Chapter Eight

Saianha

 

Amalie leaned against the cave opening, her pose one of nonchalance. It was backbreaking work carrying the cargoes of the many ships they’d plundered to this safe, secure cave, not that she was doing any of the work. As each crate or barrel was stored inside, she logged it in one of her father’s old ledgers. Later, when she felt it was safe, she would dispose of the goods to the highest bidder, preferably in Spain. She wondered idly when and how much; she had no idea what the contents of the cave would yield in the way of money. She also had to allow for the crew’s share. No matter, it was close to a fortune.

It was a beautiful evening, warm and star-blessed. She was glad to be on land. While she liked the sea and the rolling ship, she knew she could not create a life for herself on the water. This was where she belonged; the ship and the sea were merely the means to insure that the rest of her life would be charted to her satisfaction.

The note she’d made in the margin of the ledger irritated her. In order to transport the contents of the cave to a ready market, she would need a brigantine, perhaps a galleon, possibly two. There was no way she could purchase the ships, since she had no ready money and nothing to trade for them. She would have to commandeer them at some point and drive the crew overboard. But where would she secure the ships until it was time to sail for Spain?

Another problem, and one she thought about constantly, plagued her as no other. How long would her crew be content with things the way they were? Already they were grumbling about money and the risk to their lives every time they accosted a ship. For six months now she’d been able to calm them, promising them anything she could think of to ward off a mutiny. The only alternative was to kill off those who became too verbal in their complaints or demands.

Amalie logged a cask of coffee beans and another of nutmeg, the men cursing as they rolled and dragged the heavy barrels into the recesses of the cave. Tomorrow they would sail on the morning tide in hopes of overtaking a galleon with an escort of two, all heavily loaded with ivory, a prize that was unequaled among their current plunder. A prize the Dutch East India Company could ill afford to lose. Amalie smiled in the darkness. Their loss—her gain. If she could just find a safe hiding place for the galleon and brigantines, she could keep the cargoes on board and not have to go through this time-consuming ritual of loading, unloading, and logging in.

She smiled again, grimly this time, when she thought of the price on her head. She knew in her gut there wasn’t one among her crew—save, perhaps, Cato—who hadn’t speculated on turning her in. That amount of money, plus all the cargoes, would make them rich for life. The whole fine mess was taking its toll on her, and she knew it. She slept little, and when she did, it was lightly. The least little sound woke her. Most of the time she was irritable and angry with the crew’s sly looks and open greed. She knew she was going to have to do something soon to set an example, one they wouldn’t forget.

Minutes later Amalie snapped the ledger closed and signaled her men that it was time to leave. She was last in line to slip and slide down the steep incline that led to the small harbor where her ship was anchored. Cato was directly in front of her. The tension between her shoulder blades told her that something was up. Miguel and some of the others must be plotting to waylay her, she reflected, or, worse yet, kill her so that all the cave’s contents and her ship would be theirs.

“Cato, look at me,” Amalie said. “This damned crew is planning something, aren’t they?”

Cato kept his eyes fastened to the scrubby terrain and treacherous vines. “I’m not sure,” he answered, his voice low.

Panic swept through Amalie. She needed these men, needed them desperately. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried to speak normally. “I’ll cut out their gizzards, yours, too, if you align yourself with them.”

Still, Cato did not respond. Desperate now, Amalie tried a different tack. “Cato, do you recall the conversation we had on deck one night while the others were sleeping and you were on watch? I meant every word I said. When my father’s house is finally restored, I will live like a queen—and a queen needs a king. You and I could be very happy ... as long as you don’t cross me and do something foolish that we’ll both regret.”

Cato turned at last to speak to her—and in doing so lost his footing. Amalie reached out, her grip on his arm like a vise, and pulled him upright. “There now,” she said softly, releasing his arm, “you’re steady on your feet. Remember, I want to know your decision before we sail.”

Cato nodded, his young gaze full of admiration. Amalie’s strength and stamina never ceased to amaze him. But he’d be a fool to side with the woman against Miguel and his cutthroats. She would be sadly outnumbered, of that he was sure. He would tell the others, his friends, that they would be princes, and because he would be king he would grant them whatever they desired. She hadn’t said anything about crowns, though, he worried. A queen and king always wore crowns and elegant robes. His spirits soared almost immediately when he remembered seeing the trunk with its heavy lock and emblem of the Spanish Crown. Crowns and costly robes would be kept in such a place. His spirits plummeted. His young, curious voice carried back to Amalie. “Where will you get a throne?”

Amalie chuckled deep in her throat. “I already have . . . two of them. They belonged to my father. Solid gold,” she lied. “In need of polishing. It will be your first . . . kingly duty.”

It never occurred to Cato that kings didn’t do manual labor. He smiled in the darkness. Already, he could feel the costly robes about his shoulders. He would have to give some thought to the crown and how it would stay fastened to his head. Gold was heavy, and if the crown were studded with priceless gems, it would weigh even more. Wearing a crown was probably something one had to get used to, he thought smugly. He racked his imagination to come up with something he could tell the others princes wore. Possibly neck cuffs studded with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. He almost choked on his own saliva when he thought of the others as his loyal subjects. He knew at that moment he would do whatever Amalie wanted him to do, even kill.

