Claire swallowed. Devon had held her hand in the gaol. Everything was expressed in that hand of his.
“At the turn of the next round of cards, Silvers lost again. A war broke out. Swords clanged. Pistols fired. I don’t remember much except Captain Blackmon pressing his sword against so many, creating a barrier for us to escape. Wolf yanked me through the crowd, using that big club of a fist of his to whack everyone out of the way. The Wolf is my love and my heart. Captain Blackmon found a preacher to marry us. We are grateful to him for helping us.”
A little stab of jealousy touched Claire’s heart. Jenny had it all. A home. A man to love and care for her. A child soon to love. A family.
Bloodsmythe arrived. “It’s time to take you to your quarters.”
Claire smiled to Jenny, thanking her for her hospitality. She had no idea where she would be placed. She had seen her uncle and Sir Teakle escorted off the ship, ghoulish creatures, slimy and dirty from their captivity in the hold, but otherwise sound. Mumblings of pirates indicated they were to be housed in a jail of some sort. Had Devon assigned her the same such quarters?
Under shady palms, she followed Bloodsmythe. Never had she met a man owning an economy of words and chronic frown. They surfaced from dense foliage, and Claire blinked from the bright light of day. Her hand flew to her chest. A small town emerged. Little white huts of mortared coral blocks dotted both sides of a street with tended vegetable gardens tilled from rich volcanic soils. A blacksmith, a general store, and other tradesmen convened on the farther end of the settlement. A team of mules dragged a wagon of fresh cut lumber. Although primitive, the town was a miracle of enterprise carved out of nowhere.
Claire stood dumbfounded. Weren’t pirate enclaves given to corruption, filth, inhabited by drunk, greasy adventurers who gambled, womanized and fought? Gone were the anarchic undertakings and ruffian indiscipline that she had heard prevailed in Tortuga. The settlement stood dignified and prosperous. Hopeful. In all respects…a place with a future. Was the colony owed to the strict obedience and submission to their leader, Captain Blackmon?
They plunged into the forest on the opposite end of town and up another steep grade. Claire followed and never complained. What kind of prison had Devon arranged? Is this the face of bitter herbs, the laudanum of her spirit? Her hair fell lank. Her dress matted to her body. If only she could have a bath and something to eat. No probability of that. They headed so far away from town. Would she be locked up in remote isolation and forgotten? Was she considered that much of a danger?
Devon would take great delight in subjecting her to discomforts and terrors. If the last days of their voyage gave any indication, that was exactly what he intended. She straightened her shoulders, refusing to succumb to weakness or fatigue. A papaya thumped to the ground. Claire snatched it up. At least the sweet fruit would give her sustenance. She had no idea when and if she would be fed.
Claire tripped on a vine and yelped. She righted herself, picked up her skirts and ran to catch-up with her guide, the precious papaya clutched to her bosom. Sweat ran down her back. She was about to ask Bloodsmythe how much farther when they surfaced from the trees.
“This is where you will stay,” said Bloodsmythe.
Claire gasped.
Had she tumbled down a hole to a place where nothing was as it seemed? Claire jerked her head back. The house, a dazzling white where the afternoon sun touched it, posed majestic, the front side facing seaward. A colonnade of slender arches followed along the sides and front with a second floor terrace hosting an open row of French windows.
Inside, an elegant single staircase swept up to a beautiful wooden facade. As Claire walked across the gleaming mahogany floor her eyes caught a large crystal chandelier suspended from a wedge-wood ceiling, affecting scintillating rainbow patterns on the walls.
“Captain said for you to use whatever of his house you require,” Bloodsmythe said, breaking her out her trance.
His house. This mansion was a pirate’s house?
“When will Captain Blackmon return?” She desired to be forewarned.
Bloodsmythe shrugged. “He’s busy with careening and repairs. Until that’s done I doubt you’ll see him. The galley’s that way,” he jerked his head, “Up there,” he pointed, “is ye’re room.” He left before Claire could ask him anymore questions. She didn’t know which room he pointed, but saw her trunk placed in front of a door and assumed it was the one designated.
