Erik opened Baret’s shirt and tore away a section of cloth. He pressed it into the wound to stanch the bleeding. “There may be a doctor on the plantation.”
Baret pushed himself to his feet, unsteady but determined. “I’m all right. I won’t stay here.”
Erik glanced up at Emerald. Did he guess she had something to do with his bitterness? Captain Farrow seemed curious over what might have affected Baret so strongly, but he turned his attention back to him. “The horses wait. The guards are silenced.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
Emerald swallowed and took several hesitant steps down the stairs, holding onto the banister. She wanted to cry out, Please, Baret, trust me, believe in me. I dreamed of you every night in Brideswell, as the rats and lice roamed over my filthy bed. I remembered you. You are everything that I want, and I want you now as I’ve never wanted anything else in my life.
She loved him, but she would lose him to Lavender. There was no hope now.
“What about her?” she heard Erik ask him in a low voice.
“She’s free to do whatever she wishes.”
Erik turned and looked up at her, expressionless, taking her measure.
Emerald’s gaze faltered.
As they left, Baret paused before the two paintings on the yellow stucco wall. As if seeing his father and himself together were difficult to handle emotionally, he turned away and walked to the door with Erik’s support.
Emerald stood on the stair, desolate, hoping that he would look back at her, that the old familiar flicker of emotion would renew itself in his dark eyes, that there would be no disappointment, no misunderstanding of what had happened with Jasper.
But he walked out, and then she heard the sound of horses riding away.
Silence descended upon the hacienda. Emerald clung to the banister, her taut emotions stretched to the point of snapping. As she looked upon Jasper’s body, the dazed chill that had gripped her began to shatter. Outside, the squall had intensified, and a tropical storm blew against the front door. Erik had not closed it tightly, and it blew open. Rain fell on the polished tile.
The thought of spending another night here was unthinkable. Regardless of the storm, she must reach the stables, find a horse, ride to Port Royal to the lookout house. She feared that even if her hem brushed against Jasper’s body, she would scream and keep on screaming.
Lord, help me!
She eased her way down the stairs, nearing Jasper, who lay sprawled across the steps, the pistol near his clawed hand. Drawing her skirts back, she squeezed past.
She walked swiftly through the salon, flickering with torch light, her steps sounding like castanets on the tile floor. The rainy night stifled her with humidity. She flicked a glance at the painting high on the yellow wall, and the glimpse of Baret brought a renewed pang.
“Murderess! That is what you are!”
She looked up. A young woman of Spanish descent stood above the stairs, glaring. Carlotta? Undoubtedly Carlotta.
“I didn’t shoot him,” Emerald protested. “He tried to kill Baret Buckington. It was self-defense.”
“Murderess,” insisted Carlotta bitterly. “I will tell my father!” She broke into tears. “I loved Jasper—” Carlotta started down the stairs to where he lay. “You will pay!” she screamed. She knelt to snatch up Jasper’s empty pistol.
Emerald fled through the open door into the warm rain and wind. She ran wildly, soon drenched to the skin and stopping in her mindless flight only when her beating heart felt as if it would burst.
She halted on a wet tile court, gasping, blinking through the rain. Which direction to the stables?
A jungle of green vines crawled along the wall like twining serpents, their coils reaching out to twist about her. Her jaw clamped. She thought of how Baret had abandoned her here on her own, something he would never have done in the past.
She ran again, tears as well as rain wetting her face. She tried to recall the layout of the hacienda from the afternoon she’d arrived with Sir Jasper.
Somehow the man did not seem dead. She imagined she could hear his footsteps following her through the darkness. Or was it Carlotta?
She paused again, this time between two yuccas in large, adobe planters, and glanced behind her. It was only the wind that raced after her, whipping her skirts. She wasted no more time. There was a gate ahead, and she ran through it, coming out into a grassy yard.