In her cabin Amalie changed from her coarse dress to the abbreviated costume responsible for Miguel’s slobbering mouth. Cato was so young and probably no match for Miguel and his cohorts. She had doubts about her own abilities but refused to dwell on them. The impending confrontation was inevitable, had been from the start. Miguel’s greed exceeded only her own. It would happen in open water, of that much she was sure, which didn’t give her much time to prepare for the onslaught. An hour, perhaps two at the most, before the crew made a move. Her heart pumped madly in her chest with the realization the crew would openly attack her and try to kill her. How she defended herself and how victorious she was would set the precedent for her reign at sea. The previous altercations were what she considered necessary exercises to prepare her for the really important attacks like the one she was anticipating today.

Amalie flexed her injured arm. Daily she’d exercised with the heavy cutlass until she thought she would drop with fatigue. She was confident that she could outfight any man bent on attacking her.

 

The attack, when it came, was stealthy and deadly.

Amalie swiveled, cutlass in her hand, at the precise moment Miguel raised his arm to strike her down. The seaman’s body had reflected off the shimmering water when the glass was to her eye, which gave her the split second she needed to square off against the hateful cutthroat. All about her were shouts of outrage and curses of rebellion as she brought up her arm to fend off Miguel’s wicked blade. Up and down, to the left and to the right, she feinted, her agile body dancing away to thrust and jab.

“Kill me, will you?” she cried. “Not likely, you pig!”

The surprise and a quick moment of fear showed in Miguel’s eyes as Amalie’s lightning-fast movement sent him reeling backward. She pressed her advantage, parrying with an expertise he’d not known she possessed. His eyes widened when her blade sliced down, then upward, ripping not only his trousers, but his filthy shirt as well. The sight of his own blood brought obscenities spewing from his mouth. His own cutlass sliced through thin air as Amalie danced backward and then to the left, her cutlass whacking his arm at the elbow. She laughed when his ugly face contorted in pain.

“Whore!” Miguel roared, his blade lashing out at Amalie’s scarred arm.

“Son of a whore!” Amalie countered as her blade sliced upward, ripping Miguel’s ear from the side of his head. “You swore your allegiance to me and turned mutineer, and for that you and the scum that follow you deserve to die!”

Miguel’s eyes were murderous with rage as he swung his cutlass, missing Amalie’s own ear by a hair. Amalie thrust blindly, off balance as the seaman tried to pin her against the railing. Curses and dark mutterings rocked in her ears as she thrust the cutlass straight out, piercing Miguel in the middle of his stomach. She heaved mightily, ripping the blade upward toward his chest. Blood gushed from the gaping wound.

Amalie whirled then, her eyes glittering as she faced the circle of men that had formed around her and the unfortunate Miguel. She crouched, her hand beckoning the next volunteer who wanted to do battle. “Now, do it now, or from this day on you’ll never know a moment’s peace,” she cried, “for I no longer trust you. I’ll kill you when you sleep, when you’re high in the rigging, when you’re sotted with ale, or when you’re playing a game of cards. I’ll come up behind you and slice your head from your neck.”

When no one moved, she straightened to her full height. “I see that wisdom has struck all of you suddenly. From this moment on you will never again question my authority. You belong to me now, body and soul. You will do what I say when I say it. And the first man who looks at me crossways will find himself shark fodder like Miguel,” she warned them. “Now get rid of this vermin and scour these decks till they sparkle!”

The silence roared in Amalie’s ears as she strode to her quarters. The moment the cabin door was closed and locked, she rushed to her bunk and buried her face in the pillow to muffle her cries of triumph.

She’d won. She’d won! She was now in total control of her ship and the men aboard. There wasn’t one who’d have the guts to start a fight with her. Over and over again she played back the scene with Miguel. The exhilaration was overpowering, running like fire through her veins, until she realized what it was she was experiencing: the need to prove herself even more. And the only way she could do that was with a man.

Cato. Cato, with the young, strong body and dark, burning eyes. She would devour him, satiate herself, and make him a willing slave to her bidding. It would be a simple matter to drug the young man with her charms until he was addicted to her body as well as to her mystique. All she had to do now was wait until he brought her a mug of coffee and his hourly report on conditions topside.

Within minutes of the hourly bell, Cato arrived at her cabin carrying a steaming cup of coffee, and meat and bread on a tray. Amalie—or his queen, as he now thought of her—was sitting on the edge of her bunk, smiling at him. He returned her smile and gingerly set the tray on the small table next to the bunk. There was something very different about the way she was looking at him, almost as if she wanted him . . . to touch her. A core of heat curled in his stomach and then fanned outward to suffuse his cheeks with color.

“I want to thank you for—” Amalie jerked her head to indicate the upper deck. Cato nodded and turned to leave. “Wait, don’t go,” she called. “Come, sit here by me and tell me what the crew is saying. Have I anything to worry about?”

He wanted to tell her she would never have to worry about anything; he wanted to tell her he would protect her from the likes of Miguel and any others who might have the same intentions. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was; how he admired her strength and the way she’d attacked the man who was now feeding the sharks . . . But he didn’t. His tongue was too thick in his mouth for words, and his body was raging with desire. Dare he tell her what he was thinking?

Hands trembling, he sat down next to his captain. “I . . . the men, they have all sworn allegiance to you, and this time they mean what they say,” he began. “Miguel was . . . has always been . . . They’re glad he’s dead. You have nothing to worry about. I promise to keep my eyes and ears open.”

“Thank you,” Amalie said, and touched his arm in a gentle caress. Cato flinched as though he’d been struck.

