Jennifer Horseman

by GnomeWonderland

  He looked over to Tomas's bed. The covers were hardly rumpled, no doubt he hardly slept again. His gaze swept the room until he came to the small desk where Tomas sat, writing yet another letter to the authorities imploring them to do something, anything, to help his young lady. The diffuse light of the lantern told him Tomas had been at it since well before dawn. The empty cask at his side as well as the faint scent of foul spirits said he was still drinking heavily ....

  David swung his legs over the bed. The poor chap! Everyone was starting to make a fuss over him, worried about his one-man crusade to capture Black Garrett and see his young lady returned, assuming of course she was still alive. The unavoidable idea was finally spoken to Tomas two days before, when the headmaster sent for Tomas's father, hoping Mr. Allen might be able to talk sense into his son's addled wits.

  Their argument reached its pitch with that stern man's exasperation. "This," he shook one of the letters in his poor son's face, "is imbecilic! This mission of yours is useless! Useless, I say! In five years, the entire British naval fleet has not been able to even spot that blackguard's ship unless it is from a belly-up position as he is pillaging and raping! Do you hear me?"

  Tomas remained unmoved, save for tears in his eyes. His son's grief had softened his father, but had hardly deferred his reasoning. "Dear God, just think on it, Tomas! Think of what would happen to a young lady alone and defenseless against that barbarian! And all his men! Even if, by some miracle, she is not already dead, she will sure to God wish she was."

  Tomas had closed his eyes, hugging his sides tightly. "Don't you understand, Father? I have thought of it no less than a thousand times . . . it's all I can think about. I see her face . . . and I want to kill him . . . Lord, but if I could . . ."

  "My God, you are young or foolish or both! I pray you never do get her back. Ah, I see that shocks you? It's because I can imagine the young lady returned to you—not the same one that left. Ruined, totally, completely ruined. Not just spiritually or emotionally either-"

  Tomas interrupted with sudden anger: "There is a chance—"

  "Hah! There is no chance. Perhaps a small one that she still breathes, but what has happened to her is a fact. A fact. And don't be fool enough to imagine society will pretend not to know the sordid details. You'll never be able to give her our name now—"

  "But-"

  "But nothing. And believe me, you'll thank me for that."

  Yet neither his father nor the chaplain, nor the headmaster himself could persuade Tomas to give up hope, yet alone negate his love for the young lady. Ah, what a mess! All the chaps had assumed Juliet was a product of Tomas's mind, a fanciful thought arising from inclinations that none of them had an outlet for besides imagination. No one thought Juliet really existed, not when he said she was too beautiful to be believed, and that she loved him madly. Not even when he said it was she who wrote his treatises lately. Who would have thought Tomas could seduce a young lady—a beautiful one at that—into loving him?

  David stood up, moving to the desk where Tomas wrote at a furious pace. "Well, ole chap," he placed a friendly arm on his friend's shoulder. "I see you're playing the chivalrous knight yet again—"

  "Stop it, David," Tomas said, with nary an interruption of the flow of his quill across the page. "I've no patience for your baiting."

  David's face fell, though he shrugged. "Very well, then let's say we head for the commons and wash our stomachs with that wretched tea and toast."

  "I'm not hungry."

  David paused before righting the empty cask. "Christ Almighty, if this were water you'd be full to bursting. Like any aging drunkard, your breath and skin reeks of wine."

  "Unlike any aging drunkard, I have good reason to drown myself in spirits."

  "At least say you'll go to the lectures?"

  Tomas still did not stop. "I'll just copy the erudite wisdom of your notes. I'm not going anywhere but to Fansworth Hall for the posting."

  "Look, Tomas-"

  "I'm not in the mood for speeches, either. Do me the favor and leave me be."

  Seeing it was hopeless, David got up. Tomas was as good as lost. As lost as poor Juliet herself. He only hoped his friend discovered the fact before it was too late.

  As the door shut behind David, Tomas buried his face in his hands, and as it sometimes happened, he gave in to tears. Why, he asked again and again. Oh God, why did this have to happen to me? Why did Black Garrett pick Juliet to abduct out of all the women in the world? Did he just happen to stop in Bristol that day and find her beauty too captivating to resist?

