Captive Splendors (29 page)

Peter needed no second urging. He was up the ladder and gulping deep breaths of salt air in a matter of moments. Then he bounded into the wheelhouse and gave Bascom's message to Caleb. Caleb listened, his face granite-hard. He nodded and dismissed Peter and let his eyes drift back to the sea. What he hoped to see, to find, he didn't know. Before him lay only an endless expanse of blue-green water.

While Caleb scanned the vastness before him and Sara slept, Wren sat huddled in one corner of the locker box. How long have I been here? she wondered. Ever since the lantern had gone out, she had no way of knowing. She couldn't decide which was worse—staring at Malcolm's mutilated face in the light or having the rats play around her feet in the darkness. Isn't anyone ever going to check this damnable hole in which I'm being held a prisoner? What did Sara tell the others about my whereabouts? By now Caleb should have turned this ship upside down looking for me, she thought miserably. And where the devil is Farrington? Malcolm said he usually brought him food late at night and then took him out for an airing. Where is the old man?

After his initial brutal attack on her, Malcolm had left her alone, saying she wasn't worth what little effort he had to expend. To assure himself that Wren wouldn't cry out and reveal his hiding place, he had torn his shirt and bound and gagged her.

The bindings cut her wrists, and the foul, linty rag he had stuffed in her objecting mouth was rancid with the smell of him and choked her. She felt a fresh flurry of tremors ripple through her body, tremors of rage and fear, and in her heart she knew she was approaching the edges of despair. She began to pray.

As the
Sea Siren
tacked gracefully toward port at the mouth of the Connecticut River, Gustave completed the list of supplies he would need for the return trip to England. The galley had been scoured to his satisfaction, and he poured himself a large mug of coffee and went up on deck to view the approaching verdant landscape. His friend Diego meandered over and reached for the mug, helping himself to a long drink. They sat together companionably, neither talking.

Diego reached for the mug again, and after taking a few more swallows, began to tell Gustave of the plans for disembarking and dissembling the Puritans, who were gathering the last of their belongings in the hold before coming up on deck for their first glimpse of their new home. The conversation turned to Sara Stoneham.

“She's below with that preacher brother of hers,” Diego stated, his mouth curling at the aftertaste of the bitter brew. “Just as well. That's one lady who could make me feel as though a goose were walking over my grave. Did you ever notice her eyes, Gustave? She looks like she's here, but the rest of her is out there.” He waved his arms to indicate the vast reaches of Long Island Sound.

“I thought her to be a lady,” Gustave said hesitantly.

Diego touched his temple and shook his head. “I had a sister who got like that once when she couldn't take her husband's carousing with other women. She died,” he said bluntly.

Gustave rolled the words around on his tongue and decided he needed more clarification. “She died because her husband tossed in the covers with other women?”

Diego looked at the cook with disgust. “Yes and no. Something snapped in her mind, and she was never the same again. My sister was a lady, too,” he said defensively. “One day she was fine and the next—poof!” He snapped his fingers. “It was terrible. Her husband cried for eleven days. He cried each day with a different child. They had eleven children,” he explained to Gustave.

For some strange reason Gustave felt sick to his stomach. Miss Stoneham seemed like such a lady. But Diego seemed to know what he was talking about. He looked at the Spaniard craftily and asked, “Did your sister ever do strange things, go strange places and . . . you know . . . do things ladies don't normally do?”

“Like what?”

“Like would she ever go about at night with a lantern to places that were dark and full of rats?”

“I thought you said this was coffee,” Diego remarked, peering at the dregs at the bottom of the mug. “I told you my sister was a lady.
No
lady, dotty or not, does things like that. You're disgusting, Gustave, even to think my sister would do such a thing. I'll wager you've been cooking with rum again, haven't you?”

“I was just asking,” Gustave replied heatedly. “I didn't mean your
sister
did those things; I just asked if
women
did those kinds of things, other women. I would never say anything bad about your sister. If you say she was a lady, then she was a lady.”

“Damn right she was a lady. She was a good mother, too.” Diego cast a withering look in Gustave's direction, handed him back his cup and proceeded to change his boots.

Gustave sat in silence for a long time. Women were known to make fools out of men. He looked around to see if Diego had noticed his changed status from cook to fool. Diego was concerned only with his feet, so that had to mean Gustave was safe; he was the only one who knew what a fool he was. He sucked in his plump cheeks and began to whistle tonelessly as he made his way back to the galley. The first chance he got, he would take another look down in the bowels of the ship. Yes, that was what he'd do. It wouldn't hurt to take another look at all.

