To Love a Rogue

by Valerie Sherwood

  Lorraine, crouched in her bunk and holding on for dear life, looked up as the door burst open and Raile came in along with a sheet of rain. He was drenched to the skin. Water poured off him and when he shook his head to toss back his dark hair, the air was filled with a shower of droplets.

  He seemed to have forgotten their differences. “We are being swept west by this gale,” he told her. “With luck we’ll ease through the Windward Passage.”

  “And where is that?” she asked fearfully.

  “Between Cuba and Hispaniola,” he told her tersely. “Stay inside, you could be blown from the deck. Johnny Sears will bring you anything you need.”

  Feeling helpless, she watched him depart.

  All night the men of the Likely Lass fought their way down the Windward Passage, straining to keep their light craft from being wrecked upon the eastern tip of Cuba. By morning they had made it and the Bahia de Guantánamo lay somewhere to starboard through flying mists of spray.

  But their wild passage had brought them something else. The parts of another ship—perhaps broken free from her Cuban moorings and smashed by the heavy seas—broke over the deck, knocked one man senseless, and fouled the rudder. It was impossible to fix the rudder in the gale, and they were driven forward, at the mercy of wind and current, pursued by screaming winds down the length of the Greater Antilles, with the coast of Cuba somewhere beyond their vision streaming by to the north of them.

  Ail day the heavy gale hounded them through the water, and evening brought no respite from the howling winds and wild seas. In her cabin Lorraine could hear the protesting timbers creak and shudder under the battering of the wind. Raile came in on occasion, but not to sleep. He gulped down soup or coffee and made his way out through sheets of rain onto the deck again, leaving Lorraine to shudder at the violent force of nature unleashed.

  The next afternoon the winds finally abated and even then there were squally gusts that struck the ship solid shuddering blows.

  “Where do you think we are?” Lorraine asked Raile when at last, weary, he came back to the cabin and threw himself down upon the floor.

  “God knows,” he said. “We’re still being driven west.”

  And fell asleep.

  With those disquieting words echoing in her brain, Lorraine leapt up. “You’re tired,” she said solicitously. “Wouldn’t you like to sleep in your bunk? I could ...” Her words trailed off. Exhausted by his long battle with the sea, Raile did not even stir.

  She sat on the edge of the bunk wondering if she should do something. There seemed to be nothing to do. Eventually she climbed back into the bunk and, with Raile’s long body lying prone before the door, she had her first good night’s sleep since their quarrel.

  CHAPTER 18

  The City of the Dawn

  The Coast of Yucatan, Mexico

  LORRAINE AWOKE TO find calmer waters, sunlight, and Raile gone. Outside on deck she could hear his voice giving orders. She dressed quickly in her old clothes, for her brief glimpses of the deck during the storm had shown her a sodden shambles of cordage and canvas and shattered timbers.

  Around her, when she reached the deck, the clouds had blown away, the sky was clear and blue, and the ketch was wallowing in heavy surf, being driven ashore by the still-turbulent waters.

  And it was a strange shore indeed that confronted them when the crew of the Likely Lass cast hasty anchor lest their damaged craft pile up on the rocks.

  Lorraine stood by the rail with the others and stared up in awe at the sight that confronted them. Sheer limestone bluffs, forty feet high, some of them severely undercut by the ocean, rose before them. To left and right they could see the heavy surf breaking over strips of white beach, all fringed by what looked like an impenetrable dark green forest that stretched away endlessly.

  And atop those cliffs rose a city of stone, a fortress city surrounded by a thoroughly defensible wall twelve feet high that extended outward for some twenty-two hundred feet. It did not look like any town that Lorraine had ever seen or even imagined. Rising—almost as if it had grown out of the solid rock—was a massive three-story building, terraced and strange, the apparent command post looking out to sea.

  In the little knot of officers Lorraine had joined at the rail, someone expelled a long slow breath. “Mon Dieu!" The words were uttered with feeling.

  Lorraine turned to see that André L’Estraille had joined the group. His right arm was in a sling.

