Jennifer Horseman (20 page)

"Aye, aye." Gayle sat back down, returning to the scope.

Rather absently she asked: "What is a Gainsport wind?"

Gayle looked up, surprised. This was the first time she had ever initiated a conversation, bent as she was on punishing them for her young man's despicable cowardice. He rewarded the change with a pleased smile, his full attention. "An erratic wind, 'tis all."

"I never heard of such a thing."

"I'm not surprised, for it's a private joke among the crew. Anything that brings grief is called a Gainsport: a Gainsport wind, a Gainsport maneuver, a Gainsport current, and so on." He saw how she watched him, carefully, as if still uncertain of the wisdom of engaging him. "Gainsport was Garrett's first teacher," he went on, anxious to keep her interest. "Should you like to hear the story?"

She shrugged noncommittally, perversely pretending indifference. To her great relief, Gayle continued: "Gainsport was an old sea captain that Garrett sailed with as a boy. The man was the world's worst sailor and an even worse captain. Garrett says everything he knows comes from the great book of Gainsport's mistakes. Ah," he laughed, "when we get Garrett in the right mood, he'll tell the wildest stories about the man: how he sunk two different ships, how his navigation was so poor they'd set out for a West Indies port and ended up in the Spanish Isles, near Japan, how—"

"Was he a pirate too?"

"Nay, a captain with the West India Company. His family had political weight and Garrett says a tidy fortune put him in the position."

She pretended to watch the fish. "Yet ... he was Garrett's teacher?"

"Aye, a pissant sailor but a brilliant scholar. With his trunks full of books, he taught Garrett the philosophies and science. 'Twas why Garrett's mother indentured Garrett to him in the first place—"

Garrett's mother? Indentured? Juliet swung around, searching Gayle's face, scandalized when she swore it was no longer possible. "His mother indentured him?"

"Aye . . . Well, look, it's not as bad as it sounds. In many ways she had to. You'd have to know her. She's a gentlewoman, and when Garrett's father died ... oh well, you ought to ask Garrett himself about that."

With brows drawn, Juliet looked away. The idea that Garrett had a mother seemed unlikely; that she gave him up explained much—little wonder his character formed to disrepute. She might have expected to hear of a sad, troubled childhood. . . .

"Anyway," Gayle continued, "the point is Garrett says he learned more from Gainsport than he'd have learned in six years in the halls of Oxford, and I know that's true. No one's sharper than Garrett when it comes to philosophy; his mind is like sunlight on crystal: sharp, clear, brilliant. ..."

Crystal indeed! Juliet imagined the jagged edge of a crystal glass. One touch bringing the color of blood. "And then too, 'twas Gainsport who led Garrett to Chein Lee."

"The monk?" Juliet questioned, the pretense of indifference dropping completely upon hearing this part. The name Chein Lee, like a friendly spirit attached to Garrett's life, never strayed far from Garrett's thoughts or stories. "This captain introduced Garrett to this monk?"

"Well, not exactly. Gainsport heard about the island of monks, and aye, he was curious, but he couldn't be bothered himself. So he sailed the ship there and gave Garrett over to Chein Lee." Gayle chuckled. "Garrett was only fifteen but it took chains and more than ten men to put him there." Gayle wisely neglected to mention that Garrett's objection was that there were no women on the island. "And then the bastard left him stranded for three

years."

"He did? You mean Garrett couldn't get off the island?"

"Not for three years. He did nothing but learn the secrets of various oriental religions, secrets Garrett says are about ten thousand different shades of reality, realities colored by magic and Chein Lee's humor. ... It changed Garrett forever more."

Admittedly, Garrett's Chein Lee stories were bone-tick-lingly funny, the moral message almost lost in the high comedy of Garrett's trials. Garrett had caught her the last time, "Ah, love, your eyes laugh even when you do not. . . ."

The idea of Garrett having any religious training, even a heretical, oriental one, caused Juliet no small shock. Who would imagine? Having been raised with both the Catholic and Protestant faiths, she always saw far more similarities than differences between religions, and then too, her mother always said the interior landscape of churches might vary but that they each honor the same truths. Yet surely that did not include an oriental religion!

