The Lady's Guide to Escaping Cannibals

by Emmanuelle de Maupassant

  In his father’s day, they’d carried cargo between the Australian ports and those of Shanghais and Kowloon, but times were harder now. There were so many ships and too much competition. He’d been obliged to accept shipments he knew weren’t above-board, but years of small payments had ensured a blind eye was turned in the ports.

  Perhaps, one day, he’d make a home with one of the young island women. His aunts were endlessly keen to matchmake, telling him that it was what his mother would have wanted—for her fine son to raise a brood of strong and happy children. It was true that he was as tall and broad shouldered as any pure-blooded Tukalun. That his father had been half Portuguese and half English didn’t matter to those he’d grown up with.

  Yes, it would have made her smile to see him settled, but she’d known, also, that he was his father’s son—more familiar with the swell and sway of the ocean than the firmness of land. As soon as he was old enough, Jorge had joined his father on the The Marguerite but, as a child, he remembered the long months of waiting for his return, of his mother looking wistfully to the ocean, watching for a glimpse of tall sails.

  What sort of marriage was that?

  Jorge drew his hand over his brow. It wasn’t his way to dwell on what he couldn’t have.

  The Marguerite was everything. It always had been. That and Takalu. Despite the strain of his current circumstances, he had his ship and his crew, and more freedom than most men could dream of. The open seas were his domain.

  Every man felt restless now and then. It meant nothing.

  Better to concentrate on the matter in hand.

  Asking around, he’d heard about a ship—The Felicidad—having been hired by a small party weeks ago, and a British man among them.

  When the ship had returned, it carried only crew.

  Taking the key from his pocket, Jorge unlocked the uppermost drawer of his desk. Inside was the scrap of paper, the edges curling and tattered, and the ink faded—but readable still.

  And the ring.

  He’d only to show it to her and she’d confirm whether it was her brother’s. If it were, there’d be no reason to land upon Vanuaka.

  And no fee either.

  There would be time enough for the truth, later—and what difference did it make, beyond relieving their passenger of some money she seemed well able to part with.

  Curling his fist around the hard metal, he reminded himself of what was necessary.

  Chapter Six

  Some hours past midnight…

  Bathsheba couldn’t sleep.

  Staring into the dark, listening to the slow creak of wood, was driving her insane. She understood that Captain de Silva didn’t want her roaming at will, but the storm had passed and the hours were increasingly difficult to bear.

  So great was her boredom that she’d even resorted to engaging Tom in conversation—when he brought her meals upon a tray, or hot water for washing. Though most of what he said was unintelligible, one thing was clear: his great respect for his captain.

  Whatever question Bathsheba put to him, he always seemed to find an anecdote from Jorge de Silva’s past with which to illustrate his point, though nothing as darkly thrilling as Bathsheba might have hoped to hear.

  “He be lithe enough to race the youngest to the top o’ the mizzenmast,” Tom had told her, just that evening. “He don’t believe in asking the crew to do anythin’ he wouldn’t do hisself.” Tom had looked thoughtful. “An’ him be a master navigator, havin’ learnt his seamanship from his father afore him.”

  However roguish the captain appeared, it seemed he’d worthily earned the respect of his crew. Nevertheless, she continued to probe, hoping Tom would reveal something more titillating than Mr. de Silva’s aptitude for climbing the rigging.

  “It must be dangerous, so far from the mainland, out here alone.” Bathsheba had adopted an ingenuous expression. “Aren’t there pirates to be wary of? You’ve pistols, I suppose, and swords, for close combat?”

  “Aye.” Tom had given a lopsided grin. “Not as we’d kill anyone without they be lookin’ to do the same to us uns, but ’tis true there be them as ’ud murder ye and toss ye oceanward if ye didn’t look about yesself.” He’d eyed her beadily. “For the most part, we out-sail trouble, for The Marguerite be British-made, bought by the captain’s grandfather in 1855, and she be fast.”

  With that, he’d closed further discussion on the murderous proclivities of crew.

  She ought to be glad, she supposed, that the man who’d be accompanying her onto Vanuaka was able to defend her—and, presumably, shin up a coconut tree to ascertain the lie of the land. That might be useful, if they were to spot Sebastian’s camp within the jungle.

  With each day that passed, it seemed more likely that Sebastian would be in danger, and that thought made her feel ill enough on its own, but she was impatient for them to reach their destination for more reasons besides. Whatever hardships awaited her on the island, there would also be freedom to explore—a freedom that grew more alluring with each day of her confinement. Unkempt as he was, and a ruffian without doubt, the captain might think nothing of dispatching those as villainous as himself, but he would surely see her come to no harm. If nothing else, it was in his best interests to bring her back safely—if he hoped to be paid.

  Three nights and days upon the island, alone with him, but he wouldn’t dare take advantage of that? Use his strength to overwhelm her?

  No matter his baser instinct; no matter the temptation…

  A whirlwind of possibilities rushed into Bathsheba’s mind, sending a flush of heat through her body.

  Stop it!

  Pinching the back of her hand, she berated herself. It was she who was behaving improperly, imagining things that would never happen. It was this room that was to blame. The lack of air.

