Windsong

by Valerie Sherwood

  ‘On Tortuga,’ she continued, ‘they would recognize the Silver Wench, however. She could sail into Cayona Bay and make arrangements for the sale of the Mary Constant. Or the necklace. All would believe her if she announced that Captain Kells was ill of a fever that might well be contagious so that it would be best for none of his friends to venture out aboard the Sea Wolf. Of course,’ she added carelessly, ‘you would have to keep your ship at a good distance offshore for on close inspection she bears little resemblance to the real Sea Wolf.’

  ‘How could you know - ?’ he began.

  Her voice went on, overriding him relentlessly. Her silver eyes glittered as she spoke. ‘Nor could anyone who had even been invited into the Sea Wolf's great cabin ever mistake it for yours. I will have you know that Kells and his lady drink from goblets of gold, jewel-encrusted. The candlesticks upon his table are of gold, his cabin is littered with navigational equipment for’ - here she paraphrased one of his remarks in some derision -‘regardless of anything you may have heard, dear Robin, Kells is indeed a navigator. The hangings are of a rich red, the bulkheads heavily carved, the stern windows are somewhat larger. Do you want me to describe Kells’s house on Tortuga?’

  He was staring at her, astounded. ‘You have actually been in Tortuga? You know the Sea Wolf?'

  She nodded and her smile mocked him. ‘And I have drunk-from those jewel-encrusted goblets at Kells’s table in Tortuga and sailed away with him in the great cabin of the Sea Wolf.'

  He swore softly. ‘I should have known. You are the Silver Wench!’

  ‘None other,’ she admitted. ‘Mistress Christabel Willing, if you please.’ No need for him to know that she was really Carolina Lightfoot - Tortuga did not, why should he?

  He continued to stare at her, swearing under his breath in amazement. Then he rolled back upon the sand and roared with laughter. ‘No man would dare to dream of such good fortune! To have the Silver Wench fall into my hands just when I need her!’

  ‘Your good fortune stretches only as far as I care to stretch it,’ she reminded him coolly. Her sheer chemise blew against her body in the sea wind. As if she found her position cramped, she rose and stretched her slim arms above her head the better to allow her lovely breasts to ripple before his enchanted gaze.

  Lying on the sand, he dragged his attention away from those winking pink crests half seen beneath the gauzy material, and stared upward into her lovely face. He saw there a sardonic expression. ‘How so?’ he demanded.

  ‘If I risk my life by sailing into Tortuga for you,’ she said scathingly, ‘for that is indeed what I risk if it becomes known that I am assisting the man who masquerades as Kells - I will hardly expect to find the Spanish ambassador’s wife occupying my bed upon my return.’

  ‘Ah, the Duchess.’ Comprehension flooded him and he lay back looking rather pleased. ‘Well, she should present no great problem,’ he said at last, scrambling up.

  ‘Indeed?’ Her winglike brows shot up.

  He stood before her, smiling down at her. ‘I would trade a dozen such duchesses for a woman of silver and moonlight,’ he said in a rich voice, and she felt her heart lurch. She could almost believe him. ‘And you are Kells’s wife . . .’He still sounded incredulous.

  ‘Not any more,’ she said moodily. She turned away from him, looked out to sea. ‘And never unless you count buccaneers’ marriages and Fleet Street marriages legal . . .’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said.

  She gave him a narrow look. ‘I thought you might not.’ And when she did not continue, but stooped to scoop up a handful of black sand, and let the words fade away to be drowned in the sound of the surf, he said thoughtfully, ‘From your tone, I would wonder - is Kells not all they say he is?’

  Carolina threw her handful of sand at the sea. ‘He is more than they say!’ she said stonily.

  ‘Then if he is such a great man, how does it happen,’ he asked, puzzled, ‘that you are not together?’

  Now was the time for disclosure if ever such a time would be. She turned and looked him full in the face.

  ‘Because he left me, Robin,’ she said simply. ‘For a woman who resembled an old love. He left me for the Duchess of Lorca.’

