Captive Secrets

by Fern Michaels

  The Silver Lady sliced through the crystal blue water at a speed approaching eleven knots, the Dutch ships trailing in her wake at less than nine. It irritated Luis that Peter Dykstra and the governors of Amsterdam considered the Silver Lady an escort, while in truth the Dutch ships were his escort.

  “Carry the diamonds aboard the Silver Lady, and my lips are sealed regarding the Sea Siren’s identity,” Dykstra had promised. It was his final offer. Luis had argued with Dykstra, called himself every name he could think of, berated himself, cursed himself . . . but in the end he’d agreed to bring the diamonds aboard. At this moment they rested in a velvet-lined cask marked VINEGAR in crude black letters.

  All he wanted was to return to Spain in a healthy condition so he could lick his wounds and start over. He didn’t want the Dutchman’s commission or his damnable diamonds, but he was stuck with both, thanks to his feelings for Fury van der Rhys. He hadn’t meant to fall in love, but he had. And now that love would be his undoing.

  “Women,” he snorted, “should be put together on an island so they could make one another miserable instead of wreaking havoc with men’s hearts.”

  He should have gone to the casa; he’d had the time to say good-bye. Why hadn’t he gone when the priest suggested it? Because, he told himself, he didn’t dare gaze upon Fury’s beautiful face. He knew he would have begged, like a fool, to . . . to . . .

  Luis whipped the glass to his eye, more to drive the thoughts from his head than to scan the waters surrounding him. He felt bruised, battered, and sad of heart at his loss. Would there ever be another woman who could stir him as Fury had done?

  “Captain, Captain . . . look! Overhead! What is it? Jesus Christ! It’s those devil birds! Captain! Look!”

  “I see them. Quiet!” he roared. He watched, mesmerized at the sight of the black birds in the distance. A chill raced down his arms. Wherever the birds were, Fury was close by. . . . They were closer now, their wings fanning the air, their screeches carrying on the stiff breeze.

  Soon the hawks were directly overhead, circling the mainmast at a dizzying speed. Luis’s heart began to pound. Why were they here? Where was Fury?

  Up, up, up they soared in a straight line until they were almost out of sight. Luis brought the glass to his eye and could see only the brilliant blue sky. Then, suddenly, he saw both birds descend at a speed equal to a cannon shot. He swallowed, his heart in his mouth, when Gaspar checked his descent in midair, his wings flapping to create his own breeze, before he settled on the ship’s quarter rail, just inches from where Luis was standing. The moment Pilar took her position nearby, he let his breath out in a long, explosive sigh.

  “What . . . what do they want?” Julian asked fearfully.

  “How the hell do I know!” Luis muttered. “Bring some meat, they could be hungry.” He waited until Julian had returned with a slab of salt pork, then advanced toward them.

  “Hawhawhawhaw,” the birds chorused.

  “And I’m supposed to know what that sound means,” Luis grated out.

  Their glittering eyes boring into him, Luis advanced with the pail of meat Julian handed him. The birds ignored the food. Gaspar’s wing tip feathered out to touch Luis on the shoulder, and Pilar worked hers until she could trace a pattern in the distance. Luis’s eyes widened. He turned to face the east, his eyes full of questions. When Gaspar’s talon reached out to grasp his arm, he felt no pain and realized the bird’s intention was not to hurt him, but to make him turn until he was facing the two Dutch ships sailing in his wake.

  In an instant the birds were off the railing and swooping upward, their wings flapping angrily, their screeches keen and shrill. He watched as the birds circled overhead before flying off in an easterly direction.

  “We’re changing course,” Luis ordered. “Turn this goddamn ship around. Now!” Overhead, the hawks called their approval before descending to the mizzenmast, where they clung wearily.

  “No man touches those birds!” Luis thundered. “Full speed. All hands on deck!” To the Dutch ships he was about to pass, he roared again, “Continue or follow me, it’s your choice!”

  “What in the goddamn hell do you think you’re doing, Domingo?” Dykstra shouted.

