Paula Reed - [Caribbean]

by Nobodys Saint

  “A dowry?” she asked, stopping him at the threshold of the cabin door. She narrowed her eyes and stared at him. “You’re far more generous than I gave you credit for.”

  Sir Calder’s sneer finally broke into a full grin. “It took a sizable sum to convince your fiancé to take you, sight unseen, all your faults honestly laid upon the table.”

  “My what?”

  “Of course, my title was an incentive. A baronetcy may seem a trifling to you, Mary Katherine, but for the youngest son of a nobleman, one used to the privilege of nobility but with no hope of inheriting, it seems it will do.”

  Mary Kate advanced upon the old man. “What are you saying? What are you talking about?”

  “The youngest son of an acquaintance owns a ship building company in Port Royal. ‘Tis a fair piece more work than he’s inclined to do. We have come to an agreement. He will marry you and keep you out of my sight until the two of you produce a couple of males—an heir and a spare, as it were. At that point, he and the boys will return to England, with or without you and any daughters. Suit yourself in the matter.”

  “P-Port Royal?” Mary Kate sputtered, unable to grasp all that he had told her.

  “Jamaica,” Sir Calder clarified. “I’m sure you’ll accustom yourself to it. I hear the climes are warm and the water fair. Have a pleasant journey, Mary Katherine.”

  Before she could react, he left, slamming the door behind him. She threw herself against the portal just in time to hear a bolt slide into place on the other side.

  “May you fall and never rise, you whoreson coward!” she screamed through the oaken barrier. “You loathsome, disgusting, filthy”— she couldn’t think of anything bad enough; finally, she had to settle for “—bastard!” Hardly satisfying.

  Sir Calder’s victorious cackle sounded faintly beyond the door. Mary Kate drummed her fists until she had to stop for the pain. On the morrow, purple bruises would mark the outer heels of her hands.

  Pausing to catch her breath, she made a sudden decision to change tactics. Sir Calder was doubtless well off the ship by now. She would have to seek an ally, and quickly.

  “Captain!” she cried out. “Where is the captain of this vessel? I am being detained illegally, and I demand to see the captain!” She paused again, panting, her cheeks bright red. She reached up and wiped at the sweat that dotted her brow. “Damn it! Fetch the captain at once, ere you make the grave mistake of abducting an innocent woman against her will!”

  At last, a voice answered. It was deep and despicably English. Too much to hope this was an Irish ship.

  “Settle down in there, miss. I’ve instructions not to let you out until we’re well away from the dock.”

  “Are you the captain?” she called out, trying to make her voice sound weak and distressed and yet loud enough to carry. “Please, I need help. There’s been a terrible mistake.”

  “Aye, I am, and whatever your family dispute may be, it is none of my business,” the voice replied.

  “It most certainly is!” she snapped, helpless maiden ruse forgotten. “This is your ship, and I shall hold you personally responsible for anything that befalls me. I was told that I was journeying to Londonderry, and that is just where I intend to go! Now, if you cannot take me there, then find me safe passage and wash your hands of this dark business! D’you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Oooh!” Mary Kate screamed. She threw herself to the floor and pounded her heels, her skirt of emerald velvet riding up to her thighs and her fur-lined cloak in an uncomfortable wad under her back. Her string of curses sounded oddly musical in her lilting accent. For pure satisfaction, she repeated every one of them in the Irish tongue.

  In time, she spent her ire and lay in a heaving heap on the cabin floor. Damn! This sort of thing only worked when there was an audience. With no one to appreciate her efforts, she hauled herself back up to standing, removed her cloak and smoothed her skirts. Half of her black hair had escaped its neat coiffure, so she pulled all of the pins out and let it tumble in a rumpled mess to her waist. She would have cried, but it was an affront to her dignity. Temper was a sign of strength and passion. Tears were a sign of weakness. Still, now that she was outside of her grandfather’s household, it occurred to her that she should drop her recently acquired propensity for kicking and screaming on the floor.