 

In the black darkness, in the deepest, most forward compartment of the
Sea Siren's
hull, Wren and Malcolm waited. All motion of the ship had ceased, and the stillness was ominous. The slow rocking without the slight drag and pull of the force of the waves warned them that the vessel was either becalmed or at anchor.

Tears streaked down Wren's cheeks. They had been only a day away from land when Sara had tricked her into this hellish place with Malcolm. The
Sea Siren
had made port. She would rot in the stench-filled dungeon. She would die. Here, alone with the one man who hated her most in the world. Bound and gagged like the trapped animal she was. There was nothing, no word, no prayer, no hope, that could save her.

Above decks, Sara prepared to leave the ship in the last jolly boat. Several of the crew and two Puritans with whom she was not familiar waited alongside her for the jolly to beat the shore-rushing waves and follow the current back to the
Siren.

Sara's thoughts were intent on the locker box holding her prisoners. Somehow she had to find the courage to sneak below and unbolt the door before she disembarked. No one was paying any attention to her; every eye was intent upon the slowly approaching jolly. Fear pervaded her body and chills danced up her spine. If she was to unbolt the door, she would have to be quick about it in order to return to the deck and leave in the last jolly. She was terrified at the thought of being alone aboard ship with a recently freed, half-crazed Malcolm.

She backed up a step, then two, and scurried to the hatch on the forward deck. After crawling rapidly down the ladder, careful not to make a sound, she inched across the keel line through the hull and made her way to the locker box by touch alone. It was as though her fever-bright eyes could penetrate the dark and perceive distinguishing touch marks. She had traveled the length of the hull a thousand times in her mind. Her fingers groped for the familiar outline of the door, searching for the bolt like a blind man's fingers searching for a tossed coin. Holding her breath, not daring to breathe, she silently eased the bolt free.

Immediately relief flooded through her. She had done it. She had freed them. They could walk out of the cell any time they wanted. She wasn't murdering them; she wasn't killing the father of her child. She had set them free!

Soundlessly she retraced her steps, her back hunched in a similar manner to those of the rats who existed in the dank darkness.

 

Hours later, Wren tried to ease her cramped position and stretch her legs. Malcolm must have heard her movement, because she sensed he was moving toward her. She cringed from him, dreading his touch, then felt him work the knots in her bindings. He loosened the gag from around her face and she spit it out. She was parched and dry, her mouth foul-tasting. She forced her lips to work, her jaw aching and sore.

“Don't touch me, Malcolm,” she managed to utter hoarsely. “Don't touch me!”

“As if I'd want you,” he sneered. “I won't waste my strength on a dead woman.”

The truth of his words reconfirmed her worst fears. She would die here alone with Malcolm. “The door,” she croaked. “Damn you, Malcolm, try the door. Beat it down! Don't you understand we'll die in here?”

“Well wait for Farrington. And don't try to scream. You'll have that rag stuffed back in your mouth before you can get out one syllable.”

Wren shook her head, not realizing he couldn't see her in the blackness.

“Do you understand me?” he threatened harshly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her shoulder.

“Yes . . . I understand . . . What you don't seem to understand, Malcolm, is that we've put in at port. When I was thrown in here with you, we were only a day or two away from reaching land. We're trapped in here! Trapped!” Her voice rose. “Lord Farrington isn't coming back for you. He'll never find me!”

The intensity of her words struck Malcolm with an unbidden fear that she was right. Farrington would sooner see him dead than alive. Then the gems would be his.

Wren scrambled to her feet, rubbing her wrists where the bindings had cut into them. She was unfamiliar with the cell, and her searching, outstretched hands discovered it was even smaller than she'd imagined.

“Damn you, Malcolm, help me find the door. Get up and find it! Beat against it! There's always a watch aboard ship—he might hear us!”

“One more word out of you and I'll strangle you,” Malcolm warned, alarmed by the strength she was suddenly exhibiting.

Wren's fingers found the hinges flanging the door, then groped for the crack between door and bulkhead. The edges of her fingers felt a cool draft blowing through the minuscule space. She began to hit the bulkhead, her hands clenched into fists, her throat aching to realize a scream. Her poundings met with resistance but still she beat with all her might. She moved to the left and heard her poundings sound hollow as she found the center of the door.

Malcolm seemed suddenly to realize what she was doing and began fumbling for her in the darkness to quiet her hysteria.

Soundlessly the door swung open, revealing a glimmer of gray light. Both Malcolm and Wren fell back, mouths agape.

