FicWad

CHAPTER TWO

The indian, Walks Softly, brought water for washing and a skin of it for drinking. Later he returned with a wooden platter of fruit, cheese and dark bread.

“Thank you,” I said from my place on the bunk.

His black gaze touched me, then he departed. Alone with a man, with a red Indian, I felt no threat. He possessed a quiet dignity and courtesy no amount of flamboyant gallantry or cultivated manners could rival. This among pirates gave one pause. I wondered at the terrible tales of his heathen kind. He might represent them as a superior example, or an ordinary specimen. Or perhaps, like the people of other countries, the good and bad ran in relatively equal measure.

I fell asleep, awakened having no idea for how long. My solitary candle had burned to a smoky puddle. In the dark, without benefit of seeing out, I had no avenue of ascertaining whether it be day or night. Even the sliver of space around the door gave little away. My head throbbed dully at the temples. Fear of the unknown had carved a shallow pit in my belly. I rose, felt my way along to the door and rapped upon it. Almost at once, Walks Softly opened to me.

The cabin beyond nestled in the pinks and peach of sunset. I blinked at the light, shielding my eyes as the ache in my head intensified.

“You’ve been very kind already,“ I began. “If it wouldn’t be too much bother, might I have candles for light?”

He regarded me almost curiously. Perhaps he’d expected another dramatic performance. “The captain suspects you might set a fire.”

Did he? Good, whispered a hateful inner voice filled with satisfaction. I’d heard this voice on occasion, and wondered if I might someday succumb to its alluring urges. “If you’re here to prevent my leaving, might the door remain open?”

For a long moment he did not reply. I lowered my hand a bit to look at him. He nodded.

“Thank you.”

I returned to my bunk, watched him through the doorway. He mixed liquid with powder in a cup and carried it to me. “For your head.”

Backlit by the low light, he cut a dark, intimidating figure. I accepted the cup. The scent of strong spirits reached my nose. I’d only ever had wine. This smelled much stronger. It seemed I’d reached a point where I had to define my situation within it’s undefined boundaries. I decided to trust Walks Softly not to do me harm.

The spirits enflamed my tongue. An unfamiliar taste, more foreign than the drink bloomed in my mouth. I swallowed quickly. Blinking and panting as the fumes rushed up my throat and made my eyes water.

“Willow bark in a little rum,” he explained. “The ground bark eases pain.”

The heat softened to a pleasant warmth. “Thank you.” Then it struck me like a blow. “However did you know I’d a headache, sir?”

His deep rumble of a laugh surprised me further. He carried the cup back to the captain’s cabin.

I sat there for a bit, wondering what had provoked his mirth, my shock at his powers of deduction or having been called ‘sir’ by an aristocratic Englishwoman.
#

For three days we sailed. I began my mornings with fruit and tea, freshening myself in a basin, and changing gowns. My corset I’d loosened and wore only to make my gowns fit. The chest brought from the Gallant contained three gowns, two pairs of stockings, garters, a bar of rose-scented soap, two pairs of pantalettes, and a brush. All had come from the monogrammed trunk I’d traveled with, and were most welcome.

While Walks Softly remained outside the door, they permitted me candles. After my morning ablutions I would call to him. He would open the door, and I would have the freedom of both cabins. A few precious books resided in the captain’s sea chest. My guard permitted me use of them. My brother had taught me to read. I used the opportunity to sharpen the skill.

Midday meal generally consisted of fish cooked with exotic Caribbean spices, cheese and dark bread. In the afternoon, Walks Softly would allow me to ask him questions about himself and the New World. I learned he came from the Savannuca or Savanna, a tribe of Shawnee who had settled along the Savanno River. He told me bits about his people, about the Algonquin language and about the waters we navigated.

Once, I realized he did not know my name. Growing up and living in a society governed by title, it is easy to forget. I said, “We haven’t enjoyed a formal introduction. I am Mary Lilianne Audelia Rothington. Those intimate with me call me Lili. I would like for you to do the same.”

He held up his hand, palm forward as he recited a string of that foreign language. “In your language, Walks Softly.”

When I dared to ask why he sailed with El Pantera, he said only, “I owe him my life.”

Over the days, I began to recognize the captain’s strong, almost slashing hand among written documents. The faint scent of ambergris clung to the bed. Once the steam-born aroma filtered under the door. With a curious sensation threading my veins, I’d lain in the dark, listening to him at his bath.

