Tides of Passion

by Sara Orwig

  “But for now, we sail the same course,” Edwin repeated.

  “Yes, we do.” Dunsten turned to look at Edwin with curiosity in his dark eyes. “What does Chile hold for you?”

  “I was to be married, but the woman I was to wed sailed on a ship bound for Chile.”

  “We could encounter her. At sea, anything’s possible.”

  “Have you ever heard of El Feroz?”

  Dunsten shook his head. “No. A Spanish ship.”

  “No. It belongs to a Captain Raven—”

  “The Sea Hawk! The man’s not a raven, but a predatory hawk.”

  “You know him?”

  “Captain’s crossed paths with him once. He’s a damned sea creature. He can outsail the devil himself! He cut our rigging to pieces and took everything we had aboard ship.”

  Edwin’s curiosity was intense. “He let you live, though.”

  “Aye, that he did. He left us our ship and our lives. The ship was a creaking wreck. We made it to port only because we didn’t encounter a storm.”

  “So he isn’t cruel. What does he look like?”

  Dunsten paused, leaning his hand on a cask while he grinned at Edwin. “Did she wed him?”

  “No.” Edwin saw the questions in Dunsten’s eyes and swiftly he related Lianna’s plight and the exchange with Quita.

  “Damnation! She’s cut her course now: He has a reputation with ladies dockside. They like him. Better than he seems to like them. He has no ties that I’ve heard about.”

  “What’s he look like?” Edwin persisted, wanting to hear, yet dreading the answer.

  “He’s tall and fights like a fury and has the damndest cold green eyes you’ll ever encounter,” Dunsten said, then added slyly, “The world’s full of women.”

  “Not like this one.”

  Dunsten grinned and jabbed Edwin in the ribs. “You’ve never traveled far from home. Wait till we reach the islands. You’ll see some beauties that’ll warm your blood and make you forget your loss.”

  As they reached the upper deck, Dunsten said, “El Feroz. That’s not his ship’s name. He’s up to something in his journey to Chile. I’ll tell Captain.”

  “Would he attempt a fight with Captain Raven again?”

  Dunsten shrugged. “Who knows what Cap’n will do? We met him only once since we’ve sailed on this ship and he didn’t want to battle. Outran us. The man’s a hawk, not a raven. Now, climb up there.”

  Edwin looked at the tall mast, the lines, and the rigging, before he reached to grasp the footladder and scramble up.

  In two days’ time his skin was roughened by the wind and sun, and his muscles ached beyond anything he would have dreamed possible, but he was learning. He worked diligently, stowing the hammocks early each morning—doubling them, folding each at angles to the other until they were packed away neatly. He paused now and then, his gaze scanning the horizon.

  “What’re you looking for, mate?” a companion asked.

  “Another ship.”

  “We’ll find one soon enough. Spoiling for your first fight?”

  Edwin smiled and turned back to stowing a hammock. El Feroz might not be too far ahead at all.

  “Sails sighted!” came a cry from the lubber’s hole high above.

  Edwin’s head snapped up as men began to swarm around him. Captain Turner moved to the bridge and took the telescope from a sailor.

  “Unfurl sails!” he shouted, and men scrambled to obey. Edwin hurried beside Dunsten so he would learn what to do.

  “What is it?”

  “We’re too far to tell yet. We’re on the windward side.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We’ll get on the same course and tack as the vessel we chase does.” Dunsten squinted at Edwin. “You have the curiosity of a cat.” Edwin glanced again at the white speck on the horizon, and his pulse jumped with the knowledge they were after a ship!

  An hour later the ship was in plain sight and the distance was visibly narrowing.

  “What kind of ship is it?” Edwin asked Dunsten, who came to stand beside him.

  “An old Dutch ship, cumbersome and loaded with cargo. We’ll catch her and we’ll take her!”

  “We’ve changed course and turned back toward England.”

  “That’s the way the ship goes. We run northward toward Holland.”

  “And we run off our southern course.”

  “We’ll get back on course later, and if we take her, you’ll find it worth the time.”

  “How’ll we get close enough to fight?”

