“Don’t say that! He cannot die! Not Conny. It was all my fault, and if he dies, then I will be to blame,” Rhea cried, her shoulders shaking with her pent-up grief and guilt.
She felt hard arms enclosing her, holding her, comforting her; she heard Dante murmuring soft words in her ear. She tried to draw away from his warmth, she wanted no pity, no comfort; she deserved to suffer as long as poor Conny burned with fever in the bunk.
“No, do not draw away, Rhea,” Dante entreated her. “You are not to blame.”
“Yes, I am. I involved a young boy in my troubles. I made use of his adoration for me, turning him against you when I asked him not to tell you that I had left the Sea Dragon. I knew it was wrong, but I was so desperate to escape. I wanted to go home so badly. I was standing there breathing in the fragrance of jessamine, thinking of Camareigh, and I just could not bear it any longer. Then, the thought of facing you after that night when…” Rhea shuddered as her words were choked off by her tears.
“I know, and I do not blame you, Rhea,” Dante told her with a grim tightness around his lips, thinking that her tears were for the memory of the revulsion she’d felt that night. He stared down at the top of her golden head, and she was so slight in his arms he felt as if he could crush her; yet all he wished to do was to hold her.
“The crew blames me; I can see it in their eyes when they look at me,” Rhea said huskily.
“No, no, they don’t. They are merely concerned for Conny’s recovery. They were just as worried about you, Rhea. They do not blame you,” Dante said, trying to convince her, for it was true that they did not blame her for Conny’s accident. They were all proud of the boy’s bravery against such great odds, and if there were blame to be placed, then it was on Bertie Mackay and his crew, or on himself.
“I will not let you savor your guilt alone, not now. You may place the blame equally at my feet,” Dante told her, trying to awaken her from this apathy. “I spoke sternly to the boy, knowing full well how I was wounding him. I am the one who allowed him ashore to look for you. Carrying the memory of my words about you being in danger, he acted in a manner of which he thought I would approve. I am as much to blame, Rhea, as you are,” Dante told her, his eyes worried as they lingered on the restlessly sleeping Conny.
“I feel so helpless standing here, not being able to do anything for Conny,” Rhea said, wishing she had a healer’s gift. “I know Kirby is doing as much as he can for him,” she said, then hesitated, not wanting her words to sound like criticism of the little steward, for he had been tireless in his doctoring of the cabin boy, his careful ministrations seeming to soothe the boy’s heated flesh time and time again. “But perhaps,” she continued, “we should seek a doctor from St. John’s.”
“I am afraid that would be impossible,” Dante answered shortly, and Rhea knew she must have offended him.
“I am sorry, I did not mean to cast doubt on Kirby’s skills, but I am so worried about Conny,” Rhea said lamely.
“I am afraid seeking another doctor from Antigua would be impossible because”—Dante paused, his eyes straying to the wide stern windows—“we have set sail from Antigua. We are at sea, Rhea,” he added more gently as he realized that she had been unaware of the Sea Dragon’s weighing of anchor.
Rhea slowly drew away from Dante’s arms and stared out on the wide expanse of empty sea now visible through the stern windows, her breath catching in her throat as she realized that any hope of fleeing the Sea Dragon and her captain was lost to her. And now she felt the gentle heeling of the ship, and, listening carefully, heard the low groaning of her timbers and the creaking of her masts as her sails filled with the trades. The Sea Dragon had turned her bowsprit toward her final quest.
Nine
Fortune favors the brave.
—Virgil
The Sea Dragon’s course had taken her into the Straits of Florida; there, the Gulf Stream and prevailing winds carried her swiftly through the treacherous channel, where sandbanks might lie off the bow, unseen from the quarterdeck or aloft, or gales might blow up from any direction, sending the ill-fated mariner onto the sunken, saw-toothed coral reefs hedging the passage.