  She had to get out.

  Lifting down the lantern from its hook, Bathsheba lit the oil.

  It was the middle of the night—and surely a good time to go on deck. Only the bare bones of the crew would be employed, and she might easily find some quiet corner in which to sit. She could be trusted not to cause an accident, and the crew were hardly likely to be distracted by the sight of her. They’d had time enough to become accustomed to the idea of her being on board.

  For a moment, she considered simply putting on her dressing gown over her chemise, but that would be too improper by far. There was no corset to bother with, at least. She hadn’t worn one since leaving Moresby, and had not a moment’s regret on that score.

  Impatiently, she drew on her stockings, then her shirtwaist and skirt, and laced her stout boots. They gave a good grip upon the deck, even when it was wet.

  She wouldn’t be long; just an hour would appease her. But she needed the cool night air and the open space. She needed to breathe freely again.

  He was dreaming.

  A woman undressing for him, button by button. She wanted him, but this was the game they played—a pretence of half-reluctant disrobing and coy glances.

  Silk and lace and muslin cast off, until she stood naked, uncoiling her hair, letting its long rope curl over her bare shoulder. Opening her arms, she invited him to lay her down.

  Lips and tongues met in full-mouthed kisses. Her curves and swelling softness were his to touch and taste.

  Hungrily, he sank into the willingness of her body, his breath quickening, thrusting harder. She wrapped her legs about him, and he pulled her tighter, buried deep in pleasure.

  Her eyes were wide open; amber eyes, framed by dark lashes, and a curl of coppered hair upon her cheek.

  Jorge woke with a start.

  The sheets were damp, with sweat and his release, and his hand was still fisted upon his cock.

  All was quiet, and the sky dark beyond his windows.

  Lighting the lamp, he located his pocket watch. Another three hours until dawn.

  Laying back, he closed his eyes, returning his hand to commence the familiar rhythm. She was waiting for him, inviting him ba
ck to where he’d been.

  But, what was he doing?

  Fantasizing about the one female for hundreds of miles, who happened to be sleeping just a few steps from his cabin?

  A woman he was going to be alone with on Vanuaka for three days and three nights. A woman who was expecting him to protect her.

  A strange sort of protection it would be if he ended up seducing her.

  He’d never made it to Madame Leonor’s, and it had been months since he’d been inside a woman. Was this what it had brought him to?

  He was losing his mind.

  Emerging onto the deck, Jorge took a deep breath, letting the tang of night air fill his lungs. It was balmy, almost still, and quiet—but for the gentle creak of rigging and timbers, and the soft slap of waves as they glided onward. Even after all these years, the ocean still had the power to surprise him—with its beauty and its strangely changeable temperament.

  He’d always found comfort in the sea, for all that it could be a place of danger, for it was his domain, as nowhere else truly was—not even Tukalu. He’d given most of his life to The Marguerite and to the men who sailed alongside him.

  Strolling the deck, he made a brief survey of those on watch. Aldrix nodded to him from the helm then cocked his chin starboard, towards the bow.

  It was common for dolphins to accompany a ship or, even, a pod of whales but, as he moved closer to the prow, he saw nothing of that kind—only the lone figure standing at the gunwale.

  She was looking out across the silvered water, staring at the reflected crescent-moon and the glitter of a thousand bright stars.

  At that moment, a gentle breeze lifted, stirring her hair and drawing the fabric of her clothing close, and a surge of desire struck him. He remembered how she’d appeared in his dream: naked, soft and yielding.

  Perhaps some sound escaped him, for she turned suddenly, startled. Her fingers grasped hard upon the rail and she took a step backward, then appeared to check herself.

  Her voice, though quietly spoken, carried clear. “I’m bothering no-one.” It was more statement than question.

  Jorge considered reprimanding her, commanding her back to her cabin. She had her hours upon deck. Weren’t they enough? She’d no reason to be skulking up here.

  But something in her expression stopped him. She was half fearful and half defiant, the warring emotions overlaid with sorrow—just as in the Fairfax on the first day of their meeting.

  She was too much alone, probably, with an excess of time to ponder what lay ahead, and what might be.

  Taking pity, he waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t concern yourself. You’re not disturbing anyone.”

  Only me—and you were doing that before I knew you were on deck.

  “Then, I may remain a little longer?” She dropped her chin, looking up through thick lashes.

  After fleeting hesitation, he came to stand beside her. “I take it that this is the first of your nocturnal wanderings?” He intended to imply censure but she didn’t take it as such, answering simply in her clear, ringing voice.

  “It is—though I wish I’d thought of it sooner. If I’d known how dazzling everything was by moonlight, I’d have made this a nightly occurrence. How fortunate you are, having your own vessel, to roam wherever you please.”

  Her fingers absentmindedly stroked the polished oak of the rail. “I expect you often come out here—in the night, I mean.” She gazed ocean-ward again, quietened in her contemplation of what lay before them.

  “Not as often as you might think, but sometimes—when I’m restless.” He spoke without thinking, revealing more than he intended. It was his ship, after all, and he need offer no explanation on any count.