Garrett and religion. She remembered the religious myth of hope he shared that night, his unnatural compassion and extreme tenderness, until—

Until he laid her to his bed again . . .

No, don't think about it now. Don't think about it ever. Trying to get a grip on herself, she closed her eyes and braced her hands on the back of the chair.

"Did you ever hear about—"

"No, please, I don't think I want to hear anymore."

Gayle saw her sudden panic, a painful display of the extent of her struggle. "Juliet," he beckoned softly, "if you'd only let yourself know Garrett better, you'd know how much there is to respect and admire in him."

Startled eyes shot to him. "You mean his pirating? So I've heard. His murder is first-rate and I, myself, can attest to his rape—" She caught her lip and stopped, alarmed by her outburst and fearing his response. Tonali rose to his feet and circled her legs protectively.

Gayle abruptly understood what Garrett had meant when he tried to explain to his father: ". . . her spirit is a wondrous, wild thing, longing desperately for its freedom but beaten so often and hurt so badly that she no longer trusts the world, least of all me. Every once in a while, she'll think she spoke too freely, and a horrible fear suddenly appears in those eyes. As if she is afraid I might find a whip somewhere, and God's curse Leif, but I get this knot inside. . . ."

Like Garrett, Gayle tried to reassure her: "Garrett's not what you think; he does not murder or rape—" He, too, stopped; the emotion in her eyes made him. "Juliet," he tried again, pleading, "he thought you murdered his brother."

Even as he said the words he saw how empty and meaningless they sounded. Because they were. Words could not take back how terribly she had been used. Nothing could. With a soft curse he rose, muttering an excuse before leaving her alone. Apparently thinking she was safe now, Tonali followed him out.

Juliet fell against the sofa, willing herself to calm down within minutes. As she often did, she found herself greedily staring at the bookcase again. If only he'd let her use his books! How she needed the escape books offered! Trying not to think of her uncle and his opinion of women and books, she finally gathered the courage to hint to Garrett: "You have the complete works of Shakespeare here ... on board?"

"What ship could run without the works of that great poet? Do you enjoy Shakespeare, love?"

She nodded, waiting for him to offer his books, but no, he imagined she cared which were his favorite sonnets and plays, that she wanted to listen to his recital of a favorite speech from Macbeth, a recital she finally interrupted to say, "I ... I enjoy reading Shakespeare." "Oh ... Is that a hint, love?" She nodded vigorously and he sighed, returning to his work. "Well, don't ask me the favor again."

Sometimes she hated men, their absurd notions that reading and education were dangers to a woman's moral character. Tomas said he didn't mind at all, "so long as you don't get too high minded . . ." Did Garrett pretend to care about a woman's moral character? He might force her to bed and threaten her with violence, but reading might be a danger to her character? How did he rationalize that? What would he do if he found her reading? Surely, he'd not take a hand to her . . . ?

Couldn't she hide the book when she heard him coming in? He'd never miss it. She could return the volume the moment he left. How she longed to read! It would help settle her mind and thoughts, perhaps even enough to know what to do about the letter. ...

After a hard day, Garrett spent the last minutes with his men watching Tonali make a fool of poor Brute. The cat normally ignored Brute, a creature Tonali saw as totally beneath contempt, not even casting the dog a sideways glance. Sometimes Tonali walked toward Brute as if he wasn't even there, and sure enough, the dog wouldn't be there by the time the cat was. Today, for some reason, Tonali decided to torment the dog by starting to circle him where he stood, drawing an ever-tightening circle, each rotation scaring the dog more until he collapsed on the ground, turning belly up with his paws over his head, a move that sent the crew into a loud fit of unkind laughter. Then Tonali merely sat down, staring at the terrified pitiful creature with unmistakable amusement.

Garrett still cursed the cat as they stepped into his quarters. "I've no respect for a creature who makes such an embarrassing mess of his underlings. You've got the conceit of a tyrant, for sure—"

Tonali sensed the tone, if not the actual meaning, of Garrett's words and he hissed, revealing the threat of his teeth with a swipe of his paw in the air. Garrett scoffed at him, banishing the cat with a wave of his hand as he found Juliet sitting on the sofa. All he saw was the long rope of hair falling down the straight, slender back, this over blue silk. Trying everything he could think of to ease her sorrow and circumstances, he had provided her a freshwater bath and some scents left from Mary, one of his mistresses he sometimes took with him on voyages.