  But it was Raile, leaning upon the ship’s rail, who spoke.

  “We are in luck,” he said softly. “I think I know this place. A couple of years ago I picked up a shipwrecked Spanish friar. He told me about it. This place is called Zama, City of the Dawn—perhaps because it faces east and catches the first rays of the morning sun. That building up there”—he nodded toward the frowning stone fortress above them—“is the Castillo, a temple to ancient gods long gone.”

  “Yes, but where are the people?” muttered MacTavish. “A city so large should have dozens of laddies and lassies swarming down that cliff to greet us—for good or ill.”

  “It is a place of devils,” muttered Derry Cork.

  Lorraine flashed the big Irishman a nervous look, for she too felt the old stones seemed—even shining in the clean-washed morning sunlight after the storm—to be somehow fraught with menace.

  “The friar told me this was the first city the Spanish visited on the coast of Mexico,” Raile told MacTavish soberly. “The Indians here—as in all of Yucatan—were presented as slaves along with the land by royal grant to various conquistadors around Valladolid, which lies some distance to the northwest. If I am right, this is an empty city.”

  An empty city. . . .

  So far Raile had not acknowledged Lorraine’s presence.

  “We will go ashore,” He said abruptly. “Tav, you’ll come along, and Heist. L’Estraille, you stay on board with the sick and wounded.”

  He went on, rattling off orders. Lorraine watched the French crewmen go over the side into the boat. She saw Gautier, the big mute L’Estraille had been attending when she had ventured below, climb in with surprising agility for a wounded man. So the doctor had managed to heal some of them, even during the storm.

  Plainly they were going to leave her behind—and suddenly she did not want to be left behind. “Do I accompany you to shore? Or do you wish me to stay and attend the doctor’s wound?”

  Raile turned to look at her then. His eyes glinted at her tone, but something in his face softened as he looked down at her. Lorraine had been—like the Lass herself—a gallant voyager, brave and uncomplaining, breasting every wave. She deserved her shore leave. He did not think there would be much danger.

  “You may accompany us ashore, Lorraine,” he said.

  Lorraine was surprised. She had expected to be locked in her cabin to keep her away from the ship’s doctor. She gave Raile a smile of thanks, but he chose not to look at her, and her heart hardened against him. With suppressed excitement, she got into the longboat.

  The shore party from the Likely Lass was silent and uneasy as with long strokes of the oars they approached the alien shore, the longboat tossing in the still-wild surf. With guns at the ready and swords eased in their scabbards, the men approached the desolate fortress. They found their way in through one of the five narrow entrances that gave access to the city through a mighty wall, which rose twelve feet high and was nine feet thick.

  “Even that did not keep out Corté’s and his five hundred followers,” muttered MacTavish, shaking his head.

  “With cannon mounted on these cliffs, I could hold off a fleet,” was Derry Cork’s comment.

  “Quiet,” muttered Raile, for they were about to enter what appeared to be the main thoroughfare.

  Glancing nervously about them, they explored an empty city that, Lorraine thought, looking about her, must once have rung with children’s laughter and market bargaining and all the normal sounds of everyday living.

  “It is as I thought—de
serted,” Raile remarked with satisfaction. He had been carrying his sword warily unsheathed and now he stuck it back in its scabbard.

  They reached the top terrace of the sprawling gray Castillo, having made their way up the broad central stairway of that monumental structure. Before them two heavy serpent pillars supported a portico that fronted two small vaulted halls. The silence was oppressive.

  “The friar was right, this does seem to be a temple,” Raile mused. “And this must be the main sanctuary.” For before them, centrally located in three rectangular niches in the frieze molding, was a statue of a winged god, crowned and plunging downward.

  “A falling angel,” whispered Lorraine, impressed.

  “I doubt they had angels. But some sort of deity certainly. The friar said no one knew what god this was, but he described him well enough.”

  Lorraine was glad to leave the vaulted dimness and return to the bright glare of the terrace that overlooked the sea.