  Fate could not be so terrible, he told himself again as he closed his eyes, remembering that terrible day, remembering how the man Garrett spoke to her. As if he knew her ... Yet how could that be possible? How could Juliet have met the famous pirate Black Garrett before? If by some terrible situation she had met him, surely she would have told him of the encounter, wouldn't she have? Yet he remembered Juliet acted as if she knew him too, as if she had known he had come to do her harm.

  God, what had happened? It was strange, too, when he and his father went to the militia to inform them of the attack and Juliet's abduction. "Yes, yes," the tired night sergeant said, rubbing his eyes. "We are aware of the situation. The pirate's ship sailed in during the night. ... He took Master Stoddard too, you know. You didn't know? Yes, yes right from his carriage on the way to town, in plain sight. No hope for that bastard, that's for sure. . . . No, I mean Master Stoddard, no hope for him. He'll be dead as a goose on Michaelmas. Word has revenge as the motive." The sergeant refused to listen to his father's accusations. "I assure you, sir, we did not do anything about the situation because we did not know about it until the ship was but a speck on the horizon. . . . The girl? Tb be perfectly frank, you may as well count the poor girl dead too, or as good as dead. You must see the hopelessness of a young lady put in those circumstances. . . ."

  Tomas wiped his bloodshot eyes and rose to dress. He would never accept the hopelessness of it. He felt certain Juliet was alive, that had she actually died he would have sensed it. Perhaps he was losing his mind after all. ...

  The late morning air felt chilly and Tomas tightened the folds of his coat as he made his way across the lawns to Farnsworth Hall for the posting. If only he got a reply, a pledge from the Admiralty to renew their effort to capture the famous pirate Black Garrett! He had written dozens of letters to anyone he thought might be able to help: militia and naval officers, members of Parliament, various influential lords, and the court itself, imploring them to do something, anything to stop that man-beast. A beast who swept into his life and snatched an innocent girl from his arms to an unholy graveyard or worse.

  With his gloved hands thrust hard into his pocket and his eyes downcast, Tomas waited behind two others to receive his letters. No fires were ever lit here and the air seemed even cooler. His breath came out in small puffs of fog. The impersonal bare walls of the room became a backdrop for her face, those lovely blue eyes filled with laughter. ". . . How many ways I love you, Juliet!"

  She had laughed at this, a girlish laugh—light, sweet, and enticing as she turned in a pretty circle. "I should hear them, these ways in which you love me. . . ."

  He had tried then to count them, using silly romantic poetry, naming the seasons with the changing light in her eyes and hair, ending with the number of seasons left before he made her his wife. He had been teasing her, not serious, but it had had the opposite effect. She grew suddenly still and quiet. "And when you marry me, I will be forever safe?"

  "Yes . . . yes, I promise."

  "I love you too, now and forever—"

  "Name?"

  Tomas abruptly saw it was his turn. He said his name. The man searched through the stack of letters and Tomas held his breath. An envelope was produced. He reached for it and stepped away. He studied the seal, a raven in flight, before he tore it open.

  He recognized the handwriting immediately. He did not realize he sank to his knees, that new te
ars appeared in his eyes as he read these words ... "I am safe and well. ... I will be returned soon, my darling Tomas. ..."

  "Wake up ... I want you."

  The dream started again and Juliet woke with a start. She sat up, taking in her surroundings. She was in his bed, the drapes were partially drawn, the familiar motion beneath told her they were at sea. Gayle and Leif spoke in quiet voices at the table. Tonali sat at the foot of the bed watching her, and that was the only difference between now and a time before. Now the great cat was a comfort and she reached for him with hands that already started to tremble.

  What had happened to her? On her hands and knees, half way there she closed her eyes, trying desperately to shut it out but the memory of the dream shined in startling vividness, like sunlight upon water ... as if it really happened. Moment after moment of heightened passion, each strung to another, formed a swift-moving stream of memories that her waking consciousness watched with awe and shock and horror.

