Treasure:
Raised By Wolves
Volume Three
By
W.A. Hoffman
Smashwords Edition
Published December 2012
Alien Perspective, LLC
Copyright 2008 W.A.Hoffman
Raised By Wolves series
Brethren
Matelots
Treasure
Wolves
All four novels are available in trade paperback editions.
For additional information please see
W.A. Hoffman’s Smashwords page and
AlienPerspective.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other readers. If you wish to share this book, please purchase additional copies. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use, then please return to Smashwords, or an appropriate retailer for your reading device, and purchase your copy.
The author reserves all rights to this work granted by United States copyright law and applicable international copyright law. No part of this book may be altered or excerpted without the express permission of the author, except for brief excerpts used solely for the purposes of publicity or review.
This book is a work of fiction written for the purposes of entertainment. Though some personages mentioned herein were actual people, their personification in this story is purely of the author’s fabrication and not meant to reflect upon the original individuals. Readers interested in separating relative truth from fiction in regard to the historical people, events, or social structures portrayed in this novel are invited to read the resource material listed in the bibliography and make their own determinations.
Dedication
This book and its brothers have been labors of love and faith, made possible by the following people. I dearly wish to thank:
My husband, John, for being my matelot through thick and thin, artistic despair and ecstasy, and for richer or poorer. Thank you for loving me. I could not do it without you.
Barb, my editor and bestest writing buddy ever, for her unflagging optimism and encouragement, loving critiques, and eagle eye. Thank you for helping me look good.
My mother, for teaching me how to dream and always reach for what I want. My brother, for being my biggest fan. My sister, for her love and support. My father, for teaching me to think and judge for myself. I am very grateful I was not raised by, or with, wolves or sheep.
My alpha and beta readers for their faith and enthusiasm: for reading every revision I threw at them and still continuing to give me feedback. And all the people who have read my work, either this piece or others, and offered their support and encouragement. Thank you all.
And, of course, to the Gods. Without You, nothing. I give special thanks to Venus, invincible Goddess of Love and Beauty. Every book is a temple, for You did not make me a stone mason.
Fifty-Three
Wherein a Wolf Comes Calling
A muffled retort split the hazy afternoon air, carving a little notch in my hearing somewhere amongst the occasional pop of the fire, the distant crash of the waves upon the rocks below, the pecking of chickens, the cud-chewing of goats, and the omnipresent buzz of insects. I stilled my hand and cocked my head to listen, glancing at Bella to see if I heard phantoms or if it had been a thing a dog could corroborate. Her great brindle head was raised and her eyes peered north toward the beach. She did not seem alarmed, but as she was gravid with pups she longed to whelp, I felt it would take much to rouse her from the shade where she lounged and I worked.
I was not alarmed, either: merely curious. We had very few neighbors this autumn: many of our cabal were off smuggling to the Spanish, and the rest had stayed in Port Royal. Of the men with whom we did share Negril Point, most were far inland, hunting, as there was little game to be had on the promontory itself. So it was likely – if it were truly a thing that had occurred – that the retort had issued from the beach below. It had become customary for our vessels to alert the denizens of the Point of their arrival, so we could join them on the beach and help them carry up anything they might have brought.
“So you heard it too, Bella my girl,” I said lightly, as I wiped the excess paint from my brush.
She looked quickly my way, and opened and closed her mouth with a nearly silent huff of annoyance, before slowly rolling her bulk onto her legs so she could push herself erect.
“I concur,” I said.
I set aside the chair I had been decorating, and carefully closed the lid on the jar of paint. I placed my tools on the high shelf made by the top of the rock wall of the house, and stuck my tongue out at the goat eyeing them hungrily. The damn animals had not managed to reach anything I placed under the eaves yet, but they were often upon the thatched roof seeking a means to do so. Sure enough, the matriarch of our little herd began to make her way to the hill that formed one side of our home. From the hill she could climb onto the roof with ease. I rather hoped she would fall through the thatch and we could dine on roast goat.
I followed Bella to the front of the house, but whereas she continued on to the edge of the promontory, I stopped by the cook fire, where Gaston was brewing medicinal concoctions. I found him staring into the distance in the same direction the dog now headed. He did not seem to be listening, though; just deep in thought.
I took time to drink in the sight of him, as it was seldom that he was in such repose and unaware of my gaze. As always, I marveled that my love would find such a fine form. I would have taken him even if his eyes were hooded, his jaw weak, or his nose beaked; but his features were truly finely wrought: handsome without prettiness; strong without crudeness. In the deep shade of the awning we had erected beside the fire, his eyes were the color of a pine forest at dusk, and his red hair was reduced in magnificence to the hue of dried blood. I could barely see the small gold hoops at his ears that marked him a buccaneer, or the scar upon his forehead that spoke of so many others. His lean muscular body – the physique of a man who ran two leagues and sparred for over an hour every morn – was folded beneath him in a way that seemed uncomfortable but was surely not, as he was not coiled or poised to move, but relaxed and at peace: like a cat who seems boneless and not prone to ever move again until it stands and stretches with the grace of a dancer.