Nearing the stables behind the house, she ceased her running and walked cautiously toward the building, wondering if it were possible to saddle a horse without awaking the grooms. Did they sleep near the horses or in quarters behind the stables? She paused to consider her dilemma, glancing behind her to make sure she wasn’t being followed.
She wouldn’t get far on foot. To reach Port Royal, she must have a horse. She remembered something Erik had mentioned to Baret: “The guards are silenced.” Did that include the grooms? Why would no one except Carlotta have responded to the pistol shot?
Halting outside the stables, she heard nothing but wind and rain. The hinges creaked as she opened the door of the low stone building, and she was met by the musky odor of manure and horses drifting from the interior. Her hands trembled as she lit a lantern near the door.
She coaxed the first friendly horse at hand and was relieved to see it was a mare. Carlotta’s horse, perhaps? Emerald wasted no time in leading it to the block. The rain continued to beat against the side of the building, drowning out any footsteps.
Her fingers were still shaking, and she shivered uncontrollably, casting glances toward the door. She expected at any moment to see Carlotta standing there with raised pistol and Spanish fury in her eyes.
She saddled the mare and led it through the stable door. The wind drove the rain against her face as she swung into the saddle. She touched the horse’s flank with the bone-handled whip and sent the mare running swiftly down the muddy road between the hacienda and the main route to Spanish Town. Moments later they left the ordeal at Jasper Hall far behind.
She’d ridden perhaps a mile when the thud of racing hooves behind her emerged from the night. Emerald brought the whip down hard on the mare’s muscular flank.
But the rider was gaining on her. In another minute he came up beside the mare, shouting in the face of the wind and rain. “I’m a friend!”
She recognized the voice and turned her head, slowing the mare. It was Erik!
The sign of the Royale Inn swung on squeaking hinges in the wind. The outer courtyard was entirely enclosed with a wall and despite the steamy night an open fire sputtered to stay alive in the slowing rain. Emerald watched the firelight cast weaving images on the stone wall, reminding her of two dancing wolves with pointed ears. Weary, she stood by the open grate where slabs of meat sizzled, their juices splattering onto the coals.
She held a steaming cup of tea between her palms and had grown uncomfortably aware that she was soaked to the skin. The lace on her frock hung limp, and there was a tear in one of her petticoats. Her hair hung down her back in wet ringlets. She was also aware of two scoundrels sitting on the other side of the yard, watching her over their rum, but she ignored them.
Captain Farrow came back with two plates. “You’d better eat,” was all he said.
As if she could. But his politeness went a long way to lend ointment to a torn and bruised spirit. She managed a half smile and took the plate.
He looked up at the dark sky, blinking into the rain. “I think we would do best under that ledge.”
She nodded and sat down on the bench, holding the plate that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
He ate in silence, and she glanced at him curiously. Like Baret and others of the nobility, he wore his golden hair in the masculine style of the king’s daring Cavaliers. He had on what reminded her of a French artist’s flat cap, tilted stylishly to one side. His features were somberly handsome, sensitive, yet decidedly rugged, and she knew he was a dangerous swordsman, again like Baret. He wore an all
-black suit, and a pistol was in his waistband and perhaps a dagger in his boot.
Emerald took a bite of something she knew was nourishing. “I’ve never had a chance to thank you for rescuing Minette from the San Pedro. We are—were both extremely grateful, Captain Farrow.”
“Where is she?”
“At Foxemoore. With Pitt.”
“Willingly?”
“Oh, no! As a slave! I must free her as soon as I can!”
He picked up a mug and concentrated on a fly as though it were of interest, then swiped it away.
“Captain—about Baret—he will recover?” she asked for perhaps the third time.
“Jasper was a better swordsman than a marksman.”
“Thanks to you, Bar—the viscount lives.”
He lifted the mug and drank, frowning over some private contemplation. He watched the innkeeper turn the slab of meat on the grate.
“I must speak to the viscount. Please.”
He finally spoke. “You should know his lordship isn’t likely to forget about finding you with Jasper.”
