Unclaimed Heart (10 page)

Once again he met her eye, then, to her very great surprise, took her hand. “I am sorry if you are afraid of me, child. I have given you no just cause, and so I can only assume that you have somehow ignored my rules and mingled with the crew, overhearing some fragment of untruth that has grown nightmarish in your brain.”

She swallowed hard. Nodded. She could see the effort it took him not to berate her.

“What did you hear?” he asked, in a forcedly even tone.

“That you were a pirate,” she whispered. “A long time ago.”

He sighed. “I was never a pirate. I am a merchant seaman and have always been so. But . . .”

Constance waited, breath suspended.

“Shortly after your mother disappeared . . . I was not myself. My first run after the . . . event was to the Malabar Coast, to Cochin. I had a special charge from a very rich man, a cargo to pick up. Sixty crates of tea. He was willing to pay much higher than the East India Company, so I took the commission. But we had weeks of bad weather. Gales, squalls, then we were becalmed in the doldrums, on the equator, for sixteen days. I arrived at Cochin a month later than expected. Exhausted, still frantic about Faith, wondering if she had returned in my absence . . .” He paused, and Constance found that she was blinking back tears. “I was not in the mood for what happened.

“A wily Portuguese captain had heard about the commission, about my failure to pick it up yet. He persuaded the local seller to let him take it. So my rich cargo was gone. The trip had been all for nothing. I gathered together an alternate cargo, small, low-paying items. Letters home to England by the sackful. And we made our way back. Then, near the Mascarene Islands, one of my crew spotted a Portuguese ship.”

Father stopped and gazed off into the distance. He was silent a long time.

Finally, Constance said, “Was it the ship that had taken your cargo?”

Father shook his head, smiling ruefully. “No. Of course not. That ship was weeks ahead of us. This was simply a ship flying the Portuguese flag. I knew that, the crew knew that, and yet . . . and yet we wanted somebody to be punished for what had happened and there it was. . . .”

He put his hand to his head, rubbing his eyebrow with the heel of his palm. “There it was.”

He straightened, smoothed his waistcoat and nodded decisively. “It was regrettable. No man was injured—they were a much smaller vessel and surrendered quickly. We incarcerated the crew. I sent a man aboard to sail it alongside us to the nearest port. By this time, I realized my folly and set them all free, letting them keep their cargo. On my return to England I made a full confession to the Company and was ordered to pay reparation. They were lenient with me on account of my good record thus far and on account of the recent loss of my wife. I spent a month in prison, Constance, when you were little more than a babe.” He hung his head, and Constance realized he was ashamed. “You wouldn't have noticed; you were used to my being away.”

“Father, I'm so sorry.”

There was a long quiet, when all she could hear was the sound of the waves splashing against the ribs of the ship. So the Irishman had not told the truth, but an exaggerated rumor. She felt foolish, ashamed. When Father spoke again, it was so softly that she barely heard him. “If your mother had died, Constance, it would have been easier.”

It was true. Not knowing was the worst of it. “What do you think happened to her?” she asked, dreading the answer. In the distance, the boat had started its journey back to
Good Bess
. De Locke was gone.

“I don't know. But she was a strong woman. I know she could survive much hardship.”

“Then why did she not come back?”

“Perhaps she has no recollection of us. Or perhaps she is constrained somehow. We know she has been here, across the miles. If she has no money, no way to get home . . .” He shook his head. “There is no benefit in speculation. I will uncover all the clues I can and, God willing, bring her home with me.”

“I want to help, too,” Constance said. “Will you let me help you, Father? I have a good brain. I don't want to be stuck at home with Howlett's daughter. I don't—”

“How do you know about Howlett's daughter?”

A rush of heat. Constance's heart began to pound. “I . . . you must have told me.”

“Indeed no, I did not tell you.”

She forced a laugh. “Well, you must have, Father because I . . . I know of her.”

“I deliberately made no mention of Orlanda because I was not certain that she would be at home and did not want to raise your expectations of a companion.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Constance, did you read my letter to Violet?”

She finally knew the true meaning of the word “speechless.” She literally could not speak.

His temper, held in check for the entire conversation, finally escaped him. “I have clearly misjudged you. Here I am, treating you like an adult, when you are little more than a willful child.” He began to stride away from her.

“Father, wait!”

“No, Constance. No. I have business to take care of. I have spent enough time on you. We will be in Nagakodi within thirty-six hours. I will speak to you again then.”

And he was gone.

Constance left her cabin that evening, intending to go up on deck for her usual dose of fresh night air. But she stopped, uncomfortable at the thought of seeing Father again. And so minutes passed; paused in indecision outside her cabin, her thoughts turned to Alexandre. She wondered if Old Harry had brought him and his companions supper, whether he was comfortable, whether Father had decided to take him back to France. She couldn't ask Father all these things, and Old Harry had maintained his silence with her.

Would it be such a bad thing to ask Alexandre himself? The thought gave her a warm thrill, deep inside. Just that morning, he had stood—dripping wet—in her cabin. So close. Since then, she hadn't seen him, and he had become almost like a storybook figure. Not real.

