Beloved Captive (16 page)

“I am not averse.” The woman’s smile reappeared, even as she turned and walked away. “So that was not an invitation?” he called.

“It was an inquiry. Nothing more.”

He rested his hands on his hips. “And now that I have answered in the positive?”

She ignored him to study the horizon. While she looked to the west, Caleb seized the chance to look at her.

Dark of eye and hair with curls that refused to be tamed, she was not a beauty in the conventional way. Rather, she had a bearing that was striking, with an imperious air that might have been off-putting under other circumstances.
 

Now, however, as she wandered the ocean’s edge, her frock wrinkled and her feet bare, she looked quite the opposite. In fact, she looked quite at home here in this unspoiled paradise.

Unfortunately, the length of the boat’s shadow told him their time in paradise was limited. “Excuse me,” he called. “Miss Crusoe?”

She turned but said nothing until a wave danced across her feet. Then she giggled, the sound more appropriate to a schoolgirl than a grown woman. Yet it was endearing.
 

Gathering his wits, Caleb forced his mind back to the topic at hand. “We’ve a decision to make.”

“Oh?” The breeze whipped against her skirts, but their waterlogged hems kept her modesty intact.

“Indeed.”
 

He walked to meet her halfway. She peered up from beneath the curtain of curls that tossed about and obstructed her view. “And what might that be?”

“Simple.” Caleb leaned forward but maintained a respectable distance. “We must choose whether Mr. Defoe’s man Robinson had the right idea in leaving his island.”

Her full lips turned up in the slightest of grins. “What do you mean?”
 

Caleb noticed she had inched almost imperceptibly toward him. “At the moment, we are two castaways on an island that is ours alone. Our time here, however, is short.”

“I see.”

“Unless, of course,” he said, “we decide to remain here.”

She blinked. Twice. “That’s preposterous,” she said.

“It is, sadly.” Caleb reached to offer her his hand. “Then away with you, Miss Crusoe. Your craft awaits.”

The woman linked arms with him, and together they strolled at the edge of the surf until they arrived at the little craft he’d used only yesterday to save her from Thomas Hawkins. Now, it seemed, he might be the one in need of rescue.

If only he did not have obligations.
 

Oblivious to his dilemma, she climbed into the boat while he pushed off into the surf and then joined her. The waves splashed against the vessel, pressing them back toward the beach while Caleb struggled to do the opposite.

How easy it would be to drop the oar and let the vessel find the beach once more.

“There will be questions,” she said, “and I would appreciate not having to answer them.”

“Are you speaking of the questions I wish to ask or of those that may be asked aboard the
Cormorant
?”

She looked surprised. “Both, I suppose.”

Caleb could only nod. “It will be as you ask.”

He rowed past the breakers, then turned the craft south. Soon they would be within sight of the
Cormorant
. Across the tiny expanse that separated them, the dark-haired woman seemed preoccupied.

“Miss Crusoe?”

The smile returned.
 

“I know I agreed you’d not have to answer questions, but I must break that promise.” He lifted the oars to stop their forward progress. “For I must ask just one more thing of you, though it will only require a yes or no.”

“Go ahead then,” she said, her dark eyes sparkling as the sun glinted off the water.

“As one castaway to another, might we share one last kiss before returning to civilization? It would be a memory to cherish,” he added, “for where I am going, there is no sandy beach nor anyone as lovely as you.”

She smiled. And then she said, “Yes.”

The kiss was chaste, and the trip back to the vessel agonizingly quick. Too soon, Caleb lashed the boat to the
Cormorant
and helped the woman aboard.
 

None dared comment as he walked with her to his cabin, then left her to go inside alone. “The man who frightened you today, I would have a description,” he said as she stepped inside.

“There is no need,” she said, “for he will be the one with bruises on his belly.” She gave Caleb a sideways look. “I may have injured him.”

