“Grandfather,” he admonished with gentle amusement. “Have I taught you nothing, child of my heart. Call me Grandfather.”
I love you, Grandfather.
Overhead, a black and white frigate bird wheeled and dived toward the ship against a backdrop of sky so blue that it seemed unreal. Fish jumped and seagulls skimmed the surface of the water. It all seemed too beautiful to Caroline to hide the sudden death she had seen with her own eyes.
What was real and what was not? What if Reed was already dead of prison fever? What if he had been executed? She would not know it. To her, he would still be alive. She could hear his teasing laughter, see the way his rusty-brown curls fell back from his high brow and receding hairline. If Reed Talbot was already lying in his grave in New York but alive in her mind, what was the truth? Was he dead or alive?
Not New York.
The words came so clearly that Caroline glanced around to see who had spoken. She was alone on the deck. But the voice had not been Kutii’s, had not been any man’s; unmistakably, the voice had been a woman’s.
“Who are you?” Caroline asked. The only sounds she heard were the swish of water, the creak of rope and canvas, the groan of the ship, and the faint whistling of a seaman high above the deck in the crow’s nest.
She closed her eyes and tried to concentrate on Reed’s face. Instead, her brother’s plain features were obscured by those of Garrett Faulkner, and that same question returned to plague her. What was real?
All her life, she had been governed by reason, a trait she’d taken from her Grandfather Kincaid, according to her mother. She had married Wesley because they were friends, and she was comfortable with him. She had accepted his proposal because it was the sensible thing to do—the decision most likely to ensure the well-being of Fortune’s Gift.
She had never been a flighty female prone to hasty decisions. She had used her intelligence rather than her passions to make important choices. She was a sensible person. And she had been happy in her union with Wesley. Or had she?
This marriage had been completely different from the first moment she laid eyes on Garrett Faulkner in her bedchamber. They shared nothing more than a wild sense of humor and a healthy lusting after each other’s bodies. This was a marriage of convenience—nothing more.
She did not . . . could not love Garrett.
But her reality was that she did.
“Noah told me what you did to save him.”
Caroline started. Garrett was standing right behind her. “How did you . . . Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you—”
“You were deep in thought, Mistress Faulkner. I didn’t mean to startle you.” He flashed her a devilish grin. “That took a lot of courage—facing down that British lieutenant.”
“And where were you?”
He chuckled. “I’ll never tell.”
“But why would you hide?” she demanded. “You were in no danger of being impressed as a seaman.”
He shook his head. “Don’t be too sure of that. I was a naval officer once. It wouldn’t take much imagination on that lieutenant’s part to see me in uniform again.”
“So you hid and left your friend to face them alone?” She was relieved that he was safe but also annoyed with him.
“Apparently, Noah wasn’t alone. He had you to fight for him.” Garrett grinned again and touched his cocked hat in a salute. “Wesley was right. He always said you could take on the whole British navy and come out ahead.” His mood grew serious. “None of us thought they would take blacks. They never touched Eli.”
“Eli is half the size of Noah,” she said. “I suppose they were looking for strong slaves.” A horrible thought surfaced in the shadows of her mind. “That lieutenant said they were looking for Osprey,” she continued. “Why would they look for him aboard the Kaatje?” Her eyes searched his face for any hint of what he was thinking.
Garrett met her gaze levelly. He pursed his lips. “No, I don’t know why they would. But if they’ve put out a warrant for the man, they’re checking every ship. It’s common procedure.”
A cold chill crept up from the pit of her stomach. “How did you know there was a warrant for his arrest?”
“Noah told me. Why? Do you know him, Caroline?”
“Know him? No, I don’t know Osprey . . . but I intend to.” Her voice took on a thread of steel as she pushed away her foolish thought that Garrett might be the traitor. Surely, if he’d been guilty, it would have shown on his face, she reasoned. He wasn’t that good an actor.
