And as he buried his length in her, he heard her answering moan, followed by the words of love she whispered. And though he knew they were meaningless, he craved them more than anything else he could name.
At dawn the next day, the shores of Germany appeared to those on board the Swiftsure. By late afternoon they were within sight of the outlying islands of the Netherlands archipelago. Phillipe flew his admiral's flag from the top mast, and the Swiftsure was readily admitted to the north port town of Enckhuysen located at the head of the Zuider Zee. There, gathered at the quay, was the entire fleet of the Sea Beggars. Rozalinde spotted The Chalice anchored among them and longed to go straight to her ship.
She was soon disappointed in this desire. In his maddening way, Kit issued strict orders for her to stay on board the Swiftsure while he went ashore. She was to prepare for her wedding. Without waiting for her argument, he disembarked with Phillipe.
As she watched the two men disappear among the throng crowding the busy Dutch quay, Roz felt depressed and disillusioned. Here was proof that Kit insisted on the role of master. Her decision to wed, made in the midst of an idyllic journey, now seemed a miscalculated answer to a confusing equation—try as she would, the answer still came up wrong. No, should have been her answer. Instead, she had said yes.
Standing before Kit's tiny looking glass, Rozalinde inspected herself critically, wondering how she was supposed to prepare for this wedding. Her hair trailed limply over her shoulders, her linen smock had turned a nondescript shade of gray from its repeated encounters with salt water and soap. She would look a fright for this occasion she decided, wrinkling her nose at her appearance. Worse, she had no special gown to wear.
Troth, she thought rebelliously, quitting the mirror and going to gaze morosely out the porthole. She was not vain, but even she desired a garment to do her wedding credit. And a bath first, so the gown would not be sullied. Oh, for her own ornamented tub at home, replete with delicious steam as Margery poured hot water before the fire in her chamber. And the fragrance of sweet lavender soap, made fresh in her stillroom. The comforting scents and sounds of home teased her, making tears leap to her eyes as she thought of her father.
A knock sounded at the door. At her bidding, Tom entered—the young man to whom she had given her water during the voyage. A bucket swung from each hand. Water sloshed on the floor as he crossed the cabin and set them down. Two other crewmen followed bearing a brass hip bath. Roz eyed them with surprise.
"Master ordered it," Tom explained, noting her expression. He emptied first one bucket, then the other, into the bath, followed by an abrupt about-face and a retreat for refills. The other men lit the brazier, and soon it burned merrily, dispelling the room's moisture. Much as she resented the "orders," Roz watched with anticipation as Tom and the other men brought bucket after bucket to fill the bath. It would feel heavenly to wash.
"Tis steaming hot, Tom," she remarked when he announced his last trip. She plunged one finger into the water, pulled it out again. "Would you boil me to soup?"
Tom's cheeks turned the color of a fall russet apple. "Nay, mistress, I mean your ladyship." He stumbled and stammered, embarrassed at his confusion over how to address her. "Cook said to make it hot. I was just followin' orders."
"So you were," Roz said more gently, wanting to put him at ease. "I only made a jest. Is it not allowed, for me to jest with you?"
"Oh, aye." A new flush crept over Tom's face, darker than the last. '"Tis honored, I am. I-I think most well of your ladyship. I mean ... we all do."
Roz found her own color rising. "Did your captain instruct you to pay compliments to his wife?"
Tom regarded her with genuine astonishment at the suggestion. "Begging your pardon, but he didn't never. We would give you your due as his wife, no matter what we thought. But we like you for yourself, an' it please you."
Roz's expression must have flustered him, for he strove immediately to apologize.
"Begging your pardon, your ladyship ... I mean, mistress." He shuffled his roughly shod feet on the floor. "I shouldn't have said so, but 'tis the truth of it. When you gave your water to me, and your bread to Jock, 'twasn't necessary. But you did it just the same."
He meant every word. Roz saw that he did, and she relaxed, feeling gratified. "You don't want to dump me overboard anymore?"
"Oh, no!"
The young fellow's eyes grew so round and horrified, Roz had to fold her lips in a solemn line to contain her laughter. She had no wish to lose this new friendship, so she thanked him and sent him on his way.