  “Are we safe here?” she asked, looking around her uncertainly.

  Raile shrugged. “This is a pirate coast. The Spanish consider it unhealthy, so they have moved inland to places like Valladolid. If we are lucky we can make our repairs before we are discovered by either pirates or Spaniards. We’ll go inland in two parties: one to find suitable materials to repair the ship, the other to forage for whatever food the land has to offer. We will be back, I hope, before dark.”

  “You won’t leave me here alone?” Lorraine asked, alarmed.

  “Heist will stay with you,” said Raile tersely. “Should any problem arise, he can signal the ship and someone will come ashore to pick you up.”

  Lorraine glanced out to sea, where the battered Lass glimmered in the sun. It was not a bad place to spend an afternoon, she told herself, with an interesting fellow like Heist to keep her company.

  The exploring parties were quickly chosen and marched away, Raile leading one, and MacTavish, who had been warned not to venture too far inland lest he come upon the Spanish vecinos of Valladolid, leading the other group.

  Heist was curious about the town. Lorraine accompanied him as he exclaimed over everything, wondering aloud why the people had fled, why they had not fought for such a citadel.

  Peering at the frescoes, the painted stucco, Lorraine could find no answer. The pictures and bas-reliefs seemed to depict a strange primitive people with flattened foreheads and cross-eyed gods.

  “It’s a strange place. The walls of the buildings seem to flare upward,” observed Lorraine. “Of course, perhaps they did that to highlight all that carving?” She waved an arm upward at the sculptured relief.

  The Dutchman considered—then he grinned. “No, ’tis to let the rainwater drain down without damaging those corners.” He pointed to the painted stucco molding.

  Lorraine sighed. Plainly Heist was not a romantic. It would have been nicer to believe that the shadowy builders of this ancient city had built with only beauty in mind.

  “But they did choose a good defensive site,” granted Heist, looking around him appraisingly.

  The sun’s rays were dazzling. Lorraine was aware that her damp chemise was sticking to her in the heat. They had been walking a long time, prowling the deserted avenues, puzzling over the strange stone structures. A pair of seabirds dipped suddenly overhead, and Lorraine, attracted by the whir of wings, looked up. She was momentarily blinded by the sun’s brightness.

  But not before she saw a slight figure dart behind a nearby building. She had caught only a brief glimpse before the sun blinded her, but her impression was of a barefoot young girl in strange dress, a girl with long black braided hair.

  “Heist!” She clutched his arm. “I saw someone—over there!”

  Heist sprinted forward, dragging out his pistol.

  “Oh, don’t use that!” Lorraine was panting, trying to stay beside him in the wretched heat. “It was a young girl, I think.”

  After a while they gave up the search, and Heist found them a shaded place to sit between two buildings.

  “You must have imagined it,” he told her. “The sun plays strange tricks on the eyes.”

  “Yes, it must have been that,” she sighed, sinking down upon the stones and leaning against the shaded wall.

  But in her heart she knew. She had seen a young girl. Running. It was not quite an empty city. Perhaps others, like themselves, sought refuge here from time to time. Perhaps the girl was trysting with a lover here and had run away at sight of them. . . .

  Heist was determined to entertain Lorraine. He told her about the girls of Holland: of fair-haired Greta, who had led him on and then married someone else and gone to Leyden to live. Of Katje, who had drowned in the canal. Of beautiful Annjanette, who lived in a handsome house and looked right past him even though he had shown his admiration by journeying upriver to bring her a whole boatload of flowers from the tulip lands. And he told her of dainty Maargret with her clubfoot and her soft eyes, who had grown up next door—Maargret, the girl his mother had always wanted him to marry.

  Lorraine, who had been watching a small bright green lizard dart in and out of the crevice of the sunny wall across the way, thought he had best stick with Maargret and said so.

  Heist smiled at her. “It was because I could not decide that I sailed on this voyage,” he confided. “When I return to Amsterdam, I must make up my mind.”

  He rose, stretched, told her he would be back presently, and strolled away.

