Tides of Passion

by Sara Orwig

  By the next week he had learned what he wanted to know about Santiago, Chile, and what man to contact in London. And at midmorning several days later, he sat in a comfortable chair in the corner of a London club while he faced a white-haired man who watched him with curiosity in his pale gray eyes.

  “I’ve heard about the Laturo Lodge and your interests in Santiago, Chile. I’ve come to offer my services as a mercenary.”

  Lord Quimby smiled. “You’re very young to be a mercenary soldier. And while I’m deeply interested in the Chilean revolution, all our fellow countrymen have been volunteers.”

  “That doesn’t mean a mercenary won’t fight just as hard.”

  “Of course not.”

  Edwin sipped the hot tea from a fine china cup and forced himself to relax, to take his time. He’d studied Lord Quimby well before approaching him. He knew Lord Quimby’s interests were in creating further markets of trade for his ships. He was wealthy, with a fleet of ships and an adventuring nature that was hampered now by age and his wife’s health.

  Edwin gazed beyond Lord Quimby at the green fronds of a potted palm that partially hid them from the view of other men in the room.

  “What could you do for us in Santiago?”

  “I could take a ship filled with arms and supplies. Once there, you have men working toward the revolution. I could do what the patriots need. I could bring back whatever you want me to carry—men, supplies, cargo.”

  “You make me wish I were going myself. Once you develop a taste for far-off places, it’s damned difficult to get it out of your system.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s your background, Mr. Stafford?”

  “I worked on a farm for Squire Melton in Wiltshire.”

  “Oh, yes. I knew him because of his ships. He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. I was a groomsman,” Edwin said, and noted with satisfaction the brief, flickering glance Lord Quimby gave his clothing. Edwin felt comfortable with the elegant fawn breeches, the tailored dark blue coat, and the white silk cravat. His clothes weren’t a groomsman’s clothes, and the fact had to be quite obvious to Lord Quimby. Edwin continued calmly, “I left him in the winter of 1816 to sail on the Adrian, a privateering vessel. I’m now the ship’s captain.”

  Lord Quimby’s stare gave Edwin another flare of satisfaction, this time greater than before, because shock was evident in Lord Quimby’s features.

  “Captain? That’s remarkable!”

  “Yes, sir. I feel fortunate, although my good fortune was at the expense of my fellow seamen. As you well know, the sea can be very unpredictable. We were engaged in battle and fared poorly, then hit a gale. There weren’t many of us who survived to bring the ship home, but I was one of the survivors and I was made captain.”

  Lord Quimby stared at Edwin, who gazed back with a faint smile. Lord Quimby’s gaze dropped, and he sipped his tea. “What ship did you say you command?” he asked politely.

  “The Adrian. You can see her dockside.”

  “Why would you leave your own ship and fight in Santiago?”

  “The Adrian is a wreck. We were fortunate to get her into port. She won’t sail again.”

  “Ah!” Lord Quimby nodded as if Edwin’s answer had settled some question in his mind. “How much would you want to earn to fight in Santiago?”

  Edwin placed his teacup carefully on the tray in front of them, sat back, and said, “When I’m through, I want my own ship.”

  “So that’s the prize! You’re a captain without a ship. Do you think with your brief experience at sea you could get a ship around Cape Horn?”

  “If I had the right crew, yes, your lordship, I think I could.”

  Lord Quimby smiled. “You’re a daring one, Edwin Stafford. I’ll give the matter thought. Where can I contact you?”

  “I’m at the King’s Inn until I sail. Thank you, Lord Quimby, for giving me your time. I hope we can work together.”

  They stood up and shook hands and Edwin left, his glance going over the tasteful furnishings that made him hunger for the things he wanted. He couldn’t tell if he’d made any dent on the crusty old man, and now he’d just have to wait and hope. He stepped outside into a chilly fog, putting on his beaver hat as he headed back to the inn to change clothes for his fencing lesson.

  He kept busy, his nerves growing raw as a week passed without word of any kind from Lord Quimby. Edwin cursed the man for his slowness in replying. He fought the fencing master with a fury that made the Frenchman swear and exclaim on Edwin’s mastery.