  Robin Tyrell could not have been more astonished. A myriad play of emotions passed over his face: anger that his duchess should betray him; astonishment that Kells would ever leave this woman of light; unease at this strange new liaison which could bring him unforeseen dangers.

  ‘It is true,’ she said. ‘He has sailed away with her.’

  His face had lost colour beneath his tan. ‘Then,’ he said thinly, ‘you are telling me that I will make this rendezvous with Kells himself?'

  ‘With none other,’ she said, shrugging. ‘Unless the Duchess has doubly deceived you, and Kells is taking her and the Duke’s ransom away to some far island to live on love and the necklace!’ Her voice had grown bitter and she could not resist one last jibe - for this man, however damnably attractive he might be, had wrecked her wedding plans back in Virginia. ‘There is of course another possibility,’ she suggested grimly. ‘Kells is well aware of your impersonation of him and he may have persuaded her to bring him to you!’

  ‘She is capable of it,’ he muttered and began to stride up and down the sand in the moonlight. ‘I am tempted to up anchor when the ship returns - and sail away.’

  ‘And what of the Duke of Lorca? He is aboard your ship. What will you do with him?’

  He struck his hand into his palm. ‘Send word to Spain that I am holding him for ransom!’

  She shook her head, for it was not in her plans to let the Duchess escape so easily. She wanted to separate the Duchess from both lover and ransom - yes, and expose her too as a wicked double-dealing woman! Let Kells learn a bit more about this woman who had stolen his heart! ‘But then the Duchess will find a way to circumvent you, Robin, for this is her plan, remember, and she knows all about you.’

  ‘It is even her ship,’ he muttered. ‘She bought it with gold she filched from the Duke’s strongbox. This was easy for her since he kept the keys by his bed. I was given to believe that it was not just love of me’ - his lips twisted - ‘that had prompted her mad scheme but that she had been regularly pilfering his strongbox to pay blackmail to someone who threatened to expose her past affairs to the Duke. She told me she was afraid he would find out and so - this!’

  The Duchess had even bought the ship! Carolina’s head reeled. ‘Have you money to pay your crew?’ she asked.

  He shook his head bitterly. ‘I had expected to pay them out of the fifty thousand pieces of eight.’

  ‘Then, Robin, you dare not sail away and try again to ransom the Duke, for they will surely mutiny. How long can men be asked to sail round the seas while their rations grow thin, waiting for something that may never happen? They will see at once, if the rendezvous is not made, that something is wrong. They will not accept your ready explanations, they will want to know more, they will wring it from you! And when they learn that you mistrust the Duchess and that this is her plan, they may well take over the ship, sail you to Tortuga, and turn both you and the Duke over to the buccaneers, taking their chances that they will be forgiven and will eventually share in the ransom - for they will say you duped them, that they thought you to be the real Captain Kells. No, I do not see much future for you there, Robin.’

  ‘But what am I to do?’ He frowned. ‘Sail back to England?’

  ‘That door too is closed to you. I doubt your crew would do it. After all, you have promised them a share of the ransom, I don’t doubt. They won’t want to return without their gold.’

  ‘By the lord Harry!’ he cried angrily. ‘I will get me to London in some fashion or other and expose this woman who has betrayed me!’

  ‘No, you are not thinking now. You cannot do that either because to expose the Duchess is to involve yourself,’ She sighed. ‘You have dug a shallow grave for yourself, Robin, and there is now nothing left for you but to play the game out.’<
br />
  ‘But,’ he exploded, ‘if Kells himself - ’

  ‘There is a good chance he will not have told the Duchess that he is really Kells,’ she said. ‘She may know him only as “Ryeland Smythe”, which is the name he wore in London. It is even possible she plans to trick him - as she seems to have tricked you. I think the Duchess plays her own game and all of you are only pawns.’

  ‘Oh, she plans to kill her husband all right,’ growled the marquess, and Carolina’s eyes widened.

