"To break a storm so huge took immense magic. She needs much rest and nourishment."
Hoping she could be saved, Nikolai bent over to pick her up, and again almost fell flat on his face. Tano muttered a curse in his native language before saying, "Don't be a fool—you need rest as much as she. I will tend her. After she has taken some broth, I will come to your cabin." His eyes narrowed. "You will be lying on your bunk, yes?"
It was a mark of his exhaustion that Nikolai didn't even argue. At the moment, the ship's cat could knock him over. Gripping the frame of the wheelhouse, he managed to get to his feet.
Tano carefully lifted the little witch and carried her to the hatch, expertly supporting her on the tricky climb below decks. She was in good hands, though Nikolai felt Jean Macrae was his responsibility and he should be the one to care for her.
As he followed Tano, he thought that he hadn't been so tired since he'd escaped slavery. Yet he was also exhilarated. He'd worked with magic to the best of his ability since Macrae opened his eyes to what was possible. But never had he been part of such a great manifestation of power. He had been dabbling along the shore, and Jean Macrae had showed him the ocean's depths.
Now that he had tasted true power, he wanted more.
After an eternity of strange, drowning dreams, Jean awoke feeling that she had been on a very long journey. She was no longer on the schooner. Instead, she lay on a comfortable bed in a room with starkly whitewashed walls. Golden sunshine poured in a window with half-opened shutters, and flowers were visible outside. One door beckoned out into that sunshine while another led into the house.
Cautiously she sat up, her head swimming. She wore a shift that was too large. Was she on Santola? The table, chairs, and chest were plain wood, but there was an elegant simplicity that reminded her of a Highland croft. An earthenware vase contained bright blossoms, and the bed was covered with a quilt of soft, colorful fabric squares. The effect was modest but cheerful.
In contrast, the richly patterned Oriental carpet on the tile floor was sumptuous. A pirate's spoils, perhaps.
She climbed from the bed and found a very simple blue gingham gown draped over a chair. It didn't have much more structure than a shift, but she felt more dressed when she put it on. Lying underneath were her knife and scrying glass, still secure in its pouch. She pulled the glass out and held it in her palm for a moment. Apparently no stranger had touched it, for which she was grateful. She considered using it to learn more of her situation, but she felt too drained of power for the attempt.
After donning both scrying glass and knife, she investigated the pitcher and bowl on the table. They weren't washing materials but nourishment—the pitcher held fresh milk, and a half loaf of bread was covered by a cloth. She poured milk into the bowl and dipped in the bread. Her parched mouth welcomed the moisture, and her ravenous appetite made it clear that she hadn't eaten much lately.
Hearing the faint creak of a door, she looked up to see the African who had been with Gregorio in Marseilles. It was hard to judge his age. His face was unlined, but his eyes were not young. "You are awake," he said. "I'm glad. For a while, I was not sure you would wake again."
"How long have I been asleep?"
"Three and a half days. Since you've had only water and broth you must be hungry, but it would be best if you do not eat too quickly."
Three and a half days! No wonder she felt as if she'd been on a long journey. Since her stomach was already feeling full, she pushed the bowl away. "I am Jean Macrae, but you know that already, I think."
He nodded. "I am Tano. On shipboard I act as surgeon when necessary, but here on the island, we have better physicians if you need care."
"I'm tired but otherwise well enough." She studied his calm face. "You speak English beautifully."
"I learned the language in Jamaica. Because I spoke well, I was taken from the sugar mill and trained to be the overseer's secretary."
She stared at him, remembering Gregorio's horror stories about life on the West Indies plantations. "I'm glad you are there no longer."
"So am I." His dark eyes were deeply ironic.
Not sure what she could say to a man who had survived seasons in hell, she asked, "The ship and crew came through the storm safely?" She thought of how much power she'd had to take from Gregorio. "And the captain?"
"All are well. The mainmast broke, and the captain was almost as tired as you, but he recovered well enough to pilot the Justice home. Have you seen Santola yet?"
