by Kimberly Nee
Her terror mingled with her bitter regret at having broken her word to Iñigo. Had she not run, she would still be on St. Philippe. Heartbroken, mayhap, but her heart would have healed in time. Now, she would never again lay eyes upon him. All he would know was she vanished without a trace and, even if he was inclined to come after her, he couldn’t possibly know her fate.
Tears clouded her eyes as she tried to stretch her cramped legs. “How stupid am I?” she whispered, gagging at the rancid odors torturing her nose. “What have I done?”
One of the others leered at her, smacking his lips in her direction and laughing hoarsely as she tried to shift to give him her back. She shuddered as the other three chimed in with lewd suggestions. If Stamper made good on his threat—
“Please,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut once more and trying to block out the rough voices floating over her shoulder, “please, give me strength. I am sorry…so very sorry…”
Tears stung her eyes, leaking out beneath her lashes to trickle down her cheeks. It was the lowest she’d ever been, even lower than when she was enslaved at Eden’s Pass. She dreaded her return there, dreaded what it would mean when Stamper paraded her before the others. A lashing was inevitable. The one she’d received seven summers ago would pale in comparison.
Her stomach clenched. There would be no mercy, no halting of the lash if she fainted at the whipping post. There would only be pain upon pain, and days of wishing death would come to ease her from the agony. Her heart lurched along with the ship. Wiping her leaking eyes, she whispered, “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Iñigo.”
The ache in her stomach was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She missed Iñigo terribly, acutely felt his absence. She never would have dreamed it possible, but she almost ached for the touch of his hand against her hair, the sound of his laughter, the way he had held her that last night on St. Philippe.
She leaned back against the wall, eyes still closed. Their last night together, almost no words passed between them, when none were needed. Though he might object and shout the opposite, Finn was loved that evening. It was apparent in his caresses, in his kisses, in the way he held her tight in his arms as he drifted off to sleep, murmuring something in Spanish she’d never heard before.
“Pretty wench…”
She winced at the rough voice floating across the stinking hold, lilting and sweet and nauseating at the same time. She didn’t know the man’s name, but he seemed to take great delight in tormenting her far more than the others did. He repeated her name ceaselessly, in the same sickly rasp. If she tried to ignore him, he raised his voice. If she looked over at him, he blew her kisses and made other foul suggestions until she wanted to retch.
“Fiona…”
She shivered at the lilting way he sung her name. “Leave me be.”
“Oh, love, such a fine wench ye are,” he cackled, licking his lips as his eyes fell to her breasts. “I’d be sure to take my pleasure of ye nice and slow.”
Her stomach clenched. “Why can you not simply leave me be?”
“Far too tempting, wench.”
Her manacles rattled and clanked as she shifted even further away, ignoring the burning sting in her ankles as the iron rubbed her already-raw skin. She almost welcomed the pain, as it offered something of a distraction. It was all she had to take her mind off what lay ahead of her.
Day after day, the scenario repeated. If the days were bad, the nights were worse. Rats emerged with the darkness, much to Finn’s horror. She awoke almost hourly to the feel of fur and claws on her flesh. This was followed by nips and bites which made her skin crawl and her ankles bleed. Sleep was impossible, and as the ship drew nearer to Barbados, her spirits sunk even lower.
Several days passed between the time the Santa Teresa reached Bridgetown and Stamper arrived to fetch the slaves from the hold. It was a gray, overcast morning and though no sun graced the sky, Finn was blinded as she haltingly shuffled topside as fast as her bound ankles would allow. It was the first light she’d seen in nearly ten days and her eyes watered incessantly as she shuffled across the deck and down the gangplank.
Once they left the ship, the four slaves were herded into an oxcart and rattled their way through the city to the north. Finn tried to ignore her roiling stomach as they left the city behind and clopped along the well-traveled road through the sparse smattering of palms leading east toward St. George Parish.