“Would you like to touch me the way I’m touching you?” she asked softly.

Cato nodded, his callused hands reaching out almost of their own accord.

Amalie laughed deep in her throat, the sound primitive and sensual, demanding. “No, not my arm. Here . . .” She pointed to the cleavage between her breasts.

Cato closed his eyes as he buried his face in the twin mounds of creamy flesh, only half aware of Amalie’s fingers fumbling with the buttons on her shirt. When at last her breasts were totally free of their confinement, she stretched and leaned back, relishing the artful working of his tongue, moaning her pleasure as she drew his head upward. Their lips met in a searing kiss that left both of them gasping. In a second their clothing fell to the floor as their bodies met and locked with each other. Amalie felt herself crying out as Cato’s hands stroked her body, slowly at first and then urgently. She could feel a roaring in her head as the urgent caresses unleashed the wild, clamorous passion she’d so long held in abeyance.

Blood raced through Cato’s veins as Amalie clawed at his back, her mouth burning beneath his. Frantically, low moans of pleasure and desire shaking her, she writhed beneath his hardness.

“Hurry, hurry,” she murmured, tearing her mouth from his. With one hard thrust from Cato she arched her back, involuntarily crying out, her head rearing into the pillow.

Stunned with what she’d just experienced, Amalie clasped Cato’s head to her breast as she crooned words of satisfaction. Minutes later she whispered, “Again, please, again.” This time she moved to lie on top of him, her breasts crushing against his chest. Ever so slightly she brought her bruised lips to his, her tongue darting in and out of the warm recesses of his mouth.

Cato, his body slick with perspiration, his heart drumming, silently offered himself up to his queen.

Moaning with pleasure at her ability to arouse him with a mere touch, she crouched up onto her knees, straddling his firm body, her breathing hard and ragged, her motion rhythmical, drawing him deeper into her web.

Cato reached for her breasts. with trembling hands. A low, fierce growl of ecstasy ripped from his mouth as Amalie once again brought him to the brink of exploding passion—only to stop all movement, leaving him burning for release.

“Beg me, plead with me,” she whispered. “Tell me you want me, all of me, tell me there is no other like me.”

Cato’s eyes glazed as he repeated the desired words from the depths of his soul. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered as he drew her to him, their bodies entwined. “I need you,” he gasped, surrendering to wave upon wave of passion. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, every nerve in his body clamoring for satisfaction. “Please,” he moaned.

“Yes . . . Now . . .” she whispered. They rolled as one, her powerful hands pulling his full weight down onto her.

He rode her like a wild stallion, hard and fast, plunging, withdrawing, until neither of them could stand the exquisite pain a moment longer. Amalie rocked her slick body against his, meeting each explosion of his passion with a tortured cry.

Cato had no idea how much time had passed until Amalie stirred next to him. He didn’t care if he never went on deck again. This was what he wanted; this was what he would never forget. He reached out to stroke Amalie’s face, and she smiled against his hand. “Did I please you?” he whispered huskily, his heart bursting with love. “Will I make a fitting king for you?”

Amalie smiled again, curling her naked body like a cat. “Of course,” she whispered, and realized she meant the words. Cato was so innocent. She’d pleasured many men, more than she cared to remember, but not one had been interested in pleasing her. Only Cato. She tweaked his cheek playfully, wanting to bring a smile to his face.

“Will . . . will we do this again?” he asked in a hushed, pleading voice.

“As often as you like,” Amalie replied. She gurgled with laughter when, minutes later, Cato swaggered from her cabin. In no way would she ever think of him as a boy again. In her heart she knew he’d never breathe a word of what had transpired between them. It would make little difference to her authority over the other men if he did, but it was nice to know he respected her enough not to boast about their lovemaking.

Stretching luxuriously, Amalie savored the feeling of satisfaction that welled within. She could still smell the musky scent of Cato, and it pleased her. With a little work, a little refinement, he just might be the perfect king for her domain. She detested the word slave, but Cato would make a willing one. She pressed her face deep into her pillow and imagined she was holding him in her arms, kissing him, making love to him. She remembered the way her body felt when he was deep inside her. Right now, this very moment, she wanted that feeling again and knew she would never have enough now that her passions had been aroused. Hours and hours . . . days, possibly weeks of doing nothing but making love and eating. Could one exist only on love? She wanted to find out, needed to find out, and she would.

Amalie slept then, her dreams filled with a tall, dark-eyed Spaniard who in no way resembled Cato. When she woke, it was fully dark, a bright orange moon shining through the mullioned window in her cabin. As she dressed she tried not to think about her dream and what it meant.

The moment her booted feet touched the deck, she heard the cry of “Sail ho!” from high in the rigging. Her heart leapt in her chest at the thought of another battle, especially now, when she didn’t feel like fighting. Uneasily she took notice of the low, swirling fog. The smoky lamp pots added eerie shadows everywhere she looked. Perhaps it was an omen of some kind, a warning. . . .

Almost immediately she discounted the thought. A fog was a fog, and the smoky lantern pots were lights, nothing more. But she would have them extinguished in any case-lights could be seen even in fog.

“Where away?” she shouted, cursing when the spyglass offered nothing but swirling fog. She ran to the bow and brought the glass to her eye a second time, then craned her neck backward to peer into the rigging. “You’re sure?”

