Captive Secrets

by Fern Michaels

  She didn’t care then if his fingers caressed her arm; she didn’t care about anything but his lips on hers. Her body was demanding, ordering her to explore, to search . . . to seek and find.

  “No,” Luis said hoarsely as he thrust her from him. Fury blinked and looked at him, confused. “You don’t know what you’re . . . No. I can’t. . . .”

  Fury blinked again, then shame rushed through her. He’d been playing with her, he didn’t want her at all! The kiss was . . . the same kind he’d given the whore Naula. Damn him to hell—he thought she was no more than a common wanton!

  She was on her feet in an instant, her face fiery red. “Good night, Señor Domingo,” she said coldly.

  Luis could only stare after her, too stunned to move. The moment the darkness swallowed her, he cried her name, again and again.

  Tears streaming down her cheeks, Fury ran through the dark, quiet streets until she came to the parish house. She didn’t bother to knock but thrust open the door, calling the priest’s name in a voice so tormented, the good father—who’ d long since left the soiree for the comfort of his own bed—was downstairs in an instant, tripping on his nightshirt as he went along.

  “What is it, child? What’s happened? What time is it?”

  “He knows, Father, he knows! I’m sure of it!”

  “Who knows what?” the old priest demanded fretfully.

  “Señor Domingo. He suspects who I am. My scar . . . the hawks, the diamond garter . . . I sent Juli to get the ship out of the cove before sunup. There is no other hiding place for her.” Fury began to pace up and down the foyer, wringing her hands. “It’s all over, Father. Everyone will know shortly. I suppose you know that Mynheer Dykstra was passed over for the governorship for someone I never heard of. He will never forgive my father and mother, or me, for that matter. Do you know why they wouldn’t accept him, Father?”

  Father Sebastian sighed. “Because he is getting on in years. They want a younger man, or at least that’s what I think. I can’t prove it. I saw the mynheer’s face; he took the announcement badly, I thought. I tried to speak with him, but he stormed out of the house. He said if he isn’t good enough to be governor, then he is resigning as the manager of the Dutch East India Company. The mynheer is a very bitter man and I can’t say I blame him. I devoted an hour of prayer for his soul.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s all well and good, Father, but about my problem. If Luis Domingo tells Mynheer Dykstra, the . . . they could send me to prison, Father. My mother, too.” The thought of her beautiful mother in prison turned Fury’s face white. She herself knew about prisons; she’d been planning on entering one.

  The elderly priest shook his head. “They have to have proof, Furana. A scar on your arm isn’t going to convince the authorities you’re anything but who you are, a young lady sent here to enter the convent.”

  “A young lady who was rejected. Father, the authorities will see it as a simple ruse. My mother’s ship . . . I can’t let it be confiscated, she’ll never forgive me. Once I secure it, I’ll return here and decide what I am to do.”

  He should tell her now, the old priest thought. He should walk over to his Bible and show her the letter from the archbishop. But he knew he wouldn’t do any such thing. “What can I do, child?”

  “If Luis Domingo is half as astute as I think he is, he knows this is the only place I’d come to at this late hour. Would you—would you tell him I came here to make a confession because of my . . . my wanton desires?”

  “Do you think he’ll believe you came here in the middle of the night to confess your sins?” Father Sebastian asked gently.

  “It’s up to you to make him believe it, Father. The casa is being watched by Mynheer Dykstra’s men. I was going to sail the Rana to provide Luis with an escort back to Spain—at a safe distance, of course.” She told him then about the diamond consignment. “I have to go back to the von Klausner house now,” she concluded, “and believe me when I tell you it’s going to be much harder to get in than it was getting out. I have no idea how I’m going to explain my absence. The story will be all over Batavia. God only knows what Mynheer Dykstra will do.”

  “You are your mother’s daughter, Furana. Whatever happens, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing,” the priest said loyally.

  Fury whirled. “I’m sick and tired of hearing I’m my mother’s daughter! That sort of thinking is what got me into this predicament. Listen to me, Father. I will do whatever I have to to keep this secret. No one—not Mynheer Dykstra, not Luis Domingo—will reveal it. No one. Now, Father, you can pray for me!”

  Fury had her hand on the doorlatch when Father Sebastian called to her. “Do you love Luis Domingo?”

  Fury’s bitter laughter sent chills down the old priest’s back. Why, he wondered miserably, had he expected an answer?

