by Susan Ward
More than an hour passed. Eight bells came and went, without Indy brining their dinner. At last, she was unable to bear the silence and the tension, convinced things had gone badly topside, she pushed out of the chair and began to move about the cabin again in loud, agitated movements.
It was then, from behind the book, she heard, “No.”
She froze at the door. “Ah, he speaks. What do you mean no?”
Morgan snapped shut the book. “Stay put, Little One. The decks topside belong to the men right now.”
She didn’t know what to make of that. She sank back into her chair. He rose from his bed, poured two glasses of wine, handed her one and then moved to stand in front of the stern windows.
By way of conversation, Morgan said, “What do you say to joining me on land, Little One? You do seem a trifle restless of late. Cabin fever, perhaps.”
Something in how he looked at her made her blush.
When she didn’t answer, he added, “I would enjoy some time on land.”
His words, friendly, were also intended to end the conversation. He reclined back on his bed, slowly sipping his wine.
The sky beyond the stern windows was pitch black before Merry heard Mr. Craven, Mr. Seton, and Mr. Boniface talking outside the cabin. A sharp knock on the red oak door made Morgan look up, though he didn’t rise from his bed as he bade the men to enter.
Morgan’s eyes, dark and intense, fixed on Mr. Seton in a hard stare. “Well?”
Brandon Seton looked nervously at Merry. From certain tentatively, tactful glances she’d received from all three men, it seemed Mr. Seton was waiting for Indy to collect her.
She was never permitted to remain in the cabin when Morgan’s three senior officers met with him.
It was obvious Morgan knew the cause of Mr. Seton’s reluctance, therefore, no one was more surprised than Merry when he snapped, “Get on with it. Speak. What the devil took so long?”
“Honest men or so we thought,” came Mr. Seton’s cautious response.
Morgan calmly arched a brow. “Well?”
There was a brief pause as Mr. Craven gave Merry one of his malevolent stares. Morgan’s gaze moved among the three men, fixed on Tom Craven, and then began to sparkle.
Meeting him stare for stare, the captain said, “I’m really getting tired of waiting. Are you going to tell me or not?”
Mr. Craven favored Morgan with a blighting gaze. Finally he said, “You were right, Varian. She was the Heritage. And among her cargo was a shipment of Rensdale’s gold bound for Ile de la Tortue. They surrendered the gold without fight, and it is now in the hold.”
“Ah,” said Morgan, moving to his table to pour himself more wine. Knowing what Tom’s reaction to this would be, Morgan’s smile turned lazy and potent as he ordered, “Change course for Isla del Viento.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A week later the Corinthian reached the Isla del Viento. Merry stood at the port rail beside Mr. Seton, as they pulled into a harbor populated with ships. It was Morgan’s island and they were Morgan’s ships, over a half dozen of them.
She stared in awe at the verdant saucer of land, with its white coral sand beaches, backing up into luxuriant greenery speckled of crimson-tasseled blooms of cashew trees. There were unspoiled forests spotted of coffee and cocoa growing for export. The occasional field planted of indigo, a parcel here or there, for the support of the small number of families who lived on the island and tended them for him.
Morgan’s home, if this were indeed his home, was one of the most beautiful places Merry had ever seen. On a hill above the bay was Morgan’s villa. The villa sprawled in fretwork splendor and wooden porches, bathed in sunlight, surrounded by fountains, and well-raked walks of crushed limestone. Elegant and spruce, it was as magnificent as was the man who owned it.
For the first time Merry realized Morgan was not just a pirate. Whatever else he was, he was an extremely wealthy man. It only added to the mystery of him.
Watching the busy activity on the docks, Merry said, “I don’t understand any of this. How does one come to own an island, and why does one stay at sea, when one has all this?”
Mr. Seton looked at her, amused. “Morgan likes to say that a thief, who is only a thief, dies a poor man.”
“A thief, no matter his wealth, dies a thief,” she snapped, exasperated. Then, her eyes of horizon blue became very wide. “But, how did Morgan come to own the island? It would take enormous wealth to purchase all this.”
