"So this is how you came by the pomander." Phillipe nodded. "Now I understand. Clearly Trenchard and his Spanish friends do not know the contents of the message. They must get it back at all costs and deliver it to their Duke of Alva. But we now have it and will decipher it, if we can manage this new code."
Even as he spoke, Kit sat drawn up to the table, bent over the coded message. The storm had subsided such that he might sit quietly. He had been hard at work the entire time Rozalinde and Phillipe talked. On a separate piece of paper he scribbled different keys, trying out one after another.
Roz couldn't see the paper, not from where she sat. Now curiosity rose inside her, hard and insistent. She slipped off the bunk and crept forward.
The paper was covered with numbers. Rows of them, scripted precisely. "Strange," she murmured, leaning forward to trace a figure with one hand. " 'Tis not a code substituting numbers for letters of the alphabet." She shook her head at what Kit was doing, frowned over the paper as she often did when encountering a challenging problem. "What were the other codes?" she demanded without moving her eyes. "Were they easier than this?"
"Aye, they were," Kit answered gruffly, still working. "It took us some time to guess them, but they were fairly logical in the end. This looks to be more difficult."
Rozalinde refocused her thoughts, released all other ideas and let herself drift, entering the meditative trance that claimed her mind whenever she studied numbers. Without conscious effort, patterns arranged themselves, etched their stark quantities against the clear backdrop of her mind. With joy, she gave in to their power....
Phillipe watched her, his eyes narrowed to two speculative slits. Christopher, he could see, paid no heed to the girl. He was too busy working with the numbers himself. It was not good, he decided, to let the girl do this work tonight. Her face, for all its beauty, looked pinched and tired. She had been through much. And it was eerie, the way she lost herself so thoroughly in a set of numbers scrawled on a sheet.
Making his decision, he scooped up the paper and thrust it into his doublet.
Roz looked up, startled. "Why did you do that? Oh." She relaxed suddenly and sent him a smile of understanding. "It will take us days to decipher, won't it?"
"Exactly, mistress. Rozalinde," he corrected himself, nodding with fatherly solicitude. "I have much experience with these codes, and each new one is more devilish than the last. I want the meaning, but we have time enough for that. Just now, you would benefit more from sleep. We all would," he admonished, tapping his foot as he regarded Kit, who looked indignant. " ‘Tis late. When the light comes, when this storm blows itself out, we must get our bearings and return to the Netherlands. You, my dear, shall have this cabin for the duration of your stay on board. I see there is a bit of water left in the ewer if you care to wash. Tomorrow, when the ship is steady, I will see you have hot water. Bar the door when we are gone. Christopher."
He gestured imperiously. Kit got up reluctantly, as if wanting to prolong his stay. But he did as instructed. The two of them withdrew, leaving Rozalinde alone.
Rozalinde obediently washed herself, removed her wet garments, and hung them over a chair to dry. After drawing on the huge linen shirt and warm stocks given her, she clambered into the bunk and sank with a sigh into the feather mattress. Pulling the blankets to her chin, she stared restlessly into the darkness.
Rozalinde wanted to sleep. Every fiber of her body ached, begging her to rest, to lose herself in the comforting blankness of slumber.
But her mind disdained respite. Her thoughts sped forward, examining what she'd learned from Count Phillipe, appraising her earlier time alone with Kit. Analytically, dispassionately, she reviewed them.
And came to one conclusion. Kit spoke truly. She loved him.
Troth, she thought, stuffing her clenched fist against her mouth to stop the sobs that welled up from deep within. It could not be. It was impossible that she, so cautious, so careful with her heart, should succumb to love. So long she had guarded against it, throwing up her strongest barrier, her inflexible will. But all the things she felt were indisputable.
Raging passion that ruled her body and her mind whenever she was with him.
Searing release when his hands brought her to fulfillment.
And unbearable torment, knowing she was his.
No! She rose up in the bed, the scream tearing at her throat while she fought free of the bedcovers, the ones he had wrapped around her. No and no again!