  “See.” Dunsten pointed at the sails, then at the ship. “We tack whenever the ship is ninety degrees to beam. That way we’ll meet.”

  Edwin went below to get the cutlass, feeling his blood pound with excitement. When he came above, the lieutenant met him. “You’ll learn how to do battle now. You’re one of the biggest men on the ship, so you get to the cannon. You’ll go with the boarders. Kelsey will give you instructions. Stay with him.”

  Edwin learned to place the hand spikes, rammers, powder horns, and matches by the side of each cannon. In another hour they caught the ship, their cannon blasting while the Dutch ship’s cannon fired in return. Edwin helped a gunner, who stood to the right side of the cannon and rammed the powder cartridge down the full length of the bore. The powder was measured and rammed inside while he instructed Edwin to keep his thumb on the touch-hole. Edwin worked feverishly, watching every movement, trying to store it in memory so he would soon be loading and firing a cannon, not assisting. A canonball hit the hull near his cannon, splintering it and making a resounding bang.

  “We’re moving alongside,” Kelsey said.

  “Prepare to board,” the lieutenant called, and Edwin brandished the cutlass as he joined the others, swinging on grappling hooks.

  The next moment Edwin was scrambling from his ship to the Dutch ship. A man rushed at him, cutlass raised. Edwin swung, putting all his weight behind his weapon. His knife sent the other man’s clattering as it cut off the man’s hand at the wrist and blood spurted over him. The man screamed, staring at his arm, and Edwin slashed his throat, moving on. He fought without thinking, as furiously as if he could overcome the demons in his life by winning this one battle.

  Then it was over, and the ship was theirs. He heard shouts of triumph. Men stood in a cluster around the prisoners as Captain Turner boarded.

  “We will take this ship and all its cargo. I don’t want Dutch sailors. There are no survivors.”

  “Aye, captain,” a man said, and in moments the few surviving men were executed and tossed into the sea. Edwin’s stomach churned at the thought of how little life was valued at sea. Yet how easy it had been! Men scrambled over the ship to discover what it contained, while Captain Turner picked a crew to man the stolen ship. Edwin felt exultant. He felt as if he could take another ship single handedly. Dunsten came up from below, strings of pearls around his neck. “Look what I found in a sea chest. How’d you like your first fight?”

  “It was grand!”

  Overhearing Edwin, Captain Turner approached him. He clasped his hand on Edwin’s shoulder, his laughter booming. “Listen to the green lubber! He has a thirst for riches and a damn strong arm. I saw you fight.”

  “Years of farming…” Edwin said, holding up his fist.

  “You’ll do well,” Captain Turner said.

  Edwin looked into the captain’s black eyes. And someday I’ll have my own ship, he thought, but he held back the words.

  12

  La Joya docked at La Coruña in February. As Quinta looked out the porthole, her nervousness made her hands turn to ice. Viewing the red tile rooftops of La Coruña and the thatched roofs of the nearby shacks, she thought how near her family was. Too near. She jumped at a rap on the door. Captain Lackly entered with a tall woman dressed in black at his side. Her dress was elegant, her features stern and frightening.

  “Miss Melton, may I present Doña Vianta, who is to travel with you. She is a cousin
of the Count of Marcheno. Señora, this is Miss Lianna Melton.”

  “Buenos días,” Quita said, feeling terror shoot through her, wishing she had never committed a folly like exchanging places with Lianna.

  “Buenos días,” Doña Vianta returned, her cold black eyes studying Quita. “I understand your maid fell ill before you sailed, and you have traveled alone?”

  “Yes, Doña Vianta.”

  Her frown became more fierce, and Quita could sense her extreme disapproval as Doña Vianta said, “You’ll be accompanied by me as well as the servants as we ride to Madrid. Marcheno’s carriages are waiting, and the captain has had your trunks loaded on the carriages. Everything is ready.”