  Nevertheless, Jorge felt his lips twitch. She was as audacious as he’d suspected, but wistful too—her emotions bubbling first in one direction then the next.

  “You must feel a wonderful freedom, striking out to sea, though I wonder how it is you manage to navigate such huge stretches of water, without even sight of land to guide you.” She paused momentarily. “I admit to having been fearful as we passed through the terrible storm, but the ship must be strong, to have brought us through.”

  “Those squalls?” He could barely hide his surprise. “They were nothing against some tempests we’ve weathered, but you’re right in thinking her robust. Only once has she been damaged severely, needing major repairs…”

  With a frown, he stopped himself. It was that storm and those repairs that had brought him to this pass—of indebtedness and uncertainty, but her admiration had inspired him to speak more than he desired on the subject.

  He was running on, when he should remain silent—and ought to leave her to her reverie; she’d come upon deck for air, not to converse with him. But, his eye fell upon a stray curl of hair against the pale skin of her nape and he found he did not wish to turn from her yet. There was nothing here to disconcert him, if he but remembered why he’d brought her aboard.

  He cleared his throat. “As to navigation, there are instruments and charts, as any can master if they’ve the will, although there is more to seamanship than that.”

  “The stars, I’m told, reveal a great deal.” She glanced up at him before casting her eyes back to the sea.

  “This is true, as my father taught me. They hold fixed celestial positions, changing only their time of rising and setting, providing a bearing for navigation. You can set a heading by a single star near the horizon, switching to a new one once the first rises too high, and using a specific sequence of stars for a particular route.”

  “What a wondrous skill—and this alone can be enough to guide a ship?” She asked her question with animation, clearly interested in his answer.

  “The islanders travel often from one island to the next by canoe, using the same method—though there are other signs to help them. They measure those distances in ‘canoe-days’.”

  “Captain de Silva, I beg you tell me more.” There was surprise and wonder in her expression, and he found that he was gratified. It was a subject close to his heart, and he was proud of his knowledge, borne as it was not just from his own years at sea but from the accumulated experience of his forebears.

  “A sailor must know the wind and the weather, of course, and he may spot shallow water by observing the reflection on the underside of clouds.” He spoke the same words his father had explained to him when he was but five years old. “Just as important is the movement of the ocean, since the stars aren’t always visible. There are many island chains, which have certain effects on waves and currents. You can learn the shape of the swell and correct your path accordingly. You might also pinpoint an island by the sighting of certain groups of birds, since they’ll invariably fly away from land during the day and return as night falls.”

  “How perfectly sensible.” She gave a smile of approval. “Using such observations.”

  “How else can one make sense of the world?” He shrugged. “And where natural signposts are less reliable, a crew might carry a shore-sighting bird, such as the frigate. Being unable to land on water, if it fails to return, one may surely follow it to land.”

  “Now, you’re sharing all your secrets! I shall make my brother quite envious, telling him of all I’ve discovered…” She gave a small laugh but her voice trailed off and she dropped her head. Extracting a scrap of linen, she dabbed at her eyes.

  Her brother.

  She’d described this Sebastian as both an academic and an explorer, but Jorge had not forgotten the map he’d retrieved from the dying man’s pocket. A map that spoke of something else than a random desire to befriend the inhabitants of an outlying island.

  Adopting a neutral tone, Jorge asked, “What did he have in mind, that brought him to such a remote location?”

  She tucked away the handkerchief, attempting a smile. “I can only guess at that, but I have some idea from the letters he wrote, and the articles he and Father published over the years—regarding their study of New Guinea’s tribes.�
�

  Jorge was barely able to restrain a scornful snort. “Then you must know that many of those tribes have no wish for contact, and your brother must have been aware too—that islanders don’t always take kindly to strangers appearing on their shores.”

  Raising her chin, she met his eyes again, though somewhat trembling. “Isn’t that vindication for his mission? That the wider world might gain understanding of what it so readily misjudges? And that those islanders might learn that not every stranger brings with them threat.”

  How naive she was. He found, suddenly, that he had no more desire to remain and, with pursed lips, made to bid her goodnight, but she stayed his arm as she had done upon their first meeting, refusing to allow him leave to go until she’d had her say.

  “Sebastian had a strong sense of duty, as did my father. Their work was everything to them. Whatever my brother hoped to discover, it wouldn’t have been for personal glory or riches, but to further his knowledge and build bridges between men.”

  “As you say.” Jorge pulled away. “Being his sister, you must appreciate his motives better than I.”

  She knew nothing; had seen nothing. And this brother of hers had learnt the hard way. There would always be greed and cruelty, and men willing to use their strength to seize whatever could be easily taken. Who could blame the islanders for defending against such a thing? And who could say what real intention her brother had harboured?

  Jorge’s own conscience was hardly without stain, but his misdeeds had never been selfishly undertaken. He gave a curt nod and stepped aside. “I must attend the helm, and I advise you to return below. We’ll reach the island some time on the morrow, and you’ll need all your strength.”

  With that, he left her.

  Chapter Seven

  Not far off the coast of Vanuaka