Fortune seemed to be sailing with the proud crew of the Sea Dragon, for she had safely rounded the straggling group of palmetto-and-pine-covered islets and sandy cays of the southernmost point off the mainland of Florida. They had sailed past stretches of white, virgin sand, where the water lapping against the beaches was a translucent blue that lightened to pale green in the sun-dappled and palm-shadowed shallows near shore. But just as frequently, they had sighted the low-lying marshlands clogging the bays and inlets, where the grotesque mangrove with its twisted webbing of roots rising out of the turbid swamp water reigned supreme, while man-of-war birds fought over roosting rights in its bright green crown of leafy branches.
If the crew of the good ship Sea Dragon had thought their captain slightly mad to be sailing his ship with her hold half-laden along the wild coast of Florida—an inhospitable place they’d sooner not have a closer look at—then they were soon given reason to believe him completely demented. Dante gave orders for the Sea Dragon’s anchor to be dropped in a sleepy cove, where the only visible inhabitants, a flock of pinkish orange flamingos, were leaving, their elongated necks pointing southeast toward the wide mouth of the cove.
With the exception of Houston Kirby, who everyone knew had half-addled wits, and Alastair Marlowe, who was too quiet to be quite normal, the crew of the Sea Dragon was prepared to forcibly restrain their captain when he pulled out that treasure map, in the eventuality of his turning violent, as was often the case when one went off his head. For every man jack of them knew that that treasure map was no good. And this wasn’t even the right place, for the sunken galleon had been in a cove in the Bahamas, which had been clearly marked on the map they had all had a chance to get a good look at. The crew had muttered and nudged one another as they listened to their captain’s crazed words. The only one of them who didn’t, strangely enough, was Longacres, who’d just sat whittling away at a piece of wood, his gap-toothed grin widening and widening with the captain’s words, as if he had been expecting all along that this strange incident would happen.
But soon they had all begun to get the captain’s drift, and after their initial disappointment that the captain had not taken them into his confidence about the fake treasure map, a state of excitement had pervaded the Sea Dragon’s crew. Their dreams had been rekindled by the captain’s words, and now, once again they knew a renewal of purpose, a newfound hope for something better than spending their lives at sea.
Rhea Claire shaded her narrowed eyes against the almost blinding glare off the rippling waters of the cove. To the southeast lay open sea, and against the horizon, Rhea could see bluish gray thunderheads accumulating and growing darker by the minute, a sure portent of a squall. It mattered not, however, for the Sea Dragon was lying snug and would safely weather the storm. The crew’s search for treasure would surely be delayed, however, and Rhea did not know if the eager men could endure another day of disappointment—for they had yet to find their much-sought-after treasure.
Putting her hands behind her head as she lay on the warm sand, Rhea speculated on what had happened to her since she had first set foot on board the Sea Dragon that fateful day in Charles Town. She could understand now, or at least she understood better, why Dante had reacted in so brutal a manner. He had been protecting his future, as well as the futures of his men, the loyal crew of the Sea Dragon, who had served him well throughout the years. Now that she had time to consider the matter more carefully—as well as taking into consideration certain facts she had gleaned from a none-too-reticent Houston Kirby about a certain woman in Charles Town who had hurt the captain—she realized that Dante had been reacting to several sets of circumstances, and that she had been unfortunate enough to have crossed his path at exactly the wrong time, and in the wrong manner and pl
ace.
And because it was her nature, Rhea found herself forgiving him many things; he had, after all, given her a chance to gain her freedom. It had been her decision in St. John’s to return to the Sea Dragon. No one had forced her, and so she could blame none but herself for what her future might hold.
Lazily contemplating a sky which was still azure over her head, she knew that if she had to do it all over again, she would still be lying here on these warm sands, with the soft whispering of the palms like a lullaby in her ears and the hot tropical sun warming her skin.
Stretching sleepily, her hand struck a hard object and she opened a heavy-lidded eye to gaze at her treasure. Her hand settled on a cone-shaped shell with a smooth pink interior that rolled into a tiny point. Another had a bright orange color, its exterior rough to the touch, while several others were striped and speckled, some small, some tiny, others giant and curving. They were beautiful, and just as valuable to her, Rhea thought, rolling sideways and staring up the beach, as the treasure that was being sought by the crew of the Sea Dragon, for these had been a gift to her from a very special person.