  ‘But if you were to save the Duke?’ suggested Carolina. ‘For I take it the Duchess does not care to do the deed herself or she would already have done it - in London, she would not need to wait for the Azores! And I can assure you that however much Kells may hate the dons, he would never take the life of a lone defenceless old man! No, I think the Duchess still relies on you, Robin, to rid her of the Duke. And if we take him into our confidence we may yet be able to clear your name. And although you may not have the ransom money, you may still be able to sail this ship to Tortuga where I could sell it for you.’

  That the death of Kells would clear Robin Tyrell's name as well - and more handily - she had not even considered.

  But Robin had, and was toying with the idea. That vial of poison the Duchess had thrust into his unwilling hand was still in his possession. Suppose . . . suppose the Duchess really did not know Kells’s true identity, suppose she had seized upon him merely as someone to sail her to this rendezvous, suppose she intended to leave his body upon the sand as well as the Duke’s . . .

  That would change things.

  But then the treacherous nature of the woman assailed him and he voiced his thoughts. ‘She could have sold me,’ he said in a grating tone. ‘Indeed she may well have done so. She is a trickster, she has had many lovers!’

  ‘I am glad to hear of her many lovers,’ said Carolina drily, thinking how pleasant it would be for Kells to learn about those other lovers! ‘But Kells is a man women love easily and the Duchess may in her voyage have fallen in love with him.’

  He glowered down at her. ‘You know this buccaneer,’ he said at last. ‘What is Kells likely to do, do you think?’

  ‘I do not know him so well as I thought,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I know that he has ransomed many Spanish captives - and let many go without ransom.’

  He was startled. ‘But surely - ’

  ‘But Kells is a sentimental man, and who knows what terrible stories she may have told him of the Duke’s treatment of her? Indeed he might have enlisted himself in her behalf in this venture because’ - her voice blurred because the thought hurt - ‘because she bears such a startling resemblance to one Dona Rosalia Saavedra whom Kells once loved in Spain.’

  ‘Resemblance?’ He stared at her in the moonlight. ‘The Duchess of Lorca is Doña Rosalia Saavedra - or was before she married the Duke!’

  29

  ‘What did you say?’ whispered Carolina. Her face had gone ashen.

  ‘I said the Duchess of Lorca was born Dona Rosalia Saavedra.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you.’ Her voice had no strength. She felt as if a great sword had descended from heaven and cleaved her in half. Rosalia - the real Rosalia, not a shadow! Rosalia had come back! A dead woman had come back to take Rye from her. ‘Oh, God,’ she whispered from a dry throat. For in her heart she now faced the shattering truth: She had hoped that by proving this shadow Rosalia false she could win Rye back - and now that hope was gone. Vanished forever.

  She knew Rye very well. He would not desert his wife. Rosalia, romantic bride of yesterday . . .

  ‘You are saying they were lovers once?’ The marquess was dumbfounded. He leaned forward to peer down into her face.

  ‘Yes. Lovers long ago. Married long ago.’ She was weeping.

  ‘Married!' The word sprang from him like a bark. ‘You say the Duchess married this buccaneer? Then she is a bigamist, she has deceived the Duke, for surely he could not know of it - he would never have married her if he had!’ A low whistle formed between his teeth. ‘So she has a more pressing reason to wish to rid herself of the Duke! Her first husband has turned up, her great marriage is illegal, her house of cards could come down upon her head!’ A frightening new thought occurred to him. ‘But then she will know that Ryeland Smythe - or Rye Evistock, as gossip has it - is Kells!’

  ‘No,’ Carolina said dismally. ‘He wore another name in Spain. She would not know that he was Kells unless he told her.’

  He would not tell her. Or would he? The marquess was thinking out loud, muttering to himself. He came at last to the comfortable conclusion that Kells would not tell her, and so there was still a rag-tag of hope that they all might get out of this alive.

  But on Carolina his words fell like so many raindrops. She had just seen her world dissolve away. For a woman who only resembled Rosalia, a woman who could be proved unworthy, would have left a chance for her. But the real Rosalia - never.

  She had lost him.

  And now she knew that she would never win him back.

  In that shattering moment she was conscious only of an overwhelming need to be comforted.