“Dead ahead, Captain. She’s traveling at five knots, perhaps a little less, and she doesn’t know we’re on her stern,” the seaman called softly, knowing full well that voices carried over the water. “She’s heavily armed.”

Darkness, Amalie decided, could either be one’s enemy or one’s friend. “Douse all lanterns,” she ordered. The only thing in her favor right now was the fog and darkness, since she was sailing in unfamiliar waters. One good shot could scuttle her frigate, and they’d all be joining Miguel.

At last she sighted them—the galleon and her two brigantines ... loaded with ivory and perfect for her needs. She couldn’t afford to make a mistake. Swiftly she motioned to Cato.

“We’ll attack from the jolly boats,” she told him. “I want a dozen men in the water swimming alongside. The galleon won’t expect such a feeble attempt—surprise will be in our favor. As soon as we have cloud cover, over we go. Have everyone gather round while I explain our plan. . . .”

Amalie’s heart pounded as the jolly boats set out under cover of the thick gray fog, one to the left, one to the right, and the third directly in the wake of the galleon. The plan, she’d explained, required strict silence. Having her crew attack by stealth while she rendered the captain helpless would be their one main advantage. They were sadly outnumbered, and what she was planning was foolhardy. But she gave each man his orders and the promise of an extra dividend when splitting the prize. Bloodthirsty by nature, they could hardly wait to get their hands on the small convoy.

“Directly ahead,” whispered one of the men from the water.

Amalie looked about but could see nothing save the eerie yellow glow of the galleon’s smoke pots. Another few moments and it would be time to board. This attack, she thought excitedly, would double or perhaps triple the price on her head. Three ships at once! She almost laughed aloud as she slid over the side of the jolly boat.

Everything was going according to plan; even the thick, dark clouds cooperated, sailing across the sky to give her all the cover she needed. The moment her feet touched the galleon’s deck, she crouched down, straining to make out the deck in the thick fog. One of the men jabbed his forefinger in the direction of the wheelhouse, and Amalie sprinted off in a half crouch, all senses alert to anything that might hinder her progress.

Seconds later one of the smoke pots hissed loudly in the water, her signal for them to attack as one—and all hell broke loose.

“All hands on deck!” the captain shouted into his horn. “To your stations! Attack! Attack!”

Amalie smiled in the darkness as she crept behind the captain. A minute later she had his hands pinned behind his back and her arm locked around his throat. “If you want to stay alive, Captain, order your crew to cease and desist. I want these ships. If you force us to kill your men, it will be your doing.”

The captain tried to speak, but Amalie’s arm was slowly cutting off his air supply. When he struggled, she merely increased the pressure. “Quietly, Captain, or I’ll snap your neck. Now—order them into the jolly boats.”

“Jolly boats?” the captain rasped.

“Of course. Do you think for one moment the Sea Siren would leave you in open water to die? I told you, I want these ships, not your lives. Make your decision now.” Amalie released her hold on the captain and thrust him forward. She watched through narrowed eyes as he picked up the horn to obey her command.

It was all too easy, she thought suspiciously. Something was wrong. “I want to see your log,” she told him, “and then I want a roll call—on deck. And if you do anything out of the ordinary, Captain, I’ll run you through and pin you to the yardarm.”

The captain was a fat man, his steps jerky and faltering with fear. Amalie jabbed his buttocks with the tip of her cutlass as she marched him to the quarter deck. Soon the crews from all three ships were howling their outrage at the near-naked long-legged apparition issuing orders in a voice stronger than any they’d ever heard from their own captain.

It was a bloodless battle for the most part, with only three men of the galleon’s crew carrying slight wounds. To a man, her own crew emerged unscathed. In her excitement, Amalie searched for Cato and gave him a jaunty salute with the tip of her cutlass. “Well done!” she called. “Well done indeed.”

“I never believed the story until now,” the captain muttered.

Amalie turned to him with a smile. “What story is that, Captain?”

“That you were real. There were some who said you were a legend. Once before you all but ruined the Dutch East India Company. Are you here now to finish the job?”

Amalie merely shrugged. Let him think what he wanted. By the time he reached port—if he did—his story would be so outrageously magnified, she’d be hard-pressed to recognize it anyway.

The captain struggled to stand at his full height. He couldn’t go over the side without one last attempt at bravado. He needed to show his crew he was not a coward. “They’ll kill you, you know. There’s a price on your head now that will increase when we reach port. The Dutch East India Company has hired a man, a crew, to ride these seas and capture you.”

Amalie laughed. “You’re all fools! There’s no man out there,” she said, motioning to the open water with her cutlass, “who can kill me. I’m a legend. Am I real, Captain, or am I a ghost? How is it that none of my men were hurt? How is it that I captured you so easily? If I were flesh and blood, could I do all these things? Think about that when you make your report to your company’s officers.”

The captain’s eyes bulged with fear. A spirit, a ghost? He looked around at his crew, who were eager now to go over the side. By the time he turned back to Amalie, a low bank of fog had rolled across the deck, obscuring her form within its thick, swirling tentacles. The captain reached out to her with a trembling hand, but she stepped backward, to be enveloped completely by the heavy mist. It was as if she’d never existed.

Giving a low groan, the captain spun around and threw himself overboard. There followed splash after splash of water as his crew did the same. Amalie had to clamp her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

“Secure these ships and make ready to sail!” she hissed to her crew.

“Aye, Captain.”

