She attempted to sit up, but the world spun and she hadn’t even opened her eyes yet. The world rocked to and fro making her dizzy with the sensation of movement when her body lay still in the bed. When she did blink her eyes open, she regretted it immediately. The blinding light sent daggers into her brain.
She groaned, clapping a hand over her eyes to block the light. It was too late. Her stomach roiled in protest. The movement continued, rocking her, swaying her. She moved her hand over her mouth and groaned again.
“Wait, wait,” the voice cautioned. Wood scraped floor, then booted feet pounded, and a muffled curse.
Her nausea grew. She rolled onto her side, leaning her head over the edge of the bunk.
“There,” the voice said, accompanied by a hand on her back. She blinked her eyes open in time to see a bucket just as the contents of her stomach surged into her throat.
The hand stroked her back as her stomach seized. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. When she finished retching, he handed her a cloth to wipe her face. She took it gratefully, drying her tears and mouth.
At last, she lifted her gaze. Marco crouched beside her, one hand stroking her back, soothing her.
“Better?”
“Marco,” she sighed, lowering her head back onto the mattress. “I thought it a dream.”
“Rather a dream than a nightmare.”
She slanted a look at him to see him grinning. She rolled her eyes at his optimism, but the motion alarmed her stomach. She stiffened, prepared to grab the bucket.
“Easy,” he said. “No sudden movements.”
She stayed still long enough to know her body would not betray her again. When her stomach no longer threatened, she looked back at him.
Beyond him, she saw an ornate desk filled with maps and charts, shelves containing books and other items, some she didn’t recognize. His brown coat hung on a peg next to the only door in the room. Assorted weapons lined the walls, from blades to pistols to muskets. The only window gave her the view of a clear blue sky.
The items strapped to the walls rocked and swayed with gentle motion. Arianne recognized the constant careening of a ship from her days spent at sea with Marco.
She was on board a ship. His ship, apparently, The Black Rose, as this appeared to be the captain’s quarters.
“What am I doing here?”
“Ah,” he said, tilting his head to look at the window. “Do you recall when I said I’d never force you to come with me?” He shrugged his shoulders as he turned back to her. “I lied.”
She’d suffered blows to the head before, but never from behind. Her fingers itched to inspect the lump she was certain to find beneath the bandages.
She shrugged his hand away from her back. She’d rather stay angry than grateful for the comfort his touch gave her. Having him so near made her knees weak.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam struck you harder than I preferred,” Marco said, pulling his hand away. “He’s been reprimanded, I assure you.” He tightened his fingers into a fist. Arianne wondered how many bruises the good Mr. Fitzwilliam now sported.
“How long have I slept?”
“Longer than I cared for,” Marco admitted. He placed a finger beneath her chin, turning her to face him. “You look dreadful.”
“I feel much the same.”
“I imagine,” he said, grimly. “I can only apologize.”
“It’s not enough.”
“I know.”
“Bridgetown…,” Arianne began, remembering the flames shooting high into the air. “How bad was it?”
Marco stood. “Why?”
“I must know.”
“You were never so attached to the place before,” he remarked with his hands on his hips. “If I recall, you had no desire to ever stay. I truly had little hope of finding you. It was hope and nothing else that led me.”
“How bad?” If only she had managed to slip by Mr. Fitzwilliam before he struck. If only she had her wits about her to know Marco would do something so underhanded. She trusted him once before and he failed her. Why did she not learn her lessons?
He leveled a look in her direction, staring, studying her face. Something dark passed over his eyes.
“You left someone there.”
It was a statement of fact, as if he read the answer in her mind. Or perhaps it was drawn clearly on her face. Either way, it was useless to deny it.
She nodded.
“I see.” He tapped his fingers on the polished mahogany of his desk. The muscles in his jaw clenched. He stayed silent for a moment, long enough for her to wonder if he would answer. At last he spoke. “The damage was close to the water, nowhere else.”
She released a deep breath. Maria and Bess would be safe then. Their house was near the center of town, not along the water’s edge. It was one of the reasons why Arianne obtained the habit of sneaking out at night to visit the water. She loved the ocean. It reminded her of her past.
“Thank you,” Arianne said, relieved she need not have fear of returning to a burned out shell devoid of life.
They were alive.
She felt it.
And she needed to return to them.
Arianne struggled to sit upright. She moved slowly, afraid the change in altitude would make her head spin. Though she felt dizzy, and still a mite queasy, she was able to sit on the bed and not embarrass herself further.
Marco made no offer of assistance. Merely stood, tapping his fingers and clenching his jaw.
“How did you find me?” Questioning him distracted Arianne from the urge to poke at the bandages wrapped around her head. She resisted the temptation to rip them off by focusing on the conversation.
“I had men searching the town,” Marco answered. “They reported tonight that you were spotted heading toward the beach. Why did you go there?”
“I often slip away at night to sit in the sand. It’s a good place to think. The ocean calms me and…” That was enough. She shouldn’t say much more.
“And?”
He wouldn’t relent. Her little slip of the tongue must be addressed. The look in his eyes promised his determination for truth. She could tell him this, at least.