  Lorraine leaned back and closed her eyes against the fierce afternoon heat.

  Suddenly she snapped awake and realized she was alone. Something had wakened her—some loud noise? She had been deep in sleep and could not remember. Now it was quiet, but she looked about her uneasily.

  The shadows had lengthened appreciably. It was growing late. Heist should be back by now. What could he have found of such interest that he would be gone so long?

  She rose, shook out her russet skirts, and set out to find him.

  She came out upon the central avenue and looked about her. Empty, from end to end. But some prickly feeling kept her from calling out “Heist!”

  She kept on walking, turned a corner, prowled farther.

  That was when she saw the boot.

  It stuck out from the far end of the next building, and she approached it with a thumping heart.

  It was Heist. The side of his head was bloody—he looked dead. Beside him lay the pistol he had dropped. And nearby, like a broken doll, sprawled the body of the Indian girl—her neck broken. She looked so young and defenseless lying there. Lorraine sensed that Heist had died protecting her.

  Poor Heist. He would never be returning to anyone now—not to his lost Greta or cold Annjanette or dainty Maargret. Heist had found the Indian girl—and someone else had found them both.

  The frozen horror that had held Lorraine spellbound, looking down in disbelief at the tragic scene, was dissipating now and a tingling awareness of her own danger took its place.

  For whoever had done this was not dead.

  Her head swung around and she studied the nearby walls, but the silent stones gave her no answer. She turned about, headed back the way she had come—but that took her into a broader avenue of strange flared stone buildings. She looked up and down it . . . nothing there.

  In sudden panic, she realized she could be seen from many directions now, for her bright hair was catching the long rays of the sun. Which meant she would be conspicuous to watching eyes. . . .

  Out beyond these stone walls lay the cliffs and the sea lapping the rocks. And the Lass.

  Suddenly she knew what she must do. She picked up Heist’s gun and fired it. It made a deafening roar and she dropped it. But they would hear it on the Lass and send a boat. She must find some high place to show them where she was.

  The Castillo lay ahead and it was tall. Fear lent wings to her feet as she fled toward it and scrambled up the wide stone steps toward the sanctuary with its serpent pillars high above. Halfway up, her shoe struck a pe
bble, sending it clattering down. At another time she might have looked down and noted that the pebble was a jade earplug once used by the Mayans who had lived in this place, but now she paused and her head went up to listen. Did she hear a footstep somewhere in that maze of deserted buildings behind her?

  Or did she . . . only imagine it?

  Around her all was silence.

  More carefully now she ran upward. She had reached the terrace. She could see the nine-foot-thick city wall—and she could see the sea. The world looked so beautiful here, so tranquilly blue, it was hard to believe she might have a deadly pursuer. Below her the ocean beat against the old limestone cliffs, sending up plumes of spray. Before her the sea was a vast blue glitter.

  And down below, the Likely Lass rode saucily at anchor. Lorraine could see that a boat had been put out, and now someone in that boat saw her and stood up to wave. Lorraine waved back frantically.

  Help was on the way—she had only to wait.

  And then she heard it.

  A footstep, soft but real.

  A small stone rattled down the wide steps. Lorraine’s frightened gaze was riveted on the corner of the sanctuary around which death could come, but she could see nothing.

  Was the foot that had dislodged that stone a dark and sandaled one? And did those sandals bear a powerful native of this place, long dispossessed and mad for vengeance?

  She backed along the terrace. Below was a sheer drop to the edge of a forty-foot cliff, and the only way out was the way she had come.

  A head and shoulders appeared around the corner of the sanctuary—and then a body. Lorraine nearly fainted. Then relief flooded over her when she saw it was the big French mute, Gautier, coming toward her. The scouting parties must be back.

  “Oh, thank God!” she cried. “Gautier, I know you can’t speak, but listen to me. Heist has been killed, he’s lying down there between the buildings. The scouting parties must be warned!”

  He kept walking toward her. His face betrayed no emotion, and Lorraine was not sure he had understood her.