  What had begun as a mild rocking motion when she’d boarded the ship was steadily becoming a proper roll. For lack of anything else to do, she ran a brush through her hair and tried to think of some way to convince the captain to alter his course and drop her in Ireland. Anywhere in Ireland would be fine; she’d make her own way home.

  But it was not to be. She was finally allowed back on the deck, and after a brief query to determine which man was the captain, she strode over to him and leaned on the deck rail next to where he stood. It took considerable effort to ignore the cold mist that remained from the drizzle on shore, but she smiled at him, as though she were as comfortable as could be.

  “Captain,” she said sweetly, “‘tis sorry I am to have put up such a fuss earlier. I’m downright ashamed of myself. But surely you’ll understand if you’ll only hear my dilemma. Y’see, my grandfather told me that I was headed for Londonderry. I’ve family outside the city, a sister who’s young and far too brash, and a da who’s too sick to look after her. Now, I find myself on my way to the Caribbean, and no way to get back and take care of my own. You’re a fine captain, to be sure, and you understand what it is to have duties, responsibilities.”

  The captain looked like a young version of the hated Sir Calder, with a pinched face and passionless eyes. He looked down his long, sharp nose at her and said, “Aye, that I do. My duty is to deliver you and your dowry to your intended. Your duty is to obey your family and to make the best of the situation. As for my responsibilities, as the captain of this vessel, I have many, all of which you are currently preventing me from performing with your mindless chatter.”

  Mary Kate blinked at him for a moment, then stood up straight. “But Sir Calder had no right! Do you not hear what I’m telling you? He tricked me, he did!”

  But the captain was unimpressed. “I would say that your shocking performance in your cabin was ample proof that Sir Calder was fully justified in his actions. Lord knows what a wild Irishwoman like you might have done if he had been forthright from the first.”

  “I’d not be here now, that I’ll tell you,” she snapped. Obstinate, English snob, she brooded silently. He had said “Irishwoman” like it was some kind of insect!

  She glanced around at the dozen or so crewmen who lingered around them, listened avidly to their exchange, but their rough, unshaven faces seemed to offer no pity for her plight.

  “Fine, then!” she huffed, at last. “I’ll swim back to England and find a ship! We’re still in sight of land!”

  The captain laughed contemptuously. “First the water will soak your skirts, and then you’ll sink like a stone.”

  “Ha!” She stepped forward and proceeded to unfasten the lacings of her bodice.

  “What now?” the captain said. “What do you think you’re about?”

  “You’re right. The dress will be too heavy.”

  The crew laughed and cheered, but did nothing to intervene when their leader picked her up, threw her over his shoulder, and marched back into her cabin. She kicked and screamed and pounded his back, and in the end, she was locked in again.

  She nearly gave in to the urge to throw another tantrum, but the first had caused her nothing but trouble. She couldn’t charm or scare this man. She was going to have to seriously rethink her strategy.

  For now, she pulled her rosary beads and a thick ledger from one of her trunks and laboriously added to a running tally that she had kept for four years.

  Chapter Two

  Once in Cádiz, Magdalena’s crew hurried to unload the cargo. They spent little enough time in their homeland, and there were families to visit, women to flirt with, and gossip to
exchange across taberna tables. Much of that gossip included heated discussion on the source of Captain Montoya’s unearthly good fortune with pirates. With his men scattered throughout the town, Diego visited his home first, then set out to fulfill his father’s request that he go to church and fetch one of his younger brothers for a family meal.

  The cathedral was not far from the Montoya house. On his way, Diego listened to the sound of the ocean to the west, and gazed around at the vast array of architecture that surrounded him. Cádiz was an ancient city, in some ways more African than Spanish in appearance. Domed buildings echoed times past when the Moors had held it, although the cathedral had been built where a great mosque had once stood. The streets were narrow and lined with neat, plaster-covered buildings that would glow gold as the sun set.