  “I can go now,” Quita said stiffly. Dressed in dark blue velvet trimmed in black, she wore the hat trimmed with the black gauze. As they started down the gangplank, she lowered the gauze to hide her face. Her gaze flitted over the docks from where she had sailed only a year earlier. She saw the lane she had ridden down when she had left Juan behind. Juan. She refused to think about him. She had turned her back on her past. With icy hands she climbed into the carriage behind Doña Vianta.

  Sun shone brightly on the carriage as it rocked along the dusty lanes, carrying Quita through the town of her birth, passing the fountain where she had washed her clothes for her family. She sank back in the seat and soon La Coruña was behind her.

  “Dispensing with our usual Spanish formalities, parties are arranged for the next few days so you can get acquainted. There are many relatives to meet.”

  Quita nodded, feeling the less she said, the better.

  “Do you speak Spanish well enough to converse?” the older woman asked swiftly in her native tongue.

  “Sí. I have had many years of study and a maid who spoke Spanish, as well as my mother, who taught me when I was small.”

  Looking relieved, Doña Vianta flashed her a chilly smile. “That’s good. We’ll speak in Spanish.”

  Each day became a stiff and tedious ride filled with awkward silences. They endured each other’s company on the long journey to Madrid. The only moments Quita relaxed were at the inns where she was treated like royalty since she was traveling as the count’s fiancée, so different from her past experiences as a maid. At night she would retire as early as possible to escape Doña Vianta’s questions and forbidding presence.

  Finally they neared Marcheno Castle outside Madrid. When Quita leaned forward to look out the window, and catch her first glimpse of the awesome structure, her breath stopped momentarily. Mammoth, with a multitude of parapets, turrets, and imposing towers, the castle loomed larger than she had imagined, covering an enormous expanse of ground. Sun splashed over its granite and limestone walls, and a red tile roof added to its warm appearance. Cypress and olive trees surrounded the outer walls. Quita thought it the grandest structure she had ever seen. Her heart thudded when she thought she would soon be mistress of the castle.

  “How beautiful!” she murmured.

  “It was built three centuries ago,” Doña Vianta said proudly. “It’s Mudejar architecture that was developed from a merging of Christian and Mohammedan traditions.”

  Quita clutched the window as she stared, unable to believe it would really be hers soon. And her children—a son who had her blood would someday be master of this castle. If only the count didn’t discover the truth!

  As the carriage rolled along a lane thickly bordered by olive trees, the sun went behind a cloud and a cold black shadow fell over the landscape. The chill ran through Quita, making her tremble. She glanced at Doña Vianta, who stared at her with hawklike black eyes. Quita drew herself up and leaned back against the seat. “I am weary of travel.”

  “You may rest as soon as we reach the castle.”

  And as soon as she had met the man she was to marry, Quita thought, conjuring up a vision of an older man; large, portly, and stern. Images of him had played through her mind countless times on her voyage. One moment she pictured a black-haired man, the next, a tall graying one, thin and gaunt. Then she would envision a white-haired man. At forty-one, the Count of Marcheno was almost her father’s age.

  When the carriage finally halted and she stepped down, she was aghast to discover an army of servants waiting to greet her. One by one, they were introduced by Doña Vianta. Then she was introduced to her personal maid, Yolana, and finally shown to her rooms.

  As she climbed the broad steps to the wide polished floor of the hallway upstairs, her bewilderment changed to relief. She had not met the count yet and she would soon be in the haven of her room.

  Her blood warmed, and her nerves calmed as she looked at the large room that was to be hers until the wedding. With shiny wooden floors, white walls, and dark beams in the ceiling, it looked magnificent to her. A canopied bed stood between arched windows, a dark mahogany armoire stood along one wall, and a brazier had been placed in the center of the room. She looked around at the washstand, the writing desk, things she had never possessed in her life or had at her disposal. It was far grander than Squire Melton’s house, and for an instant she felt a twinge of sadness that Lianna would miss such a life for one of servitude. Then thoughts of her own rare good fortune crowded out consideration of Lianna. Again she was struck with a terrible fear that it was impossible for her, Quita Bencaria, to become mistress of Marcheno Castle. The count would take one look at her and see the truth, the serving girl who knew nothing of books or learning or society.

