"Quit your bellow-weathering and come on before the guards see us!" Jillian cried. Then, taking a deep breath, she grasped the bottom of the rail, then the ledge, and let herself down. "Come on! It's not that far when you lower yourself."
Then Jillian let go. A moment later, she felt herself hit the soft grass of the lawn below. She scrambled to her feet. Overhead, Beatrice was dangling from the ledge, the skirting of her semi-transparent sleeping gown swaying in the breeze.
"Jump!"
"I can't," Bea moaned. "It's so far."
Jillian could hear the sound of metal meeting metal as swords clashed again. The pirates had managed to get into the bedchamber.
"Jump!"
Beatrice let go of the ledge and came tumbling down. The moment she hit the soft earth, Jillian was at her side, pulling her to her feet. "We have to run," she insisted, dragging her sister. "Into the jungle. Duncan will find us there!"
A hand clasped a handful of Jillian's tangled hair and she whipped around, knowing even before she looked who it was. He had come from nowhere, out of the darkness.
Beatrice screamed.
"You're hurting me." Jillian breathed, tears of pain stinging her eyes as she turned to see a man's leering face.
"Let her go," came Indigo's voice. "I'll not have women treated roughly!"
The pirate released Jillian's hair and stepped back out of his captain's way.
Indigo made a clicking sound between his teeth. "Jillian, you surprise me." He took her arm firmly. "After our little talk, I would have thought you would have more sense."
She tried to twist away, but he was surprisingly strong. Another pirate came out of the shadows of the house to grab Beatrice.
"Let her go!" Jillian cried fiercely. "This wasn't her fault. It was mine!"
"Get her out of here," Indigo barked.
"No, no," Jillian cried, turning to Indigo, ignoring the pain of his hold on her. She clasped her hands, trying not to become hysterical. "Please, don't hurt her; please, don't sell her! I'll do what you ask. Anything!" And she meant it.
"Take her to her room and stand guard at her door and balcony. But lay a hand on her and you die."
"And what do you want us to do with him?" called Chuma from the balcony.
Jillian looked up, trapped by Indigo's grasp, to see Chuma leaning over a rail. Two burly pirates held Duncan, who was now without his weapon, a chain wrapped around his neck.
Indigo sighed impatiently, looking to Jillian. "Don't tell me this is your husband. Don't tell me those idiots bungled the job."
Jillian gritted her teeth.
"Is this your husband, the Earl of Cleaves?"
She couldn't help but look up at Duncan. He was covered with blood, struggling for breath as the chain around his neck cut off his airway. Her eyes met his.
"No," she whispered. She tore her gaze from Duncan's to look back at Indigo. "No, that is not my husband My husband is dead, lying on the bottom of the sea. You murdered him, remember?"
"Yes," Duncan shouted from the balcony, his voice reverberating in the hot, humid night-wind. "Yes, I'm her husband. Yes, she's my wife; and by God, you harm her and I will come back to haunt every generation of yours from here to eternity. Harm a hair on her precious head and you and yours will weep for a thousand years, ten thousand!"
Indigo blinked, his sun-bronzed skin paling in the moonlight.
Jillian was confused. Surely he didn't believe in such nonsense as being cursed.
"What do we do with 'im, Capi'tan?" Chuma repeated.
Indigo glanced at Jillian, as if contemplating his decision. A full minute passed before he spoke, a minute that seemed to Jillian to stretch into an eternity.
"Kill him," Jillian finally heard Indigo say. His next sentence echoed in her head. "Bury him up to his neck on the beach and let the tide come in and take his black soul."
"No!" Jillian screamed, covering her head with her hands, trying to block out the pirate's voice. "Noooo!"
"I love you, Jilly," Duncan shouted from the balcony. "Remember, Jilly, I love you . . . I always loved you!"
She looked up just in time to get a glimpse of his face; then he was gone, dragged away by Chuma and the others.
"How touching," Indigo murmured, thoughtfully. "I only hope that you will come to be so devoted to me. Now, come along, darling. You'll have to spend the remainder of the night with me in my chambers."
Jillian sank to her knees in the grass, oblivious to Indigo's words, left numb by what had happened.