He finally felt my gaze and squinted up at me curiously. I knew he sometimes watched me when I was not aware, and I wondered what he thought. He always said he found me handsome: but I am not like him, as I am somewhat more lanky than sculpted, in feature as well as physique. I feel I would not remind anyone of a cat, but rather a lean hound with an amiable boyish smile and hair the color of straw never to be spun into gold. By all accounts, I have remarkably blue eyes, though.
“I thought I heard a shot,” I said, and scratched the wheat stubble of my jaw. We had not shaved in days.
He did not reply for a time, and then he turned to peer around our land with a slight frown and a slow nod. “Oui.”
I looked about. We appeared to be alone atop Negril Point. To the south and east, nothing moved for as far as the haze allowed my gaze to travel, except the breeze upon the grass and bushes. And in the other directions, there was only the endless sea meeting an endless sky.
“Bella did too,” I added. “I will investigate.”
“I should stay with these,” he said, and indicated the little pots he had boiling on the fire. Then he cursed quietly and looked about him with annoyance.
I smiled as I headed to the door to the house: neither of us had a weapon within reach. I fetched our sword belts, ammunition pouches, and a pistol for each of us.
“We have grown lax,” he muttered as he accepted the pistol.
“We are living w
ell, with not a care in the world,” I chided as I loaded my piece. “But oui, you describe the other side of the coin quite well. Let us see how it has landed this day.”
He sighed as he loaded his. “If it was a shot from the beach, do not go down without telling me.”
“Of course not.” I leaned down and kissed the scar upon his forehead.
He snorted with annoyance, and then his hand snaked around the back of my neck and he nearly pulled me to the ground as he brought my lips to his.
I left him with a jaunty grin upon both our faces.
Bella sat at the head of the path that led down to the strand of beach, which ran due north of us between the wide bay and the great bog. I did not see anyone upon the winding trail, but I did see a flyboat landed upon the sand below. Three men were working about it: I could not truly ascertain their identities at such a distance, but as one wore a shirt and was in the process of doffing shoes and hose, and the other two were nearly-naked bronzed buccaneers, I thought it entirely possible Striker, Pete, and Theodore were paying us a visit. I saw nothing else upon the sea or sand.
I returned to our abode and told Gaston of what I surmised as to the identity of our guests.
“Do they have much that must be carried?” he asked with annoyance.
I shrugged. I could not recall seeing them unloading anything at all. “Nor goats to herd.”
He snorted. We had viewed the arrival of the goats at their last visit as a mixed blessing.
“I will stay, then,” he said. “If it pleases you,” he added.
I shrugged again.
I called for Bella to remain with Gaston. I saw no reason for her to waddle down to the beach after me and back up again. I wished our big black male, Taro, were about so he could accompany me, but he appeared to be off hunting, or perhaps avoiding his grouchy mate.
This thought minded me that our dog was not the only one heavy with child this autumn; and I wondered if our visitors were here to avoid their own surely grumpy wife. Or perhaps it was later in the year than I suspected, and they came bearing news of new relations.
Our visitors were indeed Theodore, Pete, and Striker. My dear friend and solicitor appeared as he always did, his dark eyes calm and serious, the hint of a smile playing about his thin lips. His somewhat stout body looked no wider or thinner than when last I saw him – in May, I believed, or was it April? Our favorite lion and wolf, one gold, the other dark, both bronzed to copper, appeared as scuffed and bruised as they ever did when they spent time in Port Royal amongst so many taverns and bored buccaneers. So their marriage to my sister had changed little in that regard. As always, my matelot notwithstanding, they were two of the handsomest men I have ever beheld.
“What is the month?” I asked them when at last we were close enough to speak.
My inquiry was greeted by confused stares on the part of two of their number, and a chuckle from Pete, who then lifted me off my feet in an exuberant embrace.
“November,” Striker said, as if I were daft. “You look well and it is good to hear you speaking again.”
“It is good to speak again.” To my ear, my voice still sounded a trifle rusty, after two months of having my jaw bound so it could heal; but I still sounded better than my poor matelot, whose voice was permanently husky and rough, having been broken such that it would never heal.
“We are well,” I said, and embraced Theodore. “And how is everyone? And to what honor do we owe this visit?”
Theodore appeared caught between answering my question truthfully – a thing that seemed to pain him – and uttering the usual pleasantries.
“We?” Striker queried doggedly as I turned to him. He glanced past me and up toward the promontory with curious concern.
Annoyance flared in my heart. There was still much to be mended between us, though I understood his concern.
“Aye, we.” I let the annoyance be heard in my tone, even as I embraced him. “Gaston is brewing some concoctions from the bark of various trees in the hope of producing a cure for malaria, since no one but the damn Spanish can yet locate quinine. The pots could not be left.”
“The malaria? Are you both well?” Theodore asked with alarm.