The air in Bridgetown had been humid and sticky, but the farther inland they traveled, the cooler it became. The delicate scents of orchids and oranges mingled, cloying in their sweetness. A fresh layer of perspiration rose up to coat her skin, making her feel equally sticky and most uncomfortable as her filthy togs stuck to her back and her chest. No matter how she shifted, no matter how she tugged at the offending fabric, nothing eased her discomfort. Her stomach continued to toss, her mouth filling with bile repeatedly until she wished she would simply retch and be done with it.
She raked her fingers through her matted hair, wincing at how filthy it was once again. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back against the oxcart’s rough wooden plank side, not caring as it bounced off the wood each time they hit the slightest rough patch. She barely noticed it over the unending nausea rumbling through her. All she could think about was the mind-numbing dread at the prospect of returning to Eden’s Pass and what awaited her there. Her nausea only worsened as the scent of boiling sugar—heavy, thick, and sickly sweet—permeated the air.
As the cart creaked through the elegant black, wrought iron gates, her stomach lurched violently. Overhead, the words Eden’s Pass arced over the open gates, and Finn’s mouth went dry as she stared at the words receding into the distance.
The long dirt drive stretched nearly a mile, broken up with leafy palms and hibiscus bushes thick with blossoms. The low singing of the slaves as they worked the cane fields wafted up from the distance. The work was backbreaking and brutal, and singing was the best way to pass the time. The stench of cooking cane was stronger, though they were still some distance from the boiling houses. It was an odor Finn would always recognize, for it got into the fabric of her clothes, into the fabric of her being. She would never forget that smell and what it meant.
Still, she smiled as she mouthed along with the familiar hymn only barely reaching her ears. It was one she often heard in her own slave days, one whose words came back to her at once. The sounds died away though, as they pulled nearer the main house. Finn’s stomach clenched. Judgment day had come.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Iñigo rolled up the chart he’d been studying. His fist tightened, crushing the parchment as his temper rose sharply. Those flashes of temper happened more often than not these days, since he awoke to find himself alone in his bed.
His first thought had been that Finn snuck back into her room before sunrise, mindful of the household servants. When Flora returned to inform him she received no answer when she went to fetch Finn for breakfast, his first response was disbelief. It quickly became anger when an upending search of the house revealed nothing.
By nightfall, after the surrounding grounds had been thoroughly searched, his temper boiled over. A rare china vase purloined from a Spanish galleon suffered as it smashed into a wall, shattering into a thousand delicate shards.
The next morning, he sent Diego to round up his crew and began readying the María to take to the sea once more. It had taken some doing, convincing them to go after an errant cabin boy and finally, Iñigo exploded and the truth came pouring out about who Finn Eden was, and why an errant cabin boy needed finding. He ignored the shocked silence as he stormed below to his cabin. Finn had some explaining to do, after he wrung her neck for putting him through such hell.
Now, as he frowned at the thick pewter clouds billowing overhead, he had to admit he was no longer as much angry as he was worried. When Ennis came forth to tell him a fruit vendor had seen Finn, of how the overseer of the Barbadian plantation where she’d been whipped once
before, had accosted her, fear unlike any other twisted his gut into knots. He would wring her neck after he made damn certain no one else laid a hand upon her.
Iñigo paid a call to the fruit vendor, relieving him of a gold cross with little more than a bit of persuasion. The steel sword tip pressed into the vendor’s throat did much to convince the man to part with the necklace. The gold pieces were the perfect salve for the slight scratch Iñigo left in his neck, and a small price for the vendor’s cooperation.
The thin, delicate chain was now snug about Iñigo's throat—a reminder of the importance of this journey. It also served to fuel his temper and strengthen his resolve to throttle Finn once he laid hands upon her, which could not happen soon enough.
He couldn’t explain his rationale in going after the wayward Finn. It defied logic why he should even care in the first place. Women came and went and it never troubled him ere now. For it to trouble him now made no sense.
“Captain?”
Iñigo turned to see Ennis standing before him. The redhead seemed nervous, quickly casting his gaze toward the deck as soon as Iñigo looked his way. “Aye?”
