Fury’s eyes were full of questions, but she knew better than to argue with the gentle priest. Without a word she headed for the rectory staircase and took the steps two at a time, the way she had when she was little and her brothers had chased her about the house. She reached the top just as Luis Domingo announced himself.
What was he doing at Father Sebastian’s? Fury wondered. Flattening herself against the stairwell wall, she listened as the Spaniard repeated the story of his ruin at the hands of the nefarious Sea Siren. . . .
An hour later, after Luis had finally calmed down enough to listen to reason, Father Sebastian blessed him and showed him out. Instantly Fury descended the stairs, her face full of shock, eyes disbelieving.
“It’s not true, you know it isn’t, Father,” she cried. “The Sea Siren . . . Father, it’s impossible! Why would he tell such a lie? You should have said something, told him that my mother is in the Americas. Why didn’t you?”
“Child, listen to me. It’s understandable that you’re upset, but think for a moment. How would it look if I suddenly appeared to know so much about the Sea Siren? I admit I was fearful of giving away some of my knowledge. It is imperative that I protect those who have seen fit to take me into their confidence. All Señor Domingo knows is that he lost his cargo to a woman dressed as the infamous Sea Siren who captained a black ship that was identical to the Rana.” The priest rubbed his eyes wearily. “When I first heard the story in the village, I immediately brought Jacobus here. It was Jacobus who told Luis Domingo his version of the Sea Siren months ago, in exchange for a jug of rum. I think we should put our heads together and—”
“And what, Father?”
“I don’t know, child, I don’t know,” Father Sebastian said, gnarled fingers clutching at his rosary as if to a lifeline.
Fury shook her head. “I don’t understand why he came to you. You’re a priest, what would you know of pirates and cargoes?”
Unconsciously, the priest began to knead the hard beads. “Comfort, words of wisdom. Why did you come here, Furana? You yourself seek comfort and a solution to your . . . problems. Why should Señor Domingo be any different?”
Of course he was right, thought Fury. She was reacting emotionally, something her mother had always cautioned her about. “I assume the whole town knows now,” she muttered. She threw up her hands and started to pace the tiny study.
“I’m sorry now that your parents confided in me,” Father Sebastian said softly. “But when your father became ill, Sirena thought it was because of her . . . activities on the high seas. Even though Regan isn’t of our faith, I prayed with your mother for days on end.” He sighed. “Lord, I wanted to tell that young man he was mistaken, but I am bound by the promise I made to your mother.”
Fury nodded. “Yes, of course. But we must do something, Father. We can’t allow these tales to flourish, and yet we can’t openly defend the Sea Siren. That would cause suspicion. I—I need time to think.”
“What do you want me to do, Furana?” the priest asked quietly.
Fury paused, frowning. “If you could go to the Dutch East India offices and see what Mynheer Dykstra knows, that would be most helpful, Father. . . . And then I’d like you to bring Señor Domingo to the casa tomorrow evening for dinner. Together we might be able to clear up this whole sorry dilemma.” She cocked her head to one side, considering. “Tell him only that’s he’s been invited to the van der Rhys casa for dinner. He’ll assume that my parents issued the invitation, and I would prefer it that way. I rather think this meeting between us should come as something of a surprise. It’s entirely possible that the man is lying. Other sea captains have plundered their own ships for personal profit. He could be doing the same thing.”
“I’ll pray for a solution to this problem,” the priest said, suddenly feeling out of his depth.
Fury spun about, eyes glinting dangerously. “You do that, Father. Perhaps praying will work for you. It certainly hasn’t for me, of late. As far as I can determine, God has forsaken me. And now He’s seen fit to burden me with this very earthly problem—quite fitting, don’t you think, Father?”
“That’s blasphemy, child,” Father Sebastian said, aghast. “You’re distraught. You must not denounce God because of this unfortunate incident—or for any reason. Hell is—”
“Right here, Father. I’m walking in hell now and have been for the past month. You might pray about that, if you’ve a mind to!” Her face flooded with indignation, Fury fled the parish house. It wasn’t until she was safely back in her room at the casa that she regretted the way she’d spoken to the priest.