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I changed course. I have some unfinished business to take care of. If you want your cargo, come alongside. Be quick about it!”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’m coming aboard,” Dykstra roared.

  “Suit yourself, but if you miss your footing, I’ve no time to fish you from the water.”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Dykstra called a second time.

  Luis ignored the question. “What’s it to be, Dykstra? Do you want your cargo or not? You can follow me if you want.”

  Listening to this exchange, Cato almost fell from his position in the rigging. What was he to do? If the Dutchman came aboard, he himself would stay. If the cargo was shifted to the other ship, he would give himself away if he tried to board her. Filled with anxiety, he waited for the Dutchman to make his decision and almost fainted in relief when Dykstra gave the order to change course. The diamonds would remain aboard.

  Suddenly he whirled, the hackles on the back of his neck rising. Until this moment he’d thought the devilish birds were high in the mast. If he moved, even slightly, they would be on him in a minute. Christ, he hated them, hated their beady black eyes. It was some kind of omen, he was sure of it.

  An hour later Cato was in the same position in the rigging, the hawks only inches away. Luis’s eyes narrowed as he watched the birds watching the young man. If they wanted to, they could have toppled him in a second; instead, they chose to keep an eye on him. Why?

  Pilar’s feathers rustled ominously. Gaspar’s head dipped slightly as he prepared to fan out his wings. He was in the air in a second, Pilar working the light breeze he created to follow. “I’ll be goddamned!” Luis muttered. They understood what he was saying. Half his brain negated what he’d just observed, but the other half believed implicitly. Cato’s white face told him he too was a believer.

  Luis watched Cato as he moved off, his head jerking backward with every few steps he took. He looked around sheepishly before he spoke. “If you’re as tired as I think you are, then you should rest. I’ll keep my eyes on the boy. Your food is on the quarter deck.”

  “Hawhawhawhaw,” Gaspar responded.

  “I’ll be goddamned,” Luis muttered over and over as he strode about the ship. “If I didn’t see it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.” Craning his neck for one last look at the birds clinging to the mainmast, he wasn’t surprised to see their glittering eyes follow his every step.

  Now, alone in his cabin, he could think about what the hawks’ arrival meant. Fury must be in danger. Either she’d sent the birds after him, or they’d come on their own, which left her without their protection. Luis could feel his stomach start to chum. The hawks seemed content to nest in the mainmast and sail at eleven knots, which had to mean she was in no immediate danger.

  The relief Luis felt was so sudden, so overwhelming, he tripped over his own feet, sprawling crossways atop an extra water barrel stored on deck. His curse was ripe and flowery until he saw Gaspar take wing and sail down in his direction. “Son of a bitch!” he muttered, certain the hawk was going to attack him. Instead, Gaspar worked the breeze and seemed to float in the air over his head. When he felt the slight feathering on the back of his neck as he struggled to his feet, he realized the bird was hovering protectively.

  “I’m all right,” he said helplessly. In disbelief he watched the huge bird fan his wings and sail upward in the breeze he created for himself.

  A long time later Luis smiled to himself. What was the beautiful, elegant Furana van der Rhys going to say when she found out her goddamn birds were enamored of him? More important, what was his crew thinking about him? He’d seen their sly looks and their fear whenever the birds appeared. They think I’m insane, he thought, and they could be righ
t. What sea captain carrying a fortune in precious diamonds would change course because of two black birds?

  One of these days, when the time was right, he’d give his crew a lecture on trust—birds and . . . women. But for now he would content himself with seeking out the newest member of his crew for a . . . chat.

  Chapter Twelve

  The moment Rego arrived, Amalie set sail for the Sunda Strait, her destination Sumatra, where she would lay in fresh stores and then head for open water. The galleon and brigantine ivory remained behind in the thick gray mist at the mouth of the river, unmanned and ghostly.

