She would devour him, satiate herself, and make him a willing slave to her bidding. It would be a simple matter to drug the young man with her charms until he was addicted to her body as well as to her mystique. All she had to do now was wait until he brought her a mug of coffee and his hourly report on conditions topside.

  Within minutes of the hourly bell, Cato arrived at her cabin carrying a steaming cup of coffee, and meat and bread on a tray. Amalie—or his queen, as he now thought of her—was sitting on the edge of her bunk, smiling at him. He returned her smile and gingerly set the tray on the small table next to the bunk. There was something very different about the way she was looking at him, almost as if she wanted him . . . to touch her. A core of heat curled in his stomach and then fanned outward to suffuse his cheeks with color.

  “I want to thank you for—” Amalie jerked her head to indicate the upper deck. Cato nodded and turned to leave. “Wait, don’t go,” she called. “Come, sit here by me and tell me what the crew is saying. Have I anything to worry about?”

  He wanted to tell her she would never have to worry about anything; he wanted to tell her he would protect her from the likes of Miguel and any others who might have the same intentions. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was; how he admired her strength and the way she’d attacked the man who was now feeding the sharks . . . But he didn’t. His tongue was too thick in his mouth for words, and his body was raging with desire. Dare he tell her what he was thinking?

  Hands trembling, he sat down next to his captain. “I . . . the men, they have all sworn allegiance to you, and this time they mean what they say,” he began. “Miguel was . . . has always been . . . They’re glad he’s dead. You have nothing to worry about. I promise to keep my eyes and ears open.”

  “Thank you,” Amalie said, and touched his arm in a gentle caress. Cato flinched as though he’d been struck.

  “Would you like to touch me the way I’m touching you?” she asked softly.

  Cato nodded, his callused hands reaching out almost of their own accord.

  Amalie laughed deep in her throat, the sound primitive and sensual, demanding. “No, not my arm. Here . . .” She pointed to the cleavage between her breasts.

  Cato closed his eyes as he buried his face in the twin mounds of creamy flesh, only half aware of Amalie’s fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. When at last her breasts were totally free of their confinement, she stretched and leaned back, relishing the artful working of his tongue, moaning her pleasure as she drew his head upward. Their lips met in a searing kiss that left both of them gasping. In a second their clothing fell to the floor as their bodies met and locked with each other. Amalie felt herself crying out as Cato’s hands stroked her body, slowly at first and then urgently. She could feel a roaring in her head as the urgent caresses unleashed the wild, clamorous passion she’d so long held in abeyance.

  Blood raced through Cato’s veins as Amalie clawed at his back, her mouth burning beneath his. Frantically, low moans of pleasure and desire shaking her, she writhed beneath his hardness.

  “Hurry, hurry,” she murmured, tearing her mouth from his. With one hard thrust from Cato she arched her back, involuntarily crying out, her head rearing into the pillow.

  Stunned with what she’d just experienced, Amalie clasped Cato’s head to her breast as she crooned words of satisfaction. Minutes later she whispered, “Again, please, again.” This time she moved to lie on top of him, her breasts crushing against his chest. Ever so slightly she brought her bruised lips to his, her tongue darting in and out of the warm recesses of his mouth.

  Cato, his body slick with perspiration, his heart drumming, silently offered himself up to his queen.

  Moaning with pleasure at her ability to arouse him with a mere touch, she crouched up onto her knees, straddling his firm body, her breathing hard and ragged, her motion rhythmical, drawing him deeper into her web.

  Cato reached for her breasts. with trembling hands. A low, fierce growl of ecstasy ripped from his mouth as Amalie once again brought him to the brink of exploding passion—only to stop all movement, leaving him burning for release.

  “Beg me, plead with me,” she whispered. “Tell me you want me, all of me, tell me there is no other like me.”

  Cato’s eyes glazed as he repeated the desired words from the depths of his soul. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as he drew her to him, their bodies entwined. “I need you,” he gasped, surrendering to wave upon wave of passion. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, every nerve in his body clamoring for satisfaction. “Please,” he moaned.

  “Yes . . . Now . . .” she whispered. They rolled as one, her powerful hands pulling his full weight down onto her.

  He rode her like a wild stallion, hard and fast, plunging, withdrawing, until neither of them could stand the exquisite pain a moment longer. Amalie rocked her slick body against his, meeting each explosion of his passion with a tortured cry.

