Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  Indeed, these quarters were a far cry from the dank, dark berth below deck where she had spent last night. But then, Seamus O'Neill was something quite other than childhood tales of pirates had led her to expect.

  A gentleman privateer, was how he had described himself to her yesterday afternoon, after his crew had literally plucked her from the sea to haul her aboard his ship. Having never before met a member of that breed, she'd had to take his word for it.

  She guessed his age to be the same as Malcolm's. In height, they were equal; indeed, their features were vaguely similar, too. In contrast to Malcolm's sleeker form, however, O'Neill possessed a more muscular build that bespoke a man used to physical exertion.

  His coloring was that of so many Irish men she'd seen in the streets of New York City—black hair, dark skin, and blue eyes. Combined with a hint of musical Irish brogue, it was a devastating mixture...at least, to the female sensibilities.

  But she had refused to be swayed.

  Halia gritted her teeth at the memory. She had made one attempt at rebellion last night, soon after she'd been brought aboard. She had refused to join her abductor here in his private cabin for the evening meal, reluctant to give even the appearance of cooperation. What the pirate wanted from her, she was not yet certain, but she did not intend to make his task easy.

  She had been allowed but that one refusal.

  With a chill smile, O'Neill had ordered her hauled below deck, where she had spent the remainder of the night tensely listening for approaching rats, both human and rodent. The wee hours of the morning came, yet sleep eluded her, so that she drifted somewhere just beyond the point of wakefulness.

  It had been then—frightened, chilled, and uncertain what the morning would bring—that she finally had allowed herself to come to a conclusion about her relationship with Malcolm. Quite simply, she had fallen in love with him.

  The realization had given her something warm and solid to cling to as she pondered her fate. To be sure, loving him was hardly the logical thing for her to do—dear Lord, the man was a scoundrel, a betrayer of hopes!—but suddenly she did not care. The only concern she had was that, when it came down to it, she had no idea what his feelings were for her.

  She had awakened at dawn unrested and hungry, her bathing costume stiff with sea salt, though she’d been buoyed by last night's revelation. By then, she also was convinced that the Irishman was not to be trifled with.

  With that in mind, she had not refused his invitation a second time. Neither had she rejected his offer of a dress and undergarments to replace her own sodden clothes. The only thing lacking had been some manner of footwear, for her own smart boots had been left behind in the skiff, which in turn had been cut adrift.

  The frilly lavender gown the cabin boy had brought proved far too formal for morning, with its exaggerated décolletage and rows of flounces. Still, it was better than parading before the captain in her bathing costume, especially since she'd somehow lost her overskirt during her struggle with the pirate crew. Though certain O'Neill's plans for her did not include ravishment, she did not care to test her theory.

  Even as that last thought crossed her mind, the cabin door swung open.

  “Sure, and 'tis a pleasure to see that ye've come to yer senses this fine morning,” O'Neill observed with cool satisfaction. He gestured to the square table to one side of the cabin, where two places of the finest English china were set. “Do have yerself a seat, me darling, and join me for breakfast.”

  Warily, Halia complied, managing not to flinch as his strong hands brushed her bared shoulders while he assisted her into her chair. Now, she noticed a bearded sailor standing nearby at silent attention and laden with a tray stacked with covered platters. At a signal from O'Neill, he trotted to the table and dealt out the serving dishes like a hand of rummy, then began removing silver covers from the assembled collection.

  Halia watched in something akin to amazement as a veritable feast began piling up before her. The largest serving platter overflowed with kidneys, sausages, and sliced ham.

  A second dish held eggs cooked in two different styles, while a third tray boasted tropical fruits—this not to mention the basket of breads and tarts.

  Halia shook her head. Pirate or not, O'Neill certainly knew how to eat.

  The seaman-cum-butler stepped back, and O'Neill nodded in satisfaction as he spooned up a portion of eggs.

  “Faith, but I have never understood why anyone would starve himself just to prove a point... have ye, Weedle?” he addressed his man.