 

Amalie watched the beginning of a new day from the bow of her ship, a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. There was a smile on her face as she admired her three latest acquisitions . . . a marvelous night’s work. The ivory alone would make her richer than she ever dreamed. A few more ships to her credit, and she would soon have a flotilla. An armed flotilla.

Cato came up behind her. “Are we sailing home?” he asked quietly.

Amalie turned, her eyes softening in the early light. “No,” she said. “Soon, though.”

“What will you do next?” he asked. He was remembering the hours he’d spent lying next to her. He wanted to be there again, in her bunk, shutting out the world.

Amalie pretended to consider his question as she sipped her coffee. “I think we’ll wait for the . . . person the Dutch East India Company hired to find me. He can’t be far away. And I suspect he won’t be as foolish as our fat captain. Silent and deadly, I’ll wager. If he’s who I think he is, then he feels he has a score to settle with us for sacking his cargo.”

“The Spaniard?” Cato asked.

She nodded. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? Who else would be angry and poor enough to take on the fruitless task of finding the Sea Siren? Remember, too, that we attacked his ship off the coast. For all we know, he could be sailing blind. He doesn’t know we’re in his waters, so to speak. He’s either captaining his own ship or one belonging to the Dutch East India Company,” she mused. “Until then, though, our immediate problem is where to hide these ships.”

“The outer islands are riddled with hideaways and caves,” Cato said, frowning. “If we found one, we can find others. Surely your father’s maps will yield a suitable place. Perhaps a deep harbor, the one he used to store the unlimed nutmegs you told me about when we were in Saianha.”

“I told you about that!” Amalie said in puzzled surprise.

“It was when I carried you to your house after you injured your arm. You spoke of many things then. I remember all of them,” he said softly, proudly.

He was so boyish, Amalie thought, and yet manly at the same time. Her eyes warmed as she handed him her mug. “Have one of the men bring some food to my cabin. I want to go over those charts again.”

Cato shuffled his feet on the deck. “Have someone bring food to my cabin” meant he wasn’t to do the bringing. Steaming with jealousy, he stalked away, aware that Amalie’s eyes were boring into his back. When she wanted him, she would let him know. If he wanted her, he would just have to wait until she was ready. Lovemaking on command. He spit over the side of the rail to show his displeasure. Maybe living as a king wasn’t going to be so wonderful after all.

 

In her quarters, Amalie spread out the old maps and charts on her bunk, knowing full well it was going to take every bit of concentration to decipher her father’s faded markings. Hours later her eyes burned with strain and her shoulders ached with tension. What good were the ships if she couldn’t find a safe harbor for them? And the ivory-was it a good idea to leave it aboard the ships, or should she secure it in the caves with the rest of the booty they’d plundered? Her head reeled with all the possibilities. Becoming rich had been the easy part. The hard part, she now realized, was keeping the riches secure.

Returning to Saianha would be the simplest solution. In her own waters she might fare better, but then, what should she do with the plunder they’d already stored? She couldn’t have two bases of operation, and yet . . .

Her head started to pound. If her crew became aware of her indecision, they might decide to take matters into their own hands. What captain would sail blindly with no destination in mind? She had to come up with something before she went on deck. She bent over the maps again.

Amalie could barely keep her eyes focused when, an eternity later, she sat back with a satisfied sigh. After hours of painstaking scrutiny, the oldest of the maps had yielded the perfect sanctuary: a deep cove at the end of the River of Death. There was something in her father’s journal about the deadly river, something to do with the real Sea Siren. Volcanoes and rocks . . . “the only explanation,” he’d written in his cramped hand. But explanation of what? According to the chart in front of her, the mouth of the river had been closed off when twin volcanoes had erupted years before.

Amalie massaged her throbbing temples before she returned to the maps. Bits and pieces of her father’s journal flashed before her, committed to memory. Of course! “The only explanation” meant the Sea Siren had sailed her ship up the River of Death, and that was how she’d outwitted all who’d been determined to capture her. Amalie felt giddy with the realization. How else could the female renegade disappear at will? If the mouth of the river was blocked at some point, surely over the years the elements had created another opening.

Her best calculations, allowing for a stint of heavy weather, placed her approximately seven days away from the river. She’d give the order to change course and head directly for it; with luck, the tides and currents over the years had rendered it passable. She could only pray that she wasn’t making a mistake.

Amalie felt almost invincible as she strode up and out to the deck. How wonderful the balmy air felt, how clean and fresh! The throbbing in her temples eased with each long-legged stride. She had accomplished a feat the equal of any the Sea Siren had performed. And she’d become a woman in the true sense of the word. This strange, intoxicating elation had to be . . . happiness. It was unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

Hours later she was still on deck, her perch on a pile of rigging secure. Overhead, millions of tiny stars winked down at her while dark clouds, as soft as gossamer, sailed across the sky like graceful dancers. She’d lost all track of time and knew only that it was the dead of the night. She should have been sleepy, but she wasn’t.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Cato said softly. “You should be asleep.” He reached out to caress her hair, and Amalie shivered beneath his touch.

“I don’t want to sleep for fear I’ll miss something,” she said. “If I had my way, I’d never sleep. It’s such a waste of time. We live only once, and every hour, every minute, should be savored. Sleep robs us of those precious hours and minutes.”

Cato pondered her words. “In these hours, nothing of importance happens. Darkness is a time for . . . many things.”