It had to be a lie, a trick of some sort. The question was: Why would Luis Domingo pick Java of all places to fabricate such a tale . . . unless he was up to something? Nothing else made sense. The man had to be acting on the tales Jacobus had told him, salvaging his cargo for his own personal gain—in the name of the Sea Siren. Damn his eyes!
By God, she’d find a way to stop him. All she had to do was sit down with a clear head and figure out a way to end the tales of her mother once and for all. First, though, she’d begin a journal, while things were still fresh in her mind. Tomorrow, after dinner with Domingo, she’d have a detailed report for her mother to read so she’d know her daughter had acted in good faith on behalf of the Sea Siren.
It was late afternoon when Fury retired to the garden to gather more flowers for the house. She felt better having committed her thoughts and anxieties to paper. She’d also planned a simple but tasteful dinner for the following evening. Her dinner gown would be simple, too, since all her good clothing had been left behind in Spain. Perhaps she could find something appropriate among the things her mother had left behind.
When her basket was full, Fury retraced her steps to the house down a long, winding stone walkway. A circling breeze forced her eyes upward, and she watched as Pilar and Gaspar sailed down to perch on the banister of the garden terrace. Setting the basket on a glass-topped table, Fury walked over to the hawks, stroking their silky heads and crooning soft, warm words of affection. Both birds ruffled their feathers. Gaspar inched his way across the banister until he was even with the basket of flowers. One talon reached out for a soft purple bloom. Daintily, so as not to crush the delicate flower, he inched his way on one talon back to Fury and Pilar.
Fury held her breath. Who was the flower for—herself or Pilar? Please let it be for Pilar, she prayed. It was a game she’d played with the birds back in Spain. Before, the flower had always been for her. Now she nodded slightly to Gaspar. He offered the bloom to Pilar, who seemed to take an eternity before deciding to accept it. A minute later it was Pilar who inched her way toward Fury to offer the mangled bloom.
Fury laughed in delight and clapped her hands. “Wonderful! Now you understand about giving and receiving.” She placed the flower in her hair over her ear and bent low so the birds could observe what she’d done. “Well done, Gaspar. Thank you, Pilar.”
The hawks preened, their feathers whispering to each other before they soared upward. Fury danced her way into the huge kitchen to hand over the flower basket to the cook.
Later, on her way upstairs to her room, she decided she would wear a flower in her hair when she dined with Luis Domingo and Father Sebastian.
Fury was exhausted when she woke the following morning. She’d dreamed all night, terrible dreams. First her mother and father had spent hours screaming at her, berating her for not redeeming Sirena’s good name. Then Luis Domingo had taken over, accosting her with a wicked-looking cutlass and threatening to kill her mother. In her nightmare she’d run from the Spaniard until she was breathless, searching desperately for the cave where he’d stashed his cargo. And then, just as she’d been about to uncover his lair, she’d awakened.
Thieves always tried to blame someone else, Fury decided as she threw open the windows and savored the flower-scented air. Overhead in the thick umbrella of green leaves, she heard a soft rustling. Her beauties . . .
S
he called to the hawks and was rewarded by the sight of a sleepy Pilar parting the branches overhead with her wing tips, her glossy head peeking through the emerald leaves. Fury waved listlessly, and within moments both birds were perched on the balcony railing, eyes glittering and intent. They remained motionless as she stroked their heads, murmuring soft early-morning words of greeting.
“I wonder,” Fury mused, “if there is a way for you to . . . spy on Luis Domingo.” She must be out of her mind, she thought. The hawks were intelligent but certainly not capable of spying. Still . . . “It would be nice if you could follow him and report back. You know, scratch me a message or bring me something to prove he really was attacked by a pirate.” She giggled, her usual good humor returning. Gaspar’s wing wavered and then wrapped itself around her shoulder. A moment later Pilar, the less affectionate of the two birds, followed suit. “I know, I know,” Fury gurgled, delighted, “you are going to take care of everything. Well, I’m going to take care of you right now and give you your breakfast, and then we’re going to take a look at the Rana.”