  Weedle shook his bushy head, the gold loop in his ear bobbing. “No, Cap'n, I ain't.”

  “Then neither of you has ever been a prisoner before,” Halia retorted as she snapped open her linen napkin and laid it in her lap, then reached for a sticky bun. Surely the man must realize that at least one such an act of rebellion was all but mandatory when one was held against one's will.

  O'Neill met her defiant gaze and gave her a crooked smile that—just for the briefest instant—reminded her of Malcolm.

  “Ah, but I have been a prisoner, me darling,” he softly countered while helping himself to a rasher of ham. “'Tis not a memory I relish, but I do recall that I choked down every bite of the moldy bread they saw fit to give me...just so I would have strength enough when the time came to make me escape.”

  “Oh,” was the only reply she could muster. That was the rationale she finally had seized upon to justify dining with the brigand. She prayed he could not hear her stomach gurgling in anticipation of the bounty placed before them.

  “Will ye be having tea, Miss Davenport?” he inquired, as if this were a social call, and carelessly indicated the elegant silver service that Weedle now produced.

  No doubt stolen from someone, was Halia's reflexive thought as she gave a grudging nod. Though if he expected her to take on the role of hostess and pour, she silently assured herself, the brigand would be sorely disappointed.

  The captain must have read something of her thoughts in her face, for he gave another chill smile and gestured for Weedle to do the honors.

  They ate in silence, ostensibly companionable on his part and deliberately sullen on hers. She barely tasted the food, however, for she was concentrating instead on covertly studying her new adversary.

  Unlike his pirate crew, O'Neill dressed as if preparing for formal company. His navy trousers were fashionably cut and his white linen shirt beneath an embroidered blue waistcoat was the product of an expert tailor. Only the gold loop in his right ear and the oversized knife in his belt gave any indication his profession was not quite orthodox. Once again, she was reminded that most other women would have found this man devastatingly handsome...as she would have, under other circumstances.

  The clink of china against china recalled her to the situation at hand, and she realized with a blush that she had been staring. Luckily, O'Neill appeared otherwise occupied, lacing his second cup of tea with a liberal dose of milk and sugar. Once he'd tasted it and apparently found it to his satisfaction, he set aside his plate and turned his attention to her.

  “I suppose ye have been wondering why I've made ye my guest,” he began with a cool smile. “Let me assure ye that I am not in the habit of kidnapping young women and sailing off with them. Sure and to be honest, ye are the first female I have been obliged to take by force.”

  She quite believed that last statement. Indeed, she suspected that women flocked to his ship in large enough numbers that, when in dock, he probably had to post guards to keep them out.

  Aloud, she said, “I must presume, then, that in seizing me, you were desirous of something other than companionship.”

  “That I was, me darling.”

  His reply fell somewhere between an insult and a warning, so that she felt herself blush and grow cold all at once. To hide her confusion, she choked down a quick swallow of her tea, and then swiftly asked, “So then what are your plans for me, Captain O'Neill?”

  “Much as I regret it, ye are but a
lovely means to my end,” came his soft answer. ”Ye see, I have some unfinished business to attend to with our mutual friend, Mr. Northrup. And since I've been unable to convince him to meet with me of his own free will...”

  O'Neill trailed off with a shrug. “Quite simply, me darling, I intend to use ye as bait.”

  ###

  In the gray dawn light, Malcolm stared down a moment at the folded sheet of foolscap with his name scrawled across it in a familiar hand. He broke the seal to read the few lines it contained. Relief and outrage washed over him in equal waves. Then, swiftly refolding the missive, he raised his gaze to the young Biminian boy of perhaps twelve years standing on the dock before him.

  “Who told you to give this to me?” he demanded, trying unsuccessfully to keep the urgency from his voice.

  The dark-skinned lad frowned and then shrugged. “I not be knowin' him, an’ he not be tellin' his name.”

  “Then perhaps you might try describing him,” Malcolm suggested with barely checked patience. “White or black? Young or old?”

  “He be white,” the boy decided after a moment's thought. “An’ he be old... older than you, even. His hair, it be white, too.”