He paused at the door.
Roz had placed one of Kit's shirts on the bed—something clean to wear after her bath. But it was stiff and unpleasant to the touch from many washings in salt water. And the lad still lingered at the door. "What is it?" she asked, smoothing the shirt's wrinkles.
"Might we, that is, the crew would like ..."
"Out with it," chided Roz. "What would the crew like?"
"We'd like to give you a revel," he declared impulsively. "We've been paid."
He patted his pocket lovingly and Roz realized the triple pay received that morning burned to be spent.
"When you're wed, come back to the Swiftsure," he pleaded. "We'll have some victuals for you and his lordship."
"Why, Tom." Roz went closer and stared up into his earnest face. "Did they send you to ask?"
His color heightened once again, which answered her question.
"Then we'll come," she promised. "And you may all visit the church with us if you wish."
"Oh, yes, mistress." He bobbed his head eagerly. "We shall."
So Rozalinde went to church that afternoon, not attended by her brothers and sisters and her parents, as she'd always imagined her wedding would be. Nor was she given away by her father, as she'd dreamed. Instead, her family consisted of thirty brawny ship's men, and she was given in marriage by the Count of Hoorne.
As she walked down the aisle of the tiny Dutch church, clean and freshly scented from her bath, laced into a new silk gown of azure blue with sleeves of primrose yellow that Kit had unexpectedly, gratifyingly, bought her, she gazed into the face of her intended and felt her heart swell.
She had buried herself in logic for so long, emotion felt for a man had frightened her. So she had cast it out of her life, choosing instead to immerse herself in the love of parents and siblings. Her days had been calm and orderly. Given the rewards of work and family, she'd not missed being wed. She had convinced herself she didn't need it, and no man had tempted her from her stance.
Christopher Howard had changed all that. For the first time, she found herself drawn to a man—passionately, illogically, irrevocably. Her generous heart, taught to love by loving parents, had gone out to him joyously. Here was a kindred spirit—a mind that worshiped at the same intellectual altars as hers, a spirit that cherished freedom.
But there the resemblance ended. Where Rozalinde's heart had been opened by nurturing, Kit's had been closed by fear. Where she had been taught to reach out to others, Kit had learned withdrawal as the only protection from pain. The emotions passed to him by his father had been hurt and rage. His life's tutor was sorrow; whereas Rozalinde had looked up to a father who taught her self-respect through his unconditional love.
Could she change what Kit was and what he felt? There was no reason to think so. Yet she did think it.
The swelling tones of the organ vibrated in the tiny church. Roz placed her hand on Phillipe's arm and they began the long walk down the aisle. He wore a new doublet for the occasion. Clearly the men had gone on a shopping foray, outfitting both themselves and her. The warmth of his body emanated through the stiff black silk of his sleeve, and she sought his gaze as they walked, looked into his blue eyes, gratefully received his reassurance that she did the right thing.
They drew closer, and for the first time Roz dared search the gathered figures before the altar for Kit. He stood beside a man in gray, whom she
recognized as Courte Philips, the captain who had called on her in West Lulworth to offer The Raven. So, she realized, the fellow had worked for Kit from the start. A spark of irritation jumped inside her, then subsided as she recognized Kit's attempt to protect her on her voyage, Kit's wish to buy all her damaged lace. Her heart was too preoccupied to linger over old grievances. It contracted and expanded, pumping a multitude of emotions through her body, some of them joyous, many of them fearful.
She and Phillipe passed the last pew and stopped at the altar. Before Rozalinde the priest waited. Kit stood a few feet away.
By rights he should have come forward to meet her, but he stood as lifeless as a block of stone dug from Portland quarry near Lulworth. Roz loosed Phillipe's arm and went' to him. It might always be her fate to put aside her pride and reach out to him. She risked her entire future, yet she did it willingly. Catching Kit's hand, she placed her palm trustingly in his.
A spasm crossed his face. Alarm filled her at the sight of his fear. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared. Kit again assumed the controlled mask he showed the world instead of emotion. Turning, he led her to their expected position before the priest.
