Captive Secrets

by Fern Michaels

  “Now it is you who will give quarter,” Luis growled, drawing his cutlass against hers and pressing the weight of both to her heaving breasts.

  “You speckled-shirted dog, I’ll never give you quarter!” Amalie gasped, and brought up her knee with all the force she could muster to trounce the Spaniard in the groin. He reeled backward, doubling over with pain. Amalie held the cutlass high overhead, about to bring it down on Luis’s neck, when Cato appeared next to her.

  “There’s no need,” he cried, staying her arm. “You’ve won. His crew and yours know you are the victor. They’ve all been disarmed; you’ll have no further trouble with them. We can be on our way unmolested—why not let them keep their captain?”

  Luis snorted at Cato’s report. “Why don’t you have those goddamn black birds finish me off if you don’t have the guts to do it yourself,” he hissed.

  Amalie paused, caught between Cato’s declaration of victory and the Spaniard’s puzzling words. What black birds? Suddenly she felt his hand on her arm, the fingers running up and down the heavy welt of the scar on her arm.

  “Lying slut!” he roared. “If my life depended on what you call the truth, I wouldn’t believe you. A fine tale it was! Send in your killing birds and be damned!”

  Amalie lowered her cutlass, exasperated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, señor. I don’t want you and I don’t want this ship. You fired on me. Ask yourself why I would attack a ship with an empty hold.”

  “I’d rather ask why you travel with a Dutch and Spanish escort,” Luis countered. “Those ships belong to the Dutch East India Company. What are you doing with them?”

  “I might ask you a question, señor,” she said, ignoring his demand. “Why would you fire on your own ships? You ride these waters looking for me, and yet it’s your own company’s ships you shot at, not mine. Are you that poor a shot, or is it that you’re afraid to fire on me directly since I scuttled the Silver Lady?” She laughed with the triumph of a conviction, then backed away from him until she’d reached the bow of the ship. “I have no more time to converse with you further, señor. Be sure it’s a pretty tale you spin when you return to Batavia, and be sure to spell my name correctly on the wanted posters.”

  Luis watched as she leapt from his ship to the bow of her own. His eyes strained to pierce the darkness, trying to make out her diamond garter. He saw nothing save a flash of steel as she sheathed her cutlass. “Let’s hope that diamond garter is still aboard these decks,” he called loudly. “It might make all this worthwhile.”

  Amalie could hold her tongue no longer. “You’ve done nothing but talk in riddles this past hour, señor. If you have a passion for killing birds and lust after diamond garters, look elsewhere. Buenas noches, señor. The next time we meet I’ll kill you for no other reason than to please myself.”

  “Twice! Twice she bested me. Or was it three times? Goddamn bitch!” He’d see her dead before . . . Christ, what was the matter with him? He’d had her in his clutches and let her go. He’d believed her when she said she meant him no harm . . . the birds, where were the goddamn black birds? And where was her garter? “All hands on deck!” he shouted. “Scour this ship! Find that diamond garter! Now!” he thundered.

  “You saw the garter, Julian! Where the hell is it?” Luis roared his anger as he dabbed at the blood dribbling down his chest.

  “Captain, I was too busy fending for myself. It’s dark and I saw no garter on the sea witch’s leg. I did see it when she came broadside at your last meeting. Perhaps she took it off herself. The sea witch is no different from other women. One day they put gemstones in their ears and around their necks, the next day they tie on velvet ribbons. The sea witch is a woman with flights of fancy. If you wish, I’ll help the crew search for the garter. When you spoke of it to her, she didn’t show any concern that I could see, which makes me think she simply wasn’t wearing her bauble this night.”

  “You can’t trust women,” Luis spat out. “I went against my better instincts. I never should have believed her. She’s right, I am a fool.”

  “Why do you think she didn’t—”

  “Kill me? I don’t know, unless she was enamored of my charms,” Luis said bitterly.