“My sword,” she said, dipping her head in shame. “I considered throwing it into the water.”
“Well, that’s a foolish notion. You need it for your protection.”
“True enough.” Arianne thought of their short interlude with swords before the interruption by Mr. Fitzwilliam. It might not have been Marco to find her alone there. “I see that now.”
“You were ridding it because of me.”
He guessed the truth, she knew. He had always been quite good at seeing through her.
“I considered it often. Tonight, I thought I would.”
“And why didn’t you?”
She could explain that he had interrupted her proceedings. That she had planned to at last rid herself of the sword before his arrival. But that would be a lie. And he’d know it.
The truth was the sword represented another piece of him she couldn’t bear to lose. Another reminder of their time together she couldn’t give up. Every time she thought she was ready, every time she thought it was time to rid herself of his memory, she failed. She wanted to keep him in every way. Even with the memory of a sword.
And it was because of him that she had to go back.
Instead of answering his question, she returned her gaze to him and asked one of her own. “What must I do to convince you to take me back?”
His lips twisted into a malevolent sneer and her breath quickened with surprise. She’d seen him wear this dark visage aplenty while intimidating men during their days of plundering ships, but never in her direction.
“You must know the answer to that question. Why ask it?” He swiped at his desk, knocking over an empty goblet. It clattered onto the floor, rolling to a stop by her feet. He walked to a cabinet in the corner of the room, opened it, and pulled out a decanter and two glasses. Without another word, he
poured a hefty sum, lifted it to his lips, and emptied it down his throat. When he was done, he set the glass on his desk and looked at her. His dark lashes swept over his eyes. Despite her vow not to touch him, Arianne’s fingers itched to do so. Even with the pounding in her head, her desire for him had not lessened.
He poured again, this time filling both glasses to brimming, at least close enough to not spill with the swaying of the ship. Then he set the decanter down and picked up the glasses, taking one to her. He kicked the fallen goblet away.
“Drink,” he ordered.
She opened her mouth to protest, but the dark expression on his face silenced her.
She took the glass, sipping it, letting the liquid burn a path down her scorched throat. She grimaced and licked her lips. Perhaps, she should just hold the glass.
“You will tell me where I need to go.” Marco’s imperious tone brooked no argument. “You will help me recover what you lost. Give me a heading, Arianne. The quicker you help me find what I seek, the quicker I can get you back to Barbados.” His jaw clenched again. He might have said more, but stopped.
And in a flash of insight, Arianne knew what he’d been about to say.
The quicker I can get you back to Barbados…to him.
She left someone behind. He thought it was a man, a lover, someone who had replaced him in her heart. Which was partly true. She bit her lip, ducking her head to look deep within the contents of her glass, so he could not see the truth in her eyes.
Marco was jealous.
No, it couldn’t be.
Marco Dante cared for nothing more than himself. His needs, his desires, his plans always came first. He might be fond of her, he might care for her in his own self-absorbed way, but he would never love her. They shared a passion, long ago. At one time, she had hoped their lives would remain entwined, but in the end, he chose the sea over her love.
“Good,” Arianne said, straightening. “Good. Then let’s get underway. I have little time to spare.”
Her words seemed to strike him. She thought he flinched, but when she looked closer she assumed she must have imagined it. He nodded with measured calm.
“Very well,” he said, clearly. “What’s our heading?”
Chapter Three
Marco paused along the path into town to pick a wild orchid from the lush rainforest. He tugged at the hood Arianne wore over her head to tuck the purplish-pink tropical flower behind her ear as they walked side by side. She tilted her head in curious contemplation before removing the flower to drop it back among the ferns lining the cobblestone path and returned the cloak’s fabric to hide her hair.
“A shame,” he remarked. “It suits you.”
She flashed him another questioning glare, but he ignored her to take in their surroundings.
The verdant mountains of St. Lucia could be seen from afar before they had sailed into the harbor. The mere sight of the island’s beauty should have filled Marco’s head with thoughts of a tropical paradise. That might be so with any other island. He had history with this one, however.
“St. Lucia,” Marco said, disdain dripping from the words. It didn’t offer him much in value and with every trip he landed in trouble. And it was here he fought Samuel. The memory left a bitter taste on his tongue. “When were you here, Love?”
“When I learned of your capture,” Arianne replied, keeping her head down as they walked the side of the busy alley. No need to draw unwanted attention. She kept a dark cloak wrapped around her shoulders and long chestnut curls to disguise her gender since she wore tan breeches borrowed from Mr. Fitzwilliam. “I arrived with William Tarleton only days after. We hoped to find men to help you escape.”
“Young Will?” Perhaps the last person he’d imagine Arianne recruiting to come to his rescue. “With Will as your companion and guide, I can see why you failed to bring about the necessary rescue.”
He remembered Will Tarleton’s youthful exuberance. That lad was one to plummet head first into flames without measuring the chances of emerging whole and unscathed. But his loyalty was without doubt. He was a good lad. An excellent sailor. He could use a lad such as Will.