“If you’re going to be my husband,” she said, deciding to trust him a little, “you might as well be warned. Wesley died because of that bastard Osprey. Wesley died and Reed’s in prison. And I’m going to make it my duty to find this Osprey. When I do, I’ll turn him over to the British or the Americans, or anyone who promises me that they’ll hang him—the sooner the better.”
Matthew “Red Hands” Kay held the small cask over his head and drained the last of the fiery island rum into his mouth. “Empty, by God!” he roared, heaving the wooden container against the wall. He staggered back against the bed and slapped the mulatto wench on her bare bottom. “More rum!” he demanded. “More rum!”
Yee giggled drunkenly and collapsed facedown on the stained sheets. Her twin sister, Yaa, slid off the far side of the bed and weaved unsteadily, pendulous breasts swaying, toward the doorway of the large bedchamber.
“And be quick about it!” Matthew ordered. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, slid into a gilt Italian armchair, and surveyed his father’s room with bloodshot eyes.
The marble-topped table was cracked down the center and littered with spilled food and drink. A delicate carved chair had suffered the loss of one leg; a cutlass was buried in the teakwood mantel, and blood and chicken feathers covered the Oriental rug beside the bed. The rooster—or what remained of it—dangled from one bedpost beside a rusty pair of leg irons. Worst of all, his grandfather’s precious portrait of a redheaded woman had been used as a target. A neat hole from a pistol ball pierced the lower corner of the picture, nearly taking off the jade’s foot.
“You should see your room now, Papa,” he said. His words struck him as exceedingly funny, and he laughed long and loud. “You always were a sanctimonious pig. Not pig.” He belched. “Prig. Peregrine Kay was a sanctimonious prig.” His snicker became a snort and then a series of choking coughs that brought a foul taste into his mouth. “Damn you, Yaa. Get back here with that rum. My mouth tastes like bilgewater.”
He sniffed. The smell of chicken blood and feces was disgusting. “What the hell did we use that rooster for anyway, Yee?”
The woman on the bed continued to snore loudly.
Matthew snickered again and scratched the hair around his ballocks. He was as naked as the twins. Leaning back as far as he could, he sucked in his gut and admired his thick, red cod. It might be limp now, but by the king’s royal arse, it was a mighty weapon when he was primed.
He kicked at the riding crop on the floor with his bad foot. Three toes he’d given to a lemon shark off the coast of Panama when a Spaniard had blown away their mainmast and set the ship aflame. He limped a little since, but pull on a boot with a little leather to stuff the toe, and he was the equal of any man on a dance floor.
“Yaa!” he bellowed. What the hell time was it, anyway? A louse nipped him sharply under the armpit, and he caught the vermin and cracked it between dirty, broken fingernails. He stood up and walked stiffly to the nearest window, then threw open the louvered shutters and let the hot light flow into the room.
Matthew blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to decide what day it was. If it was Sunday, he’d sure as hell missed Mass. And if he’d missed church again, Mama would be furious with him.
Scratching his head, he went to the prie-dieu in an alcove in the far corner of the room, turned the Holy Mother’s face from the wall, knelt, and mumbled a hasty prayer. Now at least he could tell Mama that he had done his rosary this morning—
if she asked.
“Red Hands! Where are you, my bull? My ram?” Yaa’s husky voice echoed through the room. “The lady been calling for you.”
Matthew murmured “Amen,” rose, and went back into the main room. “What did you tell her?”
Yaa had put a wrap around her loins, but her huge breasts still hung free for his touch. He caught one and weighed it in his hand, pinched the large dark nipples between his thumb and forefinger. She giggled and grabbed for his crotch.
“No time for that now,” he said, snatching the crockery bottle from her hand. He took two long swigs and sighed. “Damn but that takes the tar off a man’s hull.” His head ached from the back all the way around to his eye sockets. “What day is this, Yaa?”
“Sunday.”
“Oh, shit, I was afraid of that.” He exhaled softly. “Has the lady been to church?”
“Where else she be this day?”