She must not love him, for love meant marriage, and marriage meant the end of everything she treasured in life. She would have to give up her place of authority in her household and take a place of subjugation in his, to forgo any dealings with business and relegate herself to mindless childbearing and pain. Look at her mother and her grandmother before her. Wives were nothing but chattel, forbidden to think or express their thoughts. But her father—he acknowledged her gifts, encouraged her love of numbers, exposed her to the most brilliant mathematical men in England, France, and the Netherlands. He was an exception to the rule.
Her legs now free of the blankets, Roz forced herself back to calmness, sinking down on the bed and letting her thoughts race back to her last journey to the Netherlands, long before this Spanish trouble had erupted, to a time when her father's health was good and they lived happily in London.
Her mouth curved into a specter of a smile as she remembered those love-filled days. Her father had been a fine figure of a man, the most knowledgeable, the most honored gentleman in the Company of Merchant Adventurers. And she had been at his side, sharing his triumphs, so proud and full of the excitement of life.
She'd been only ten when her father first took her along on his travels. Her mother had come, too, on a journey to France, leaving behind the little ones in the care of their devoted nurse. It was then Roz had discovered navigation. Long ago she'd been entranced by numbers. On this journey she'd learned of the astrolabe, the new cross staff, the compass, and the wind rose.
By twelve she was sneaking out her window at night to learn from her father's navigator. This lasted only a short time, though, because when her father caught her, he didn't whip her, as perhaps he should have. Instead, he chided himself and employed an instructor for Rozalinde. By fifteen she knew everything the man could teach her. On every voyage she accompanied her father and practiced her skills, letting him indulge her desires. But it was valuable work she performed, calculating the ship's latitude, working with the ship's pilot, and perfecting her ability to read the sun and stars.
There was one fateful trip to the Netherlands she would never forget. She had a new rutter, which described all the landmarks along the Netherlands coast. It was as she worked from that book, talking to the ship's pilot, that she learned of Gerard Mercator, a Flemish man.
"Please, Papa," she had begged, "arrange for me to meet him. They say he is a mapmaker and a skilled mathematician—that he knows the formation of many lands and bodies of water. I must hear his theories. Say you will." He had smiled indulgently and caressed her hair—her strong, loving papa. "I should not," he told her, pushing back his own graying hair as he weighed his decision. "What would your mama say, if I let you go among so many men?"
"Twill be only you and he," Roz wheedled, hanging on his arm and reaching on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Perhaps one other if you must find someone to introduce you. Say you will."
He'd given in to Roz's cozening. He loved her too well to deny her anything. And she ... she adored him, in part because he reveled in opening her mind to the wide world of the intellect, in seeing her grow and gain knowledge. And he let her display her skill before any man.
Late into the night she'd sat at her father's side while Mercator talked, filling sheet after sheet of paper with calculations and sketches to demonstrate his theories. The host of the inn where they dined brought candles by the score to illuminate their work, and Roz stared, fascinated, lost in the numbers, only coming back to earth to barrage Mercat
or with questions, insisting on knowing everything, often taking up a pen to illustrate certain ideas herself.
It would be goodbye to all that if she wed. All that she held dear would disappear, like sea mist evaporating before the hot morning sun. Worse still, her father was dying. Bending her head until it submerged beneath the blankets, Roz wept, releasing the hot tears along with the pain.
But when her tears were spent, when she lay with her head on the pillow, once again calm, logic returned, soaring into her soul and repossessing her mind.
She would not wed with Christopher Howard, as he'd hinted. Not even if her father died, which he would not, she swore fiercely. She would redouble her efforts when she returned, arranging for her mother to be completely free to nurse him, sending for the best physicians to restore his health. And when she was one and twenty, she would be his partner. She would let no one deny her legal rights. As a woman of age, she could own property, hold money in her own name, do almost anything she liked. When she was one and twenty....