  Warm sticky moisture seeped from between her legs and she gasped, froze as there seemed no end to it. Yet it had been a dream. She looked at her body as if to find a clue. Her skin felt clean as if recently bathed. The sky blue silk night dress still covered her. She remembered in her dream after he had made love to her until she lay still and exhausted, sinking into a heaven-like bliss, he had begun speaking in whispers as he played with the silk gathered at her waist, caressing her with ever deepening strokes until—

  Juliet felt Garrett's gaze upon her and she looked up. He sat at the table, with his long legs resting on the table over the maps spread there. Combed neatly back, his hair shone like a raven's wings, wet from a recent swim, and he was clean-shaven, wearing a white cotton shirt, beige breeches and tall black boots. Nothing remained from the night before and yet she searched for it, something, anything, one thing to make her know. She slowly shook her head, a denial of everything, still scrutinizing the handsome face for an emotional content that simply was not there.

  "Love, you're a pretty sight on waking but you can believe it's not something I would share. Put on your robe."

  Her robe lay across the bed. Shaking like a sail flapping in a strong wind, she slipped her robe on, just as Gayle pulled the drapes back to greet her. "Our heroine has arisen! Call out the trumpets!" Cupping his mouth, he made trumpet sounds to the tune of Gabriel's joyful sonnet. The sound ended in an embrace that lifted her off the bed as with laughter the young man spun her around and around. Leif joined his son and for a dreadful moment she thought they were going to toss her back and forth like a ball, that she would be sick, but the huge giant only took her into his arms, congratulating her, telling her how the hardest thing Garrett ever did was control his men's cheers when he carried her on board, that she would—if Garrett ever let the secret out—go down in the history books with Joan of Arc. . . . On and on they went, carried away with her heroism, until finally Leif noticed, "My God, you're trembling. You look ill, too." He pressed his hand to a scarlet cheek, then her forehead, checking for a fever. "What's wrong, Juliet?"

  She felt dazed and disoriented. Despite all the noise and congratulations, she felt as if she were alone with him. As if only Garrett existed in the world, this tall, handsome man seated at the table like a king on his throne, content to watch the amusing entertainment passively, revealing nothing save for a maddening air of dispassionate interest. Like his cat now . . .

  "Dont you feel well?" Leif was all concern.

  No she didn't. She shook her head, withdrawing to a private space. She held the robe tightly at the neck and waist. Her knuckles paled to a deathly white in this small, impossible effort to hide herself from him. She felt confused, on the very edge of losing her mind, only vaguely aware of how much worse it was that she had dreamt not just of his lovemaking but of an endless stream of lovemaking where she had, in the darkest space of her heart, existed only for him and his desire.

  "What's wrong, Juliet?"

  Gayle and Leif stood in silent incomprehension as the dark blue eyes shot to Garrett, startled by his voice and question. "I had a terrible nightmare." She watched his expression carefully, waiting for a revelation to appear there. Yet he showed nothing extraordinary; mild surprise in a lift of brow, followed by a small flicker of amusement. A woman's nightmares were hardly enough reason for a man's concern or worry.

  "A nightmare," he repeated, expertly slicing an orange. "A dream with something overwhelming in it, something you couldn't control? What was it, love? A monster like before? A torment of some kind?"

  "Aye, love, it's scaring me too; my desire is like some great caged monster. . . . No, no, don't try to control it ... let it happen, love . . . yes, yes. . . . Love, love, you're tormenting me. ... All of life's a dream . . ." These words and more paired with erotic scenes she simply could not believe she imagined. She couldn't have imagined.

  "You did do it ... you know!"

  "Jesus," he swore with a grin, "I might have guessed you'd cast me as the culprit this time. I suppose I should feel honored I'm cast at all. Just what did I do this time, love?"

  She just stared, her eyes frantically searching his face, abruptly seeing only innocence there. Unfeigned innocence. Dear Lord, she was losing her mind. She felt at a loss, hardly aware she had turned around and disappeared into the dressing room. She stopped the trembling by holding her head tightly in her hands.

  Leif cocked his head, a brow lifted. "If I didn't know you were absolutely incapable of knowing guilt, Garrett, I'd swear that's what's on your face."

  "You'd lose, Leif. Guilt," he smiled, a smile that gave credibility to Leifs first statement, "is not what I feel. Come, we need to finish these charts. . . ."