Amalie laughed throatily, the sound tinkling seductively across the rippling water. “One night we’ll make love here on the deck under the stars. Would you like that?” He nodded. Amalie knew that even now he was consumed with passion for her. All she had to do was crook her finger and . . .

“There’s a time and a place for everything, Cato,” she said, smiling, touching his cheek. “Soon. . . . ”

A bank of dark clouds scudded across the moon, blotting out the winking stars. “You see, if we were below decks, we would miss this blessed darkness,” she murmured, gazing up at the heavens. “It’s as though someone tossed a coverlet across the sky, bathing us in this dark velvet. Now we have only scent and feeling. The smoke pots are low. Once they’re extinguished the blackness will be complete.” She looked at him. “Does that frighten you?”

“No. Does it frighten you?” Cato asked curiously.

“Somewhat. If a ship were to come upon us, how would we see and retaliate? We would have to rely on our senses of smell and touch. A little difficult if one is to do battle, do you agree?”

Cato shrugged. “Unlikely.”

“The moment we make a safe harbor, I want the galleon’s weapons transferred to this frigate. It was foolish of me even to think of sailing this ship without cannon, but I did it, and it’s not a mistake I want to repeat. Two expert gunners are all we need, providing they have excellent eyesight.” Amalie could feel Cato’s shudder.

“If I’m to die, I’d rather die at a man’s hands,” he said stoutly. “A man whose face I can see.” His tone softened then. “If you wanted this frigate outfitted with cannon, it should have been done in port. It’s going to be an awesome task, and there’s going to be a war among the crew. Give some thought to unloading the ivory from the brigantine and sailing her. It will be a simple matter to paint the ship black if that’s your intention.”

“No,” Amalie said harshly. “This is my ship. The Sea Siren belongs to me. It wouldn’t be the same; I must sail this ship. At one time it carried its own cannon, but those bastards in town made off with them, thinking this ship would never be seaworthy again. It can be done, but until then I think we should sail only under cover of darkness. We have three ships to worry about now as well as our own, and we’re short handed. We’re ripe for the picking if another pirate ship accosts us. I have no intention of giving up what I have, Cato. I want you to apprise the crew of this. If there’s any dissension, let me know.”

The last of the oil in the smoke pot sputtered out, bathing the deck in total darkness. For a moment all was silent, and then suddenly Cato whirled about, his words hissing in the quiet moonlit night. It took a moment for Amalie to realize that he was talking to one of her men. A strange sail had been sighted three leagues westward, said the crewman, flying two colors, Dutch and Spanish.

The words whipped from Amalie’s mouth. “Do we assume she’s armed? How high does she ride? Cargo?”

“I recognize her,” the seaman reported. “She’s the backbone of the Dutch East India Company and is deployed to convoy cargo vessels and to fight off pirates. She’s three-masted and carries square rigging. It’s doubtful she’s carrying cargo, she rides too high.”

Amalie peered about her in the darkness, seeing nothing. The night could work for her or against her, since the same darkness cloaked the unknown ship to the west. Her mind raced, and for the first time she felt unsure of her course. “Has she spotted us?”

“Aye, but she probably thinks we’re from her own company since her true colors still fly. The night is too dark for her to see us clearly.”

“Can we overtake her?”

“Aye, if we change course and leave the other ships behind,” the seaman said. “But then we have no cannon.”

Attack or not attack? Perspiration dotted Amalie’s brow. “Conditions are not . . . appropriate for an attack,” she said, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “We’ll stay on course.”

“There are weapons aboard the brigantines,” the seaman said boldly. “We can be aboard in minutes.”

“To what end?” Amalie snarled. “A ship with an empty hold will do us no good. We have to find a safe harbor for the three ships we have now. A fourth, if we’re lucky enough to snare her, will only compound our problem. She’s no good to us. Pass the word, we stay true on our course.”

“What if she attacks us?” Cato asked quietly.

“That’s a different matter. If it happens, we’ll deal—”

A volley of thunder ripped through the black night, drowning out Amalie’s words and putting an abrupt end to her hopes of sailing on unseen. “All hands on deck!” she shouted as pungent black smoke whirled upward from the galleon. “She’s been hit broadside. All hands to the brigantine. Over the side. Quickly!” A second volley of shots rocketed through the night and then a third, none of them finding their target.

The frigate was alongside the brigantine in minutes. Amalie leapt aboard, shouting orders to fire on the three-masted ship. “Shred her sails! Rupture her bow! Splinter her stern! I want that ship gutted and sunk! Move fast, men! The fool fires on his own ships!” She pointed to several scurrying seamen. “You, you, and you, shore up this ship—and be quick, or that beautiful ivory will sink to the bottom of the sea, where it will do us no good.”

 

“You fire like women with babies on their hips!” Luis Domingo shouted above the cannon shots. “Do I have to come down there and show you how to do it? Open your eyes and fire on the target. Shot that goes to the bottom of the sea does us no good.” Roaring with rage, his face white as sheeting, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to see a pair of beautiful long legs leap gracefully from the bow of the brigantine and land just inches from where he was standing. The Sea Siren!

“Enough!” she cried. “Give quarter or we sink this ship with all your men aboard! Think fast, señor, you have only seconds!”

“Never!”

“Never is a very long time. Never could very well be your eternity. I’ll ask you again—give quarter.”