“Nay, aye, we do not ail,” I said quickly. “We lost so many returning from Porto Bello that the physician in his soul has become obsessed with finding another means to combat the damn malady, though. Some of our men only live because we did locate quinine in an apothecary in that damned cesspool of a port. Gaston knew of it because the Jesuit that Doucette often dealt with had it.”
“Considering what the Spanish are said to sell the substance for in Christendom, if he does locate another cure, you would be very wealthy men,” Theodore said thoughtfully.
I shrugged. “We are wealthy men, and I feel my matelot would simply give it away anyway. I would not feel right in turning such a thing to coin, either.”
Theodore smiled indulgently. “Nay, because you are wealthier in virtue than in gold.”
“Or perhaps common sense,” I said with a grin. I turned back to Striker. “We are quite well, as we were when last you visited.” I met his eyes with a strong gaze that he at last turned from with a sheepish mien.
“We worry,” Striker said.
I glanced to Pete: his expression told me his matelot was the only one engaged in the activity.
“You are fond of worrying,” I told Striker. “Now, what news have you? Or did you come to escape my sister? Or has she birthed yet?”
Pete and Striker looked to Theodore and frowned in unison.
“’EKnowsTheWhyO’It,” Pete said with mock annoyance. “An”EWillNa’ Speak.”
Theodore was now the one appearing sheepish – and poised to speak. His gaze darted up the hill behind me: to where he could envision Gaston, I presumed.
I felt Theodore could be little but the herald of doom, so I sought to delay it.
“So you have news?” I said quickly. “How is Mistress Theodore? And your babe?”
He seemed relieved and amused by this change of topic. “Mistress Theodore is quite well indeed. And our child, Elizabeth, is also doing well by all accounts. She has taken to sleeping through the night, and I am greatly pleased.”
His happy information was accompanied by a chorus of frustrated groans from the other two members of his audience.
I chuckled and turned on Striker. “And how is my sister, Sarah, your fine wife? Is she not due?”
“She is well!” he shouted with amusement. “She has begun her lying-in. She is quite miserable between the heat and the size of her.”
Pete was indicating a truly gargantuan size indeed with his hands before his belly; but as my sister was such a small thing, I thought it likely she merely appeared far larger with child than an average-sized woman would.
“ItBeKickin’ AnRollin’About,” Pete said proudly, as if he alone were somehow responsible for this miracle.
“She’s doing well,” Striker reiterated softly, his regard for my sister showing in his dark eyes.
“I am pleased to hear it,” I told him sincerely before turning back to Theodore. “And all others? Have the men returned from their smuggling ventures? And Agnes, is she well? And Mister Rucker, and my uncle?”
There were chuckles and sighs all about.
“Agnes, Rucker, and your uncle are well,” Theodore assured me and began to say more.
“And we haven’t heard from the Bard and Cudro, yet; but they’ve only been gone two months,” Striker said before Theodore could say whatever had parted his lips.
“And I will bet you worry over that, too,” I teased Striker.
Striker rolled his eyes. “You’re damn right I worry!”
“Naw,” Pete huffed with amusement that evolved into mock sorrow. “’EBeBoredAn’ Angry’IsShipSailed Without’Im. An’EBeStuck InTownWith Nuthin’TaDoBut BallsAtTheGov’ners.”
Striker swore. “Just one!”
I laughed.
“The new houses were comple
ted this summer,” Theodore said. “And the plantation, Ithaca, will be having their first harvest after the New Year. Your uncle has taken up the management of the endeavor; but true to his word to you, the men are being educated, even the Negroes. And they are growing some small amount of food there, though it is mainly for the Negroes.”
“At least those poor souls shall be healthier,” I sighed, remembering how gaunt Fletcher had been when last I saw him. He had suffered from malaria, contracted most probably because the plantation was well inland and away from the clean breezes of the coast. Fletcher’s health had been further injured by his refusal to eat the native foods, though; and the ignorance responsible for that was not a thing one could cure with a tonic.
“And my Damn Wife, Lady Marsdale, does she yet live?” I asked. “Is she well? Is she still with child?”
The three of them shrugged.
“She lives. By all accounts she has begun her lying-in and should birth before the end of the year,” Theodore said thoughtfully. “We have actually heard little of her of late. Since she moved into her home, she has behaved in a ladylike manner and deprived the gossips of further fodder.” He frowned at me curiously. “Do you still truly intend to keep her if she bears a boy?”
I shook my head. Gaston and I had discussed it on occasion these last months. We had determined that we probably did not wish to keep – as it was not mine – any get she might produce. But if it were a boy, I could claim him as my heir and he could be the key to my inheriting the plantation and pleasing my father such that he might not wish to further meddle in our affairs. But, in that possible turn of events, could we be so uncaring – even to the get of her womb – as to send any child off to live with my father if he so demanded it? That was a fate best reserved for enemies: and the poor child, whatever its sex, had done nothing wrong.
Treasure Page 1