He grunted and shoved the bottle back into her hands. “Where’s my clothes? Got to have my clothes.” He looked around the room and realized that what he’d been wearing two days ago was no longer wearable—or even identifiable as waistcoat and breeches. “Where’s that damned Juan? Tell him I need—”
“He on his way. Yaa know you need’m.” She grinned, flashing a silver-capped tooth.
Matthew scratched at his groin again. “Braid my hair,” he ordered. He prided himself on his thick, curling mane, as dark as the twins’ hair with the aide of a little lampblack. All of his wigs were black. He’d never favored powdered hair on a man. It made him look too womanly.
By the time the girl had tamed the unruly mass into a single braided club down his back, his manservant had come in with shirt, breeches, and waistcoat. “The lady be in a terrible mad,” Juan said, helping Matthew into the white lawn shirt.
“Clean this mess up,” Matthew said as he left the room. “And get her out of here.” He motioned toward the sleeping Yee. “I never could stand a coarse woman.”
Servants stepped back out of reach of Matthew’s fist as he hurried through the sprawling house. Damn! he thought. He’d told those girls he had to make Mass on Sunday. He’d have the hides off them if Mama was truly fierce with him. Was it too much to ask, that a man be able to relax on the few nights he spent at home?
He stopped outside a double set of huge paneled teakwood doors. “Mama,” he said. His stomach felt nauseous. He hoped she wasn’t going to yell at him. He hated it when she yelled. “Mama?” With a rising knot in his throat, he pushed open the door.
Chapter 13
“Matthew.” Mama was clad all in black this afternoon with a Spanish lace mantilla over her sparse white hair. She did not rise from her cushioned, high-backed chair, but extended both wrinkled hands to him in the familiar gesture that never failed to bring a catch to his throat.
A huge ruby flashed on one slim finger, a priceless, square-cut emerald on another. Mama’s left hand was adorned by only a single gold wedding ring, worn thin with age. Her nails were very long and carefully shaped.
“A good day to you, Mama,” he replied, taking her tiny hands in his. She squeezed tightly, showing surprising strength for one of her advanced years.
“Matthew, darling.” She turned a withered cheek for his kiss. Her skin was the color of old bronze and cool to the touch; her voice was as crumbly as dried sugar cane.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked. He worried constantly about her health, although he’d never known her to be sick a day in his entire life. His mother was long past the time when most women had gone to their graves, but she was unique enough to be immortal. He didn’t want to think about her dying—not ever. In all the world, she was the only one who had ever loved him, and the only one he had ever loved . . . except for Simon.
Thinking about Simon made Matthew’s headache worse. His son—his only son—lost to him forever. Unless we meet in hell, he thought wryly. For not even a loving father could imagine Simon in heaven.
Mama frowned. “I did not see you at Mass this morning.”
“What?” He watched a small green lizard dart along the windowsill and pretended ignorance. The scent of orchids was almost overwhelming. Mama’s garden, just outside the floor-to-ceiling louvered doors, was full of orchids—in every size and color. The heavy smell blended with the odor of citrus and flowering vines.
“Mass. You were not at Mass. Have a care for your soul, Matthew,” she rebuked gently. “I fear your sins are . . .”
He smiled at her as a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders. “You pray enough for both of us.” She wouldn’t yell at him today. Mama might be deadly, but she was never treacherous. If she was angry with him, she said so at once. “I remembered my decades,” he soothed. “And I promise my next prize to that convent of yours.”
“A pirate cannot buy his way into heaven.”
“I am no pirate. Corsair, maybe, or buccaneer.” He chuckled. “Who else could Falconer find to do the dirty work so efficiently?”
“You are no longer a young man, Matthew.”
He shrugged. “Then I will repent of my sins and take up a life of good works and charity as soon as . . .” He grinned heartily. “As soon as I am too old to enjoy a good swiving.”
“For shame, to jest of such serious matters.”
“I will change my ways when I am your age and too old to sin.”
“How can you speak to your aged mother in such a fashion?” she admonished.