“I said never!” Luis snarled. “I’ll kill you before I yield. First you robbed my cargo with your cutthroats, then you had the gall to accost me a second time and tell me that it wasn’t you at all but an impostor pillaging and plundering in your name.” He took a step forward and spat in front of her, eyes murderous. “Liar! Sea slut!”

What was he talking about? For the briefest of seconds Amalie’s blood ran cold and she wavered. “I—I had no intention of attacking your ship, señor. You fired first. As for your cargo, if you aren’t man enough to defend what is yours, you deserve to be bested. Now fight like a man or go over the side! I gave you your chance and you ignored it.”

Amalie’s cutlass lashed upward and then down quicker than the volley of shots ripping through the night. She feinted to the right, the tip of her blade slicing through the air. Suddenly a jolt of pain ripped up her arm into her shoulder as the Spaniard’s cutlass met her own. She sidestepped neatly, drawing the blade down the length of his leg. Taken by surprise with the force of her strength, Luis staggered backward. Amalie seized the advantage and brought up the cutlass, using both hands to hack at the weapon in her opponent’s hand. Recovering quickly, he jabbed at her midsection, but she stepped aside nimbly, her weapon arching upward. She feinted to the right and then the left, lashing out in every direction, hoping to make contact in the darkness. Again steel met steel, but this time she felt herself being driven backward, farther, farther, until she was forced against the ship’s railing.

“Now it is you who will give quarter,” Luis growled, drawing his cutlass against hers and pressing the weight of both to her heaving breasts.

“You speckled-shirted dog, I’ll never give you quarter!” Amalie gasped, and brought up her knee with all the force she could muster to trounce the Spaniard in the groin. He reeled backward, doubling over with pain. Amalie held the cutlass high overhead, about to bring it down on Luis’s neck, when Cato appeared next to her.

“There’s no need,” he cried, staying her arm. “You’ve won. His crew and yours know you are the victor. They’ve all been disarmed; you’ll have no further trouble with them. We can be on our way unmolested—why not let them keep their captain?”

Luis snorted at Cato’s report. “Why don’t you have those goddamn black birds finish me off if you don’t have the guts to do it yourself,” he hissed.

Amalie paused, caught between Cato’s declaration of victory and the Spaniard’s puzzling words. What black birds? Suddenly she felt his hand on her arm, the fingers running up and down the heavy welt of the scar on her arm.

“Lying slut!” he roared. “If my life depended on what you call the truth, I wouldn’t believe you. A fine tale it was! Send in your killing birds and be damned!”

Amalie lowered her cutlass, exasperated. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, señor. I don’t want you and I don’t want this ship. You fired on me. Ask yourself why I would attack a ship with an empty hold.”

“I’d rather ask why you travel with a Dutch and Spanish escort,” Luis countered. “Those ships belong to the Dutch East India Company. What are you doing with them?”

“I might ask you a question, señor,” she said, ignoring his demand. “Why would you fire on your own ships? You ride these waters looking for me, and yet it’s your own company’s ships you shot at, not mine. Are you that poor a shot, or is it that you’re afraid to fire on me directly since I scuttled the Silver Lady?” She laughed with the triumph of a conviction, then backed away from him until she’d reached the bow of the ship. “I have no more time to converse with you further, señor. Be sure it’s a pretty tale you spin when you return to Batavia, and be sure to spell my name correctly on the wanted posters.”

Luis watched as she leapt from his ship to the bow of her own. His eyes strained to pierce the darkness, trying to make out her diamond garter. He saw nothing save a flash of steel as she sheathed her cutlass. “Let’s hope that diamond garter is still aboard these decks,” he called loudly. “It might make all this worthwhile.”

Amalie could hold her tongue no longer. “You’ve done nothing but talk in riddles this past hour, señor. If you have a passion for killing birds and lust after diamond garters, look elsewhere. Buenas noches, señor. The next time we meet I’ll kill you for no other reason than to please myself.”

“Twice! Twice she bested me. Or was it three times? Goddamn bitch!” He’d see her dead before . . . Christ, what was the matter with him? He’d had her in his clutches and let her go. He’d believed her when she said she meant him no harm . . . the birds, where were the goddamn black birds? And where was her garter? “All hands on deck!” he shouted. “Scour this ship! Find that diamond garter! Now!” he thundered.

“You saw the garter, Julian! Where the hell is it?” Luis roared his anger as he dabbed at the blood dribbling down his chest.

“Captain, I was too busy fending for myself. It’s dark and I saw no garter on the sea witch’s leg. I did see it when she came broadside at your last meeting. Perhaps she took it off herself. The sea witch is no different from other women. One day they put gemstones in their ears and around their necks, the next day they tie on velvet ribbons. The sea witch is a woman with flights of fancy. If you wish, I’ll help the crew search for the garter. When you spoke of it to her, she didn’t show any concern that I could see, which makes me think she simply wasn’t wearing her bauble this night.”

“You can’t trust women,” Luis spat out. “I went against my better instincts. I never should have believed her. She’s right, I am a fool.”

“Why do you think she didn’t—”

“Kill me? I don’t know, unless she was enamored of my charms,” Luis said bitterly.

“I saw it all, Cap’n. You could have taken her at any time,” Julian said loyally. “You held back because she was a woman, isn’t that right?”

“She’s incredibly strong,” Luis hedged. “And skilled. I had no idea she’d be that good. Not even our first encounter . . . ”He spun around to his first mate. “But she lied, Julian! I was halfway to believing her. . . .”

