Captive Splendors (30 page)

“Down the ladder, and one false move out of you, and your face will be ugly in comparison to mine,” Malcolm said, untying her hands. “I'll be right behind you,” he added ominously.

Wren rubbed at her wrists and did as she was told, the gag almost suffocating her.

Malcolm wasted no time putting the dinghy into motion, dipping the oars deep and pulling back, every muscle in his back bunching into knots.

Wren cursed him with her eyes every time the oar struck the water. God, how she hated him! She had to try to get away from him somehow. Bound and gagged like she was, she knew there was little chance he would take his one good eye off her, let alone free her. As soon as he had tossed her into the dinghy, he had bound not only her hands but her ankles as well. If he fell into a fit of rage and decided to toss her overboard, she would be dead within seconds. It would be to her advantage to lie perfectly quiet and not antagonize him in any way.

Every muscle in her body stilled as Caleb's face swam before her tired eyes. How clearly she could see him, and if she willed it, she could remember the feel of him next to her. How good had he felt, so hard and so warm. She had fitted so perfectly in the cradle of his arm, and he had told her that in gentle whispers. She had felt as though she had come home, home to Caleb, where she belonged. Always Caleb. How gentle and warm, so very warm, he was. She had been a fool and was still a fool. She could have fought Sara for him, could have asserted herself. Instead, she had taken the coward's way out and run. She always ran instead of facing up to her problems. She should have gone to Caleb and poured out her heart; he would have listened and understood. And now he was lost to her forever. He would marry Sara because she was pregnant, and part of Wren's life would be over. Wren could never love anyone the way she loved Caleb. Caleb was part of her. He was her destiny. Sirena had known that, just as she herself had known. Why hadn't Caleb been able to recognize it, too? He had said they were as one, but that already seemed a long time ago. From the beginning she had been like an open wound to him, and she had merely made matters worse for herself. She was stupid and silly, just as Sara had always claimed.

As Caleb stood near the open gravesite, his glance was drawn to his ship anchored offshore. A feeling washed over him that, if he looked hard enough, he would see Wren. Calling himself a fool, he redirected his attention to the ceremony taking place.

Aubrey, Lord Farrington, was being laid to his final rest. Caleb had insisted that burial be on land, knowing how much his old partner had disliked the sea.

The crewmen were present, and their heads bowed as they waited for Caleb to find the proper words. Clearing his throat, he managed to say simply, “He was my friend. His only sin was his love for life and adventure, and for that I ask forgiveness in his name.”

His hand shook slightly as he threw a clod of dirt into the yawning grave. Tears misted in his eyes and he turned away, unable to watch as the crew heaped the black, rich earth onto the simple coffin.

“Captain, I have to go back to the galley before I take shore leave,” Gustave said somberly, respectful of Caleb's grief. “Can I leave you a plate for supper? Peter said you would be spending the night aboard ship.”

“I'll see to my own supper, Gustave. Don't put yourself out. Join the men and have a drink for Aubrey. He'd like that.”

“Aye, Captain, as soon as me and Diego get back.”

 

The sleek, three-masted frigate dipped and rose at anchor in the gentle swells of the Sound as Gustave made his cautious way across the deck. From time to time he cast an anxious glance over his shoulder, even though he knew no one would be watching him. They were alone on board, he and Diego and Claude, the watchman. Still, he had the feeling someone or something was peering at him through the dark. Yellow lanterns lit the perimeters of the deck and he stood a moment at the rail, relishing the breeze on his leathery cheeks and sparse gray hair.

Why do old men make fools of themselves over a pretty face? he questioned himself. The captain would have his hide nailed to the mizzenmast in short order if there was anything in the locker box besides the rats. He shuddered in the warm June breeze as he pointed his feet in the direction of the forward hatch. He couldn't put it off any longer; he had to go below and see what the locker box held.