There was a slight hesitation, and then casually Mr. Seton said, “I wouldn’t say purchase. I would say acquired. Morgan acquired the island. How does Morgan acquire anything he wants? As I heard it told, the island belonged to the Deverell family for generations. Morgan killed Lord Deverell over a woman, took his home, and uses his name, when it suits his purposes. That’s all I know, Merry. So, don’t ask more. Morgan is apt to cut out my liver for having told you this much.”
Her gaze shifted to the colors of Great Britain flapping from a flag overhead then to the prow, where Windsong now sparkled in crisp, newly painted white letters.
“So here,” she began cautiously, “he is Lord Deverell?” Then, more sharply on an anxious whisper, “Who is Morgan really?”
Brandon shrugged. “He is a hundred different men, with a hundred different names. No man more real than the next. The second you think you’ve solved the puzzle, you are wrong, and the puzzle changes. Be careful with him, Merry. None of his manipulations are real. Trust none of them. He is a puzzle with no end.”
The grim edge to Mr. Seton’s warning made Merry tilt her face upward to search his eyes. Her days, it seemed, were destined to be full of nuisance warnings she could make no reason of. She’d had a different warning only a morning ago from Shay.
On the next day’s tide, the Corinthian was going back to sea under Mr. Craven’s command, the hold rich with coffee, cocoa, and indigo bound for warehouses in Bermuda. She was to be alone with Morgan for weeks on the island. After giving her that information, Shay had advised her sternly, “Watch yer step, Merry lass. Alone with the mon on land is a curse, not a blessing.”
The barking of the pug pulled Merry from her thoughts. She turned to see Morgan emerge from the companionway with her bag in hand. Her pug followed close, bouncing at his heels, as he paused to give final instructions to Tom Craven.
A second stop was made where Indy sat making aggravated swipes with a knife against wood. Merry strained, wishing she could hear it. The boy looked positively hostile. He wouldn’t even look at her, and had turned away, ignoring her stare.
Then Morgan crossed the deck, extended his hand to her, and they were off. Even wrapped in warnings from the crew, and freshly bathed in Indy’s harsh stare, she was more than a little excited. It had been three months since land, three months on ship, and now she was here on an island in the Caribbean.
She made barely three steps off the plank before she stumbled to her knees. Hovering there, trembling and her brain sloshing, finding her feet was an uneasy task that strangely eluded her.
Before she could stop him, Morgan had her in his arms and was carrying her.
Squirming in alarm, Merry screamed, “Put me down.”
Morgan laughed and continued to walk. “I’m not going to stand on the docks while we wait for your head to clear. After any long period of time on a ship, your body makes an adjustment to the sea’s motion.”
“You could have warned me,” she countered peevishly.
“Yes, I could have. But then, why do you think I never worried you’d run and escape me. You wouldn’t get farther than two steps from the ship. I could track you down with nary an effort.”
Merry’s brows lowered in a scowl.
Over Morgan’s shoulder, the Corinthian got smaller and smaller. Overhead, a lone hawk soared above, watching them, before it disappeared into the jungle. By the time they were at the beach, she was ready to try her feet again and demanded Morgan release her.
“Are you st
eady?” Morgan asked when she didn’t move.
“I am perfectly well to manage,” she said with an obstinate lift of her chin.
“Then why are you still?” Morgan asked gruffly.
“The sand. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Merry sank to the ground, but this time to take off her shoes. The sand was a heated bed of gossamer brightness, deep enough that when she stood, she sank to her ankles in it. Gathering her skirts in her hands, giggling, she walked, then ran across it.
Her face of happy wonder lifted to him. Morgan’s chide for her to hurry along never made it to voice. He’d walked this very beach this morning, never sparing a thought about it. Now with Merry, ivory toned, sun warmed sand was a pleasant experience that took forever. She lifted it in tiny hands, allowed it to drip through her fingers, and then wanted the feel of it against her bare legs.