At the supper hour of the third day, Walks Softly bid me put on my cloak and follow him. He kept me close as we emerged into a hallway outside the captain’s cabin. I kept the hood down very low, allowed him to serve as my eyes. We ascended the flight of stairs I remembered from before, and Walks Softly opened the door.

A balmy breeze stirred my clothing. I saw little more than the deck as we continued. After a few moments, we stopped. I realized we’d arrived at the ships aft. Walks Softly drew back my hood a little and the beauty of tropical twilight filled my vision. I savored the sight in silence, enjoying temporary freedom as much as the view. After a moment, I saw something leaping in the wake of the boat. I thought it some great fish. Sharks perhaps.

“Dolphins,” he said. “Often I see them when we pass this way.”

I watched them frolic, wishing the light did not fade so fast. My escort gently took my arm. I tugged the hood low again and we returned. I shoved the material back off my head as the door closed behind us.

The captain sat at his desk, marking a chart. He turned as we entered. I had not seen him since the first day. A peculiar warmth bloomed in my belly. He wore his long lion’s mane drawn back at the nape, that single slim braid falling forward over his shoulder. I could see a small gold hoop in his left ear. Dressed entirely in black, slightly full-sleeved shirt lacing at the neck, breeches and boots, he looked sinister, yet somehow aristocratic. His skin seemed tanned even more deeply, accenting the paleness of his eyes.

That gaze moved from me, to his friend. His expression did not change. He hardly moved. All the same, I could almost taste his displeasure.

“Excuse me,” I murmured, went into my cabin. I felt I should close the door, but without benefit of candles the prospect did not appeal. I left it half open, removed my cloak and hung it upon the hook by the door.

The captain’s voice erupted into that unusual, distinctive tongue. Algonquin I knew now, and praised myself for recalling the foreign word. Walks Softly returned a short, to my ears, rather matter-of-fact reply.

Another volley from the captain, then a few words from my guard.

I heard the cabin door open to the hallway. It closed. I retreated behind the door. Went to perch upon the bunk, wishing I had shut it the portal. The feeling of vulnerability became unbearable. I knew Walks Softly had departed. And, for the first time, the captain and I were alone without the door’s barrier between us. His presence swelled to epic proportions. Though I could not see him, I knew in my bones he stared toward my little prison cell.

I told myself having the door open or closed made no nevermind. He had a key, freedom and brawn enough to do as he chose.

My heart beat violently, the strain effecting my breathing. Despite wearing it somewhat loose, my corset’s confines became an instant enemy. I tried to rationalize, remind myself his plan for me did not involve harm. The primitive fear that gripped me would not accept this. In my panic, a terrible thought occurred. If he had expected victory over the Gallant, and success in my abduction so completely he’d dispatched the ransom letter almost a month in advance, might that same confidence apply to my fiancé’s surrender and no doubt demise? That would mean the promise of safety and retained virtue bore no consequence.

No, I told myself, desperate to regain composure. If that were the case, he need not have even kept me alive. He could have killed me and had done, then waited for his quarry to come after the bait all the same. The solemn oath of El Pantera must bear great merit if he used it thus. The captain would have to know his word meant truth, and therefore stand as reason for his opponent to offer himself.

Sitting half in the dark aboard an infamous pirate’s vessel, these logical deductions awarded no comfort.

I heard the door to the corridor open and a moment later, a light rap preceded my door swinging wide. No one treads so silently as Walks Softy. I knew to expect him. His dark outline blocked view beyond. He carried a platter to the small stationary table. I glanced out. The captain no longer sat at his desk.

“In a few hours,” he said, “we will reach our harbor. Have your things together.”

Bravado in absence, I reached out, caught his hand. Big, warm, calloused, it became a human anchor in my storm of uncertainty.

“I’m frightened.”

He squeezed my hand. “I will walk with you.”

CHAPTER THREE

At three separate points I heard musket fire. One, then two from us in answer. I paced and fretted despite all my stern internal warnings and logical reassurances. Finally, a single cannon shot boomed. I cringed, hoping it a herald like the previous shots. Two of the Blood Vengeance’s cannons replied in succession.

It wouldn’t be long now. From beyond the captain’s cabin, I heard Walks Softly speaking Algonquin. The captain returned in the same. A moment later, the indian opened the door.

“It’s time.” He picked up the small trunk, carried it out into the captain’s quarters and put it with his effects. Accustomed now to the protocol, I wrapped myself in the cloak and adjusted the hood to cover my face.