Fury wondered what could possibly be accomplished by running down to the cove where her mother’s old ship was berthed. The Rana must be rotted through and through by now, probably unsafe to board. Still, it would be wonderful to see her again and know once and for all that no pirate had restored her and taken her out to sea to pillage and plunder. At the very least, seeing the ship would reassure her.
Buoyed by the prospect of taking action—any kind of action—Fury dressed, breakfasted, and fed the hawks, then strode out to the stables.
She had always loved the pungent smell of this place. As a child she had played and romped and hidden in the straw, daring her parents to find her, squealing in her high, child’s voice when her father pretended not to know which particular pile of straw she was hiding in. So many pleasant, wonderful memories.
“I’ll take Starlight,” she told a young stable boy. “Fetch her out and I’ll saddle her myself.” Starlight was a spirited roan mare with a perfect white blaze and three white stockings. Fury loved her and tried to ride out with her for at least a little while every day.
The stable boy, no more than twelve years of age, stood back as she threw on the saddle and secured the cinch. His eyes almost popped from his head when the two hawks swooped down, their talons spread to secure a perch on the back of the leather saddle. Fury laughed, her long hair billowing backward between the two birds as she spurred Starlight to a fast canter. The boy stared after her, blessing himself as the huge birds flapped their wings and screeched.
After a minute or two Fury tightened the reins, forcing Starlight to a trot. The humidity was at its heaviest, and it would be at least an hour before they came to water. She kept her eyes to the ground as the roan picked her way daintily through the vine-covered trails. This particular track held years and years of growth, so much so that at last she was forced to slip from the roan’s back and tether her.
She wasn’t absolutely sure of her way, but she seemed to recognize certain outcroppings and fern glades. The thatched hut where her mother had hidden things she wished to keep secret. It was just a lean-to now. Fury had been to the cove only three times—once with her mother, once with her father, and once with all four of her brothers. That time, the five of them had sneaked off without telling anyone, and as they’d stood on the rise looking down at their mother’s ship, they’d played a game, each of them getting the chance to be captain. At the end of the day they’d all been in agreement—none of them would ever fill their mother’s shoes when it came to pirating games on the sea. They’d all been punished upon their return, and Fury had cried, heartbroken—not because she’d been sent to bed without dinner, but because she would never be the Sea Siren.
The hawks were overhead now, working what little breeze there was to stay as close to her as possible, both of them screeching their displeasure at these strange new surroundings. Fury felt like screaming herself as she beat at the vines and vegetation choking off the path. She was sweating profusely, and her long hair was hanging in lank strings about her face. She ripped at the neck and sleeves of her dress to bare her arms and shoulders to the stagnant air. It occurred to her that she was making a mistake: all this time and trouble merely to look at a decaying, rotting ship. But she plowed on determinedly, wiping her face with the tattered sleeves of her dress. Above, the birds circled lazily in the blazing sun.
A minute later she felt a cooling breeze wash over her and knew she was almost to the rise above the cove. She stopped, her heart hammering in her chest. Please, she prayed, let the ship be there.
The hawks were ahead of her now; even at this distance she could see they were ready to swoop down and meet her at the rise. She ran then, not even feeling the branches that scratched her bare arms and legs. Another few feet and she would be in the clearing.
Like a child, Fury covered her eyes, delaying the moment of discovery. Finally, unable to stand the suspense a moment longer, she took her hands away—and stared in disbelief at the frigate. Even from this distance she could see that the ship was in perfect condition, her decks and railings gleaming. And black as tar.
Fury swayed dizzily. It was impossible; the Rana was supposed to be safely anchored and rotting away to nothingness. God in heaven, how was this possible?
Should she scramble down the bank and swim out to the ship? One look at the sun told her she had to head back to the casa or she would be late for dinner. Tomorrow she would return—properly dressed. She needed time to think, time to consider. . . .