Caleb chuckled. “Then I shall have my men bare their bellies. And pity the fellow who cannot account for any footprints I might find there.”

An awkward silence fell between them. She seemed disinclined to ask him to leave, and Caleb did not wish to move away. Yet nothing could be gained by continuing the insanity that had begun on Langham Island.

“I warrant I shall throw whoever is responsible for the reprehensible attack in the brig with Hawkins,” he said, “but I cannot assure there are not others who wish to make your acquaintance. You are, Miss Crusoe, a beautiful woman, and that can cause even the most sane man to do foolish things.” Caleb paused. “Where is the pistol?”

She looked around then shook her head. “It is not here.”

Caleb thought a moment. Surely Fletcher had retrieved the weapon once the woman’s antics were made known to him.

“See that you latch the door,” he said as he made a note to speak to Fletcher regarding the missing pistol. Even one weapon unaccounted for on a vessel of this size could make for trouble.

Her nod sufficed. Before he could change his mind, Caleb stepped into the passageway. “I wish you safe travel to wherever you’re going,” he said.

“And you,” was her soft answer.

Silence fell between them. Then, as the watch bell rang, Caleb turned and walked away. Should he have remained in her presence another moment, his career in the navy or any other branch of government might have been seriously compromised.

* * *

May 29, 1836

Santa Lucida

“Land ho!”
 

Caleb sat bolt upright. While his casual demeanor with the woman last night had, he hoped, caused her to cease fretting, he had taken the cause up with great vigor. For if one man had tried to have his way with her, likely there were others who might make the attempt.
 

His concerns were heightened by the fact that neither Fletcher nor any other member of the crew claimed to have removed the weapon from his cabin. Knowing this could spell disaster, he decided a guard was necessary.

With difficulty, Caleb stretched out his legs, then did the same with his arms. Would that there had been someone else he could have trusted with the job. Alas, only Fletcher held his confidence, and he would never ask the old man to sleep in a ship’s corridor.

Thus, the job fell to Caleb.

“Land ho!” came the call once again.
 

His stomach protested, but he took heart in knowing a feast would await him in Santa Lucida. Caleb leaned back against the door and completed his morning prayers.

“Home,” he said under his breath as he thought of what awaited him. “Perhaps it is possible for a man to have two homes: Washington and Santa Lucida.”

Washington. The letter to the attorney general must be answered soon, lest the job be offered to another. One last time, he weighed the possibility in his mind, then decided to do what he’d known all along was the right thing.

“What harm can come of trying out a naval position for a spell?” he said as he climbed to his feet and did his best to stretch out the remaining kinks. It might just be the change of pace he needed.
 

All that remained was to retrieve the letter from his desk and disembark the
Cormorant
. To wait until the ship’s return from Havana in order to respond to the naval secretary was impossible. The secretary might give the job to another in his absence, and he’d already lost one job. He’d not lose another.

Caleb pulled the knob and peered inside at the sleeping form of the dark-haired beauty. Rather than risk another awkward good-bye or, worse, be unable to leave her, Caleb decided it was most prudent to allow the beauty to sleep. With care, he pushed the door open just enough to step inside.
 

Before he reached the desk, something exploded. Caleb felt himself propelled backward. The room upended and went dark.

Chapter 17

I shot him
.
 

The words wrapped around Emilie’s brain but refused to stick. Yet in her hand was the weapon, its tip white-hot from having discharged.
 

She’d found it during the night when her fingers felt the cord dangling between the bunk and the wall. At the time, she figured the Lord had provided her with the protection she needed.

Now, she had to wonder if the devil himself had left that pistol where she would find it.

Emilie rolled onto her side, then sat up. Immediately she heaved what little she had in her stomach onto the spot inches from where she’d left her shoes.
 

Gathering her wits, she stood and tiptoed toward the crumpled heap of a man. The intruder lay face up, his eyes seemingly staring into space and his lids not blinking. His fingers had closed around a piece of paper, its words now made unreadable by the blood pouring down his arm and onto the page.