  Diego slipped quietly into the back of the cathedral. As always, the Virgin Mary gazed down at him with infinite patience, votives scattered at the hem of her dress. Christ stood in his robes with an expression of humble confidence. Breathing in the sweet scent of incense, Diego crossed himself and genuflected briefly. Then he smiled at the priest who approached him, coarse robe flapping at his ankles.

  “Diego,” the priest greeted, a smile lighting his own, young face.

  “It is good to see you, Father.” They embraced fondly, and with a broad grin, Diego added, “I will never get used to that, Pablo. To me, you are always my little brother.”

  Pablo smiled, too. “No one in the family seems to be able to adjust to the change. As you know well, merely growing up and finding your own path in life does not excuse you from being our parents’ child.”

  Diego shook his head. “This is why the company I will have will be based in La Habana. If I stayed in Cádiz, Mamá would never give me a moment’s peace. She would have every unmarried woman in the city crowding the office. And I no sooner arrived this time than Father pulled me aside and insisted I take Rico on board my ship. I have my hands full enough without having to deal with our youngest brother. He is still nothing but trouble, I hear.”

  “Just be thankful you never have to hear his confessions. If our father only knew… The bishop says it is a bad idea to let a priest serve in his own community, and I suppose being in such an odd position with my family is one of the reasons. Speaking of confession, how long has it been?”

  “I confessed in Cartagena, and I have been on a ship since, and I ran away from the pirates instead of killing them.” Temptation was a sin, as well, but how could he tell his own brother who it was that had tempted him? That confession would be made to another.

  Pablo grinned. “No killing. That is good. You lived a charmed life, brother.”

  Diego’s smile faded. “My charm is wearing thin. Even my crew thinks me more than lucky.”

  Pablo’s face grew serious, as well. “Surely they do not think that there is some dark force…”

  Diego nodded, and the two brothers took a place in a far pew.

  “Tell me,” Pablo said.

  There was a long silence before Diego asked, “How did you know that you were to be a priest?”

  Pablo frowned. “I just knew. I have always known.”

  “But how did you know? I mean, did you hear a voice or see a vision?”

  With a shake of his head, Pablo explained, “It was not so dramatic as that. I just felt more at home at church than…at home.” At Diego’s sigh, Pablo’s curiosity got the better of him. “Are you seeking some sign in your life, brother? Hoping for a voice or a vision?”

  Diego rubbed the heels of his hands tiredly over his eyes. “More voices and visions I can do without.”

  “More?”

  “Tell me something, as my brother and as my priest. If a saint were to appear to a humble sailor, would it be a miracle or heresy?”

  Pablo cast an anxious look around him and lowered his voice. “You think that you have been visited by a saint?”

  “You see,” Diego said, noting the change in his brother’s demeanor. “Even you doubt me. But I tell you, her advice has been sound and her prophesies have proven true.”

  “Prophesies?” Pablo whispered. “What prophesies? Which saint?”

  “My patron saint, María Magdalena.”

  “Magdalena? A-are you quite certain it was not the other María? The Blessed Mother has been known to appear to her worthiest servants from time to time.”

  Somehow he could not see the Holy Virgin appearing to him as Magdalena had, but Pablo would surely interpret that vision to be the devil in a woman’s form. “It is the name of my ship, you know, Magdalena.”

  “Yes, I know, but this is most irregular.”

  “Do you think that I speak heresy?”

  Pablo shrugged, his face befuddled. “No, never consciously, but how do you know this is truly a saint? What did she tell you?”

  “She came to me when I was feverish and ill.”

  At this bit of information, Pablo relaxed a bit. “I see.”

  “No. No, I do not think that you do. The captain was dead; others died after him. We were burying one of the crew when she first came to me. She told me that he would be the last to die, and he was.”

  “A coincidence,” Pablo protested.

  “She has come to me since then. It is she who warns me of enemy ships, tells me when to fight and when to flee.”