“Where is Young Will these days? I’d like to add him to my crew. He should be a stone heavier by now, I’d wager.”
Arianne stopped walking. He paused, looking back at her. When she lifted her gaze, Marco saw a brief flash of grief darken her eyes.
“He died,” she said, then ducked her head back down and quickly moved on.
Marco stared after her.
Young Will.
Dead?
It saddened his heart to think of the spirited youth now buried deep in a grave, but what gave him pause was the haunted look in Arianne’s eyes when she told him. She wasn’t simply reporting a fact.
She had seen him die.
The knowledge sobered him. In the two years of his imprisonment, Marco had dwelled daily on her fate, but in order to survive the cruelty of his captors, he’d convinced himself that she was safe and far from harm. If it occurred to him then that she suffered in any way, he might have lost his mind.
Now with his regained freedom, he forced himself to acknowledge the fact that her life was not as mundane as he’d blissfully imagined. She’d been through her own horrors during his imprisonment.
He hurried to catch up to her quickened pace. When they walked side by side again, he opened his mouth to say something, anything that might offer her comfort, but the right words would not come. It was his fault she witnessed poor Will’s death. It was his fault she suffered. If Marco hadn’t been captured, if he hadn’t taken to sea that day when she asked him to stay, he would have been there to protect her, to keep her safe.
Instead, he left her.
He cursed that day over and over, more times than he cared to count. But he couldn’t undo the past. No sense to dwell upon it.
Arianne’s pace slowed. She looked up at a two-story structure covered in chipped paint and boarded windows. The sign above the door was nearly indecipherable, half rusted and dangling from a single hook, but Marco could make out the symbols of a mortar and pestle. The faded sign on the door read in artfully elaborate script Drummond’s Apothecary, Powders and Elixirs, Tonics and Tinctures.
He knew a man once who dabbled in tinctures and medicines.
Angus Drummond.
Marco should have known this was who Arianne would turn to when she needed help. Angus had been like a second father to her.
“This is it.” Arianne nodded at the entrance. Marco pushed the creaky door open. The musty odor of the shop permeated the air. It was dark, the sun being blocked by heavy drapes hanging over the only window. A counter and shelves with a few glass bottles decorated one wall, leaving the other wall empty.
Arianne stepped in beside him.
“Are you certain this is the place?” He couldn’t keep the doubt from his voice. The structure looked like it had been vacated long ago.
“Hmm…” Arianne nodded, the look in her eyes told him she was lost in the past. He wondered if this shop looked the same two years ago. It was possible. The amount of dust might confirm it.
“Where is he?”
She tilted her head, listening. After several moments, she walked forward with measured steps. She reached the door at the back of the room and slowly opened it. Peering into the black depths revealed nothing, but stirred some of his own memories. Those better left forgotten.
He shook his head, dispelling the nightmares of the past and strode forward, ready to assist. He found a candle on one of the shelves near the door. After lighting it with a flint from his pocket, he lifted the candle high into the air, chasing the inky blackness from the room.
The back room appeared similar to the front. Shelves, tables, and cobwebs.
“It appears vacant, my dear.” Marco stated the obvious, an eyebrow arching as he awaited her response.
“Wait,” she said, pulling on his arm to lead him to the center of the room. She pushed aside the table,
kicking away a rug to reveal a hidden door built into the floor.
With one jerk of the handle, the door opened and again they peered into heavy darkness.
Marco leaned over her, using the candle to light the hole beneath their feet. She reached down to find a wooden ladder, or rather what functioned as a ladder.
“Will it hold?”
“I’ll find out.” She lowered her feet onto the rungs and climbed down. When she landed at the bottom, which was not far, she reached up and he handed her the candle.
He made a move to follow her down, but hesitated. Again the dark, musty blackness weighed heavily upon him. It oppressed him. He struggled to breathe. He needed air. Sunlight. But, mostly air, with a nice ocean breeze to accompany it.
“Marco? Are you coming?”
He closed his eyes. He’d be damned if he told her of what he’d been through at the hands of the British. Those months of being locked in a ship’s bilge, with nothing but darkness as his companion while he fought off rats. No, Marco would not tell her of that particular horror, nor would he mention the torture they inflicted while he awaited his trial in the dank coldness of the prison. She did not need to hear of such foul deeds.
“What’s down there?” Instead of agreeing to follow immediately, he fought to delay. Was it necessary that he follow? It was little more than a hole in the ground. What else did she need for him to see?
“There’s a tunnel,” Arianne said, effectively destroying any hope of departing this building without having the experience of taking the underground route.
Marco took a deep breath, feeling foolish for his hesitation. He was a man. A tall, strong man. Feared for his wicked intelligence and skill with a blade. A pirate on the high seas…reduced to a trembling mouse at the sight of a small, dark, enclosed space…
Were there rats down there?
Oh, God.
He chased away thoughts of those nasty creatures. He had a sword in hand now. His hands were free to defend and attack. He was healthy, strong and standing on his own two feet, not sick with fever, chained and hanging half-lifeless while vile rodents clambered over his body, using his flesh as their next meal.
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