  “I saw it all, Cap’n. You could have taken her at any time,” Julian said loyally. “You held back because she was a woman, isn’t that right?”

  “She’s incredibly strong,” Luis hedged. “And skilled. I had no idea she’d be that good. Not even our first encounter . . . ”He spun around to his first mate. “But she lied, Julian! I was halfway to believing her. . . .”

  “We fired first, Cap’n,” Julian muttered. “She did say she was staying true to her course.”

  “Then what in the goddamn hell was she doing with three ships belonging to the Dutch East India Company? Who the hell could see that dastardly black ship in this darkness? It could have been any ship. Tell me, Julian, did you see . . . sense anything different about this woman?”

  The first mate shook his head. “Not a thing, Cap’n. Beautiful as sin. I suppose it’s possible that she’s going to escort the Dutch East India’s ships back to port . . . safely.” He shrugged.

  “The day that happens they’ll get whiskey in hell,” Luis snarled. Frowning, he leaned over the rail to stare into the murky waters below. Was Julian right? Had he held back because the Siren was a woman—or had she bested him? To others he could lie, but not to himself. He searched his mind for ways he’d held back, given in to the strength of the woman, but only because . . . because . . . he wasn’t sure in his own mind if she was the real Sea Siren or the impostor. Yes, he’d held back; he was certain. His breath exploded in a loud sigh of relief.

  “Julian, I don’t believe she was the Sea Siren,” he said. “No birds, no garter . . . But whether I’m right or not, the next time any woman confronts me on the open seas, I’ll forget what a gentleman I am. The next time I’ll . . .”

  The first rays of dawn saw Luis Domingo in his quarters with every map owned by the Dutch East India Company spread before him. He’d find the sea witch if it was the last thing he did. It was dusk when he flexed his shoulders and called for his first mate.

  “I do believe I found the slut’s lair,” he drawled nonchalantly, pointing to a chart so old the edges were frayed and yellowed.

  Julian peered down at the ancient chart, his face draining of all color. “The River of Death!” he said in a trembling voice.

  Luis nodded. “Don’t you see, it bears out everything that old sea salt told me months ago. Think back to the Siren’s beginning reign of terror and destruction of the Dutch East India Company. Somehow she was privy to sailing dates and cargo manifests, which means she sequestered that damnable black ship somewhere in a deep harbor or hiding place that only she had the nerve to sail into. And what better place than the River of Death? Those simmering sister volcanoes would hold any sea captain at bay.” He turned to his first mate, eyes glinting in the dim lantern light. “I’m convinced now that there are two Sirens. The question is: Which one is the impostor? Believe it or not, we’ve met both of them. Which is your choice?”

  Julian paused, clearly taken aback. “I can’t be sure, Cap’n, but the one tonight was damnably strong, and there was something about her voice, as though she knew something . . . knew her own power. They called her arrogant back then, so arrogant she believed she was—”

  “Invincible. Exactly!” Luis jabbed a finger under Julian’s nose. “She could be invincible and arrogant only because she knew she was safe and could disappear almost at will. The volcanoes created a vaporous black mist—the one the old sea salt referred to. Examine all this information, and the answer is right in front of you. If you recall, the Siren retired from the seas when the sister volcanoes erupted. See—on this map and this one, the entrance to the river was blocked, probably sealing her ship inside her sequestered cove. Now, this map”—he pointed to a recent rendering—“shows that the river is open. Quite natural with the various tide
s and currents. It’s still narrow and would take much skill to skirt the rocky formations on either side. A frigate could make it, but it’s doubtful a brigantine could sail past the opening. I plan to travel that river in one of the jolly boats.”