“We fired first, Cap’n,” Julian muttered. “She did say she was staying true to her course.”

“Then what in the goddamn hell was she doing with three ships belonging to the Dutch East India Company? Who the hell could see that dastardly black ship in this darkness? It could have been any ship. Tell me, Julian, did you see . . . sense anything different about this woman?”

The first mate shook his head. “Not a thing, Cap’n. Beautiful as sin. I suppose it’s possible that she’s going to escort the Dutch East India’s ships back to port . . . safely.” He shrugged.

“The day that happens they’ll get whiskey in hell,” Luis snarled. Frowning, he leaned over the rail to stare into the murky waters below. Was Julian right? Had he held back because the Siren was a woman—or had she bested him? To others he could lie, but not to himself. He searched his mind for ways he’d held back, given in to the strength of the woman, but only because . . . because . . . he wasn’t sure in his own mind if she was the real Sea Siren or the impostor. Yes, he’d held back; he was certain. His breath exploded in a loud sigh of relief.

“Julian, I don’t believe she was the Sea Siren,” he said. “No birds, no garter . . . But whether I’m right or not, the next time any woman confronts me on the open seas, I’ll forget what a gentleman I am. The next time I’ll . . .”

 

The first rays of dawn saw Luis Domingo in his quarters with every map owned by the Dutch East India Company spread before him. He’d find the sea witch if it was the last thing he did. It was dusk when he flexed his shoulders and called for his first mate.

“I do believe I found the slut’s lair,” he drawled nonchalantly, pointing to a chart so old the edges were frayed and yellowed.

Julian peered down at the ancient chart, his face draining of all color. “The River of Death!” he said in a trembling voice.

Luis nodded. “Don’t you see, it bears out everything that old sea salt told me months ago. Think back to the Siren’s beginning reign of terror and destruction of the Dutch East India Company. Somehow she was privy to sailing dates and cargo manifests, which means she sequestered that damnable black ship somewhere in a deep harbor or hiding place that only she had the nerve to sail into. And what better place than the River of Death? Those simmering sister volcanoes would hold any sea captain at bay.” He turned to his first mate, eyes glinting in the dim lantern light. “I’m convinced now that there are two Sirens. The question is: Which one is the impostor? Believe it or not, we’ve met both of them. Which is your choice?”

Julian paused, clearly taken aback. “I can’t be sure, Cap’n, but the one tonight was damnably strong, and there was something about her voice, as though she knew something . . . knew her own power. They called her arrogant back then, so arrogant she believed she was—”

“Invincible. Exactly!” Luis jabbed a finger under Julian’s nose. “She could be invincible and arrogant only because she knew she was safe and could disappear almost at will. The volcanoes created a vaporous black mist—the one the old sea salt referred to. Examine all this information, and the answer is right in front of you. If you recall, the Siren retired from the seas when the sister volcanoes erupted. See—on this map and this one, the entrance to the river was blocked, probably sealing her ship inside her sequestered cove. Now, this map”—he pointed to a recent rendering—“shows that the river is open. Quite natural with the various tides and currents. It’s still narrow and would take much skill to skirt the rocky formations on either side. A frigate could make it, but it’s doubtful a brigantine could sail past the opening. I plan to travel that river in one of the jolly boats.”

Luis tossed his marking chalk on the rough table and clapped Julian on the back. “Better yet, the River of Death is so close to Batavia, I think we’ll change course—sail for port and trade in this ship for another, one of those sloops with the rapierlike bowsprit. Dykstra was to take delivery of several on behalf of the Dutch East India Company; he probably has them by now. They say the bowsprit on those sloops is almost as long as the hull. The parade of canvas she sports makes her more nimble than a brigantine or frigate. And the square topsail, in favorable winds, gives an extra measure of speed, which is what I’m going to need. Eleven knots is nothing to sneer at. Dykstra said they were to be outfitted with twelve or fourteen cannon. Six would do us fine, less weight in favor of maneuverability.

“Yes,” he went on, tapping his chin, “that’s exactly what we’re going to do. Give the order to change course now. We’ll lose two days at the most and, hopefully, pick them up once we have the sloop. What do you think, Julian?” Luis asked as he rolled the charts and maps into goatskin pouches.

Julian nodded. “I can think of no better explanation, Cap’n. But what if there is no black frigate once you’re past the River of Death? How will we know if it’s her haven?”

“We’ll know,” Luis replied. “When people think they are safe, they become careless. There will be some sign, I’m sure of it. If there isn’t, we’re no worse off. The most we lose is seven days either way. But I feel it here”—he pounded his chest—“those waters are her home.”

Julian left the captain’s quarters to give the order to change course. Up on deck, he strode from bow to stern, savoring the warmth of the evening air. He could imagine no life other than this one. The sea was his mistress, the clear, star-filled night his wife, the elements his children, the captain his superior. . . . Still, now and then he wondered if he would ever see his mother country again. If the captain was smitten with the Sea Siren, it could be the death of all of them.

He wondered then, and not for the first time, why the Siren hadn’t run the captain through. She had to be the real Siren because of her boast that she did not kill for the sake of killing. Nothing else made sense . . . unless she was the impostor and smitten with the captain herself. Damnation, he was developing a pounding headache. Women always gave him a headache; they were such demanding and unpredictable creatures. Diamond garters, black birds that killed, near-naked women who could fight better than most men . . . The world was changing too fast for him. Truly, he belonged at sea.