  “More finesse!” he cried once as Edwin sent a rapier flying from the his hands. “You go at it as if you wanted to murder me and everyone else in London! Use some grace.”

  Edwin laughed. “To hell with grace! I want to be able to fight with the best of them.”

  “You will, m’sieur! Sacrebleu!”

  Whenever he remembered the shipboard encounter with Josh Raven, Edwin burned with embarrassment. How swiftly Josh had disarmed him, and could have run him through if he’d been so inclined. Instead, he’d sent him scrambling from the ship and raging with the knowledge that Raven had wed Lianna.

  Edwin would have given her up if he hadn’t seen her rush toward him and heard her scream his name. Whatever kind of marriage she was bound in, it was not her choosing and she didn’t love Joshua Raven. And in a revolution it would be just as easy to be rid of Raven as it had been to eliminate Captain Turner. Perhaps easier.

  Edwin slashed the rapier through the air. How he longed to meet Josh Raven again. This time he wouldn’t be a green lubber who didn’t know how to handle a sword! And afterward Lianna…

  His mind jumped to contemplation of the fortune waiting for her to claim at home in Wiltshire. There was the prize!

  After his lesson, he picked up his coat and entered the anteroom, where he passed Lord Gwyn, an aging man who came for the exercise of fencing and left his young wife waiting. His bored, beautiful young wife who was more than happy to spend an hour talking with Edwin. Harriet Gwyn gave more than subtle hints about the nights she would be alone while her husband was gone to the club, but Edwin didn’t want anything to turn Lord Quimby aside and carefully avoided agreeing to come visit her, yet he also tried to appear deeply regretful. The moment he got the word from Lord Quimby, whether yes or no, Edwin intended to sample the delights so visibly promised in Harriet’s dark, flirtatious eyes, her pouting red lips, and her high, full white bosom.

  He left before Lord Gwyn was finished, and as he stepped outside, a man moved away from a waiting carriage and approached him. “Mr. Stafford?”

  “Yes? I’m Edwin Stafford.”

  “Lord Quimby sends a message. Would you be able to meet him at his club tomorrow morning, at eleven o’clock?”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll be there,” he answered, eager to finally get an answer. He spent a restless, sleepless night after tumbling a wench from the inn. Lord Quimby had made his decision, and Edwin’s nerves were on edge with the suspense of waiting and worrying.

  The next morning Edwin was there promptly on time, this time wearing his second new pair of breeches, dark blue, with the dark blue coat. He greeted Lord Quimby, who introduced him to a dark-eyed, dark-skinned man named Vicente Garansuay, and the three sat down to talk.

  At Belém along the Brazilian coast, a Spanish ship lay at anchor in the estuary of the Amazon River. Lush green mangoes crowded down to the sluggish, muddy river’s edge and parrots squawked, their raucous cries starting early in the day, while small brown monkeys scampered in the treetops. Inside La Lia, the Count of Marcheno’s ship, in a large cabin given over to the owner and his wife, Quita stepped out of bed to dress. She paused in front of the long mirror fastened securely to the bulkhead and pulled off her gown to look at her body. She was slender as a young tree and she suffered a sense of panic that came more and more often.

  Armando and she had been wed more than seven months now and still she was without child. And she knew the situati
on was beginning to disturb Armando.

  She had seen him studying her figure with smoldering looks. There were moments when he made love to her, his thrusts hard and frenzied as if he would force her to become impregnated with his seed. And his disposition sometimes was cross. It was seldom, and he apologized swiftly, but she knew what was worrying him. Another birthday approached and he would be forty-two and she knew he wanted an heir desperately.

  And she wanted one equally desperately. They sailed for Santiago, Chile, and Quita was fearful of crossing paths with Lianna. Constantly she prayed that her note had been delivered to El Feroz and that Lianna had returned home to marry Edwin Stafford. But she couldn’t rid herself of the fear that the boy might not have delivered the message. Or Captain Raven might not have let Lianna go. And Armando had told her that Francisco had written there might be rebellion from the Chileans, and thus an immense loss of gold and wealth to Spain. If there were to be a fight, Armando wouldn’t run from it, and she feared for him and their future.