Odd, but Juliet chose the fragrance Mary hadn't liked, a subtle scent of musk and lavender. The faintest trace of it filled the room and came to him where he stood, a maddening tease he tried to ignore.

As he tried to ignore everything about her, not just the beauty he found more breathtaking each day, a beauty that made him ask Leif if she was really that lovely or if he was caught under her spell. The question had sent Leif into a howl of laughter. He had to ignore not just her beauty but also her silences, the sadness that would fill her enchanting eyes, even the agony she felt as she still tried to write that letter.

By this point, Juliet was quite accustomed to Garrett's often lengthy conversations with Tonali. "Do you grasp my point?" he'd ask the indifferent cat, and then take Tonali's hiss as a concurrence of opinion. Sometimes he involved his other creatures: "What do you think Polly?" "Aye, aye, sir!" or "Goddamn mess, I say, bawk!" and Garrett would be pleased, as if the silly bird actually knew what he said. What could one make of a man who struck fear and terror in every ship on the sea, yet who had the odd turn of mind to consider the opinion of a panther and a parrot on weighty matters? A man who had an honest-to-goodness fondness for a turtle?

She abruptly became aware of a strange silence in the room as she felt him considering her. Nervously glancing down at the book hidden in the folds of her robe, she swallowed as her heart signaled certain alarm. His boots sounded loudly as he walked toward her, stopping by the chair at the sofa's side. She cast an anxious gaze up, only to find how intently he studied her. "What's wrong, Juliet?"

How did he know? How? "Nothing," she managed, but her voice sounded like a whisper of fear. She shook her head, trying for a louder voice, "Nothing."

"Nay, something's wrong . . . you look so frightened and . . . guilty."

She held perfectly still, terrified, even more when, confused, Garrett knelt down and reached his hand to her heart, where he felt it racing. "Love, something is terrifying you and I would know what it is."

Tonali hissed, circling, watching, as confused as Garrett.

She shook her head, her mind racing with her heart in search of an excuse, but her panic produced memories of her uncle, the hours and hours of waiting, not knowing how or when he would punish her, only how badly it would hurt. She couldn't breathe, her face drained of color and, "Garrett ... I-"

"Love . . . love," he said, taking her hand in his. The measure made the book fall forward. He set this on the table. "What is it, love?"

Juliet's eyes widened as she followed the movement. With confusion, he looked back at the book. His confusion disappeared as he remembered the last time she took a book to read, she had been tied to a bed post and a whip was put to her back. "Oh, God ..." He saw what this was about but all he could say was, "Dear God . . ."

"I'm sorry ... I know—"

"You know what? What are you thinking, love? Is your esteem of me so low as to let you imagine I am like him?" His anger brought her eyes up with alarm. "Answer me, love, because I can not believe my eyes. Is that what you were thinking? Why you were afraid like that?"

"But . . . but you never offered me their use. When I mentioned I like to read . . . Shakespeare, you said not to ask you the favor again."

Garrett searched her face, remembering this, seeing how she had got the idea. He wanted to swear, curse, tear his hair out, then maybe run someone through the keelhaul. More than anything he wanted to take her in his arms and shake her senseless before banishing every last shred of fear and uncertainty beneath the heat of his desire.

Realizing these were ploys doomed to failure, he did none of those things. Instead, he used every ounce of his will to remain calm, calm enough to reply, rather matter of factly: "I was responding to what I thought was your criticism of my Macbeth. You wounded my vanity, you did; I fancy my Shakespeare better than fair. And the reason I never offered you the use of my books was simply because it never occurred to me that I might have to. Like my toothcomb, my hairbrush, the food on the table, my books are yours for the taking.^To make my sentiments regarding you more clear, I can honestly say that should you find pleasure in watching my books burn, I would hand you the kindling stick."

Her mind raced over these words twice, then once again. Her relief started slowly but grew and grew; no words could articulate the relief those words brought, for at last she understood that whatever Garrett was about, it had nothing to do with punitive measures or sadistic retribution. He was not like her uncle; she kept the thought in her mind. . . .