His bare feet were soundless as he continued his trek below decks. He stopped once and drew in his breath, feeling unseen eyes boring into the back of his skull. He cocked his head to the side like an inquisitive sparrow but could see nothing in the ghostly shadows. Still the feeling persisted. He swallowed hard, the thin knob in his neck bobbing up and down as if to a lively tune. He was almost at the locker but still couldn't shake the impression of unseen eyes. “Who's there?” he demanded, and half jumped out of his skin when Diego's voice shot back at him.

“What in holy hell are you doing down here? Don't tell me that swill you've been cooking has finally gotten to your brain and rendered you senseless!”

Although Diego's tone was gruff, Gustave knew immediately that something was terribly wrong. He held up his lantern and looked into his friend's face.

“We've got to get off the ship and back to the captain,” Diego said in a lower voice. “I was just above and found Claude. He was hit over the head. He'll be all right in a few days, but he never seen who done it. Another thing—the two-man dinghy is missing. I know we didn't use it to go ashore. It's supposed to be hanging over the starboard bow in case of an emergency.” The hairs on the back of Gustave's neck stood on end. His gaze left the cook's face and centered on the locker-box door. “What in hell are you doing down here, anyway?” he added.

Gustave debated a moment, then motioned Diego to come closer. Quickly he explained why he was going to the locker box.

Diego's eyes widened and he shook his head. “You're right, my friend, the captain will nail your hide to the mizzenmast in short order. The captain is a great one for setting an example,” he muttered in sympathy as he followed Gustave and his bobbing lantern. “How about a few short snorts before you throw open that door?” he suggested as he withdrew a rum bottle from his baggy shirt front.

Gustave accepted greedily and drank as if he had been parched for months. He handed back the bottle, which was now nearly empty.

“I said a few short snorts, not half the damn bottle. Do you know what I had to go through to steal this?” Diego grumped as he brought the bottle to his lips and finished it off. Then he picked up a stout board which could have smashed the skulls of ten men with one wicked swipe. “A man should be prepared for any and all emergencies.”

Gustave nervously wiped his sweating palms on his tattered trousers. “Let's get it over with. I'll throw the bolt and you go in first, with the board straight in front of you. I'll be right behind you with the lantern held high.”

“Why is it every time you get yourself into some kind of mess, I'm the one who has to get you out or go first so you don't get yourself beaten to a pulp?” Diego grumbled as he hefted the board in anticipation of Gustave's arm movement with the bolt.

The cook sucked in his breath and threw the bolt on the third try. “Because you're my friend and I pulled you from shark-infested waters when you were but a wee lad, that's why, and you owe me your life,” he replied.

“That was over thirty years ago, and I've more than paid my debt,” Diego snorted, charging into the foul-smelling room, Gustave at his heels.

“Son of a bitch! I was sure. I was so sure.” Gustave held his lantern high, the light filling the shadowy depths of the empty locker box.

The simple funeral service over, Caleb's mood darkened. Farrington had been laid to his final resting place, and now that the others were settled, he had nothing more to do but return to the ship. He knew he would feel better if he could instigate a real fist-pounding, no-holds-barred fight with someone and get himself beaten to a pulp. He was alive and Farrington was dead. His eyes grew wild as he looked at the soft mound of earth and then at Peter, who was shuffling his feet. “It seems that we should be doing something else, saying something else. This is so . . . so final.”

“Death is always final,” Peter mumbled. He, too, was grieving for the lively gambler. Many a long talk had passed between them, and he had genuinely liked the man, as had the rest of the crew. Death always left the living in agony. He had never seen Caleb in such straits before, and in his heart he knew the captain was grieving more for Wren than for the gambler. There should have been another body to bury. Caleb was grieving twofold.

Peter stepped aside. He didn't want to intrude on Caleb's grief, and yet he didn't know what action to take. He couldn't just leave him standing there with nothing to do and nowhere to go except back to the lonely ship. He would give up his liberty and return with his captain and Lydia, who, because of her desertion of Bascom, was no longer welcome in the Puritan community. They would have something to eat and a little rum, and after a good night's sleep Caleb would feel better. At least Peter hoped so.