All the way back to the house Fury’s mind raced. Someone had kept the ship in repair; more than that, she was completely outfitted and ready to take to the sea. But who? Was it the same person who had plundered Luis Domingo’s ship? Was it perhaps Luis Domingo himself? Soon she would have her answers.
Fury galloped into the courtyard at full speed, reining Starlight so abruptly that the mare reared back, her front hooves pawing the air, the hawks screeching as they dived downward and then up. As the stable boy ran to help her, she slid from the horse and dashed to the kitchen doorway.
Inside the house, she tore up the stairs like a whirlwind, calling over her shoulder, “Juli! Draw me a bath and get my clothes ready,” and shedding her torn gown at the top of the stairs. She left her petticoats and both shoes in a pile outside her door.
Juli came hurrying over, eyes dancing with amusement. “Everything is in readiness and has been for some time,” she said tartly. “I am well aware that the van der Rhys women tend to do things at the last moment. Rest easy, Miss Fury, your mother always said it was fashionable to keep a man waiting.”
“Not this lady,” Fury muttered as she slipped into the tub of steaming water. “Ooooh, this is hot!”
“How else will we get all the . . . What are you covered with?” Juli demanded. “And what are we to do with your hair? It will never dry!”
“It’s dust, Juli—dust and sweat and Lord only knows what else. Oh, how will I ever be ready in time?” Fury wailed. “What—”
“I’ll think of something, Miss Fury. Now hold still while I . . . ” Juli frowned in concentration as she dunked, rubbed, and scrubbed Fury within an inch of her life. When she stepped from the tub she was again rubbed and patted until her skin glowed. Powder permeated the air, as did a fragrant scent that made Fury’s head reel. At last Juli smiled. “Intoxicating! You’ll have to dress yourself while I see about . . . Ah, I have just the thing for your hair. Your mother left it behind. Many times she, too, would return late from one of her excursions, and her hair, like yours, took forever to dry. Your father never suspected. I’m so glad I saved it.”
Thirty minutes later Fury was fully dressed in a rich tangerine silk dress with long, loosely cuffed sleeves and gores of silk swirling about her ankles. She felt elegant and quite grown-up, especially since the dress had belonged to her mother and fitted her perfectly. No jewelry was needed to adorn the timeless elegance of the gown, but she definite
ly wanted a flower in her hair—only it was soaking wet.
“I found it, I found it!” Juli cried exultantly from the doorway. “It’s just as dazzling as it was the day your mother wore it for the first time. It’s called a skullcap,” she said, fingering the delicate circle of fabric. “I remember when she had it made. It took hours to sew these tiny pearls and brilliants over the silk. See the way it curves here at the edges. You can either cover your ears or . . . Try it on, Miss Fury.”
A moment later Juli clapped her hands in delight. “You look like a royal queen! Remember to hold your head up because the crown of the cap is the heaviest. As your hair starts to dry it could slide off.”
Fury frowned. “It is heavy. Perhaps a coronet of braids . . .”
“There’s no time,” Juli said, shaking her head. “Father Sebastian and a very handsome gentleman are waiting for you on the veranda. And now that you aren’t going into the convent,” she added meaningfully, “it wouldn’t hurt you to . . . flirt a little. You are your mother’s daughter, after all.”
Fury flushed. “How did my mother tolerate your brazenness?” she demanded.
“Your mother taught me to speak my mind. If she were here, she’d tell you the same thing.”
“Is he really that dashing?” Fury asked, giving herself one last look in the full-length mirror. “I met him only once at my birthday ball months ago. He didn’t . . . what I mean is . . .”
Juli giggled. “He didn’t make your blood sing, eh? Well, he will tonight, young lady. He will tonight.”
Luis Domingo’s manners were impeccable, his eyes glowing with admiration as he bowed low over Fury’s extended hand. “You cannot be the same young lady I escorted to dinner a few months ago,” he murmured.
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