The night air carried the scent of smoking torches and frangipani. The flame-lit deck and gangplank seemed to twist beneath my feet. When we reached the dock, Walks Softy hurried me though what smelled and sounded like a large crowd. An area scattered with crushed shells stretched beyond the dock. I heard women’s voices, children’s even. The idea of bolting beckoned. My heart raced ahead at the notion.

Logic had saved me in moments of panic. It returned to dash my hopes. El Pantera was welcomed here. Most likely, the women and children belonged to members of his crew. I classified as pirated booty, and therefore part of their livelihood. How would I escape an island populated by people who directly benefited from my captor’s success?

Miserable in my ruminations, I nonetheless concentrated on every sliver of wood, each bit of stone, shell or blade of grass which passed within my limited field of vision. The smallest scrap of knowledge might mean the difference in freedom and captivity.

Walks Softly halted. I heard a horse, the sound of its foot stamping, jangling of tack.

Here at least, something I felt confident in doing. I flipped back the hood a bit, seeing only one. “Are we to tandem?”

“Yes.”

“I can mount unaided.”

I gave the animal a quick inspection. Barb blood, perhaps a bit of Spanish stamped the dark steed. A gelding, cut young judging by his neck and demeanor. My brother had taught me to ride astride and I often did it at home when out of site of the manor. However, I’d never had to do so wearing a corset. I could not breathe as I put my foot in the iron, grabbed a handful of mane and reins and hauled myself aboard. I felt dizzy and pinched. Not at all the thing. Even so, I toyed with the impulse to put heals to the gelding and make a break.

Walks Softly was up behind in a trice. He took the reins, left me the stirrups and sent the gelding cantering away from the busy landing. I pushed my hood back a bit more, absorbing turns and forks in the crushed-shell road. Huge trees grew to form a tunnel of sorts. Here and there a low torch broke the darkness.

The ground inclined. The gelding gamely carried his double burden around the forming hill. For some time we ascended, circling as we climbed. Lights gleamed through the trees and exotic flora. The scent of frangipani swam in the temperate air. The trees thinned, the road widened and we emerged at the edge of a grassy lawn. Iron gates, open and elaborately scrolled, flanked the road here. Then it continued up to a large villa.

It’s architecture recalled drawings I’d seen of Rome and Greece. Dark shapes of trees and shrubs offered a hit at the beauty of the estate.

In the back of my mind, I had expected a hideout. Dark and gruesome, filled with dirt and grime.

During my stopover in Jamaica, I’d learned some of the Caribbean’s history. About the islands to be had by wealthy buyers and takers, the rich bounty of products to refine and cultivate for sale. Men arrived rich and amassed of vast fortunes, becoming king‘s in their own right.

In the Caribbean, right of might ruled. Here loomed evidence of both fortune and might.

Again, I faced the power of the man who held my life in his hands. I couldn’t match him in brawn or position here. But I could in wits and ruthlessness.

Bracketed torches stood sentinel by the massive iron and wood doors of the front entrance. Two young boys, both black, came running to take the horse we dismounted. It surprised me when they spoke French. It surprised me more when Walks Softly returned their greeting in the same tongue. The boys’ dark skin gleamed in the torchlight. They smiled widely showing white teeth. How different they were from the pathetic creatures I’d seen auctioned at Spittlefield Harbor.

One of the big doors opened. A pretty girl, perhaps a few years younger than I, greeted us in careful, heavily-accented English. “Miss, I will show you your room?” The girl appeared of mixed blood. Very exotic, I decided. Her attire intrigued me. A red turban wrapped her hidden hair. She wore a colorful skirt and white blouse while leaving her feet quite bare.

I caught myself assessing her. She seemed gentle. A show of temper at the proper moment might send her fleeing.

The chandelier of the foyer blazed with sweet-scented beeswax candles, hanging down from a ceiling painted to look like the night sky. Deep blue moire covered the walls. Beautifully polished teak floors hosted Turkish carpets in dark blue, black and cream.

I hesitated to separate myself from my trusted escort.

He must have sensed it. He nodded toward the girl who had moved the foot of the stairs.

I could take nothing from those fathomless black eyes. I said, “Good night,“ and did as directed.

My mother loved blue. It made me think of her as we ascended the blue carpeted stairs. I wondered when news of my capture would reach her. Not for two months, most likely, even if my fiancé wrote at once. The scandal would send her into one of her ’headaches’ that would doubtless last for weeks. I wondered if Father would ever accept me. Even with virtue in-tact, I would never again be clean in his eyes. Society would feel the same. The disgrace would hang over me like a foul odor.

