Chapter Eighteen
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.
“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.
“That sounds right to me,” Caleb agreed drunkenly, now lacing the pot liberally. “You’re right, I am the captain of this ship.”
“And a damn good captain you are. You’re the first captain I ever sailed with who knows how to make broth. Even the damn cook doesn’t know how to cook,” Peter laughed happily.
“I know, and it’s a damn shame, too. I pay good wages and the crew expects to eat hearty and all we get is slop. My provisions are the best money can buy. Gustave ruins everything. This will be the first decent meal we’ve had in days.”
Both of them peered into the pot.
“I thought this broth was for the guards. Why are your eyes watering, Captain?” Peter asked, staggering back from the strong fumes rising from the pot.
“Damned if I know. Must be from the onion I put in there,” Caleb said, wiping at his eyes.
“That was no onion, it was a potato. Gustave ran out of onions days ago.” Peter uncorked another bottle of rum and passed it to Caleb. “That’s for the pot. You’re the captain, and you shouldn’t have to put yours in the pot. I’m the first mate, and it wouldn’t look right if I did, so let’s just use this bottle for the pot and forget about sharing.”
“That sounds right to me,” Caleb said, dumping the contents of the third bottle into the pot. “We seem to have quite a bit here, Peter, enough for an army. We’ll eat hearty tonight.”
“You’re a good man, Captain, even if you did get off to a bad start with all those . . . those . . . holy people on board.”
“I know. I can’t stand them,” Caleb whispered confidentially. “They’ve been nothing but trouble, and now you tell me you have designs on the preacher’s wife. The question is, does the preacher’s wife have designs on you?” he chortled, waving his rum bottle in the air and narrowly missing Peter’s head.
Peter nodded sagely. “She looks at me and then looks at the floor.”
“That means she likes you, and yes, she does have designs. I’m an authority.” At Peter’s look of disbelief, he laughed loudly. “Even Regan says I’m an authority. Married ladies can be trouble, especially when they have husbands.”
Peter nodded again. “I’m expecting the worst,” he said slowly and distinctly. “The very worst.”
“That makes sense. That way you won’t be disappointed if the preacher doesn’t give you trouble. Bottle’s empty,” Caleb announced, flinging it across the room.
Peter laughed as the glass shattered in all directions. “You broke it, and Gustave goes barefoot in the galley. Now you have to clean it up.”
“I’m the captain. All I do is steer this damn ship and cook broth. You have to wield the mop.”
“Sounds fair to me.” Peter peered into the pot again and reeled back, his hands to his face. He stumbled, righted himself and stared into Caleb’s dark eyes. “I think, Captain, that you put just a little too much rum in the broth.”
“How can you tell? Too much is never enough. If you’re worried because the fumes unclog your nose and burn your throat, that doesn’t mean anything. It’s cooking away. See how thick it’s getting?” He backed away from the cookstove and fell heavily against the doorframe.
Two hours later, her patient resting comfortably, Lydia set out for the galley to see how Peter and the captain were faring.
The fumes from the cooking pot drove her back into the passageway. Cautiously, she poked her head around the corner of the door, all the while dabbing at her eyes. Caleb was sprawled on the floor, snoring loudly, a rum bottle clutched in one hand, the other shielding his eyes. The first mate was trying, unsuccessfully, to wield a mop over what looked like broken glass. He wore a look of disgust as he scattered the fragments and drank from his bottle at the same time.
“And what do you think you’re doing? Who made this mess? Who’s going to clean it up?” Lydia demanded.
At her words, Peter dropped the bottle and the mop and clapped his hands over his ears. “Isn’t it bad enough I can’t keep my eyes open? Do you want to make me deaf, too, with your caterwauling? Don’t look at me for this mess!” He smirked as he pointed a shaking finger at the prone captain. “He did what you ordered, and he’s the one who made this mess. All I did was watch. I think it’s going to be the best damn broth you ever ate.” He nudged Caleb gently with his toe. “Pity he won’t be awake to try it.” He took one step and then another toward the rum-laden pot and crumpled to the floor. Loud, lusty snores permeated the galley as Lydia threw her hands helplessly in the air.