“I came to see if there is anything else I might do.”
“You’ve done enough, Ennis. I thank you.” Iñigo turned away, gazing back out over the water.
Ennis stood there a moment longer, before saying, “Captain?”
A harsh sigh. “Aye?”
“Are you—”
“I am most certain, Ennis. Believe me, if there is anything I need from you, I’ll not be shy about asking!”
Ennis backed. “Of course, Captain. I beg your pardon.”
Iñigo turned away once more, hearing Ennis’s footfalls die away, replaced by the crash of the sapphire waves rising higher as the storm drew nearer. He almost welcomed the unleashing of nature’s fury, almost welcomed the distraction. Anything to keep his mind off Finn and what she might be going through. It drove him mad, how she might be in danger, how she might at that very moment be in the process of being roped to a scarred, battered whipping post to be lashed. Fury burned through his gut and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to block out the images refusing to leave him in peace.
“No,” he muttered, his head dropping as he gripped the railing with such force his knuckles went white. “They have but two days on you. Two days. Maldito sea… God damn it, I will find you, mi querida Finn. And when I do, there will be hell to pay.” He lifted his eyes to the threatening skies. “Hell to pay.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Fiona?”
Finn lifted her head from her thin pallet to squint through the darkness. “Aye?”
“I heard the rumors, but did not believe them for myself.”
The breathy voice was familiar, but with the darkness, Finn could not see the woman speaking to her through the small grating in the door. “Who goes there?”
“It’s me, Fiona. Adeline.”
Finn smiled for the first time since returning to Eden’s Pass. Adeline had been her closest friend on the plantation and to hear her voice now offered more comfort than she ever imagined it would.
“Adeline?”
“Aye.”
Finn sat up, wincing at the stiffness in her back. Several nights of sleeping on the cold, hard ground and her body had begun to complain. Still, she was grateful to even feel stiffness. Tobias Eden had been almost giddy as Jeremiah paraded her before him three days earlier.
As the oxcart rolled to a halt in the rutted drive, it seemed everybody living and toiling in the main house clustered on the narrow front veranda. Eyes were almost perfectly round, jaws slack with surprise, as slave and master alike all caught sight of Finn.
The crowd parted and a short, stocky, bandy-legged man stepped forth. Tobias Eden's round, meaty face was ruddy and shiny, his plump jowls sagging over his stiffly tied stock. As always, he was perspiring in the heat, trickles of sweat sliding over those jowls to soak into the neck cloth he always wore. His white shirt was also stained with sweat, the lace cuffs falling limply over his hands, and his buff-colored breeches bore several dark, wet patches as well.
He stepped down, a look of detachment on his puffy features. He had a weakness for rum and female slaves, but seemed sober enough as he reached the bottommost step and approached the cart.
“Come along then.”
Finn swallowed her nausea as Stamper wrapped thick, callused fingers about her arm and yanked her to her feet to drag her from the cart. Fear mingled with her nausea and she prayed her knees would not betray her. Taking a deep breath, she willed the sick feeling into submission as Stamper brought her around to stand before Tobias.
Ignoring the curious and sympathetic eyes of her fellow slaves, she focused on Tobias. He always toted his whip about, and today was no exception. There it was, a curl of shiny leather coiled about his right shoulder.
He stepped before her, his right thumb stroking the leather. His dark eyes narrowed cruelly as they fell on her. “Well, well, what have we here? A runaway slave, returned with her tail firmly between her legs. How fitting.”
She’d squared her shoulders, facing him with a courage she didn’t truly feel. “I have returned, it’s true. But there is no tail to be found.”
His thin smile faded. “I see you’ve yet to lose that lip that always had you in trouble. Well, it will be the first thing I will take delight in breaking.”
Her stomach lurched, her mouth flooded with a horrible, sour taste once more. Still, she refused to look away, refused to show him even a hint of fear. His ruddy face grew redder still as he sputtered, “Do you dare meet my eyes, slave?”