By degrees, the reality of the situation hit.
 

The man on the floor was the Benning. The man who’d kissed her not once, but twice.

Oh no. Oh no. Oh no
.

Her legs failed her, and Emilie landed on her knees. When she realized she still held the gun, she dropped it. The weapon slid out of sight.

Emilie forced her breathing to slow.
What happened?
She thought it, then said it, then repeated it several more times. Finally, she looked up at the stream of light pouring across the grisly scene.

The sun.

Think, Emilie. Think. What does that mean?

By degrees, she sorted out the facts. The sun shone through the porthole, and the ship no longer moved, thus they had anchored at whatever place the Benning called home.
 

But why is he here? Why? I thought I could trust him. He promised to. . .

Her gaze fell on his clenched fist. The Benning had obviously come for whatever he held in his hand. Mistaking him for someone who meant to harm her, she’d shot him with his own pistol.

I shot the Benning.

She inched closer to the man whose golden skin had already begun to pale and amended her plea. “No, Lord, please, save this man.”

Do something. Help him yourself.

Blood. Stop the blood.

But how? It spread from a wound low on his left shoulder and turned his shirt from pink to red. “So much blood,” she whispered as she reached to tear off a strip of her skirt and fashion it into a bandage. “Please, Lord, make it stop.”

An old man with a pipe stuck in his teeth burst through the door. “I shot him,” she said, looking up from her efforts. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she added, fully realizing how ridiculous the two true statements sounded when strung together.

Things happened quickly. The man with the pipe found and kept the pistol. Other men came and took the body. Still others arrived to bring her something to wear that was not covered in Benning blood.

No one looked her in the eye or spoke a word.

When the door finally shut, Emilie climbed into the bunk and cried until her eyes could no longer stay open and she had not a tear left. Even in her sleep, Emilie saw him. The golden hair, the golden skin, the scarlet blood flowing in a stream that became an ocean upon which she was held captive, then mercifully drowned.

The same man who only yesterday had made her feel beautiful. Had given her hope that someday she, too, might find happiness.

Surely it was a dream. An awful, horrible nightmare of a dream.

Snatches of conversation drifted toward her as she lay motionless, waiting for whatever fate would befall her.

“Havana,” one man said from outside the door.

“Soon as possible to keep the men from taking justice into their own hands,” another responded.

Other words were said, some of them making sense and others sounding like gibberish. A bell rang, then rang again. Birds screeched, or was it a woman? She couldn’t be sure.

Then the man with the pipe came back and offered her something bitter to drink. She took it, not knowing if it was meant to ease her thirst or do her in. She cared little which.

Whether due to the circumstances or the beverage, Emilie soon found herself unable to hold her eyes open. When she awoke, the moon cast a path across the cabin.

The man with the pipe stepped inside without knocking and drew the chair up near the bunk. She didn’t have to ask if the Benning was dead. His face told her he must be.

“What will happen now?” she asked, her tongue strangely thick.

“Where do you call home, child?”

“Fairweather Key,” she said as she pushed up on her elbows and blinked to bring the room into focus. “I am a teacher to the children there.”

Why she added that ridiculous detail, Emilie had no idea.

“Then you shall go home,” he said, “and you’ll tell no one. You will forget all about what has happened here. Do you understand?”

She didn’t really, but Emilie knew the man with the pipe was offering a freedom she did not deserve. “Yes,” she whispered.
 

Though she knew she would never speak of this day, she also knew she would never forget. With every wave that crashed on the beach at Fairweather Key, she would think of the day she was Miss Crusoe and he, well, he was the first man to kiss her.

* * *

June 10, 1836

Havana

Emilie straightened her spine and walked through the chaos that was the Havana docks toward the merchant vessel
Felicity
. Though she heard the comments—some in English and French, others in languages she did not recognize—she kept her silence.