  Amalie felt paralyzed with fear, an emotion she hated but seemed unable to conquer. She was shaking now, her stomach churning as she contemplated what might happen to her. For some reason she’d always thought she would grow old regally and die in her bed, bedecked with jewels and all her servants in attendance.

  The moment Cato left the ship she’d been assailed with doubts of every description. Her instincts told her to give up the diamonds, take what booty she’d salvaged, and return to Saianha. The ivory alone would make her a wealthy woman for the rest of her days. But just when she’d been about to follow through, a vision of the diamonds had appeared before her—a small mountain of them, all shimmery and sparkly. Worthy of a queen and belonging to a kingdom. She couldn’t give them up.

  Amalie’s throat closed at the thought of meeting up with the real Sea Siren, the one her father was so obsessed with, the one who had killed him in the end. She has no equal, her father had written. On another page he’d said no man was capable of besting her. He’d died for his efforts, and here she was, foolish enough to think she could succeed where so many others had failed.

  For days now she’d been debating with herself about telling the crew what she was after. If they knew of the diamonds, they would fight with her and for her, but when it was all over they would kill her. If the diamonds were divided among her men, they could live in splendor for the rest of their lives.

  It was too late for anything now save forging ahead. If she did anything else, she would lose Cato, which would be even worse than losing the diamonds. That particular thought had made her blood run cold. Never, until now, had she believed love would rule her mind and her heart.

  Then a second thought struck her, one she’d done her best to ignore for days. If she was caught, she would be turned over to the authorities and either hung or imprisoned for life. Her stomach fluttered warningly at the prospect. Perhaps she should give it all up and return home. Cato knew where she lived. Somehow he would find her.

  “Bitch!” she spat out, disgusted with herself. “I want those diamonds, and I mean to have them!”

  Seething, Amalie stomped her way from the wheelhouse to the deck. Her crew scattered on sight, busying themselves with the endless task of keeping the frigate seaworthy. She leaned against the quarter deck rail and watched her men go about their duties, lulled by the sounds of water slapping against the hull of the ship. She was calmer now, her breathing deep and regular. Her eyes strayed to the top of the mizzenmast, and she wondered what it would feel like to climb to the top and survey the ocean. Exhilarating, no doubt, but she would not do it. Nothing, she thought morbidly, would drive away this accursed fear. Too late . . . it was too late to do anything but stay on course. Whatever was going to happen would happen.

  It was dark, she realized suddenly. She’d missed the sun sinking red-gold behind the horizon. How had she failed to notice the end of a day? She lifted her face to the open sky, relishing the crisp tang of the salt sea as a million stars winked down upon her.

  “Mount a square topsail,” she shouted. “I want speed, this wind is too favorable to lose. We can make eleven knots easily.” Damn their eyes, she hated every one of them. Dirty, filthy drunkards, red-faced from rum and grog.

  Amalie’s anger drove away her fear as she watched her men mount the topsail. “I could do it faster myself,” she shouted.

  “Then come up here and do it,” came the surly reply.

  In a frenzy Amalie scrambled her way up the mast to the insolent seaman. Unsheathing her cutlass, she lashed out at him, slicing the man’s arm from shoulder to wrist. He bellowed in pain and fear as he toppled down, down ... to land on the deck in a crumpled heap.

  “Throw him in irons!” Amalie screamed. “I’ll have nothing less than respect on his ship. Hear me well, you scurvy lot. The next man goes over the side!” She could hear their muttered curses as they dragged the bleeding man below.

  For six days Amalie prowled the decks of her ship like a tiger in search of food. She had not been able to sustain her anger, and her fear was as ripe and rotting as week-old fruit. The need to cry was overwhelming at times. She wished constantly for Cato.

  On the seventh day there came a shout from the rigging. “Sail ho!”

  “Where away?” Amalie called.

  “Dead ahead, thirty knots. She appears to be at anchor. Possibly repairs.”

  “In the middle of the ocean?” Amalie cried, incredulous.

  “She’s weighed anchor,” came the stubborn reply.