When Jean shook her head, Tano crossed the room and opened the outside door, revealing a terrace bright with cascading flowers in pots. "Behold our sanctuary."
Feeling stronger for having eaten, Jean walked outside, and stopped dead, enchanted by the circle of light before her. As she looked more closely, she saw that the circle was a huge bowl of turquoise water surrounded by a jagged tiara of dark islands.
The sight was so striking that it took a moment for her to understand what she was seeing. "Santola is the crater of an ancient volcano, isn't it? I've seen drawings of Santorini in the Greek Isles and it looks like this. A volcano erupted and left a circle of islands around the edge. It's called...a caldera, I think?"
"Very good, miss." Tano nodded approvingly. "The volcano that created Santola made the soil rich and created shoals that protect us from unwanted visitors."
Shoals combined with magic, Jean guessed, for she sensed the distant buzz of a protective field. The terrace reminded her of courtyards in the Fontaine household, with pots of brilliant flowers and a roofed area that provided shade from the baking sun.
She moved across the terrace to the wall and looked down on a large village that was beautiful in the manner of the Mediterranean. Whitewashed stucco houses climbed the steep hill, accented by vivid splashes of color from painted woodwork and flowers.
This particular dwelling was at the top of the village, high enough to look down on dozens of other buildings. She saw people working in courtyards and walking the narrow cobblestone streaks. Hardy donkeys wearing straw hats patiently carried loads up the hill while children chased one another in a game near the docks. Their complexions were every shade from Nordic pale to rich ebony.
The steepness of the caldera hills meant that the fields visible beyond the village were terraced. The slopes above were grazed by goats and sheep. Santola appeared to be not only self-sufficient, but prosperous. "I've landed in paradise."
"We think so." Tano quietly left.
Glad to be alone, Jean settled on a bench under the awning. In high summer this island would bake, but on a late winter day, there was a pleasant amount of warmth. Far below, she could see the Justice undergoing repairs at a dock. The jagged stub of the mainmast had been removed, and men swarmed over the ship making repairs. She shaded her eyes, wondering if Gregorio was there.
He'd show up soon enough. She gazed out at the caldera, idly tracking the path of a small sailboat. She felt empty and not quite attached to the world, a result of the tremendous expenditure of magic the night of the storm. It would take time to refill the well of power, though the process had begun.
When she fought the tempest, she'd used power beyond what she believed she possessed. Various teachers and mages had said over the years that she had a great deal of power—she just didn't know how to wield it. That had been frustratingly true.
Yet though she had sensed power growing within her, she'd had little success using it. Even simple magical tasks were like wrestling a greased pig—her power might squirt off in any direction. More often, she couldn't even get it moving. Eventually, she had stopped torturing herself with her magical failures and concentrated on managing the family estate.
After her brother married, she had done some studying with his wife, Gwynne, who came late to her power. Jean had become a little better at some of the basic skills, like scrying, but Gwynne had quickly surpassed her in all areas.
Except when Jean had led the surviving Macrae rebels back from Culloden. Their flig
ht had been harrowing because companies of Hanoverian troops pursued any Jacobites who had escaped the battlefield. The Macraes would never have made it back to Dunrath if she hadn't somehow managed to use misdirection and illusion spells to protect her men. Desperation had driven her, for she could never have created such powerful spells under normal circumstances.
After Culloden, she had quietly experimented with her abilities, and had been disappointed to find herself as clumsy as ever. So she'd traveled to London to please her relatives and put magic aside, except for the smallest and most daily of spells. That was how matters stood until the night of the tempest. Once again, desperation had given her the ability to tap into deeper power. Though maybe working with Gregorio was part of it—they seemed to spark each other in powerful and rather alarming ways.
Scree! A huge dark shape swooped over her head, its cry shattering. She ducked instinctively, wondering if the island had monstrous bats. She blinked in astonishment to see a gigantic blue parrot. As she watched, it spread its wings and landed lightly on the railing that topped the wall. The creature was dazzling, but was any parrot so large and so blue? The feathers were almost cobalt, and the wingspan over a yard.