"Oh, Jillian," Indigo sighed. "I am sorry, sweetheart." Then he lifted her in his arms and carried her into the house.
Duncan winced as the chain was pulled tighter around his neck. The pirates half-carried, half-dragged him down the steps. If he didn't catch a breath, he knew he was going to lose consciousness.
Jilly, Jilly, his mind raged. I'm sorry, sweet. I'm sorry I failed you . . .
The pirates dragged him out of the stucco house and across the lawn. When he tripped and went down on one knee, he was rewarded with a hard kick to his abdomen. Duncan grunted with pain.
These pirates had no honor.
He began to think not as Duncan Roderick, the Earl of Cleaves, but as Tsitsho of the Mohawk.
He spat blood into the grass, his mind whirling with activity. Anything to remain conscious.
Now a Mohawk, he knew how to kill the enemy with honor. There were many ways. A man could toss his enemy into a pit of wolves and let him battle his way to death. A man could place his enemy in a canoe and let him paddle over a waterfall hundreds of feet high. Yes, there were many honorable deaths for a warrior, but burying him in the sand to let the tide and the crabs eat away at him was not one of them.
Duncan blinked. Blood from his head wound was trickling into his eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision. As the pirates dragged him through the jungle, down a narrow path, he heard the sound of the natives' hollow drums and their mournful chants.
What would become of Jillian? he wondered. He had failed her.
Then he smiled. Somehow, in his heart, he knew she would be all right. She would save herself and her sister because she was a survivor, she was a fighter. The thought of her bedding Indigo made him physically sick, and yet he hoped she would have the sense to give herself to him. The pirate captain was her only chance. He only wished he'd had the opportunity to toll her . . .
Duncan stumbled over a twisted vine and went down on his knees again. This time the pirate called Chuma yanked so hard on the chain around Duncan's neck that everything went black.
When Duncan opened his eyes again, they were on the beach. He could feel the sand beneath his bare feet. He could smell the salty ocean and hear the breakers offshore. Moonlight streamed from the sky, giving the beach an almost ethereal look.
Not a bad place to die . . .
Chuma shoved him into the wet sand, placing a bare foot on the center of his spine to shove him face-down. The chain was pulled taut around his neck and attached to a stake pounded into the sand. Again, he struggled to keep his head as his air was cut off.
He heard the sound of shovels sinking into the sand. The hole they would bury him in was being dug.
But of course he didn't want to die. Not yet. A year ago, it wouldn't have mattered. In the past, he had been a man that tempted the grim reaper often. But now he had something to live for. Someone . . .
After a few minutes passed, Duncan dared to raise his head an inch or two to survey his surroundings. Two pirates held muskets to his head. Behind him was the beach, and beyond that, the path that led to the house. In front of him, beyond the sloping sand, was the warm ocean.
Someone must have seen him move his head, because suddenly he saw one of the pirates swing the butt of his musket. Duncan felt the wood meet the crown of his skull as his head filled with pain and bright starlight.
Then, nothing.
When Duncan woke again, he couldn't move. He was paralyzed from the tips of his toes to his Adam's apple b
y the crushing weight of the wet sand. He could only breathe in shallow, short breaths. As he blinked away the sand in his eyes, he heard the pirates cackle.
"Don't guess he'll be goin' anywhere, will 'e?" someone said from behind him.
"Nowhere but to his maker!"
The two broke into gruesome laughter.
Then Duncan heard them retreat across the sand and he was alone, except for the tide that faced him.
So, what did a Mohawk warrior do when he was buried up to his neck in sand and the tide was coming in?
Duncan closed his eyes. He thanked sweet heaven he'd been baptized, and then he prayed to God Almighty.
Twenty-three
Daphne Roderick stood on the poop deck of the three-masted sailing ship watching the ocean spray cascade over the bowsprit. She pushed the hood of her wool cloak off her head and took a deep breath, finding the cold, crisp air invigorating. She smiled to herself, giving her silver-tipped cane a tap. Old woman or not, she still had a little spunk left in her! She was headed for Duncan's blessed American Colonies. Be damned if she wasn't going to see a red savage before she died, after all.