  A more immediate fear gnawed at her. They had been at anchor at Belém for three weeks now. Armando liked the river and the hunting, the wildness of the area. And last week while he had been hunting animals she couldn’t describe, she had visited the village, where she had learned of the magic practiced near there, a mixture of beliefs that included sorcery.

  Carrying a bolt of material Quita had asked for, Yolana entered.

  “Has Don Armando left the ship?”

  “Sí. The men left an hour ago. They’ve gone upriver.”

  Quita pulled on her robe and belted it around her waist. “Help me dress and come with me today.”

  Yolana nodded, her black eyes wide and round, and Quita knew she was afraid. Quita felt equally afraid, but she was willing to try anything to provide Armando with a son.

  “Doña—”

  “Yolana,” Quita interrupted firmly, too aware of the maid’s fear, “I need you!”

  “Sí. I will go.”

  Two hours later, as the sun rose high in the sky over the village of Belém, Quita and Yolana followed a native woman, Maria, down to the river, where they sat in the rough-hewn log canoe. A man pushed them away from shore and rowed silently.

  They branched off on a narrow tributary, and overhead, interwoven branches shut out the sunlight. Shrill bird cries, the screech of monkeys, and the steady dipping splash of the paddle were the only sounds. Quita watched as a snake as large as Armando’s arm slithered into the water and began to swim, leaving a forking wave of ripples in its wake.

  The tributary narrowed swiftly, and the canoe glided silently in chocolate waters. Quita looked down at the rush of the brown water slipping past and shivered, wondering what was below its murky surface. Momentarily she wished she were back safe on board Armando’s ship, but with a lift of her chin, she knew it was too late to turn back now.

  They landed and followed João and Maria down a narrow path. In moments the sound of a drum came and they reached a clearing. Chickens were in a yard in front of a house built of wood and palm fronds. A young boy, his black skin shiny with perspiration, sat with a drum between his knees; his eyes were half-closed as he thumped a steady rhythm.

  They were motioned to wait on the porch, then in seconds ushered into the house. Smells of food and something sweet assailed Quita and she thought of her home in La Coruña. Yet at the same time, this was different, with other, unidentifiable odors. While João remained on the porch, Quita, Maria, and Yolana were led to a dark windowless back room that was stifling in the heat. Several women were seated cross-legged on the floor and stared at Quita with round black eyes.

  Quita felt perspiration bead her brow, and the muslin clothing began to cling to her body. Growing louder, the steady drumbeat reminded her of a heartbeat, until it felt like her own throbbing pulse. The women in the room chanted in a low, steady monotone that became as overwhelming as the heat in the air.

  At one end of the narrow room a woman sat on a chair on a platform. Quita had heard about her in the village and knew she was called Mama Iriri. Her dress and turban were white and she wore shells around her neck. She motioned them forward, then pointed at Quita to come closer.

  Quita couldn’t understand Mama Iriri’s words, but she knew what the motions meant. She moved closer and the woman stood up to gaze down at her, holding her chin in her hand.

  “You want baby?” Mama Iriri asked in Portuguese, but Quita understood.

  She nodded. “Yes, badly.”

  A harsh word was spoken in Portuguese, yet was enough like Spanish that Quita knew she was to remain silent. The women’s chanting grew louder, the heat became more oppressive, the air was cloyingly sweet, all combining to make Quita feel faint. A jar was passed, each woman raising it to her lips to drink. Quita took it when they thrust it into her hands and took a sip of something sweet, yet afterward it left a faintly bitter taste in her mouth.

  Mama Iriri moved to a chest and removed something, holding it in her fist. She closed her eyes and chanted unintelligible words, then shook her head.

  Cowrie shells fell at Quita’s feet and Mama Iriri knelt to poke at them. She looked up at Quita. “You will have a child.”

  Quita swayed, wishing the words could be true. Mama Iriri stood up and waved her hand, and Quita heard a rustling behind her, but she didn’t look around. The chanting rose in volume, and the drumbeat increased its tempo. Two women moved beside Quita and began to unfasten her clothing until she stood naked.