  An oval mirror on a stand stood at an angle across the room from her, and as servants carried in her trunks, she glanced at her reflection. Her wide brown eyes looked full of fear. Taking a deep breath, she remembered how Lianna had treated her and tried to use the same polite tone.

  “Please, set the small trunk by the foot of the bed. Thank you,” she said, smiling at the boy who carried the smallest trunk.

  In moments they were gone. Yolana said softly, “I’ll get your bath ready so you can wash and freshen up. Tonight there is a ball. The count flouts custom—if you were a proper Spanish girl, he would have to conduct himself more circumspectly. It would be weeks before he could dance with you.”

  Fear rose along with a sense of helplessness as Quita stared at the girl. “I don’t know how to dance.” Her mind raced to think of an excuse. “I’m just out of the schoolroom, and my father never allowed me to attend a ball.”

  “Someone will teach you.” Yolana looked at her and said shyly, “There are only two dances you will probably do. The count learned the waltz on a journey to France and he has it played at all the balls given here. They’ll also do a Spanish dance, the fandango. I’ll show you how.”

  “Please!” Quita said, wondering if she could learn the steps sufficiently to avoid appearing clumsy. She watched as the maid moved stiffly, then with a little more grace as she began to hum softly. Quita followed in step behind her until they both laughed. Remembering her position, Quita suddenly ended the moment. “I must bathe now. I’m tired from the journey. Thank you, Yolana. If you’ll help me with this dress, please.”

  She turned her back to be helped to undress for the first time since she was an infant.

  That night, she looked at herself in the long oval mirror and it was an effort to bite back a cry of surprise. Her own mother wouldn’t know her. Her dark hair had been looped and twisted, and piled high on her head with long curls left hanging down the back of her neck. Fitting as perfectly as if it had been made for her instead of Lianna, the low-cut blue silk molded the curves of her high, full breasts, nipped in at her tiny waist, then flared over her hips. Rosebuds were pinned in her hair to match the velvet roses on the dress, and white lace trimmed its low neckline and short sleeves.

  “How beautiful you look!” Yolana exclaimed.

  “Thank you,” Quita said, feeling a momentary pang of regret that Yolana was a servant and not a friend who could join her and share in the excitement. “Yolana, what is the count like?”

  “El conde es muy macho, muy grande,” she sai
d swiftly, blushing slightly. “You are fortunate, as many hearts are broken by the news of your marriage to him.”

  “Señorita Melton,” came a voice from the doorway. Doña Vianta, dressed in deep purple velvet from her chin to her toes, stood waiting. “You look lovely. You inherited much from your Spanish mother and little from your English father. Are you ready?”

  “Sí,” Quita said, feeling as if she were about to walk into a den of hungry wolves.

  Side by side with Doña Vianta, she descended the steps to the grand hall. There, an elderly man who had black hair streaked with gray stood waiting, his long face changing from an impassive stare to a smile as she approached.

  Her heart pounded because she was certain she was looking at her husband-to-be. He was less handsome than she had imagined, perhaps a bit older, although she had envisioned gray in his hair, but his smile was kindly.

  “Señorita Melton, this is Don Felipe Acosta, the count’s uncle. He will escort you to the ballroom.”

  Feeling a swift stab of relief that he was not the count, Quita took his arm and they crossed the hall.

  She was announced, and found herself looking at a sea of curious faces, of handsome men in uniforms and fancy clothing, of women in elegant gowns. Beneath an artesonado, an elaborately carved wooden ceiling, chandeliers of lighted candles warmed the room. Doors to the terrace were thrown open. Musicians playing guitars softly sat on a dais flanked by greenery. The room was decorated with yellow roses, their sweet scent faintly carried in the air. Mirrors lined one wall, giving the room an illusion of vast spaciousness, and Quita felt too awed to move or breathe, knowing she stood in a place she did not belong.

  Frightened to speak or act, she almost resisted when Don Felipe pressured her arm slightly to propel her forward. He leaned close to her to whisper, “Señorita, they are not lions you go to meet. They are curious and happy to welcome Marcheno’s bride. They are all relatives and friends of the count’s.”