  Pablo leveled his brother with a grim, intense look. “Does she bid you do anything in return? Urge you to seek some power or influence on her behalf? Question your faith?”

  Diego shook his head vehemently. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Has she promised to give you anything? Anything besides fair warning against pirates?” Diego flushed, and Pablo did not miss it. “What?”

  “A woman.”

  Pablo responded in Latin, shaking his head.

  “No!” Diego protested. “Not like that. A wife. That is a good thing, yes? Is that not better than the Protestant girl I told you about?” Pablo was the only member of the family in whom he had confided about Faith.

  “The Protestant who led you on and used you to save her lover? And then several months ago you risked your life to save her friend—another Protestant Englishwoman, I might add. Are these the women your illusion of a saint leads you to? I do not like this, Diego.”

  “She did not lead me to them, and I only risked money, not my life, to save Faith’s friend Grace. What if it really is Magdalena who comes to me? Then surely whomever she leads me to is part of God’s plan for my life.”

  “I do not know enough to say if these visions are holy or not,” Pablo conceded. “Be careful. If she bids you stray at all, you must make a full confession and hand yourself body and soul to the Church. You need not fear Her.”

  “I will. I promise. For now, is it not possible that your lowly brother has been the recipient of a true miracle?”

  Pablo smiled, but the expression did not reach his worried eyes. “As long as she gives you a good Spanish woman.”

  “I vow,” Diego assured him emphatically, “should I ever meet another English damsel in distress, she will have to look to someone other than Diego Montoya Fernández de Madrid y Delgado Cortés for help.”

  *

  The next six weeks were more frustrating for Mary Kate than the previous four years. After her initial attempt to win over Fortune’s captain, she had turned her attention to the crew. There was a young one, scarcely a handful of years older than she, whose eyes had followed her all about the deck when she came up for fresh air. She’d spent several days taking great care with her hair and dress, acting utterly enthralled with his lessons in knot tying, and thinking of myriad excuses to be near enough to him that he could smell the rosewater she was rapidly using up.

  It had almost worked. In brief, fervent bits and snatches of conversation, she’d pleaded with him to help her, suggested that perhaps he might come to call on her if he ever found himself in Londonderry. And he had dared to say that he might be able to assist her once they made it to the Caribb
ean. It would take months ere she would see her home, but it was better than never.

  Then, just when she was beginning to feel better, the captain and first mate had tied the poor fellow to the mast and whipped him until he confessed his plans to help her. Then they’d given him another ten lashes for his folly. The captain, heartless swine that he was, had held her in front of him, forcing her to watch. She’d nearly fainted at the sight, and worse still, she’d been perilously close to tears as she begged the first mate to cease the punishment.

  That was, of course, the last any crewmember had had to do with her.

  Now, she stood on deck, staring forlornly at the cold, green water and gray sky. A ship on the horizon looked like little more than a tiny speck to Mary Kate, but when the sailor in the crow’s nest focused his spyglass on it and called out a shout of alarm, that speck sent the entire crew into a flurry of activity. She was forgotten as they hastened to load their flintlocks and the ship’s guns. The captain shouted orders to evade the other ship, but it was closing in on them, growing more and more distinct until Mary Kate could just make out the red flag that flew from its mast.

  She grabbed the captain by the sleeve of his coat as he attempted to rush by her. He stared at her in surprise, as though she had appeared out of nowhere.

  “What is it, Miss O’Reilly?” he barked.

  “Well, ‘tis clear to see we can’t outsail them,” Mary Kate said.

  “Thank you for that astute observation. Thank God we have you on board to counsel us in a crisis. Now, go to your cabin and block your door with your trunks.”

  “So what I want to know,” she continued, ignoring both his sarcasm and his order, “is can we outfight them?”

  “We? Actually, Miss O’Reilly, should we lose this battle, I can almost pity the poor sots, for they’ll be stuck with you. Why don’t you stay up here after all? You can have one of your extraordinary temper tantrums. That should send them fleeing for their lives.”