  Mama Iriri got something out of the chest and began to sprinkle a powder on Quita’s body, murmuring incantations.

  Quita felt the perspiration run in rivulets between her breasts, felt the faint, light sprinkling of the powder as she watched through half-closed eyes. The drums and chanting wove a spell around her.

  Mama Iriri tilted her chin up. “Your man’s name is…?”

  “Armando Marcheno.”

  “Armando, Armando…” Everyone began to chant it softly while Mama Iriri produced a jar of ointment and rubbed it on Quita’s belly.

  Then two women worked swiftly, helping her to dress again while Mama Iriri pulled a small bag out of the chest and thrust it into Quita’s hand, murmuring, “Sprinkle on your bed tonight. You need strong gris-gris.” She gave Quita a shell necklace. “Wear this.”

  Next she moved to the chest and came back with another bag she put in Quita’s hands. “Bathe with this.” She stepped down off the platform to look into Quita’s eyes, and Quita felt caught, as if in a web, by large black eyes.

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes, very much.”

  “Love him, daughter. Love your man with your heart and body.”

  Hands turned her, and Quita was led out of the room. The chanting and drumbeat stopped while they walked out in silence to follow João back to the canoe and glide swiftly downriver.

  Quita felt as if the past hour had been unreal, as unreal as her surroundings seemed. She saw an animal that looked like a small coarse-haired pig come to the river to drink. A giant butterfly with wide yellow wings dipped in a lazy spiral over the river, and her senses seemed to be in a similar giddy swirl.

  Once she was back on board ship, she stayed alone in the quiet cabin for a long time, thinking about all that had happened; then she summoned Yolana to help her get ready for Armando’s return.

  She bathed in water as hot as she could stand, emptying part of the contents of the bag and smelling a sweet, heady odor as it spread across the top of the water.

  As soon as she had finished bathing, she dressed in a red satin gown that Armando had given her, wrapping herself in a red silk robe while she waited for him.

  He had sent word he would join her in time for dinner, but Quita had asked the galley to leave them undisturbed until summoned.

  She waited, then felt her heart skip as Armando came in.

  His black hair curled damply against his head as if he had just bathed, and he wore an unlaced white shirt and tight black breeches. He carrie
d a bright red blossom in his hand, and his eyes lighted with delight as he looked at her.

  “Lia, what a surprise!”

  “I’ve missed you,” she said, going to him to twine her arms around his neck.

  “I picked the right flower,” he murmured, tucking the red blossom behind her ear. He kissed her long and hard, his hands pushing away the silk robe and roaming over her body.

  “Lia, how beautiful you look.” He swung her up in his arms and crossed to the bed, which was turned down. He started to lower her, then straightened. “What the devil?”

  He stood her on her feet and brushed his hand over the bed, coming up with white powder coating his palm. “There’s something all over the damned bed.”

  “Armando, ignore it,” she whispered, pulling his hand as she put her knee on the bed.

  “No! I don’t want to roll in powder!”

  “Armando…” She began to fear his anger. “I put it there.”

  He turned around to stare at her. “You did? What is it?”

  “I went to a woman in the village. They say she has magic. I want your baby.”

  Suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. “Lia, my foolish love! That’s nonsense! And I’m not going to kiss that damnable powder off your body!” His eyes narrowed and he reached out to pick up the shell necklace, his knuckles resting on her collarbone. “Did she give you this?”

  “Yes.”

  He yanked it off, spilling shells over the floor.

  “Armando!”

  “Let me show you…” He dropped down on the floor and stretched out, pulling her down with him. “This will get us a baby more quickly than flouncing around in dust!” He pushed a thin red strap off her shoulder.

  “Wait, Armando,” she whispered, remembering the words “Love your man with your heart and body…”

  “Let me tonight,” she whispered, and knelt beside him to stroke him with her hands. “Let me love you,” she said, standing up and slipping off the red gown before she knelt beside him again, watching fires ignite in the depths of his black eyes. She waved her hand in front of her breasts. “See what you do to me by a mere look…”