  Luis tossed his marking chalk on the rough table and clapped Julian on the back. “Better yet, the River of Death is so close to Batavia, I think we’ll change course—sail for port and trade in this ship for another, one of those sloops with the rapierlike bowsprit. Dykstra was to take delivery of several on behalf of the Dutch East India Company; he probably has them by now. They say the bowsprit on those sloops is almost as long as the hull. The parade of canvas she sports makes her more nimble than a brigantine or frigate. And the square topsail, in favorable winds, gives an extra measure of speed, which is what I’m going to need. Eleven knots is nothing to sneer at. Dykstra said they were to be outfitted with twelve or fourteen cannon. Six would do us fine, less weight in favor of maneuverability.

  “Yes,” he went on, tapping his chin, “that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Give the order to change course now. We’ll lose two days at the most and, hopefully, pick them up once we have the sloop. What do you think, Julian?” Luis asked as he rolled the charts and maps into goatskin pouches.

  Julian nodded. “I can think of no better explanation, Cap’n. But what if there is no black frigate once you’re past the River of Death? How will we know if it’s her haven?”

  “We’ll know,” Luis replied. “When people think they are safe, they become careless. There will be some sign, I’m sure of it. If there isn’t, we’re no worse off. The most we lose is seven days either way. But I feel it here”—he pounded his chest—“those waters are her home.”

  Julian left the captain’s quarters to give the order to change course. Up on deck, he strode from bow to stern, savoring the warmth of the evening air. He could imagine no life other than this one. The sea was his mistress, the clear, star-filled night his wife, the elements his children, the captain his superior. . . . Still, now and then he wondered if he would ever see his mother country again. If the captain was smitten with the Sea Siren, it could be the death of all of them.

  He wondered then, and not for the first time, why the Siren hadn’t run the captain through. She had to be the real Siren because of her boast that she did not kill for the sake of killing. Nothing else made sense . . . unless she was the impostor and smitten with the captain herself. Damnation, he was developing a pounding headache. Women always gave him a headache; they were such demanding and unpredictable creatures. Diamond garters, black birds that killed, near-naked women who could fight better than most men . . . The world was changing too fast for him. Truly, he belonged at sea.

  Chapter Nine

  Batavia

  Peter Dykstra nervously fingered the ends of his lace collar before knocking at the door of the casa. His heart thumped in his chest at what he was about to do: spy on and try to trick his good friend’s daughter. Once and for all he was going to bring this puzzling matter to a conclusion. Whatever happened afterward would be in other hands, not his own, he decided miserably.

  Over the dinner table, Dykstra was glad that poor eyesight was not among his various ailments. Fury looked ravishing in the candlelight; if he didn’t know better, he would have thought he was sitting across from her mother. He warned himself to be careful with his questions. If what he suspected was true, he didn’t want to alert the young lady. He remembered well her mother’s hot temper, and there was no reason to believe the daughter wasn’t similarly gifted.

  “I’m so glad you could come to dinner, Mynheer,” Fury said graciously, sipping from her wineglass. “I’ve become very lonely here. Gathering flowers to grace the rooms is not my idea of a productive life. How fortunate that you are a man and can do as you please. When I was a child I wanted to be a boy like my brothers and do all the things they did.”

  The perfect opening. “Good Lord, child, do you mean you’d like to go to sea or be a merchant?” Dykstra asked. “Did your parents ever tell you tales of the Sea Siren?”

  Fury felt a hard nudge to her back as Juli removed the first course plates. “Of course, Mynheer Dykstra. My father openly admits to once being obsessed with the famous pirate. I thought it such a romantic story.” She smiled dreamily. “I can’t even begin to imagine what her life must have been like. So strong and powerful, men lusting after her, none strong enough to kill her. Conquistador, they called her. A better sailor than any man. What did you think of her, Mynheer?”

  Dykstra hesitated. Obviously she knew what he was after. As wily and ingenious as her mother. “I always envied your father’s meetings with her. There were many, you know. Of course, we have only his word for what happened during those meetings,” he added.

  “Your words seem to carry a double meaning, Mynheer,” Fury said quietly.

  “Oh, no, it’s just that Regan and I were such fast friends, and both of us liked to boast . . . the way men will do with one another. I tend to think your father gilded his stories a little. I would have done the same in his circumstances.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t like Regan to let her go. I’ve never understood why he allowed it.”