"Bonjour!" the bird caroled cheerfully.
"Bonjour," Jean said with bemusement. "Pleased to meet you."
"Bonjour!"
As the bird repeated the greeting, Gregorio said behind her, "Meet Queen Isabelle. She's a macaw. They come from the jungles of the New World."
Jean tried to suppress her instinctive flinch at the sound of his voice. "You've been there?"
He shook his head as he sat on the far end of her bench. On a terrace full of sunshine, he was a dark, intense presence. "Isabelle belonged to the captain of a slave ship. With his dying breath, he asked me to care for the creature. So I have." The macaw hopped from the railing onto his shoulder, where it rubbed its beak against his cheek. Seeing the bird perched on a human emphasized how enormous it was.
"I've seen parrots in London, but they were usually green and much smaller. I suppose Isabelle is a parrot cousin." She studied the macaw more closely. Despite yellow facial markings that gave the bird a rather clownish expression, the beak looked as if it could bite off a person's finger with no effort. "The pet parrots I saw had clipped wings. What prevents this one from flying away?"
"A spell surrounds the house." He pulled some nuts from his pocket and offered them on his palm. The bird took the treats with amazing gentleness. "When Isabelle reaches the edge, like this wall, she decides it's time to turn back."
"So even your pet is enslaved," she said drily.
His eyes narrowed, but he refused to take the bait. "You will be freed and returned to Marseilles. By saving my ship and men, you have earned that."
"You never thought that would happen, of course," she said, amused. "But I appreciate that you are a man of your word. When can I leave?"
"It will be a fortnight or so." He gestured down to the docks. "The Justice needs repairs, and she is the only large ship in port at the moment."
So he had other ships. "How do you support this community? There must be hundreds of people, and all look well fed."
"Most of our income is from shipping. We have half a dozen ships now, several of them captured from slave traders and refitted as merchant vessels. They are more heavily armed than most merchant vessels, and they are always on the lookout for slave ships to liberate. I have a gift for finding such ships."
"So it was no accident that we were attacked by that corsair?"
"I sensed it from far away, and knew that the master was an old enemy." His expression darkened. "I hope the galley survived the storm. A number of my crewmen were aboard, as well as those slavers who survived their trials. The plan was to drop off the captured crew near Algiers, then return here for refitting."
Without conscious thought, she said, "The ship survived."
"You know that?" he asked quickly. "You are a seer?"
"Not really, but I have a strong feeling that the ship is all right."
"Can you tell me more? Have they reached Algiers yet?"
Thinking she might as well test her power, she pulled out her scrying glass and looked more closely. In the smoky obsidian, she imagined the captive corsair galley. As she held that image in her mind, more information came. "The edge of the storm brushed the ship, but with much less force since it was well south of us." She frowned. "They haven't reached Algiers. Tomorrow, perhaps. They were delayed when some of the captives tried to retake the ship in the confusion of the storm, but they failed."
His dark brows drew together. "Were any of my men killed in the rebellion?"
She tried to see more, but the image of the ship faded away. "I'm sorry, I can't see that much detail. But I don't think there were serious casualties."
"That glass disk. It's magic?" He stared at it avidly.
"Not exactly. A scrying glass is more of a focusing device." She opened her hand to show him, but didn't offer to hand it over. "The more it's used, the more it becomes attuned to the user's power. But it's possible to scry in a glass of wine or a basin of water or any other reflective surface."
The macaw bobbed forward, opening its beak to grasp the scrying glass. Jean hastily yanked the glass away and returned it to its pouch while Gregorio grinned and offered the bird more nuts. "Take care, Jean Macrae. Isabelle likes shiny objects."
"I shall do my best to keep my distance from her." A thought struck her. "Surely the galley slaves are all men. Where do the women of Santola come from?"
A husky woman's voice said from behind her, "We are all whores, of course."
Jean turned to a tall, striking woman of mixed race with dark skin, glossy black hair, and almond-shaped eyes. Her expression was curious and not very friendly as she crossed the terrace to the arbor.