The priest prayed. The brief vows were said. The last words of the rite melted away into echoes in the church, and the crew of the Swiftsure gave a great huzzah as Kit guided the new countess of Wynford the way she had come up the aisle of the old church. As they approached the door, a man stepped out of the shadows. He looked to be in his early forties, tall, auburn-haired, blue-eyed, his dashing handsomeness not the least faded by his age. Stepping forward to tower over Roz, he took her free hand and bent over it in a courtly kiss.
By then Phillipe had spied him and hurried forward to fall on one knee before his prince. Roz felt a great wave of awe mixed with gratitude as she realized her humble marriage ceremony had been attended by William of Nassau, Prince of Orange. It was easy to understand how the man inspired fidelity in his people. The vibrant eyes radiated a warmth Roz sensed as he gazed at her. Then he smiled, and she felt the charisma emanate from him.
"Your Highness, I am honored." She dropped him her deepest curtsy while Kit bowed and the prince raised Phillipe to his feet.
"The honor is mine."
His gaze admired her in a courtly manner, traveling rapidly over the low-cut neck of Roz's gown, lingering on the tight lacing of her waist. Roz blushed hotly, returning his smile. "Will Your Highness honor us by coming, to the Swiftsure for a wedding revel? We have only meager hospitality to offer, but what we have is yours."
The prince sketched a bow and inclined his regal head. "I would be pleased to join you tonight for pleasure. Tomorrow," he nodded to Phillipe, "we must get down to business."
Roz stepped forward boldly. "You will allow us to aid you? We shall expect to do all we can after the devoted assistance given us by the Count of Hoorne."
Again his eyes assessed her, and Rozalinde felt herself gripped by the intense personality of the man. She was overjoyed when he nodded, accepting her offer. When the time came to fight the Spanish, she would refuse to be left behind.
Back on the Swiftsure, night swooped down on them in a rush, overwhelming in its beauty. A slice of moon rose in the inky black sky that hung, full of glittering stars, over the vast bay of the Zuider Zee. Kit's men set off fireworks as part of the promised revel, their flaming lights dazzling against the curtain of night. They ate and drank for hours by the light of wax tapers, toasting one another, Dame Fortune, and God in His goodness for bringing them safely home.
When Roz's heart was too full to speak, Kit hoisted her in his arms and carried her to his cabin, where they made love slowly, deliberately, giving each other such pleasure as neither had imagined possible. After, Roz fell into an exhausted slumber, worn out by this intense culmination of their voyage. The Chalice, her revenge against Trenchard, would wait until later. Her sleep was deep and utterly without dreams.
Toward dawn she came awake suddenly, wondering where she was. In the pale light of morning, she remembered, and felt for the gold ring on her right hand. It encircled her second finger, solid and heavy. She was wed.
The clutch of doubt tore at her. She pushed it away. She would not succumb to it. It was a thing of the past.
Rising quietly from the bunk so she would not waken Kit, she pulled on a silk night robe Kit had bought her. Its amber ripples slid over her bare skin, making her feel bewitched and bewitching. In a pensive mood, she sat herself down at Kit's desk and pulled the Spanish communique toward her.
The numbers entered her thoughts, turned about in pleasant arabesques, weaving and twining with other thoughts. Soon the other thoughts dissipated and she entered the numbers totally. Bent over the paper, she traced them with her finger. They made no sense. Yet they did. There was no pattern present, and yet if something had no pattern, there would be another key to its meaning. Her gaze lingered over the groups—sets of three and sets of four. A one, a six, a one. A two, an eight, a one. A three, a three, a four, a two.
She let her mind drift, open to suggestion. Mayhap if she prayed, God would show her the answer. The thought made her remember Phillipe, the Latin words he spoke when she'd heard him at prayer one night. How strange that he must pray in Latin while she prayed in English. Yet God heard them both. She knew he had prayed for the same thing as she, and behold, they had arrived safely at the Netherlands.
And then there were the Spanish, who also prayed in Latin, the same as Phillipe. This wicked Duke of Alva, for example. They probably even used the same Bible. Yet the two had little or nothing in common. It proved that sharing a religion did not cause people to understand one another.