Claire called out, but no answer came. Exhausted, she wandered up to her bedchamber and cried out in glee, discovering a tub filled with water and a fresh cake of scented soap laid out for her use. She dragged her trunk inside the room, and closed the door. A key stuck out of the lock. On impulse, she turned the key, finding the barrier of a locked door satisfying. She rubbed the back of her neck. A locked door wouldn’t keep Devon out.
Deliriously smitten with the idea of immersing herself in a refreshing bath, Claire stripped off her clothes and stepped into the tub. She lathered her hair, rinsed it and wrapped it up in a towel then leaned back and soaked in gardenia scented water. She gazed about her room. There were pieces of artfully carved furniture enhanced with depth and detail, but the corner piece of the room spanned a massive fourposter bed with satin covers and a nest of downy soft pillows. Where had all the entrapments come from? Stolen, no doubt. Claire yawned, then rose, the heat and the nerves of the day, taking its toll. She dried off then retrieved a night-rail from her trunk, pulled back the covers and sank between soft linen sheets.
Claire awakened to the bright light of day, wondering how many hours she had slept. She dressed, eager to explore the rest of the house and grounds, but first she’d answer the rumblings in her stomach. She descended the stairs and walked into a huge room with a row of open windows. Drawn to the endless turquoise waters lost in a vast horizon of greater blue, Claire gazed, caught in wonder, the sea tumbling in white crescent curls over shallows and sandy flats before swelling over an outcrop, slamming at last, an arm of surf up into fingers of spray. So enamored with the power and beauty of the scenery, she omitted to see its sole occupant.
“Good morning, Madame Blackmon. We have pancakes this morn. Won’t you join me?” She moved to elude him, but Devon jumped from his chair and did not release his proprietary grasp on her arm until she was seated beside him. “Faith, a Captain’s invitation cannot be refused.”
“I suppose I have no choice,” Claire said warily. His sudden emergence and heavy-handedness gnawed at her confidence. So he decided to break his vow of silence. Claire made a study of the clean white table cloth and the heavy silver, doubtless seized as a prize.
“Especially when there is a sumptuous feast laid before us.”
Her stomach tumbled with hunger. Surreptitiously studying him, she nibbled on a piece of fruit. He was clean shaven and bathed and dressed with an elegance she had not seen since the night of the governor’s ball. Only better. His clothes were new, not cast-offs and tailored well to his lean frame. Yet it was with an elegance he wore them, owed to the man instead of the skills of the tailor. He caught her examination of him and he laughed. His amiability made her nervous. She favored their indisputable open conflict. He lifted his glass and leaned back with a careless grace that tugged at her senses. Her conclusion to leave as soon as possible hardened. If she stayed and let her unwilling attraction have its way, she’d be lost forever. He unfolded his napkin and smiled genteelly as if he were an aristocrat borne to wealth and privilege.
“Where have all the furnishings come from? This table, this silver fork,” she held up to him, “and the crystal goblet you hold in your hand?” She arched a knowing brow, her pointed remark meant to wound.
“Some inherited with the island, others commandeered and graciously given.”
“It’s a civilized way to say stolen,” she reprimanded him. Her sarcasm amused him. He merely smiled over the rim of his glass in a mock toast to her.
“I trust everything is to your satisfaction. Afte
r all, I am responsible for your well-being.” Devon’s hand brushed hers. She snatched it away, his touch burning up her arm.
“You are being unduly solicitous, Captain Blackmon. Rest assured I’ll hold you responsible for nothing. What I do with my life is my own affair. Let us consider the issue closed. I believe that in my captivity, time will weigh heavily on my hands.”
He shrugged. “You are free to roam the island as you wish.”
Why was he charming her? Of course, he would change his mind about letting her go. Claire sought to find a chink in his armor. “Where else would I go? I am but a prisoner.”
“There is a jail for your uncle and Sir Teakle. I trust your accommodations are more suitable?”