Rhea lifted her arm in a casual wave as Conny Brady came bustling around the gentle curve of the cove, another shell held carefully in his hands.
“Lady Rhea! I’ve found another one! You can hear the ocean in it too!” he called to her before dropping down beside her, his tanned cheeks flushed, his dark eyes bright with adventure. “Listen!”
Rhea tilted her head, holding the heavy shell against her ear, a surprised look crossing her face as she heard the roar of the ocean.
“Have they found anything yet?” Conny demanded, staring across the bay to where the Sea Dragon was riding anchor, her masts rising starkly against the skies. The deck looked deserted, and if there had not been an occasional splashing of water near the Sea Dragon’s starboard bow, one might have thought the ship abandoned.
“Do you think there really is a treasure?” Conny asked, disappointment riding high in his voice as he gazed longingly toward the spot where those seamen who could swim, the captain and Alastair chief among them, were diving amongst the coral reefs and curious fish in search of the remains of the sunken Spanish galleon. The sailors who preferred to stay on dry land were combing the beach on the far side of the bay from the place where Rhea and Conny were idling away the hours. They were hoping to find some pieces of eight, spars, figurehead, or debris of any kind that might have been washed ashore and would lead them to their fortunes.
Thunder sounded in the distance; then lightning streaked through the blackening clouds closing on the mouth of the cove. The rippling surface of the water was rising, growing choppy, and it was apparent that the skies were about to split wide in torrents of rain.
“Come, Conny,” Rhea said regretfully as she got to her feet, dusting the clinging sand from her skirt and bodice. “I see Longacres rowing this way. I don’t want you to get chilled,” she told him, still worrying about his health, for even though he had recovered almost completely, there were shadows every so often in his blue eyes, and she often wondered if he still felt twinges of pain from his healed knife wound.
She helped him gather his booty of shells. They stood patiently while Longacres rowed close, then hopped out, and pushed the gig up on shore.
“Reckon that’s it fer today,” he said, glaring up at the sullen skies.
“No luck?” Rhea asked, feeling sorry for the old pirate, who had never found any sunken treasure for all his stories of pirates and sailing with brigands.
“Ain’t givin’ up, I’m not, eh, young Conny?” He grinned as he helped Rhea climb into the boat. Then he settled her in the prow and shoved off as Conny hopped aboard. “None o’ us is givin’ up!” he muttered.
He easily rowed the light craft across the small cove and alongside the Sea Dragon, which was beginning to swarm with life now that the day’s search had been abandoned. But, as Longacres had said, it was not forgotten, for there was nothing but treasure spoken of by everyone on board the Sea Dragon.
Even she could feel the excitement of searching for sunken treasure stirring in her blood, Rhea thought later, while dressing for dinner. Never before had she given much thought to the grandeur of her surroundings, nor to the wealth that she had come to think of as her right. But ever since falling on hard times, she had come to a rude awakening about the lives that others less fortunate than she had to suffer through just trying to survive, and now she understood what it meant to have a chance to gain a fortune.
Remembering her wardrobes at Camareigh, which had burgeoned with gowns that she could scarcely recall, each a different color, material, and style, and all created especially for her by one of the finest French seamstresses in all of London, she knew it might seem strange to some that she should feel such fondness for her present wardrobe of clothes. But then, when you had only two dresses to choose between, and each one held some special meaning or significance in your life, you might find yourself placing an almost priceless value on them.
And that was how she felt about her leather skirt and bodice, her gifts from the crew of the Sea Dragon. It was also much the way she felt about the gown she was dressing in for dinner. It was as fashionable as any that one would see in London, and had been a gift from the captain of the Sea Dragon. He must have bribed the St. John’s seamstress with a small fortune in order to get her to turn over so beautiful a gown. Rhea thought it must have been part of some young woman’s trousseau, or an expensive request for a very special occasion, for she had never seen such delicate material or fine workmanship. Of white muslin that was as light as a feather, it had treble flounces of lace falling from the tight, elbow-length sleeves, and a petticoat that was row after row of lacy ruffles.