She stood stiffly, anguish clearly written on her weary face. “Captain Farrow, things weren’t as they appeared! I loathed Sir Jasper! His lordship rushed to conclusions he had no right to make. Oh, you will tell him the truth for me?”
He looked at her, then studied the mug in his hand. “If he will hear. What do you want me to explain?”
Her eyes pleaded, for Erik was now the only contact between herself and Baret. She pushed her hair back, growing embarrassed under his even look.
“Tell him I must speak with him.”
“He’s not one to listen. He’s already planning his expedition with Morgan. He’ll leave in a week or two.”
She believed Erik would also be going on that expedition and that the time remaining was short.
“Please, surely you can make him understand he’s wrong.”
It was the first time she heard him laugh. “One isn’t likely to convince him of anything. He makes up his own mind.”
“Then I simply must see him to explain. Take me to him now.”
“I’ll tell him you are here, but I can’t promise.”
She smiled her relief. “Captain Farrow, you’re the only friend I have now. And you’re the one man he will trust.”
An odd expression showed briefly on his face. She wondered if she’d been too friendly. “If he won’t see me,” she said, “tell him I’d been at that place only two days! I’d been brought straight from Brideswell. The clothes, the chamber, the jewels—Jasper tried to buy me, but I refused him. How could Baret even think I’d cooperate with that man?”
After a long moment, Erik shrugged. “The viscount is a skilled swordsman, an excellent buccaneer, and, alas, he remains blooded nobility, a viscount. He grew up in the king’s company and could have had for wife a number of women who bear titles and family wealth. But if he is all these things and more, he is also as much a rogue as I am, madam. You must ask yourself why he nurses his anger more than he concerns himself with the gunshot wound. I’ve only two answers to offer. Either he wishes a thing against you that he may marry Lady Thaxton, or he’s in love with you. You must answer that for yourself.”
The suggestion that he was doing this in order to gain Lavender was a devastating blow. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?
“He’s not in love with me,” she said tiredly and swayed a little from her weariness.
He reached a hand to steady her. “Better sit down. There’s a carriage leaving for Port Royal tonight. Have you a place to go if I take you there?”
“Yes, but I wouldn’t want to impose further on your kindness, Captain Farrow. The viscount will need you until he’s on his feet again. I can ride the carriage safely to my father’s lookout house.”
Erik watched her, then turned the mug about in his hand. “I’ll try to talk to him.” He set the mug down. “He should be awake by now. I’ll bring him supper and explain what happened.”
She smiled for the first time. “You’re very kind, Captain Farrow.”
“Your words will be remembered. Will you be all right if I leave you here for a time?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine,” said Emerald, her spirits beginning to rise.
But Erik looked at her optimistic smile and frowned.
Baret grimaced, impatient over the limitations his injury caused him. He could do nothing, when a hundred things needed to be done. He had not ridden far when he had halted his horse in the blinding rain and told Erik to return to the hacienda for Emerald. He’d been wrong to hurt her as he had by walking out. And now he was furious with himself for risking her further. He’d known of this inn and insisted on coming here while Erik went back for her, but he’d made clear to Erik that she wasn’t to know he had sent him.
He’d behaved the perfect rogue. He wouldn’t admit it was because she had aroused a jealousy within him that he hadn’t suspected even existed. He pushed a chair out of his way with his boot and turned as the door opened quietly and Erik entered.
Baret searched his suave face, growing more impatient with his inabilities to handle matters himself. “Well?”
Erik walked to the window and looked below into the courtyard, even though it was surely raining too heavily to see anything.
“Did you find her? Where is she?” Baret asked, beginning to grow alarmed. If anything had happened to Emerald, he’d never forgive himself.
“She’s below. She wants to see you—to explain.”
Baret remained silent. He tried to get to his feet but swayed and grabbed the bedpost. “No. I’m in no mood. I need time to think.”
“She says she’s innocent about Jasper.”