  Cato had no idea how much time had passed until Amalie stirred next to him. He didn’t care if he never went on deck again. This was what he wanted; this was what he would never forget. He reached out to stroke Amalie’s face, and she smiled against his hand. “Did I please you?” he whispered huskily, his heart bursting with love. “Will I make a fitting king for you?”

  Amalie smiled again, curling her naked body like a cat. “Of course,” she whispered, and realized she meant the words. Cato was so innocent. She’d pleasured many men, more than she cared to remember, but not one had been interested in pleasing her. Only Cato. She tweaked his cheek playfully, wanting to bring a smile to his face.

  “Will . . . will we do this again?” he asked in a hushed, pleading voice.

  “As often as you like,” Amalie replied. She gurgled with laughter when, minutes later, Cato swaggered from her cabin. In no way would she ever think of him as a boy again. In her heart she knew he’d never breathe a word of what had transpired between them. It would make little difference to her authority over the other men if he did, but it was nice to know he respected her enough not to boast about their lovemaking.

  Stretching luxuriously, Amalie savored the feeling of satisfaction that welled within. She could still smell the musky scent of Cato, and it pleased her. With a little work, a little refinement, he just might be the perfect king for her domain. She detested the word slave, but Cato would make a willing one. She pressed her face deep into her pillow and imagined she was holding him in her arms, kissing him, making love to him. She remembered the way her body felt when he was deep inside her. Right now, this very moment, she wanted that feeling again and knew she would never have enough now that her passions had been aroused. Hours and hours . . . days, possibly weeks of doing nothing but making love and eating. Could one exist only on love? She wanted to find out, needed to find out, and she would.

  Amalie slept then, her dreams filled with a tall, dark-eyed Spaniard who in no way resembled Cato. When she woke, it was fully dark, a bright orange moon shining through the mullioned window in her cabin. As she dressed she tried not to think about her dream and what it meant.

  The moment her booted feet touched the deck, she heard the cry of “Sail ho!” from high in the rigging. Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought of another battle, especially now, when she didn’t feel like fighting. Uneasily she took notice of the low, swirling fog. The smoky lamp pots added eerie shadows everywhere she looked. Perhaps it was an omen of some kind, a warning. . . .

  Almost immediately she discounted the thought. A fog was a fog, and the smoky lantern pots were lights, nothing more. But she would have them extinguished in any case-lights could be seen even in fog.

  “Where away?” she shouted, cursing when the spyglass offered nothing but swirling fog. She ran to the bow and brought the glass to her eye a second time, then craned her neck backward
to peer into the rigging. “You’re sure?”

  “Dead ahead, Captain. She’s traveling at five knots, perhaps a little less, and she doesn’t know we’re on her stern,” the seaman called softly, knowing full well that voices carried over the water. “She’s heavily armed.”

  Darkness, Amalie decided, could either be one’s enemy or one’s friend. “Douse all lanterns,” she ordered. The only thing in her favor right now was the fog and darkness, since she was sailing in unfamiliar waters. One good shot could scuttle her frigate, and they’d all be joining Miguel.

  At last she sighted them—the galleon and her two brigantines ... loaded with ivory and perfect for her needs. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Swiftly she motioned to Cato.

  “We’ll attack from the jolly boats,” she told him. “I want a dozen men in the water swimming alongside. The galleon won’t expect such a feeble attempt—surprise will be in our favor. As soon as we have cloud cover, over we go. Have everyone gather round while I explain our plan. . . .”

  Amalie’s heart pounded as the jolly boats set out under cover of the thick gray fog, one to the left, one to the right, and the third directly in the wake of the galleon. The plan, she’d explained, required strict silence. Having her crew attack by stealth while she rendered the captain helpless would be their one main advantage. They were sadly outnumbered, and what she was planning was foolhardy. But she gave each man his orders and the promise of an extra dividend when splitting the prize. Bloodthirsty by nature, they could hardly wait to get their hands on the small convoy.

  “Directly ahead,” whispered one of the men from the water.

  Amalie looked about but could see nothing save the eerie yellow glow of the galleon’s smoke pots. Another few moments and it would be time to board. This attack, she thought excitedly, would double or perhaps triple the price on her head. Three ships at once! She almost laughed aloud as she slid over the side of the jolly boat.