It was exquisite—and it had been a complete surprise to her when she’d found it placed on her bunk shortly after they had set sail from Antigua. Delicate silk shoes and silk stockings had accompanied it, as well as a marquetry box filled with sundry items: a silver brush and mirror, a delicate, carved crystal bottle of perfume, fragrant soap and pins for her hair, as well as countless little gewgaws.
Rhea stared at her reflection in the mirror, liking the way her golden skin glowed against the paleness of her bodice. Her hair was braided in a coronet that curved over the top of her head; it was far more sophisticated than the braided loops of gold, which could swing so enticingly against a man’s shoulder.
The first night she wore the dress, she had startled the men gathered for dinner in the captain’s cabin as much as she had the night she had worn her leather skirt. This time, though, the gift was from Dante Leighton, and her eyes had held his shyly as she waited expectantly for his reaction. He had not disappointed her. He had carried her hand to his lips in a gentlemanly fashion, complimenting her with words that any woman would like to have heard. Meanwhile, his pale gray eyes gazing deeply into hers had spoken far more eloquently, leaving a rosy blush staining her cheeks as she turned away from him. Her memories of another night similar to this one still had the power to leave her trembling, and she suspected he knew that.
Why he had gone to the trouble to buy her this gown she did not know, for when she had expressed her gratitude, he had shrugged, looking almost embarrassed. But Rhea was sure he had been pleased that she was wearing his gifts.
Rhea adjusted the wide, square décolletage of her gown, which had a deep flouncing of lace that did little to cover the rounded curves of her breasts. In fact, it seemed to do just the opposite by drawing the eye, which was perhaps what had been intended. With the light scent of lavender clinging to her throat and wrists and to the warm cleavage so enchantingly revealed, Rhea entered the captain’s cabin, steadying herself against Alastair Marlowe’s arm as the deck slanted alee.
“’Tis a howler,” he commented with a wry grin, his hazel eyes rolling heavenward, as if he were questioning what he had done to deserve this.
“Ah, but here
is our bright spot in the storm,” Seumus Fitzsimmons responded, glib and grinning as always, his dark eyes feasting on her décolletage.
“Lady Rhea, I trust this storm will not overly disturb you,” Barnaby Clarke greeted her, always politely solicitous of her health and well being. He was not, however, above taking an occasional sly glance at her bare shoulders, and Rhea decided that she far preferred Seumus Fitzsimmons’s open admiration.
The captain of the Sea Dragon was standing before the rain-raked stern windows, his cinnamon velvet coat adding a touch of misleading warmth to his figure, for there was now a brooding look on his bronzed face, and his silvered eyes seemed to be glowing with some inner fire, or perhaps, conflict. His chestnut curls had been ruthlessly brushed back and tied, as if little thought had been given to it.
“Ah, m’lady fair,” Dante murmured, a slight edge to his voice, which drew the eyes of the others, for they’d not heard that sarcastic note in their captain’s voice for many a week. Rhea certainly was not the only one to wonder what was amiss.
Kirby came hurrying in, his tray loaded with pewter plates, for he was taking no chances of having his finest china crashing to the deck. Jamaica was not far behind, nor was Conny, who had returned to his cabin boy duties with a renewed vigor, despite the captain’s order not to tire himself. Indeed, there seemed always to be a helping hand with chores nowadays, making his days a little less long and giving him time for more of a boy’s daydreaming.
The enticing aroma of lobster, freshly caught in the cove that afternoon, filled the captain’s cabin. Taking their places at the table, they prepared to enjoy another of the little steward’s finely prepared meals, which, though served on board a ship in a desolate cove in the wilderness, would have been fit fare for a king’s table.
Chance the Winds of Fortune Page 53