Rozalinde sat bolt upright in the bunk, a sudden thought striking her. What day was it? Since leaving West Lulworth, she'd lost track of time. Urgently her brain scrambled to count the days. Today must be the twentieth of September.
Three days! In three days she would be one and twenty. Legally she would have rights!
Letting herself drift back down on the pillow, she cherished the thought, relishing its comfort. She need not rely on a man to handle her affairs. Jonathan could belong to the drapers' guild, which would keep things proper. But she would continue to run her father's business, just as she did now.
And she would not succumb to love, even if she felt it.
So resolved, Roz settled herself in the bunk and prepared herself for sleep, alone with the swinging lantern, the creaking sounds of the ship, and the lash of wind and wave.
Pale pearl of morning. Cocoon-like curve of dreams. Somewhere just beyond the edge of sleep, Kit hovered. She was there again, that silken, provocative siren. She haunted him nightly, offering the thing he wanted. Usually she tempted and taunted. When he reached, she would fade. A dream, cracked and broken, oft repeated and old. Tonight he didn't want her—a woman who didn't exist.
But this time something was different. He drew breath, held it—the moment infinite and silent, and he, afraid to hope.
For the first time, he saw her distinctly: her face of infinite sweetness, her eyes all alight. Earth, air, fire, and water—elements combined and crumbled to nothing before her glory. Parting the ether where angels tread, she came to him. Even the stars were muted, shining around her. Beauty's overmatch, this time he knew her. Tonight he was sure.
Shedding her garments, she revealed more of her secrets. The plain kirtle skirt she always wore fell to the floor with a whisper. The kirtle bodice, simple to the point of severity, dropped from her fingers to join it. Next she removed her busk and tossed it away. Pulling down her smock, she revealed her ivory shoulders, which gleamed a scintillating white in the sultry dawn.
The need in Kit intensified. He wanted her with all his being, not just with his body. Where previously a stone resided in his chest, an awakening, throbbing heart now took root. Yet she was a woman of scruples, and he, a man of transient fires, burning in the night. For her he would fling the waters, douse the flame. Anything, to have her. Slim, tapering waist, flaring hips and thighs, she provided constancy against his mutability—they were opposites hung together in eternity, preparing to merge. Still his desire escalated. He was ruled by the stars and the stars were heathen. His pent-up need spilled over. His fingers met the bare shoulders that so bewitched him. Her breasts were like blossoms, demanding his lips. Bending he savored their fragrance, letting her purity invade him. I love you. For the first time in his dreams, he heard the living words fall from her lips. Her eyes spoke her heart's constancy, plainly for him to read. She was a woman of honor. If he took her, he must return her feeling. And that he desired above all things. Parting her legs, he prepared to give himself up to the holy ecstasy of her warmth. The dream changed abruptly; a nightmare loomed with gaping maw. He fought it, tried to hold on to the first dream, but the nightmare closed in on him, negating all else.
He was very small—no more than five. Across the chamber stood his mother, fair as the rose, dressed in shining garments. She held a gaily wrapped present—something for him ... something forbidden by his father. She set the top spinning. The marvelous colors swirled dizzily in his head, along with her laughter. It was his natal day. God, how he loved her, so full of light and pleasure— things alien to his father. As Kit watched the whirling top,his entire being quivered with fear.
Pressing her finger to her lips, she shook her head, biding him keep the secret. He must not laugh out loud, he must not tell ...
It happened like evil magic—the Earl of Wynford stepped into the room. Silent. Ominous. Ordered the toy way. His knuckles showed white where they gripped the hated cane. It tapped against his shoe, deafening in the room.
"No," Kit cried. Brave in the midst of innocence. "It's my toy. From Mama." He tried to run to her, crying piteously.
His father caught him in his uncompromising grasp. One slice of the hated stick smashed the top against the wall. The cane raised again and stung his shoulders. Words rained with blows—words he didn't understand ... fastened inside his consciousness, fused with his pain. Instant obedience ... fear of God ... frivolous nonsense.