“Come, Captain,” Lydia said gently. “It's time to go back to the ship. It's been a long day, and it has taken its toll on all of us.” Carefully, so as not to startle him, she took his arm, and Peter took the other. They made their way back to the dock and climbed into the jolly. All was quiet on their path across the water; no sound permeated the ebony, star-filled night.

Once back on board the
Siren,
Caleb was surprised to find Gustave and Diego waiting for him. Gustave's leathery face was tormented and the old man picked nervously at his hands.

“What's troubling you, Gustave?” Caleb asked.

“Didn't burn down the galley, did you?”

Haltingly, and glancing at Diego for support, Gustave told the captain about the incident with Sara and the locker box, the subsequent attack on Claude and the missing dinghy.

Within minutes they were at Claude's side, and Lydia began ministering to him as he lay on his bunk. Water, clean cloths and a medicine box were before her as she set to work. Caleb and Peter hovered, offering advice and help. “I think,” she said firmly, “that it would be better if you left me to my chores and went topside.” Her tone was gentle but firm. “Better still, go to the galley and see if Gustave left any broth in the larder, and if he didn't, make some.” It was an order. Caleb looked at Peter and Peter looked at Caleb. Both men shrugged and headed for the galley.

Peter struggled to collect his wits. What kind of order had that been? An order from a woman, no less! The captain and his first mate didn't make broth in the galley. The cook made the broth. Where in the hell was Gustave? Then Peter remembered the captain had dismissed both Gustave and Diego to pursue their liberty. And quick they had been to leave the captain's sight after confessing about the locker box! So he would make the broth and maybe a sweet, too, while he was at it. He hoped Caleb didn't have two left hands when it came to measuring, like Gustave had.

In less than an hour Gustave's spit-and-polish galley was a disaster, and Caleb and Peter were no closer to a simmering broth than when they had first started.

“Begging your pardon, Captain, but this tastes like water with a fishy taste. I think you're supposed to put in bones or dried meat and then let it cook.”

“I did that,” Caleb said belligerently, a fine bead of perspiration dotting his brow and upper lip.

“All I can say, Captain, and I say it with all due respect, is that if the patient drinks this ‘broth,' it will kill him. I never tasted such vile stuff in my life. It's worse than Gustave's swill!”

“What do you suggest?” Caleb demanded.

“I'm no cook and neither are you. I think we should have a drink and ponder the matter. Maybe it will taste better if it cooks longer,” Peter said, uncorking a bottle of rum. “Gustave cooks everything from sunup to sundown. I've decided it just has to cook longer.” His face darkened to that of a thundercloud. “And another thing, Captain. If you botch up this broth, Miss Lydia is going to blame me, and then where will I be?” He took a deep gurgle from the bottle and continued. “I've had my eye on that fair lady for a long while now, and whatever you do in this galley is going to come home to roost on my shoulders. Add some rum,” he suggested, handing the bottle to Caleb.

“So that's the way the wind is blowing.” Caleb grinned and added a dollop of rum to the pot.

“Pour, Captain, pour, don't trickle it,” Peter said, tilting the bottle with a heavy hand. “Yes, that's the way the wind is blowing. She's a fair-looking woman, and she would fit real nice right here.” He indicated the crook of his arm. “Any woman don't fit here, well, then she's not my kind of woman.” He shook his head decisively.

“I know just what you mean.” Caleb remembered how Wren had fitted into his arms and how wonderful she had felt next to him. He drank deeply, relieved now that half his burdens had been lifted from his broad shoulders. He handed the bottle back to Peter, but not before he had added another “dollop” to the simmering pot of broth. While Peter finished off the rum, Caleb was busily uncorking not one but two additional bottles.

“One for you and one for me,” Peter hiccuped.

“Well, don't think I'm putting mine in the pot,” Caleb protested indignantly.

“You're the captain. I'm only the first mate. Rank always fills the pot.” Peter smirked.

“Who told you a thing like that?” Caleb demanded.

“Gustave, that's who,” Peter lied as he brought the bottle to his lips, missing his mouth. He cursed loudly as he wiped at his bare chest.