He let hang the difference in hospitality and the power he had over her. “The island, the town, this house,” she waved a hand, wanting to hear from his own lips. “How did you−”
“I won it in a turn of cards, since then I’ve made additions, and the island has prospered under my direction. I’ve a predilection for slave ships coming from England. I assure you, those unfortunate souls on board happily traded freedom on this remote isle instead of the living death afforded to them by colonial plantation owners. I have carpenters, blacksmiths, everything to make us self-sufficient. Fields cleared for farmers to grow sugarcane, mills built for lumber and sugar, making us independent for trade. A free man works ten times harder than a slave when it is for his own esteem and profit.”
Claire sat tongue-tied. Everything he had done, everything he had accomplished was the vision he had described to her in Jamaica. How could she even remotely find fault with that? He raised her hand and kissed it. “Claire−”
She licked her lips. How had she ever thought she could keep away from him? At a touch, at a look, she longed to lean to him, to touch, to taste, to kiss.
Devon laughed when she pulled her hand free. She was adept at keeping an impersonal level to the conversation. “I will show you the house.”
“Pardon me if I disagree.”
He rose and pulled her chair out for her. She could disagree till the sea dried up. Did he not see the unmistakable yearning in her eyes? Granted it had been brief. All the same it was definitely there. He had ordered everyone away and steered her to the other rooms, wanting to impress her with the size and grace of his holdings. He had lived to see her reaction. He placed his hand on the small of her back, guiding her, and was rewarded with the widening of her eyes and the slow, disbelieving shake of her head, pleased she momentarily forgot everything else, enabling them to slip into their old camaraderie. He wanted to court her.
She moved to inspect a piece of furniture. “You fit here, a castle for a pirate’s kingdom.” Her fingers ran along silky brocade. Damn, what he wouldn’t do to have those fingers run along his back. She’s going to London. He grunted at the thought.
She whirled and faced him, disconcerted to find him a half a pace behind her. He liked the pink that came to her cheeks. “There’s no need to go further,” she protested. “I’m sure, I can find my way around since you’re needed at your ship.”
He forced her to retreat until she was pressed against the armoire. Devon lifted a hand and placed it on the armoire, his arm grazed her hair. Gardenia. She used the fragrant soap from a Spanish vessel he’d taken. “I am not going to my ship just now.”
She looked up and he held her in his gaze. “There must be a multitude of repairs to attend−”
He placed his other hand on the opposite side, caging her within his arms. She licked her lips and he smiled. “I believe there are a number of things to attend, but right now, there is only one that I can think of.”
She inhaled. “You must remember yourself, Devon. Your promise to release me.”
“It’s hard to remember promises when I’m near you, Claire. I remember a promise made to me in a gaol, still unfulfilled.”
Could her cheeks flush any pinker? “That part of the bargain was fulfilled.”
“Then you are misinformed on certain elements of biology, my dear wife.”
“You cannot expect me to−”
His gaze rested on her mouth for the longest time before he abruptly straightened and dropped his arms. “I do.”
“I can’t accept−” she ducked beneath his arms and fled.
“Him,” he finished for her.
From the dock, Devon looked over his harbor. The bobbing anchor-lights of his fleet resembled a myriad of fluttering fireflies. What he hadn’t won in a card game, he’d won through hard work, albeit on the edge of civilization. The rest he built and he was proud of that fact.
He was not in a good mood.
That, of course, owed to his conversation with Claire in the early morning.
She could be yours.
But she had a better life ahead in England. A far cry from what he could offer.
If she stayed, what then? What had he to offer her save a pirate’s life−the shame of his sorry past and the uncertainty of his future? His men needed him. His honor and responsibility to those men were at stake. There stood no answer for his dilemma.
Bloodsmythe broke in on his musings. Devon braced for a lava flow of words. “I’ve been thinking−”
“That’s a bad habit you have, Bloodsmythe. You ought to give it up,” Devon said, knowing where the conversation was headed.
“Why don’t you go up to the house and give the lass the pleasure of ye’r company instead of charming us with your sour mood?”
“I’m busy, neither do I have the inclination.”
Bloodsmythe scoffed. “Oh, aye. I forgot. Ye’r not mortal, like the rest of us.”