Suddenly Rozalinde gripped her quill so tightly it snapped between her fingers. That was it! Latin. Prayers. She must see Phillipe. Leaping to her feet, she began to dress.
A scant half hour later she was back. She'd found Phillipe easily, thank the good heavens for her fortune. He'd returned to The Hope, as she knew he would. He and the prince were sitting up late, talking. They looked up in surprise as she entered their cabin, escorted by the man on watch. Though Phillipe had thought her mad, he had willingly given her his Latin Bible for her prayers, as she requested. He then insisted she be escorted back to her ship.
Now she trimmed a candle wick and lit it, set the flaring light in its holder beside the open book. Placing the communique before her, she searched the book for the first number. With one finger poised on the column, she began to write.
"Rozalinde, 'tis not yet dawn."
Kit felt a vast irritation as he stirred and opened his eyes. Rozalinde sat at the desk, working. She was always working. "What are you doing?" he grumbled. "You can't have slept more than four hours."
"Nothing," came the terse answer. Her head didn't come up. She didn't stop.
So be it. If he wanted to know what she was doing, he would have to get up. He would chide her a bit and cozen her back to bed.
The predawn air was chill to Kit's skin after the warmth of the blankets. He shivered involuntarily and reached for his shirt and trunk hose. After pulling them on, he groped for his stocks on the floor. His shirt released the odor of perfume that he'd brought Rozalinde earlier. It smelled of new spring roses, the scent his mother had worn.
In a dim little Dutch apothecary's shop, he'd found it. At first he'd turned away, wanting to avoid it. Choose another, he'd told himself. The apothecary had many scents. It need not be that one.
But he'd been drawn to it, until finally he relented. He'd been born of that woman and all his feelings had died because of her. He would think of her as he wed with another woman, to remind himself of the vulnerability of the heart.
When he'd returned to the Swiftsure, ladened with gifts for his intended, he'd found Rozalinde nude and tempting in the hot tub of water. Uncorking the little bottle, he had rubbed its sweet contents all over her swelling curves. Her hair was wet and tangled from washing, and he combed it out for her, s
centing it with the perfume. He'd never rendered such service to a woman, and as he did it for the first time, he realized he liked it—enjoyed the feel of her hair drying in his hands.
Now, in the darkness of early morning, he smelled the scent of roses and remembered his intimacy with Rozalinde. Pausing behind her chair, he leaned over her shoulder and kissed her cheek.
She looked up and pointed wordlessly to the book.
"Latin," he murmured, glancing down. "Where did you get that ..." He stared more intently at the book, then at her writing. "You've done it! You've broken the code. Rozalinde!"
With a whoop he wheeled about, pulled up a stool and reached for her pen. "It will go more quickly if I write while you read the letters. The Spanish are eternally pompous, even with their secrets. They'll go on for pages. I pray you," he said, gesturing with the quill. "Begin." It was then he noticed she was grinning at him.
"You agree to take my dictation?"
"It means nothing," he growled at her in mock anger. "I concede nothing to you."
She arranged the Bible and communique side by side, in meticulous order. "Not even my genius?"
He grinned back at her. "You are a genius. But you're also an irrepressible saucebox. Begin."
Rozalinde read off a set of numbers, then searched for the place in the book—the chapter, verse, and word. She read off the word's first letter. The pen scratched in Kit's hand. He stopped to dip it in the ink pot and Rozalinde paused, continued. She read another set of numbers, matched them with the indicated section of the Bible, found the correct letters. Slowly, an intelligible message unfolded beneath Kit's hand.
"By heaven!" He stood up abruptly, knocking over the stool. "It says the Spanish intend to attack us two days hence. They intend to take the Beggar Fleet by surprise, conquer it, and assassinate the Prince of Orange."
"No!" Rozalinde strained to see Kit's writing. "Why didn't you say so sooner. We must finish the letter. There will be important details."
Fighting his impatience, Kit righted the stool. They labored painstakingly until the letter was finished. Just as the sun slipped over the horizon, Kit sent a messenger to Phillipe and the Prince of Orange, telling them the news and setting the hour that day for a council of war
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