He did not miss the twinkle of mischief in her bright eyes. Once, they must have been as brown as earth; now they swirled with gray and silver. But they were still shrewd eyes, eyes that could bore into a man’s heart and ferret out the lies he told himself and others. “You cannot tell me that you do not have your own lusts, Mama? Where else would I have inherited such an appetite? Not from Father, though Lud knows he was besotted with you. Else why would he have married a penniless—”
She laughed, a rustling sound that made him imagine the once vibrant woman beneath the wrinkles and the gnarled flesh. “I was a serving woman in this house, and he was the son of a royal governor,” she said proudly. “He came to me in his hour of need and you were conceived. Then I gave him what no other woman could give him—a son. We were married, Peregrine and I, because the church would not legitimize you if we were not.” She laughed again. “It cost a king’s ransom—even in those days when money went farther than it does today. But Peregrine Kay would not have his son a bastard. His father, Governor Matthew Kay—you are named after him, you know. A great man, Governor Kay, though not so far-thinking as your father. Your father suffered from the falling sickness, but that did not prevent him from . . .”
Matthew shifted restlessly in his chair and wondered if the twins had left the house. He had heard this story of his mother’s wedding and his father’s genius a hundred times. Matthew’s mind wandered as she rambled on. He had promised the crew a week ashore before they set sail for the Brazilian coast, but perhaps—
She rapped him sharply with her ivory fan. “Listen to me when I talk to you.”
“I always listen.”
“You listen, but you do not heed me. You will go to hell. My only child, burning forever in the fires of—”
“I went to confession only last week, Mama. Surely you can’t believe that even I could sin enough to damn my soul in seven days.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do not treat me like a fool. They do not call you Red Hands for nothing. I know of that French merchant, Paysanne, you took off Cuba last month. And I heard of atrocities performed on the passengers.”
“They would not disclose the location of certain valuables. An unfortunate misunderstanding.”
“I am very disappointed in you, Matthew. Your father would never have—”
“I went to confession last week, Mama. My soul is as fresh as a new-washed leaf.”
She looked unconvinced. “My maids have been complaining. Remember that you are a guest in my house. Confine your attentions to your common women and leave mi
ne alone.”
“You should not listen to servants’ gossip. They exaggerate.” He smiled at her and drew up a chair. “I brought you back something from Trinidad. Wait until you see. It is—”
She held up her hand for silence. “I did not call you from your whoring to exchange pleasant conversation. There is important news. News that you will want to hear. Falconer has received a letter from the Maryland Colony.”
“I do not have all day, Mama. Tell me this message and be done with it.”
“It concerns Simon.” That had his attention. Annemie forced herself not to show her pleasure. Matthew was a terrible man, but a good son. It was necessary to keep him on a tight rein, lest he regard her as lightly as he did other women.
It had been her lifelong sorrow that the only child she and Peregrine had produced should turn out to be so stupid. Matthew would never be anything more than a vicious sea wolf. He was a man born to hang. She had had higher hopes of her grandson Simon, but he had been cut down before he reached his full potential. For Peregrine’s sake, she must put aside her personal desires and convince Matthew to sire more legitimate children to carry on the family name.
“I have the name of Simon’s murderer,” she said softly. Matthew’s dark eyes bulged.
“Give me his name,” he demanded. “Be he prince or pope, I’ll skin the hide from his living body and make a pouch to hold his heart. I’ll burn his—”
“Enough of such childish prattle. Listen to me,” she said, seizing his thick hands in hers. The backs of Matthew’s hands and his arms were covered with curling black hair. She had always wondered where the trait had come from. Combined with his wedge-shaped body and round face, it gave him the appearance of a bear. “The American privateer Osprey was responsible for Simon’s death.”
“That tells me nothing,” he growled. “We knew as much from other sources.”
“Ah,” Annemie continued, “but our other sources did not tell us that Osprey is really a colonial by the name of Garrett Faulkner. Or that this same Garrett Faulkner is even now en route to the islands. Or that he has married Caroline Talbot of Fortune’s Gift on the Chesapeake.”
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