“And I’ll be reminding you of minding your own business unless you want the feel of the cat’ on your back.”
“It’s that bad is it? You remind me of a wolf turned into a lapdog looking for crumbs.” Bloodsmythe studied him a long while in silence. “She’s altered your outlook, hasn’t she?”
“Let’s say she’s clarified it.”
“Clarified be damned. Ye’r sick with desire,” said Bloodsmythe.
“Dammit, Bloodsmythe. You attract drama like flies to a dog’s corpse.”
The point is−what are you going to do about her?”
“I don’t know.”
“You must do better than that if you do not want her to know how she affects you,” his friend warned, unsuccessful in hiding his amusement. “You are wound so tight−”
“Go to hell, Bloodsmythe.”
“Well for heaven’s sakes, make up your mind. You’ve always been mooning over the girl. I saw it that first day on the docks in Jamaica. Get it over with.”
“Your memory is superior to your ethics,” Devon growled.
“No doubt.” Bloodsmythe chuckled. “Nevertheless, it’s better than seein’ ye stomp around here like a bear with a thorn in its paw.”
The days came and went. Devon ignored her completely, making himself invisible. Claire explored the house and the island, becoming increasingly impressed with his accomplishments. The people proved industrious and happy. The island thrived, and frankly, Claire admitted, it was owed wholly to their leader.
He had their undying allegiance and respect. She began to understand his dilemma, to almost forgive the life he had chosen. By all accounts, he stood an honorable man. She didn’t know what triggered these changes in feelings inside her yet there emerged an admiration of his accomplishments despite all the hurdles life threw his way. Was there anything he couldn’t do? Nagging at the back of her mind remained a genuine frustration. Who was Devon? Pirate? Doctor? Philanderer? Benefactor? Thief? Savior?
Claire moved to the library, picked a book out. She supposed the entire collection was commandeered and graciously given as Devon put it. Abu Ajir chattered, perched on the desk. She fed him some crumbs she kept in her pocket. “You’re my only companion,” she sighed heavily. The crow croaked his regrets. Animated voices rang from the front of the house. Claire moved to the foyer.
“
Lily!” She was so happy to see her cousin. Devon had out sailed the Golden Gull, by a week, making the journey to Paradise at an unprecedented speed. Claire stopped. Lily walked arm in arm with Robert Ames. Would Ames fault her for Jarvis’s brutal attack?
“Mr. Ames, I must tell you about−”
“Robert,” he said. “Lily has confided how Jarvis overheard and misconstrued your conversation the night the Spanish invaded Port Royale. How you tried to stop the whipping by attempting to get the governor to intervene at peril to your own life. You are very brave.”
“Thank you.” Claire gaped. If only Devon believed her. “So how have you been?” She addressed her cousin uncertainly.
“I couldn’t be more wonderful,” Lily said gazing up to Ames. The navigator returned that same loving look to her cousin with all the adoration of the world, caught on his face.
Resigned to the status of an interloper, and reeling from this new revelation, Claire backed away, clearing her throat. “I have to get a book.” Claire pivoted and returned to the library not knowing what to think. Through the door opening, she spied Robert taking Lily into his arms and with infinite tenderness, kissing her thoroughly. Claire turned, feeling a heat rise to the roots of her hair. Lily and Ames. Her cousin had fallen in love with him the first day she clapped eyes on him on Port Royale’s dock. And then they had worked together in the hospital during the plague. Why was she surprised? They had sailed on the Golden Gull for two weeks. Wasn’t that a heady formula for romance to blossom? Sunlight poured into the room. Claire stood in silence swallowed in shadow.
Lily bid her goodbyes to Ames. The front door snapped shut.
“Claire!” Lily entered the library and engulfed her in a hug. “I’ve so much to tell you.” Lily sounded so fresh and animated, beaming with happiness. Overnight, she had transformed. Gone was the tight bun, her thick dark hair fell in long graceful curves over her shoulders. Even her dress, normally austere, fell femininely appealing and her violet eyes glowed.
The Winds of Fate Page 24