Daphne glanced at her grandson's manservant, who stood at an appropriate distance from her, huddled beneath his cloak. The man had quickly recovered from whatever had ailed him the day Duncan sailed and was now returning on the ship to meet with his master in the Maryland Colony. Atar was obviously not pleased at her decision to go to the Colonies; but, of course, what a servant thought was of no consequence to anyone. How could this slave understand her desire to see the outcome of the relationship between Duncan and Jillian? To see her first great-grandchild? How could a man with no family understand her need to see her grandson Duncan happy before she died?
A man's voice carried on the wind that beat at the canvas sails, and the dowager frowned as she looked over her shoulder. Now that grandson, that was the one who truly worried her. She looked down onto the deck to see Algernon, huddled against a wooden crate of chickens, speaking to one of the crewmen. She turned her back on him to gaze out over the white-capped sea again.
When Daphne had sent word to Algernon in France that she was going to the Colonies, her grandson had appeared in London immediately, almost as if he'd anticipated her departure. He insisted upon escorting her across the ocean, saying a woman shouldn't travel alone with only a Negro slave to guard her. Daphne suggested Algernon might be better served to remain at Breckenridge House. What made him think he would be safe in Duncan's presence in the Colonies? Hadn't Duncan threatened to kill Algernon if he ever laid eyes on him again?
Daphne had tried not to involve herself in that whole matter. She didn't really believe Algernon capable of attempting to murder Duncan. The boy didn't have the spine, or the stomach, for it. Perhaps the scaffolding incident and the hunter in New Forest had been coincidence. Fact always was stranger than fiction. But Daphne had agreed that Duncan's suspicions were well founded enough to send Algernon off until Duncan left England. All along, Daphne had intended to allow Algernon to return to Breckenridge as soon as Duncan was a safe distance away. After all, where did Algernon have to go, whom did he have but his family? Considering the tragic circumstances of his birth, circumstances that Duncan wasn't aware of, the boy was at least owed a roof over his head.
Algernon had told Daphne that he wanted to go to the Colonies to make amends with his cousin. He didn't admit to the alleged attempted murders of Duncan, but he said he had a confession to make. He proclaimed that even if Duncan did run him through with a sword, at least he would die with his soul cleansed. So, what was Daphne to do? She couldn't physically keep the boy from setting sail at her side.
Daphne ran her fingers through a handful of her freshly dyed red curls. It was bitter here in the wind. She knew she should return to her tiny cabin before she caught a chill, but it felt good to be out in the elements. The cold air and the wind made her feel alive; it made her feel twenty years younger.
"Madame, it's cold," Atar said, coming to her side. "Let me escort you below deck and make you a cup of your favorite tea. Your grandson wouldn't want you to catch your death crossing the sea to be with him."
Daphne smiled. Atar was a good man. Despite his disapproval of her journey, he'd been attentive since they'd set sail.
She glanced at him. "In a minute. But I have a matter to discuss with you first."
"My lady . . ." He bowed his head, listening.
"I want you to do something for me."
"What is your wish, my lady?"
"I want you to keep an eye on that grandson of mine."
The slave in his red coat and worn shoes never blinked. "Master Algernon?"
"Yes. The boy's behaving entirely too agreeably. It's simply not in his disposition. He's too old to have suddenly gotten a conscience. I'm concerned that he may have ulterior motives behind his desire to go to Maryland." She glanced at the manservant. "I fear your master may have been correct in his suspicions concerning those so-called accidents at our home and at New Forest. When we get to Maryland, to Duncan's home, I want you to keep an eye on that one." She gestured toward Algernon with a ringed finger. "I want no more accidents."
"I would give my life for Master Duncan."
"I know you would, so just keep sharp, will you?"
Atar nodded, glancing at Algernon on the deck below. The two men's gazes met for an instant, then Atar turned away.
By the first light of the dawning red sun, Chuma walked onto the beach. He liked the early morning. It was a time when a man could think, unencumbered by his daily duties.
The smooth, white sand was scattered with shells brought in on the incoming tide. In the distance, he spotted the prisoner, or what was visible of him. Chuma chuckled . . . just a head. Gulls flew above it, scavengers that they were, diving in search of a morning meal. Crabs scurried in the fresh surf around the head, pincer claws snapping.