His mother stood watching. Tears poured down hot cheeks, onto her gown, spotting it. She did not dare save him. She, too, was guilty. Words delivered to her in rapid fire, hard as blows. Useless female ... shirking duty.
The hold on Kit's collar tightened and he felt himself choking, unable to escape his hate for his father, for the things he demanded — discipline, lessons, perfect self-control. His need for those other things from his mother-forbidden things like laughter, games, spontaneous affection—burned inside him too strongly, making him weak....
Gasping for air, he fell to his knees before his father, clutching his throat. His mother was gone. There was nothing but this stern man and the hated discipline.
After that, there was the journey. Five days on horse-back, traveling with his brother and father to Oxford. Too many lessons for a boy of five, of six, of seven. Too young to be at school with only an older brother and a tutor. Wanting his mother. She was gone when he returned to West Lulworth. Looking everywhere for her. Empty inside when he heard she had been sent away, too far for him to follow, far to the north ...
"No!" Kit struggled to regain his senses beneath someone's hand.
"Christopher." The hand shook him again. "Wake up."
Phillipe's face hung above him as Kit came fully awake. He struggled to sit. With relief, he remembered. He was in a common seaman's hammock, slung on the gunner's deck. Sunlight streamed through a gun port, focusing on his face. Squinting, he rolled out of the hammock to gain his feet. "This is unseemly. Why did you not wake me earlier?"
"You needed rest. I instructed your men to leave you." Phillipe's voice soothed, like unguent meeting a hot, fiery wound. Concern radiated from him. "Tell me, Christopher. Tell me about the dream."
Kit squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to escape. But the nightmare part of the dream enveloped his consciousness.
His throat burned raw with bile, just as it had when his father clenched him in his hard grasp. "When I was very young, I ..." He groped for words, found them, let them spill forth. "My mother brought me a present. It was my natal day; I was only five. I loved toys, games I could play with my mother, but my father considered them weakness. My mother was incompetent and frivolous for teaching me to like them. He believed in strict discipline for children; believed she was unfit to teach us proper fear of God. I was foolish enough to demand the right to keep the toy that day, to refuse his orders and say what I wanted instead—to play instead of study lessons, to be with someone who enjoyed life and cared about me ..."
The image of his mother f
lared like a light in his memory. Kit could see her clearly, her smile as she played some meaningless game with him, her laugh the time he bested her at shuttlecock. He could feel her hand as she steadied him before throwing a quoit at the target, the sound of her voice as she said his name.
Another hand was suddenly reassuring on his shoulder. Kit fought the impulse to turn toward it. Standing stark still, he opened his eyes to encounter the blue eyes of his friend. "My disobedience was the last straw, it seems. My father sent me to Oxford with my brother, who had just reached the proper age. I always thought it my fault, for defying him. Later he brought me back to West Lulworth, but my mother wasn't there. He sent her on various trips to his other properties to refurbish the houses and carry out useless tasks. Now I know he purposely removed her influence. He would control his children's rearing, with uncaring servants to do his will. Later, I heard she was at Lulworth when I wasn't. When I was older, we were even there at the same time. Occasionally I tried to remember how I had once felt for her, but I'd lost it. It was better that way, believe me. The worst was over after that."
Phillipe grimaced. With a curious, detached satisfaction Kit observed the pain gather in his friend's face. "Ugly isn't it." He turned away, letting Phillipe's hand slide from his shoulder. He stowed the hammock in a sea chest, giving it a vicious shove in with the others. "You should have woken me earlier. I'd not be a slugabed on my own ship.' "No one said you were."
"There is always someone to think badly "Yourself?"
Kit gave him a savage look before striding off toward the ladder to the upper deck.
"I have already broken my fast," Phillipe said, climbing the ladder behind him, his emotion now carefully masked. "There's hot food at the helm. Not anything special, but it's the best the cook could manage. We can take a bearing when you've eaten. I'll talk to you anon."
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