"Louise exaggerates," Gregorio said. "The women of Santola have many backgrounds."
"But many of us were whores." Louise held out her arm and the macaw flew to her with another ear-piercing cry. It seemed even happier with her than the captain. "Whoring is often enslavement by a pimp, though I suppose a lady like you wouldn't know." She managed to make "lady" sound like an insult.
Clearly the beautiful Louise was trying to shock the visitor. Perhaps she was Gregorio's mistress and jealous of his showing interest in another female.
No. With a flash of knowledge, Jean realized that Louise wasn't the captain's woman, though they had probably been intimate in the past. Interesting.
Having traveled with the Jacobite army, where many of the other camp followers were prostitutes, Jean was not easily shocked. "Since men won't be happy without women, rescuing prostitutes is a way to serve two goals."
Not missing the byplay between the women, Gregorio said, "It has worked well. No one here talks about the past unless they wish to."
Louise's expression softened. "Santola is the island of second chances. I shall see you at dinner, Nikolai." She sauntered across the terrace, her full hips swinging and the towering macaw grooming her glossy dark hair.
The captain stood. "Since Louise has taken charge of Queen Isabelle, would you like to see more of the village, Jean Macrae?"
"I would that." Jean stood. "Why do you always call me Jean Macrae?"
He considered. "Miss Macrae is too polite, and Jean is too intimate."
"I've been in your mind. How much more intimate can two people get?"
She realized what a foolish comment that was when he gave her a look that scorched to the marrow. "Even a prim Scottish maiden should know that answer."
"Call me Jean," she said softly, "for I am not so prim as all that."
He looked away, his face set, and she realized that he was as uncertain about the energy between them as she was.
As they entered the house, she asked herself if she wanted him for a lover. The passionate, physical side of her nature burned to join with him, to take that fierce energy inside herself, but she could see no good end to such an affair. He'd s
hape her soul in ways that would make it impossible to return home as the Jean Macrae she'd always been. What she'd experienced so far was an adventure, exciting, sometimes too much so, but not yet life changing.
Nikolai Gregorio's bed—that would be life changing. She'd rebuilt her broken soul once after the Rising. She didn't want to have to do that again.
She would not do it again.
Chapter
SIXTEEN
ADIA, NEW YORK CITY
The British had lost. Adia still had had trouble believing that, but the news had raced all over New York. Some of the British soldiers were glad to know that soon they'd go home, others were embittered at the surrender to a ragtag collection of colonial rebels. If they had been given enough soldiers and weapons, they grumbled, Britain could have won.
But none of the British were as worried as the thousands of former slaves who had taken refuge in New York. Everyone was anxious about how they would be affected by the surrender. How long until the British-held city was turned over to the Americans? Would the triumphant rebels be in a vengeful mood?
"What will happen to us now?" Adia asked Daniel, her voice soft to keep from waking Molly. He had been patrolling outside the city for several weeks. Now that he had returned, she had a compulsive need to discuss their future again.
"We will not return to slavery," he said firmly. "Major Blaine says that Carleton, the British commander in chief, believes that the Americans' demand that all their property be returned does not include freed slaves since we are no longer property." Daniel grinned. "I think that Carleton truly believes it would be dishonorable for Britain to go back on its word to us—but he also enjoys irritating the Americans. Even General Washington wants his escaped slaves returned. Carleton can refuse nobly in the name of honor."
Adia smiled. "I don't care about Carleton's reasons as long as he doesn't abandon us." She poured their tea in the early-morning light. Many blacks lived in canvas-topped huts in the sections of Manhattan that had been burned by angry patriots when they lost the city, so she and Daniel were lucky to have this tiny, snug cottage. "Already slave catchers are coming to New York to hunt down escaped slaves." She shivered. "John Watson is just the sort of man to do that. Do you think he will send men after us? I like this city, but how can we live here if we must constantly worry about being captured and taken back to South Carolina?"
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