Finn didn’t flinch, not even when spittle flew from his thick lips to spray her face. “I’ll not look away.”
“Insolent rubbish!” Tobias fumed as the others murmured around him. It seemed most were quite impressed with Finn's show of spine. It was apparently enough to inflame his fury further, though.
She never saw him raise his hand before lights suddenly exploded within her skull and she sprawled across the black soil. Tears stung her eyes as she furiously blinked them back, determined not to let them fall. The flesh over her cheekbone was puffy and swollen as she probed it. Drawing her hand back, her fingertips were smeared red with blood.
Above her, Tobias’s voice was smug. “Take her to the hole.”
Finn looked up, feeling as though she might retch at the look of glee in Jeremiah’s dark eyes. The hole was almost exactly what it sounded like—a dark, dank earthen cell, with a heavy wooden door. The only light filtering through was through a small iron grate in the door and those sent to the hole were given one meal a day—usually stale, moldy bread and almost fetid water. Her stomach tossed, but she swallowed hard to fight it off.
“We will see how much insolence you show after seven days and seven nights. Then I shall deal with you in such a way to make certain no other worker takes it into his head to try such a foolish thing.” Tobias waved her away as Stamper yanked her to her feet and dragged her away from the house. “Begone then, bitch. We shall see how much lip you’ve left.”
Having been in the hole for two days now, Finn was convinced she’d go mad. One of the other slaves had been given the task of bringing her the daily meal, and it was a moment of the day she looked forward to the most. She’d had many friends amongst the others and none were shy about sharing a tidbit of gossip to brighten her day. Adeline’s arrival offered more comfort than anything else could and she wished she could reach through the grate on the door and embrace her friend.
“What brings you here?” She shakily rose from her thin pallet, crossing the rough dirt floor to the door.
“Geordie told me you’d been brought back and I could not believe it. I had to see for myself. Are you well?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“I heard Master Tobias is planning a public flogging for you, to teach us all a lesson.”
Dizziness swept over her. “It’s as I expected. You should not b
e here, though. I should hate to see you get into trouble on my behalf.”
“Worry not.” Adeline’s voice was airy. “Geordie will let me know if anyone approaches.”
Finn rested her forehead against the iron grate. Like everything else around her, it was damp with humidity. The air seemed to press in on her, leaving her lightheaded and dizzy. “I needs lie down again.”
“Are you ill?” Adeline’s voice was tinged with worry.
Finn didn’t answer, but staggered away from the door to sprawl across her pallet. Her skin was clammy and damp as a fresh wave of perspiration broke out over her. Her stomach tumbled over and she couldn’t hold back her long, low groan.
“Fiona?”
Finn gritted her teeth, willing the nausea to pass. Adeline repeated her name several more times before Finn was well enough to whisper, “I am fine, Adeline. I simply feel a bit lightheaded.”
“Should I fetch Ebere?”
“Nay. I’ve no need for a shaman woman. It’s simply all that has happened backing up on me, I am afraid. You’d best go now. I needs sleep a while.”
“Very well.” Adeline didn’t sound at all convinced she should leave. “I will try to return sometime later this day.”
“Do be careful,” Finn whispered as a fresh wave of nausea flooded her. She let her head drop back onto the pallet as the room swam before her. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so terribly ill, so terribly weak.
A low groan rose into the air. How had things gotten as far out of hand? How was it possible something as simple as her freedom would prove to be almost unattainable?
“You had it, fool,” she muttered, squeezing her eyes shut as a fresh wave of nausea rose up. “You had it and simply tossed it aside. Iñigo would have given it to you, but no, you had to be so damn pigheaded and stubborn. You pine for him as if he loved you back. Well, fool, he does not love you, and you’ve made certain that it would never come to pass. Rash and stupid, you are, Finn. Why was having only a piece of him not enough? He offered you something. When did you decide it had to be more? Why did you decide it had to be more? And, where has that led you, fool?”