  ‘Oh, Robin,’ she choked. ‘Robin, hold me. Don’t let me think, don’t let me remember - ’

  And Robin Tyrell, Marquess of Saltenham, lover of women that he was, heard that desperate plea in her voice and was not averse to answering it.

  She went into his arms like a hurt child.

  They stood there, pale moonlit figures swaying upon the black sands in the shadow of a black volcanic mountain that had risen up out of the fathomless deep and made itself part of the Azores. Stood there embracing. But there was a change in Carolina since last night and Robin Tyrell felt it.

  Last night had been playful. Tonight was real, and as poignant as a cry for help in the dark. Robin could feel her wild appeal throbbing through his veins even as she seemed to melt like hot metal in his arms, no longer a fascinating worldly woman playing languidly at love, but a girl whose lacerated spirit called out to him wordlessly. And the tall Englishman heard that silent wail. It reached him as clear and pure on the night air beneath the great volcano as the far-off plaintive cry of a sea bird calling to its mate, as rhythmic and enveloping as the soft steady roar of the surf racing up the black sand beach towards them.

  Together they swayed, locked as one. Together sank to the black sand. He felt her supple body shudder against his, felt the white lacy surf lick at his feet as he lay stretched out with her beneath him. It was an elemental need that he answered and they embraced with a tingling savagery, timeless, the world forgot. There was a low moaning in her throat as he closed with her, and in it grief and surcease seemed blended. The pounding of the sea against rocks born beneath the ocean floor became their heartbeats, throbbing in unison.

  And the masquerader, who had taken his women so lightly, was stirred to the depths of his being by the wild freshness of her, the childlike lack of reserve, the shockwaves of her ardour as she gave herself to him without restraint.

  The foaming surf surged over them and their wet white bodies on the sand writhed as silvery as ocean creatures. The surf poured over them only to drain away again, leaving around them only the dark wet glitter of the sand.

  And Robin Tyrell, Marquess of Saltenham, product of a misspent youth, a man who had gone through two fortunes already and was looking for another, found himself awed by the extent of his own passion for this unpredictable silver wench. Clasping her thus, as the tumult in their breasts coursed and mounted, as they strained in rhythmic passion, he had a sudden overwhelming sense that life was fleeting - and that he might never again know a night like this or a woman like this. His blood sang in his veins and he felt singularly blessed. And over the pounding exhilaration that throbbed through his veins as he took her, he felt in those splendid moments - with her wet silken body pressed against him while the sparkling surf raced over them both - that life for him would never be quite the same again.

  His passion drained away at last, he lo
oked down at her tenderly and thought that she was crying - but who could tell? For the last great surge of the surf, sweeping like a curtain of lace across the beach, had washed over their faces and sent them gasping with spray-wet hair.

  Carolina sat up. She leaned her head against his chest and he held her so while the incoming tide lapped around their hips.

  Curse the ransom, all he needed was the woman! For Robin Tyrell was a man of ardour and passion, and although he had loved many women he knew he had never known a woman like this one. He looked down at her and she seemed to him a wondrous jewel, there in her gleaming nakedness, something risen splendid and shining from the sea.

  Tonight he needed no ransom. Tonight she alone was enough for him.

  Tomorrow perhaps he would have to leave her. Tomorrow he would have to make plans. He looked down wistfully at the woman he was caressing, seeing dimly in the pale moonlight that tear-streaked lovely face, hearing her intimate sigh against his chest. Tomorrow his plans might or might not include this wonderful woman fate had tossed so surprisingly into his lap.

  His arms tightened about her. Life was fleeting. Tomorrow might see Robin Tyrell, Marquess of Saltenham, carted away to the headsman’s axe. But this night she was his. This starlit night by the sea . . .

  He carried her to the lean-to shelter, laid her down . . .

  Dawn came eventually though sleep had not. Carolina sat up at last, hugging her knees in her arms. She was a betrayer - she saw that now, bitterly. She had betrayed them all: Rye, Reba - and now Robin. For last night she had made him think that she cared for him and in her heart she did not. It was Rye she loved - and Rye she could not have!