Chuma walked across the wet sand, a shovel over his shoulder, feeling the warmth of the Caribbean sun on his face. Indigo, or Master, as he liked to be called, had instructed that when the prisoner was dead, he was to be dug up and tossed into the jungle. Indigo hated to have the beauty of his private beach disturbed by the stench of rotting, crab-eaten body parts washing ashore.
Chuma do this. Chuma do that.
It had always been that way between them, even when they were boys. Indigo was the elder brother, and only half Jamaican. His mother had been a beautiful French woman from Paris, part of their father's booty one night on the open sea. Lily had been her name.
Chuma, on the other hand, didn't know who his mother was. One of the slaves, no doubt, Jamaican most likely, African perhaps. Their father had always preferred Indigo with his lighter skin and fine French features. It was Indigo that had been sent to London and Paris to be schooled like a gentleman, while Chuma remained home to run the plantation. It was Indigo that had been given the ships, the money, even the land, when their father died. And it was Indigo that had not one, but two Englishwomen now.
Chuma spat into the sand. His brother was infatuated with the redhead. He fancied himself in love with the haughty bitch. He laughed, but without humor, and the gulls overhead scattered, frightened by the human sounds. Chuma preferred the blonde, who was softer, gentler. Bea was her name. She knew when to keep her pert mouth shut. Chuma had asked Indigo for her. He said he might pass her on later, but Chuma wasn't going to hold his breath waiting. Indigo always made promises. Some he didn't keep.
No, Chuma, he had to look out for himself and for his own interests. He knew it. He'd known it since the day he was four and Indigo was six and their father had brought home a stick of unrefined sugar from the mill for his eldest son. There'd been no sugar for Chuma. It didn't matter that later, in the darkness of their bedchamber, Indigo had shared the sticky sweet with Chuma. Their father's betrayal had been no less real; it had hurt no less.
So Chuma accepted his fate. He stole what he could took advantage when he saw the opportunity. He looked at
the head in the sand.
And there was an opportunity.
Chuma stared at the head for moment, cocking his head. The crewman, or whatever the hell he was, had been a worthy opponent. Chuma couldn't recall having ever fought a man who parried a saber so well.
Chuma sank his shovel into the warm sand. Water pooled where he made the hole, baring the head's attached shoulder. A crab scuttled over the shoulder, and Chuma flicked it with a dirty finger. "Off with ye," he muttered. "This 'ne's mine."
Chuma dug for a while, resting when he tired. Sweat trickled down his temples. It was barely dawn and already hotter than an afternoon in hell. But the water was coming in fast, so he knew he had to hurry or he'd lose the head to the tide.
After a few minutes of digging, the body began to slump. The face fell into the water, and Chuma had to grab it by a hank of hair and yank it back.
He had dug to the knees now, but the hole was filled with churning water. Chuma leaned over and tried to lift the dead weight, cursing beneath his breath. It wasn't fair that he had to work so much harder for everything than Indigo did. It just wasn't fair.
Reaching the ankles, Chuma set the shovel in the sand; and when he gave the grotesquely tattooed chest a hard push, the body popped up, out of the hole, and into the water with a splash.
Chuma grabbed the two bare feet and began to haul the body up the beach. "Good thing I caught ye before the tide did, eh?" he cackled.
He heard the man begin to retch, coughing up the salty water that had nearly taken his life.
Chuma grinned to himself as the sun appeared in its full burning glory above the horizon of the jungle.
He knew Indigo had ordered the tattooed man to be buried until dead, but what good was a dead man?
Now, a live one, and one as healthy as this, that was worth something. The slave market on Jamaica was brisk. The foreman of the sugarcane plantation on the lee side of the island would be pleased to have him. Slaves died so quickly in sugarcane fields that he was always in need of fresh blood. And the foreman never asked questions.
Chuma smiled to himself, dragging the body along. He could almost taste the gold coin now. Damn if he wouldn't have himself a decent bottle of rum, and a warm wench, tonight!
My Savage Lord (Hidden Identity) Page 25