It took an hour to get from the beach to the villa. Everything they saw came new to her. Nothing escaped her notice or curiosity. She couldn’t pass a palm tree without touching the texture of the trunk, and lowering to giggle, as she carefully examine the pointy tips of a fallen frond.
She asked a hundred questions, missing not one new treasure around her, whether it was a silk-cotton tree or a tropical flower. Every detail found home in her mind and touch. Fingering the soft petals of an orchid was enough to make her smile in joy. A brown pelican skimming low across the bay was enough to make her halt and stare in happy wonder for minutes.
She’d laughed in delight as a conch shell of swirling pink was tucked into her curls at ear, waited eagerly at his urging to hear the song of the sea. Beaming, she asked with sweet shyness that he carry it, because she wanted to keep it for her cousin Kate.
Taking the shell, hoping to move her along in this, getting Merry to move at anything other than Merry’s pace, proved impossibility. He managed to get her only a few feet down the path before he watched her scamper off, fascinated by the array of flowers lining the base of a cashew tree. His smile, unknowingly, held equal elements of affection and exasperation as he waited for her.
Half hidden in a bed of scarlet lilies, Morgan heard her say, “I can’t imagine why you ever leave here. You are a wealthy man. Why do you stay at sea? Why piracy?”
He was amused by her question, and not bothering to hide it from her. “As opposed to what? Being a gentleman plantation owner here? How do you think I acquired all this, and the source of my wealth?”
She rose and followed him. “You have enough wealth to be free to become anything you wish to.”
She wasn’t sure, but his smile seemed a touch sad at the edges. “None of us are free, Little One. Freedom is the illusion of the young. One does not acquire freedom from wealth. The majority of the people on this earth are trapped by the same three things, poverty, necessity or society.”
“Which one are you trapped by?”
He surprised himself by being honest. “Necessity.”
He casually held out his hand. She took it, letting him guide her along the path. He was strangely quiet until the villa came in sight. At the edge of the path that bordered the front lawn, he stopped and turned her toward him.
He said, “Remember. There is no Morgan here. These are respectable people and their safety depends upon you, Merry. One wrong word, and I will have to act unfavorably. We don’t want that to happen, now do we, Little One? You will find them delightful company. For their safety you must address me as Lord Deverell or Varian. Understood?”
“And what happened to the real Lord Deverell?”
Calmly, coldly, he said, “I rid the earth of him and good riddance it was.”
“How can you talk so calmly of killing a man? Why did you kill him?”
With a disquieting smile, he said, “Necessity.”
She started to walk again, fighting against the lump that had suddenly risen in her throat. The pleasant wash of the morning had caused her to forget the dangers of this man. She continued to follow with less enthusiasm and more wariness.
Exiting the jungle, they were soon on velvet lawns plush and green, brightened by flowerbeds. Gaily scattered Chinese Chippendale benches and chairs speckled the grass, and to Merry’s surprise, a wide variety of children’s toys.
Sunlight spilled across the brightly shingled roof. They had but barely reached the graveled carriageway when the front door burst wide. In the opening stood a woman, pretty, blond, crying and laughing.
As she anxiously dried wets hands on her apron, she exclaimed, “Varian Deverell. You could have given me notice.”
A steady stream of children and dogs bolted passed her skirts and down the short flight of steps.
Strong and healthy, bronze from the sun, the children surrounded Morgan in a bouncing horde of youthful enthusiasm.
A pretty copper haired girl of eight, with dancing brown eyes, caught Morgan’s notice first.
“Mama said we’d have a surprise for Christmas. She didn’t say it would be you.”
Morgan had her in his arms and lowered her face until his nose touched hers, the gesture silly and affectionate, so unlike him. “Poor, Lily. Are you sorry your surprise is only me?”
Confident and charming, she leaned back and said, “I am if you didn’t bring me a present.”
Laughing, he said, “Well, that depends on the lot of you. Have you been good for your mother?”
Glowing smiles and nods rewarded Morgan’s words. To Merry’s surprise, he was both willing and able to keep up with their racing chatter.
Children. Who would have thought Morgan liked children, she thought in wonder.