  A white man with white hair somewhere above the age of thirty. Not much of a description, he told himself. Still, with so many black faces on this island, a pale one would tend to stand out.

  “And did you perhaps chance to see where this particular man happened to go?” he persisted, though without much hope.

  To his surprise, the boy nodded. “He be givin' me this”— he held up a silver dollar—“an' the letter, an’ then he be walkin' away there.”

  He pointed down the pier. Squinting, Malcolm glimpsed a light-haired man in a dinghy setting off across the harbor.

  “Bloody hell,” Malcolm breathed, his fingers tightening on the page he held. It was too late to stop the man now, but at least he knew where the stranger was headed.

  Absently, he reached into his waistcoat pocket and plucked out a coin, which he added to the silver one already in the boy's hand. Then he turned to Rolle and Wilkie, who along with Rolle's crew had been silently watching this drama unfold.

  “Halia's alive...and that bloody pirate has her,” he baldly announced.

  Rolle frowned. “Pirate? My friend, there are not bein' any pirates in these waters for fifty years.”

  “If yer talkin' about Seamus O'Neill, 'e's a bleedin' pirate, all right!” Wilkie exclaimed and spat on the dock in disgust. “But 'ow did 'e track us ‘ere, I wonder?”

  Malcolm shook his head. “All I know is that he did, and this is why.”

  So saying, he held out the offending note. Rolle took it and, squinting, slowly read the contents aloud.

  I've managed to lay hands on something valuable of yours. You already have absconded with something valuable of mine. It would be in everyone's best interest to make a trade. The Golden Wolf is anchored just outside the harbor. Come alone…and come soon. O'Neill.

  The captain shook his head and handed the letter back. “I be understandin' this first part, dat he be holdin' Miss Halia. But what do you be havin' of his?”

  “A mere trifle,” Malcolm returned with an evasive flick of his fingers, “just a little something I pinched from Seamus when his back was turned.”

  Wilkie snorted.

  “A trifle? ‘Ere, now, that's not wot I would call it.” He turned to Rolle and explained, ” 'Tis an emerald the size o' yer thumb an’ wot's worth a bleedin' fortune. 'Tis e'en got its own name.”

  “Poseidon's Tear,” Malcolm clarified when Rolle's frown deepened. “Seamus was a bit distressed to find it gone, and he's been trying to track down it—and me—ever since.”

  “It sounds as if this man, he be meanin' business,” the captain opined. “Me an’ my crew, we can be gatherin' some guns. Now bullets, they might be harder to find, but dat pirate, he not be knowin'.”

  A rumble of assent from Garnet, Jeffers, and the other crewmen backed up Rolle's offer.

  Malcolm surveyed the men with gratitude even as he grimly shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but this matter is between Seamus and me. Besides, his crew is armed to the teeth. A handful of untrained men would never stand a chance against them.”

  “Then wot do ye plan t'do,” Wilkie interjected, “go out there all by yer bleedin' self?”

  “What other choice do I have?”

  He knew Seamus well enough to be certain that his veiled reference to Halia's safety was no idle threat. If he did not turn over the emerald, the pirate would kill her...and even making the trade would not necessarily guarantee Halia's life.

  Rolle, meanwhile, was gesturing to the harbor and the horizon beyond. “Then you must be goin', my friend, but you had best be hurryin'. The storm I be warnin' you about, it be movin' this way.”

  Sensing urgency in the man's tone, Malcolm spared a closer look at the sky and waters. The waves, he saw, were even choppier than last night and had taken on a dull pewter shade unlike their usual turquoise hue. The sky, too, was leeched of its familiar brilliant blue, while the rising sun was wrapped in a huddle of dirty clouds in contrast to the white wisps that more commonly drifted above. To be sure, the temperature had not abated; still, this morning it was a different sort of heat...cloying, oppressive, so that a man was hard-pressed to take a breath.