“She told me the same thing once before,” he stated bitterly. “Only then it was about Levasseur.”
That Emerald was safe satisfied Baret for the moment, and he eased himself back down against the pillow.
“Rest, or you won’t be sailing with Morgan.” Erik poured coffee from a pot and calmly handed him the cup. “You’re certain you won’t see her now? Let her explain?”
“No. See that she gets back safely is all.” Baret looked at him. “You spoke to Carlotta?”
“Yes.”
Baret smothered his unease. “What did she say?”
“She says the death of Sir Karlton and six weeks in Brideswell weakened Emerald to succumb to Jasper. They’d been together for several weeks.”
Baret’s jaw flexed as he stared at his cup. His insides ached worse than his injury. He tried to push the tormenting thoughts from his mind, but the more he did, the more vivid became the image of Emerald in Jasper’s arms, and he smashed the cup across the room.
Erik watched him. “Perhaps your cousin has reason to lie.”
“She has no reason to lie. We’re friends. It was I who saw that she arrived at the hacienda—where she wished to go. There’s nothing between us. She doesn’t know about the betrothal. She knows only about Lavender.”
Erik shrugged. “Any daughter of Lord Felix should be looked upon with suspicion. I didn’t think you cared this much for Karlton’s daughter.”
Baret leaned back, his good arm behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling. The rain pounded against the window.
Erik sighed. “Rest. By the time you heal and the expedition with Morgan is over, you’ll see matters with a clearer eye.”
20
EDGE OF LIGHT
The morning star rose in the eastern sky, its light pulsating with the promise of bright, new hope. Looking out from the crow’s nest, Emerald saw it as a glimmer of God’s watchful care throughout the long journey her soul had taken in darkness. She had ridden up Fishers Row on the mare, exhausted—Erik had been mistaken about the availability of a carriage—but the long night of trial was fading. The sun would soon break forth, rejoicing like a strong man to run its race across the heavens.
“Even here amid my sorrows, Your hand has led me,” she murmured. “Even in my night, You have been a ligh
t about me. You have not forsaken me. You will not forget me, even when my hopes turn to nightmares. You have a noble purpose as sure as Your faithfulness.”
A name came to her mind as if written there by the finger of God. Sir Cecil Chaderton. A friend loves at all times.
Excitement flared like torch light. The beloved Sir Cecil, a true servant of God! On board the Regale, had he not led her in devotional reading of the Scriptures and in prayer to consecrate her years on earth to God’s purposes? She could turn to him now.
Sir Cecil was at Foxemoore, seeing to the education of Jette. She would write to him at once.
“Oh, God, thank You for showing me the pathway of hope.”
Morning sunlight filtered through the round window of the crow’s nest in the lookout house. She sat at her father’s desk with a pot of tea, her eyes burning from lack of sleep, and completed the letter to Sir Cecil. She explained briefly all the evils that had befallen her since arriving at Port Royal. She told him of her father’s being shot and killed on the wharf and her experience at the hacienda in Spanish Town.
She went on. Minette, as far as she knew, was a house slave to the overseer, and Emerald feared for her safety. With Geneva now too ill to burden, there was no one she could turn to on behalf of Minette. Emerald told him of the death of Sir Jasper the night before, and shuddered as she relived that ordeal. Added to all this, she wrote, was the viscount’s misunderstanding of her presence at the hacienda.
Emerald paused, holding the quill. She thought of the document she’d signed for Lord Felix, and she winced. She could not yet explain that to Sir Cecil, who was closely allied with Baret. And just how would she explain it? And what of Baret? Was he even in Port Royal now? What if the Admiralty officials had managed to locate and arrest him before he could escape to the Regale?
She rejected the desire to pick up the spyglass and look out the window to see if she could glimpse either his ship or Captain Farrow’s Warspite. She knew Baret was too much the buccaneer to anchor within view of the guns of Fort Charles.
Was he recovering well from his gunshot wound?
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