The unfairness infuriated me. Had my brother suffered the abduction and returned when ransomed, the back slapping and brandies would have continued for a fortnight. He would have enjoyed invitations every night as the guest of honor, a man of mettle who had experienced the terrors of the New World and lived to tell the tale.

I was rather expected to be a good, dutiful female and die. Thus, sparing my family the scandal. If I lived, I’d probably find myself sent to a nunnery. To atone and beg forgiveness for the sin of having been abducted.


The girl stopped by an open door, extended her arm to indicate I should enter. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I knew the room belonged to El Pantera. Huge dark furniture, including a massive, red curtained-bed, populated the room. Everywhere my gaze touched, I saw masculine luxury.

The girl walked past me to another door. She opened it and I saw a small hallway. When I reached it, I learned a bathing chamber sat to one side of the hall, a closet large enough to walk into the other. At the short hall’s end, a sitting room antechamber had undergone conversion to a second boudoir.

At once I saw the similarity to my previous accommodations. With a warring mix of concern and reassurance, I realized that while he had ample, unrestricted access to my person, anyone else would have to go through him to get to me. Though I’d spent scarce little time with him, his cold self-possession and confidence caused me to question if the man who could get through El Pantera had been made.

The girl flattened her hands on her upper chest. “Eza.”

I touched my collarbone. “Lili.” Title hardly seemed relevant.

“I will turn down the bed.” She moved with energetic efficiency.

I stood gazing around. The same teak floors I’d noticed downstairs, graced this room. A bed and armoire of the some light-colored wood presented a hospitable ambiance. Silk walls and paintings echoed the light blue and brown theme.

I let her help me undress, put on an unfamiliar nightrail, crawled into the lavender-scented bed and hoped for a better point of negotiation in the morning.

#

I woke as the sun began to rise. The freshness of the sheets and bedclothes lulled me for a moment. I might have been back at our family manor.

Climbing from bed, I went to the large open window. Bars, the size of my wrist, stretched from bottom to top, no more than a hand span apart. Mosquito netting fit tightly over the opening, letting the air in and keeping insects out. I seemed to have graduated from booty to bird in a gilded cage.

I rang for Eza. She arrived in a wink, dressed in the same style of white blouse, patterned skirt.

“Might I have something like you wear?” I asked, “I can’t bear the thought of my heavy, stiff gowns.”

She appeared surprised. Then nodded. “Would you care for a bath, miss?”

“Lili,” I corrected. “Very much.”

Twenty minutes later I soaked in a steaming bath. An ingenious creation made his bathing chamber unique. A sturdy box suspended by strong chain resided in a square chute. A crank on the wall, operated the device wherein laundry, heated water or anything within reason might me ferried up from the kitchen. I sipped a cup of tea and reclined languidly in the copper tub.

When I’d scrubbed my skin and head, Eza poured pitcher after pitcher of clean slightly cool water over me. After days in a warm ship’s cabin, it felt like Heaven. I compromised with wearing my customary undergarments beneath the loose white blouse and flowing red skirt I chose from the armload of garments she provided. Eza also brought me simple sandals.

She accompanied me downstairs to a sprawling dining room. A table for twenty looked fit to seat a king. Three sets of French doors opened to a high-walled courtyard. Glorious riots of color burst upon the eye from flower and shrub. The scents of frangipani and jasmine twined in the air, mixing with the savory smells coming from the sideboard.

I let Eza make selections for me as I walked outdoors. A small, iron table and chairs resided on the stone portico. My plate returned to me with buttered, toasted bread, sliced melon and lemon curd. A second cup of tea soon arrived.

Thus several days strung themselves together like pearls. So similar, expected.

I began to chafe. Was I expected to glide about, dreamy and detached? Accepting this house as my prison and making myself a model prisoner?

As I dressed on the fourth morning, my inner seething made Eza nervous, her hands clumsy.

I said nothing more than “Good morning.”

When I sat out on the portico with my breakfast, waited for her to go inside. I sat in the sunshine. Alone. Unwatched. I walked over to the wall. Something wild surged in me. I stood, walked over and used the woody night-blooming jasmine to climb up and over.

I panted at the fatigue. My corset-encased body suffered. Battling dizziness, I dropped to the ground.

I liked the rushing sense of freedom. For a moment, I stood in the jungle.

Freedom.