  Thoughtfully, Malcolm tapped the edge of the folded note against his palm, his gaze fixed on the harbor entrance. The weather be damned, he decided. Surely the storm was far enough out not to be a factor—at least for today.

  “I'm more concerned with settling this matter than worrying over a bit of rain,” he flatly stated. “Now, as I see it, I've got two advantages over my old friend. The first is that he can't know what sort of relationship Halia and I have.” He shook his head and gave a humorless smile. “Hell, I'm not bloody certain on that point, myself. But that means he's only gambling that I care about what happens to her.”

  “An’ the other advantage?” Rolle prompted.

  Malcolm allowed himself a chill smile. “The other is that I happen to be the only person who knows where the emerald is hidden.”

  ###

  O'Neill lowered his spyglass and gave a satisfied smile. ”Ye can be putting your mind at ease now, Miss Davenport. Sure, and yer gallant rescuer is on his way.”

  “You mean, Malcolm?”

  Gathering up her skirts, Halia rushed to the railing and stared out toward the harbor. Sure enough, slicing through the rising waves in their direction was a skiff resembling her vessel that the pirate crew had set adrift after abducting her.

  So he had not abandoned her, after all!

  For that had been her fear, that Malcolm would leave her to her fate. She gave a small sigh of relief. Not wanting to appear overly anxious, she hid that emotion with a shrug.

  “I told you before, Captain, that Mr. Northrup and I are merely business partners...and not very amicable ones, at that. And recall that you sent your message to him just after dawn, while it is now almost noon. Surely that is proof that I mean little to him, that he does not view his role in this matter as rescuer.”

  The pirate quirked a wry brow. “So ye have been telling me since this morning. So why am I not believing ye?”

  “Believe what you will, Captain,” she boldly countered. “I only wish to spare us all disappointment when he proves unwilling to negotiate with you.”

  “Ah, but 'tis ye who will be disappointed. It will not go well for ye if he does not cooperate.”

  O'Neill's words were soft, but something in his bland expression sent a sudden chill sweeping through her despite the heat. Determined not to let him see that he had shaken her, she lifted her chin in a fearless gesture. But before she could make a reply, a third voice spoke up behind them.

  “Here now, we had a deal,” the newcomer protested. “You assured me that if I brought Northrup to you, my daughter would come to no harm. Well, sir, I intend to see that you honor your word.”

  ~
Chapter 19 ~

  Halia clutched at the railing, shutting her eyes as a sudden dizziness swept her. She must have been imagining things, she frantically told herself. She had to have been mistaken. It was impossible. The voice couldn't have been that of—

  “Sure and that was a careless thing to do, Arvin,” she heard O'Neill's mild rebuke, “though as for harming your girl, ye can see for yerself that she's healthy. But, 'twould have been better for ye both if she still thought ye dead.”

  “Fabricating my untimely end was your idea,” came the bluffly insistent voice of her father. Her father! “Damn you, O'Neill, did I not do everything you asked of me? Why did you have to involve her, as well?”

  With a muffled cry, Halia clamped her hands over her ears, unwilling to hear more. This was too much to bear. She had thought her father dead, had mourned him, and then acted the felon to carry out his life's work. Yet, if she were not imagining things, it had all been but a game, a farce.

  Vaguely, she was aware that the two men were arguing, though the words spun by her, unintelligible. All she could focus on was the fact that the parent she loved and trusted had betrayed her...and for what?

  But—reason or excuse—it did not matter, her inner voice raged. Nothing could justify what her father had done to her.

  Or could it?

  Guiltily, she recalled her own actions of these past weeks—kidnapping, near-murder, theft. Had she not told herself that the end had excused the means?

  “Wait,” she choked out and lowered her hands to her side. Then, slowly, she turned to face her father.

  His blue gaze met hers, but she saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes as he tried to smile and failed. “Halia, child,” he began in a husky voice. “You must believe me, I had my reasons...”

  She stared at him in silence a moment, numbly noting that his blond hair had gone white in these past weeks, while his face was creased by lines she hadn't seen before. He looked older, thinner...and blessedly alive.