What did she have to lose? All the while wiping at her eyes, she ladled out a generous portion of broth for her patient. It would either kill him or cure him. If the captain cooked it himself, it had to be worth something. It looked like pure, undiluted, hot rum to her inexperienced eye.
Even through his rum-induced sleep Caleb was aware of a deep-seated restlessness, and he tossed and turned in his bunk—the same bunk he had shared with Wren when she had been beset by feverish chills and he had wrapped her in his arms and shared the warmth from his body. In his grief-tormented dreams he heard her cry out, “Caleb! Help me!”
Wren tossed fitfully in her sleep, her mind screaming Caleb’s name over and over. Hours later, Malcolm shook her roughly and pulled her to her feet. He loosened her bonds, and Wren stumbled as the blood rushed through her veins. Her feet on dry land gave her no comfort. She looked around but could see only inky blackness and dark, spectral-looking trees. She was standing in mud and slime up to her ankles. There was no means of escaping the man who was securing the dinghy to an enormous tree on the shoreline. Where would she run to in this infernal darkness? With the way her luck had been of late, she would run straight into some wild animal’s lair and be chewed alive for her intrusion. She gulped and decided to take her chances with Malcolm.
Malcolm pushed her ahead of him and pretended to look around. If she couldn’t see in the dark, what could he see with one eye? she wondered nastily. She was about to voice her opinion and then thought better of it. “I’m hungry and you damn well better feed me,” she snapped. “If you think Captain van der Rhys is going to pay out good money for me, I better be hale and hearty or the price will go down.”
“Shut up,” Malcolm grated. “Get over there by that tree. I’m going to tie you to it, around the waist. You can maneuver your hands and feet. And if you don’t shut that mouth of yours, I’ll gag you again.”
“You want me to shut up? I’ll shut up, but not before I tell you that you are without a doubt a ring-tailed son of a bitch!” She felt better for expressing her opinion of him, coining Sirena’s favorite phrase for an insufferable bastard.
Malcolm ignored her words and dragged her toward the tree. “I won’t tell you again to shut that mouth of yours. This is your final warning. Once I gag you, that means no food. It’s immaterial to me if you die. I can get the ransom from your brother even if you’re dead. Dutchmen like bodies to bury.”
Satisfied with the tight knot on the rope that bound Wren to the tree, he handed her some cheese and bread. “No more until tomorrow evening, so you better make it last,” he said coldly as he gave the rope a vicious twist. It cut into her ribs, but she didn’t flinch.
Wren bit off a piece of the rancid-smelling cheese and devoured it. She would eat the bread and cheese now; for all she knew, he might decide to kill her within the hour. That remark about the Dutch liking bodies to bury bothered her. If she was going to die, she would rather die on a semifull stomach.
She cast a critical eye toward the sky. Soon it would be dawn. What was going to happen then? Would he leave her here tied to the tree? Of course he would; he had no other choice. Then he would go back down-river, seek out Caleb and demand the ransom. That meant she would be tied here for another day. Already she could feel the pull of the rope around her waist. If she kept perspiring, the rope would tighten more cruelly. She wished she had more clothes on to protect her from the burning sensation she was beginning to feel. It was impossible to remain perfectly still. Fidgeting was a habit she had been born with.
Malcolm toiled to start a small fire within the cluster of trees, more for light than for warmth. The balmy June weather was holding, and the studding of stars in the black velvet sky abated the threat of rain.
The moment the flint sparked, he sat back on his haunches and glanced about him. This was as good a place as any, he thought. Far enough away from the water to be safe from discovery by a passing boat. The woods were dense here, a shield from observing eyes.
Soon he would approach van der Rhys and find Farrington. For now, he had to sleep, to regain his strength. A few more days wouldn’t alter his course and would only serve to increase van der Rhys’ anxiety for Wren. Malcolm knew he would need all his strength to face a man as formidable as Caleb van der Rhys.