  Juliet sank to the floor on her knees and closed her eyes, trying to think. What did it mean that she had dreamt of such an unearthly passion with Garrett? She didn't love him; she felt a montage of things for him, confusing and conflicting emotions within the wealth of, well, at times, caring and affection. The same thing she felt for Leif and Gayle, but that was not love. She knew she didn't love him, not as she loved Tomas, but then how could she have wild, carnal dreams of surrendering to his power?

  Quieting her heart at last, she closed her eyes and asked the question. Tomas's image rose in her mind, bringing a swift surge of feeling: comfort, gentleness, safety at last, their home filled with their children, this place safe in her dreams. ...

  She felt the pain of her betrayal, a betrayal in a dream, but still. . . . "I'm sorry ... I'm sorry," she whispered over and over again. "Forgive me, Tomas . . . forgive me."

  Until, abruptly, with sudden indignation and insight, it occurred to her that the only reason she dreamt of Garrett and not Tomas was simply because she had never known Tomas's lovemaking, only Garrett's. Well, that made sense. It was beyond her control; she simply could oot help it ... .

  She bit her lip as if with sudden pain. The worst part, the terrible, terrible part was the revelation of her wantonness, such unchaste abandon—to put it in absurdly mild terms. Heat blossomed on her cheek, brought on by the desperate effort not to think of what she did in her dream. It was too terrible. These were lowly, animalistic impulses, well beneath human dignity. Even worse, popular thought attributed this base desire only to men. Women, by their very virtue, overcame these desires.

  She pondered the unpleasant truth. Surely she could overcome this base nature with Tomas. Tomas would not inspire such wantonness; he never had, after all. The pleasure of that passion was unearthly, unnatural.

  She felt a thick, sticky warmth between her legs again, and rose with a gasp. Her heart raced, her breath deepened. So vivid, so acute did she dream that her body imagined it really happened, producing that moisture. . . .

  "Nay," Garrett replied, "I know the mapmaker, he is skilled. Look at the Bering Straits here," he pointed, but caught the flurry of blue from the corner of his eye and looked up. Juliet pressed herself against the wall, looking terrified and, yes, ever so confused, as her gaze darted anxiously around the r
oom. She didn't care that Leif and Gayle were there; she didnt care about anything, except one thing, which she asked for.

  "A bath? Love, we just set sail. There's plenty of dressing water—"

  "Please."

  Time stopped as he studied her, his observation revealing neither thoughts nor emotions, of which there were in fact many. He motioned to Gayle. "Gayle?"

  Gayle said only "Aye, aye," and left, making Garrett see his gladness—a boyish kind of joy-simply because he had granted Juliet's request. How dearly the girl was cared for and when, dear God, was she going to know it?

  Juliet washed and scrubbed and soaked until the water was cold. Her skin felt sore to the touch and her long plait dropped into the water. Not that she cared, not now ... An oriental partition surrounded the tub, "in protection of your modesty, love," Garrett had said, somehow mocking her as he had arranged it all around. Garrett, Leif, Gayle, and Kyle still worked at the table. The partition was probably less for her modesty than it was for his unwillingness to give his cabin up to her use. Climbing out, she began to dry off, trying not to think of it last night, yet finding it was the only thing she could do until—

  Until she felt the warm sticky moisture between her legs again. Again! With a startled gasp, she flew back into the tub of cold soapy water, washing herself with fear and vigor. "I want to touch your womb. . . ."

  Could she have imagined those words? Could she have imagined the hot rush of chills and shivers as his lips caressed her love-soaked form, moving lower and lower until her alarm had produced a cry and he had held her down to give her pleasure? Her pleasure had grown deeper and deeper within her, until he sent her spiraling into an endless ecstasy, fjowering, blossoming over and over, rippling over and over until she realized he was inside her again and her nails were sunk deep into the flesh of his back. . . .

  Could she, in the darkest, deepest room of her imagination, have imagined that?

  Juliet slowly emerged from the tub. She dried herself off and dressed. A shuffle of chairs and parting words signaled the men were leaving. The door opened and shut. She heard boots, his boots, moving to his desk.