  Fury’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t allow her to flee, Mynheer. She escaped. He searched for years, every chance he could, until . . . my mother called a halt to his wanderings. And, eventually, she retired on her own—as I’ve been given to understand. My parents felt much admiration for so accomplished a woman. There aren’t many women walking this earth or sailing the seas who can bring hundreds of men to their knees.”

  Dykstra felt himself bristling with suppressed rage. “She was no lady! Good women don’t do the things she did. She deserved to be punished for her cruel deeds,” he said coldly.

  Fury flushed. “On the contrary, Mynheer, my father said the Siren was more of a lady than all of the women together in Batavia. With the exception of my mother,” she added hastily.

  Dykstra paused and took a steadying breath. “It sounds like you condone the Sea Siren’s actions,” he said, striving for a light tone.

  “Mynheer Dykstra, the Sea Siren reigned over twenty years ago, before I was born. I admire what she did . . . and all for a cause that otherwise would have gone unpunished—” Fury broke off to stare directly into Dykstra’s eyes. “Why are we talking about the Sea Siren now, at this particular time? Is it because of the bogus pirate who is sailing the seas? You’ll never convince me she’s the Sea Siren.”

  “How can you be so sure if, as you say, you weren’t even born during her reign of terror?”

  Fury could feel her skin prickling. Dykstra had something, some news, or else he was baiting a trap for her. “Mynheer Dykstra, this impostor is a direct contradiction to all the Sea Siren stood for. I wouldn’t cross this one if I were you—she might come on land and run you through just for the pleasure of it. You see, that is the difference between the two; the real Sea Siren would never do such a thing. She’s an honorable woman!” Smiling coldly, she placed her napkin on her plate and rose. “We can have coffee and brandy in my father’s study, if you like.”

  Without a word Dykstra followed her into the study, his hand in his waistcoat pocket. She was suspicious—so suspicious, she was letting her tongue run away with her. It was time to close in for the kill.

  In her father’s library Fury did her best to relax and play hostess as Juli placed the silver tray on a low table. “Sugar, Mynheer?”

  “Please. . . . Fury, I have something I want you to look at.”

  “You sound very mysterious,” Fury said lightly. She could feel Juli stiffen in the study doorway.

  “When Señor Domingo first told me of the attack on his father’s ship, the Spanish Princess, I was, of course, skeptical, as were the other men in town. But when he described the woman so carefully, I had to pay strict attention. For he was describing the Sea Siren—or at least the Sea Siren whose picture hung in the Dutch East India offices.” Fury nodded to show she wa
s following the manager’s story.

  “Well,” Dykstra continued, “several days ago I was rummaging in my desk for something and came across this miniature painting of your parents, one your father gave me when he moved his family to Spain. I don’t know what possessed me to alter this, but I did. Would you like to see it?”

  Fury nodded, struggling to control her emotions. She knew full well Dykstra was watching her with sharp eyes.

  “But this is outrageous, Mynheer!” she exploded a moment later. “My father will never forgive you for your . . . suspicions. You’re making my mother out to be the Sea Siren! Where did you come by such an idea? No, no, it isn’t possible.”

  “It’s not only possible, it’s probable,” Dykstra declared. “And I’ll take that probability one step further. I think you’ve taken her place.”

  Fury had the presence of mind to look astonished. “But why? After all these years, why would you think . . . for what purpose? Oh, it’s too preposterous to even give credence . . . I’m appalled, Mynheer, that you would even think me—”

  “Mynheer, where would Miss Fury get the Sea Siren’s ship?” Juli interrupted, forgetting her place. “It’s been said it was scuttled, rotting at the bottom of the sea. And Miss Fury has never left this house except to go into town. You can speak with any of the other servants if you don’t believe me.”

  Dykstra ignored the housekeeper’s outburst, his eyes on Fury and the color creeping into her cheeks.