His affection for these children showed clearly on his face and they wouldn’t have flocked to him if it had been false.
Merry was pulled from her thoughts to take note of an irresistible lad, with a dirty face, tugging on Morgan’s coattail. Merry watched as he set down Lily to lift the child into his arms, telling him with a smile he was the grubbiest child he’d ever seen.
The toddler’s sharp-eared mother was quick to move to retrieve the boy, but Morgan only laughed and kept hold on him. “No, Emily. Really, it’s fine. I’d be grubby too, if someone were cooking me candied peppermint in the kitchen. What is that, Walter?”
A boy of five leaned into Morgan’s lowered and offered ear. In a whisper, he asked, “Who is the lady?”
They all looked at Merry, at once.
Morgan said charmingly, “Where are my manners, Walter? This is a very special passenger of mine. Mistress Merry. She’s come to spend Christmas with us.”
Morgan turned to Merry and said charmingly, “Little One, this is the Randall family. Mrs. Randall, her precocious daughter, Lily, then there is Thomas, George, Walter and the grubby one, Charles.” His dark eyes did a thorough once over of the boys. “Yes, that’s everyone.”
The two women regarded each other for a moment with mutual interest. It was the children who saved Merry from what was indeed an awkward moment. Their mother was clearly not pleased Morgan had brought her here, but the children, island isolated and unaccustomed to visitors, enthusiastically pulled Merry into the house.
The villa was beautifully made in the Spanish style and furnished with a discreet elegance that instantly reminded Merry of Morgan’s cabin aboard ship. The interior floors of breadnut timber sparkled and smelled of orange polish. The cream-washed walls surrounded vast arched windows, artfully dimmed by jalousie blinds. The sweetly fragrant air moved lightly through the rooms to cool them. The simple perfection of every detail so artfully camouflaged that its owner was a pirate, that in fact, one could tell absolutely nothing, at all, about the man who lived here. Unless one wanted to make note that everything was perfect and correct.
There was nothing of Morgan’s personality here, except his strange ability to be exactly what he wanted to be, in any circumstance.
Standing in the center of the main foyer with the children, Merry looked askance to see Morgan entering the villa with Emily at his side. She noted the posses
sive hand that claimed his arm. Sharp spears gnawed at her stomach as she wondered if this woman was yet another of Morgan’s mistresses. He seemed to have one on every continent in every port.
Their heads were bent low, and Emily was speaking in a rapid flurry of whispers. Merry caught only two sentences.
Emily’s voice broke with her displeasure as she snapped, “You brought one of your women to my house, Varian.”
Then Morgan’s stern reply, “You forget yourself, Emily. It is my house.”
With a stiff smile twisted, Emily stepped from Morgan to the children, clapping her hands to shoo them away.
“All right, my little heathens, enough, back to your studies. Let the poor girl catch her breath. No, Thomas, you cannot go fishing with Lord Deverell. Studies. Now.”
The children were gone in a flash of long limbs that soon left the foyer in an awkward silence.
Mrs. Randall turned to Merry. “I’m sure you’d like to freshen up, Merry. Do you mind if I just call you Merry? We don’t stand on formality on the island. Would you like me to send a girl for a bath? I know it is the first thing I always want when I reach land. Let’s get you settled in a room, shall we?”
She had Merry’s bag, and her waist by an arm, subtly forcing her toward the stairs.
Morgan said, “The Emerald Room, if you please, Emily.”
Emily turned, stiffened, and froze. “No. It is not…I mean, it is the only chamber in the house not presentable, and has not been renovated as the rest of the rooms. It is completely unsuitable.”
Morgan arched a brow. “Is it clean?”
“Of course.”
“Put her in the Emerald Room, Emily. It gets a pleasant breeze in the evenings. Then, come to me in the study. We can finish our discussion there.”
Morgan didn’t wait for Emily’s response. He disappeared down a long corridor toward the back of the house.
In the custody of Emily, Merry was led up a creaking wood staircase to a bedroom on the backside of the house. The blond was anxiously gnawing her lower lip by the time she opened the bedchamber door.