She wavered. She was already in so much trouble with Father. . . . But then, he couldn't be any angrier with her than he was now.

Constance made her way down to the lower-deck hold. By the dim light, she saw him. His shoulder was turned to her, his knees to his chest, arms wrapped around them. The two Sinhalese men were talking softly to each other. Father had the three of them in the cattle pen, on fresh straw, cuffs of steel around their ankles. She felt a pang of embarrassment. Why must he chain them? They weren't criminals. The smell of the hold was awful, and there was so little air that the candle could barely burn.

Alexandre must have heard her and turned to look over his shoulder. When he saw her, he stood.

“Hello,” she said softly.

The corner of his mouth lifted, a subdued smile. “Good evening, Miss Blackchurch.”

The formality stung. “You may call me Constance.” She moved forward, so she could see him properly. Tall and dark-eyed, with tanned skin, his black hair hanging loose to his shoulders. Yes, he was real. More than real, for he focused all her senses sharply, making the surroundings fade and blur.

“Very well, Constance.”

She noticed a large bruise across his jaw. She leaned closer to peer at it. “What's that? Has somebody hit you? My father?”

“No, no. It's an old injury.” He lowered his head. “I am in your father's debt. He has treated us well.”

She wasn't expecting this answer. “Really?”

One of the Sinhalese men, a lean man with big hands, looked up and said something to Alexandre in his native tongue.

Alexandre nodded, then returned his attention to Constance. “He says your father is a good man.”

“You speak Sinhalese?”

“De Locke and I lived in Ceylon for some years.”

She indicated the cuffs. “I'm so sorry about the chains.”

“I spoke to your father at length this afternoon. He said he'd send somebody to release us this evening. He didn't have the key.”

Her heart jumped. She didn't want to be discovered down here with Alexandre. But at the same time, she was finding it very difficult to pull away from him.

“Has he decided what to do with you, then?”

“I told him that
La Reine des Perles
has been my home for many years. When we anchor, he will let me stay aboard, take care of her, until he finds a buyer in Ceylon. Then I am to return to England with
Good Bess
. He won't take payment—he says I can work for my passage. I can sell my pearl in England and have enough to get home to France and to start a new life. An independent one.” Here he smiled fully, and she felt her heart flip over.

“Oh, that's . . . wonderful.” Weeks and weeks. She would have weeks and weeks with him around. Then she put the thought out of her head. It wasn't as though Father would let her see him.

“Constance, I must thank you for your assistance, for helping me aboard.”

She gestured to his companions. “You would have ended up here anyway.”

A shadow crossed his brow. “Maybe. But I didn't know that at the time, and you were generous enough to reach out to a stranger.”

She moved a little closer, put her hands around the bars of the pen. “How did you manage to swim away from the pearler without being seen?”

“It's my job to stay underwater for long stretches,” he said, almost dismissively. Once again, Constance had the feeling that he wasn't telling the whole story. “Constance, I wonder if I might prevail upon your generosity once more?”

“Of course,” she said too quickly.

He fished the pearl from the cuff of his pants and held it out to her. “Will you keep this safe? Perhaps you have a jewellery box? I can get it from you at the other end of our journey. In England.”

She took the pearl, brushing his warm fingers with her own momentarily. “I will be most pleased to honor your trust.” Then she heard voices and stepped away from the cattle pen in alarm. “I have to go,” she said quickly.

“Thank you,” he said again, his dark eyes evenly fixed on hers. “Most sincerely.”

She felt herself blush, then blushed all the more, and was grateful for the dim light. “You're welcome. Most sincerely. Most, most sincerely.” She backed away, stumbling over her feet. “I'll see you ashore? Perhaps?”

“I will follow your father's instructions.”

Then she made her way aft, back through the ship and up to the roundhouse, a tangle of hot feelings in her heart.

De Locke slowly worked his way out of his ropes. They had tied him firmly but not tightly, giving themselves just enough time to get away. What did they think he would do if his hands were free before they were out of sight? They had taken his pistol, his ship, and his crew. All he had was the clothes on his back and a wretched basket with salted fish and half a loaf of bread in it. Did they think he would throw food at them?

Evening deepened to nighttime. The air was chill, but not cold. Still, he longed for his warm bed. How far was he from Tumkottai? He supposed he would hail a passing ship, or make his way by foot across the sand at low tide to the mainland—though all he could see from here was jungle and beaches. Anger began to burn bright inside him. Blackchurch. How had he found him? After all these years, de Locke had been sure he'd escaped his revenge. In all the wide oceans, across the Gulf of Mannar, how was it possible for Blackchurch to find
La Reine des Perles
?

And as for Alexandre . . . Week after week there had been no pearls, and here the boy had been hiding one all along. De Locke stamped his feet with frustration. Alexandre had been quiet, mumbling if he spoke, and de Locke never once suspected it was because he was hiding a treasure in his mouth. Thief. Traitor.