“Sweet Christ, the door was open,” Malcolm whispered in shock. “All this time the door was open.”

Wren lowered her head into her hands. She could not take in the reality confronting her. She had spent eternal hours in Malcolm's presence, and all the while the door had been open. Sara had never locked it, and neither of them had thought to try it, accepting their prison sentence like a final judgment. “We're free?” she asked in amazement.

“Will you shut up!” Malcolm ordered. “We're free. All we have to do is walk out of here.”

“Let me go, please let me go!” she pleaded, struggling to wrest herself from his grasp.

“Not so fast, little bird. I'm not done with you yet. I'll still get some use out of you. But never fear, we'll leave here together.”

“Where? Where can we go? Please let me go!”

“Shut up,” he commanded. He knocked her down to the floor, pinned her beneath his weight and covered her mouth with his hand. He felt around the floor with his free hand and found that for which he searched. Quickly he had her bound again, the gag choking off her air and rendering her silent.

Wren's eyes were wild with fury and she kicked out at him with her foot.

“Try that again and I'll leave you here, and this time I'll lock the door myself.” Wren was immediately docile, fearing he would carry out his threat. “All I need are the jewels from Farrington and a little cash money, and I'll be set for life,” Malcolm plotted, his voice low and calculating. “And you, my little bird, will bring a nice ransom. Sara told me your brother captains this ship.”

Tears coursed down Wren's cheeks. She was lost and totally alone. Caleb wouldn't give a tinker's damn about her. He had Sara and their coming child to occupy his mind.

“It'll be interesting to find out what your brother thinks you're worth. I'm going topside to see what's about and if I can find some food and water. I'll come back for you.”

He whirled around and disappeared out the door. Several minutes later he was slowly climbing the ladder to the forward hatch, which he lifted cautiously. He took great gulps of air, and the stiff breeze whipping about nearly made him dizzy.

The sun was low in the sky; there was no sign of anyone on deck. Straining his neck, he peered over the hatch side, across the deck and through the rail. Land. Green, inviting land. It would be another hour till dark. He spied the two-man dinghy which swung from lines over the starboard bow. He would take Wren with him in the boat. Upriver. When the time was right and he had her secure, he would seek out van der Rhys and name his price.

Malcolm waited, almost fearfully, for darkness to descend. He had to take care of the man on watch—kill him, if necessary—before he could lower the dinghy and head upriver. Well, he had proved that he was good at waiting; as a matter of fact, he excelled at that. Another hour, perhaps a little less, and he could set out on what he considered the last leg of his journey that would lead him to God only knew what. If it was the last thing he did, he would get those jewels from Farrington and a handsome ransom for Wren. He would set himself up like a king on one of the islands and have people wait on him hand and foot. He would have a different woman for every night of the week. If his scarred face troubled those about him, he would simply kill them. In time they would learn that he was a power, a force to be reckoned with. Money could buy anything. It could buy people; it could buy whatever service he required. It could even buy physical love.

He tilted his head upward. The dark clouds rode the new moon like a novice rider on horseback, and he crept toward the wheelhouse. He smirked to himself. The stupid guard would probably be drunk, relying on the man in the crow's-nest to warn of any approaching intruders. On silent feet he attacked the guard from the rear, grasping him around the neck and jerking him off balance. Then he smashed the seaman's head against the stout wheel before he let the guard crumble to the deck. The man wouldn't be doing anything for a long while. By the time he woke up, if ever, Malcolm and Wren would be long gone, armed and gone.

Malcolm went to the galley for some food, which he threw into a sack, and then made his way to the dinghy, which he lowered into the water. He sat down to rest for a moment and get his bearings. Satisfied that everything had gone the way he had planned it, he relaxed and sighed deeply. A few hours of hard rowing and he would be far enough upriver. He would find a safe place to secure the dinghy and then take to the woods on foot. He'd keep Wren tied so she couldn't escape, and then he'd rest himself. By nightfall he could return to port with his ransom demand for Wren. Everything was working out just the way he had planned it.

 

There was no fear in Wren, just white-hot fury. She knew now that Malcolm wouldn't kill her, but he could make things so miserable for her, she might wish she were dead. There was nothing she could do, and that only added to her rage. When the door was flung open, she let her eyes do all her talking. If the hatred that burned from them could kill, Malcolm Weatherly would have fallen lifeless before her. He pulled her roughly to her feet and pushed her ahead of him. She didn't balk; there was no point in angering him further.