  Amalie ran to the bow of the ship and brought the glass to her eye. Damn his eyes, he was right. Only one ship. Where was the Dutchman’s escort? Unless the ship didn’t belong to the Dutchman, but to someone else, the only person brave enough to weigh anchor in the middle of the sea to . . . lie in wait. She knew in her gut that the ship was black, and the moment the clouds passed across the sun, she would have all the proof she needed.

  Now that there was virtually no breeze, her ship’s progress slowed. By the time they were within a five-knot range it would be dark. Amalie could feel herself start to tremble.

  “Rego, come here,” she called softly. “Pass the word, the moment we’re within range I want that ship fired on. The shots had damn well better make their mark, or the gunners will be swimming home. Pass the word and do it quietly, voices carry over the water. If we’ve spotted her, she’s spotted us.”

  “I see her on our stern,” Fury called jubilantly. “The wind’s dying. One hour, two at the most, and she’ll be close enough to fire upon. All we need is two good shots, one on her bow and one broadside. Hoist the anchor. I don’t want to make it too easy for her. Quickly now, men. We can’t give her the advantage.”

  “Aye, Capitana. Do you have a mind to play a little game with the black ship?” her first mate inquired in an amused voice.

  Fury’s soft laughter tinkled across the water. “In a manner of speaking. The cat is always faster than the rat.”

  Her first mate laughed with her. He had every confidence in this strange young woman with her scanty costume. He listened with interest as she described what she was going to do.

  “We’ll sail like a bolt of lightning, this way and then that way, a jagged pattern, so to speak. Let her think we’re limping and making repairs. She’ll think she frightens us. Dawn will provide us with all the light we need to bring about a confrontation. This matter is going to be laid to rest once and for all. She’ll never plunder those diamonds in my mother’s name,” Fury vowed. “If I have to, I’ll kill her.”

  Amalie watched Fury’s zigzag pattern through the glass, the smoke pots creating eerie yellow circles on the water. “She’s playing a game. She’s been lying in wait for us. It’s to be cat and rat at first light. We’ll hold our own, never fear,” she called to Rego, who passed the word down the line of nervous crewmen.

  Amalie cringed when she heard a sound she couldn’t identify at first.

  “She’s laughing at you,” Rego said. “I’ve heard tales of the Sea Siren’s laughter, musical as a bell, they say.” He hunkered into himself.

  “You’re a gambling man,” Amalie declared in return. “Who do you wager will win this . . . confrontation?” Rego took so long in answering, she lashed out at him with her booted foot. “I suppose the others are of the same opinion,” she sneered.

  “She’s been sailing the seas for over twenty years,” Rego said he
sitantly.

  “That makes her an old woman, Rego. Can an old woman best me? Miguel didn’t fare too well against me, and I’m a mere woman. What do you have to say to that?”

  “I say . . . you will need all the good-luck charms and prayers you have at your disposal. There will be no mutiny on this ship, if that is what you fear. We fear the wrath of the woman on our bow. You would do well to fear the Sea Siren,” Rego said brazenly, not caring if he upset his captain or not. He wanted to live, and at this moment he didn’t give a whit about the cargo she was bent on capturing. Cato, his best friend, had whispered to him that the cargo she was after was a fortune in diamonds and had sworn him to secrecy, promising to appoint him a prince in Amalie’s kingdom. He’d just wiped away that promise with his bold, honest opinions. Besides, he didn’t believe for one minute that Cato was going to be a king. He didn’t believe his captain was going to be a queen either. Kings and queens wore crowns and royal robes. His young face puckered in disgust at his friend’s fairy-tale beliefs.

  Men were all alike, Amalie thought bitterly. The little skirmishes she’d participated in to prove herself to her crew were nothing in comparison with what would happen shortly. If only she knew for certain that it was the real Siren lying in wait for her, she would . . . do nothing differently than she was doing, she decided.

  The thought occurred to her that she could weigh her own anchor or change course, but if she did that, the Siren could come at her from behind or broadside. For the moment she had the advantage—an advantage she intended to keep.