  Half in the shadows, Luis settled himself on an iron bench to await Fury’s return. He could have followed her, but he’d wanted to remain in the garden and think about those few tantalizing moments in the grass. Whoever would have thought that the demure religious could be so passionate? Christ Almighty, he could have taken her right there! He still didn’t know where he’d found the strength to stop himself.

  A strange feeling settled over him. He tried to put a name to it, and when the elusive words finally surfaced, he almost choked on the thick gray smoke from his cigar. Protectiveness and love. For Fury van der Rhys. The thought was so mind-boggling, he rose and began to pace in irritation. It wasn’t possible he could be falling in love with the young woman . . . it couldn’t be! Yet his eyes kindled with desire as he recalled her entrance to the party. Every man in the room had wanted her, and he was no exception. He still wanted her, for all the good it was going to do him. He conjured a vision of himself, old and gray, unmarried and childless, living on his memories while Fury, in a nun’s habit, prayed for his everlasting soul.

  Luis stomped off through the garden in search of total darkness and solitude. As he turned to toss away his half-smoked cigar, he saw Fury out of the corner of his eye, contemplating the second-floor balcony. His heart began to pound. He wanted to go to her, tell her he would keep her secret and help her get back to her room, but he couldn’t move. Forty minutes later he heaved a mighty sigh of relief when he saw her slide over the balustrade. He continued to watch, and twenty minutes after that the housekeeper appeared, pondering the same problem of reaching the second floor unseen. It was all Luis could do to keep from showing her the various footholds Fury had found. “First of all you have to hike up your skirts,” he whispered, “there to the right, that’s it, grab hold, now inch your way, little by little, ah, that’s it, now to the left, slowly, there you have it . . . straight now . . .”

  The attack, when it came, was so silent, so deadly, Luis barely had time to dive for cover. His heart pumped madly. From somewhere deep inside him words came, words he later could barely remember uttering. “I mean her no harm, for Christ’s sake, I think I love her!” Did he say the words or did he—the sudden silence roared in his ears. He knew his hair was standing on end in the breeze the birds created. “Jesus Christ!” he fumed as he got to his feet. They were overhead, each working the gentle breeze, waiting, waiting for him to . . . what? for Christ’s sake. Explain? “I’d never hurt her,” he whispered. “I won’t give away her secret. I won’t,” he said fiercely. “If you’re going to do something, for God’s sake, do it now!” he commanded. He watched in horror as Pilar seemed to soar straight up in the air, her wings flapping in a frenzy in the light from the colorful lantern. She circled, her wings fanning the air, and then before he could blink his eyes she descended to within an inch of him, hanging suspended in the air, her wing tip feathering out to touch his cheek. So gently. “Take care of her,” he said softly.

  “Hawhawhawhaw,” came Gaspar’s cry overhead.

  “And on that note, I think I’ll say good night to my hostess,” Luis muttered in relief.

  Luis wasn’t at all surprised, a short while
later, to find himself at the parish house. He looked longingly at the second-story windows. It was almost sacrilegious to wake the old priest at this hour, but he needed to talk to someone who wouldn’t lie to him, someone who knew Fury van der Rhys, Peter Dykstra, and Fury’s parents. His feet seemed to have a mind of their own as they walked up the path and onto the small porch of the parish house. He knew the door wasn’t locked. The parish house as well as the church were never locked to those in need of prayer and a kind word.

  Inside, Luis settled himself on the one comfortable chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Perhaps he’d missed his calling and should have entered the priesthood. It was so peaceful here. He imagined he could see tiny angels flitting overhead, plump little cherubs praying and singing. Because he believed in the padre’s God he knew there were such things. He found himself grinning when he patted his shoulder where he knew an imaginary angel hovered.

  He could sit here all night; the padre wouldn’t care. He had no desire to return to his boardinghouse or to the ship. In fact, he’d even lost the need to talk with the good Father: best let him sleep.

  Poor Father Sebastian, Luis thought, stretching comfortably. He was at the end of his life span; just yesterday he’d noticed the man’s bowed back, his bent, gnarled hands. Was he in pain? Probably, Luis decided. Yet he’d never seen anything but compassion and goodness in the old man’s face. No doubt at the end of the day he would sit in this chair and read his Bible, deriving comfort and the strength to endure one more day. Luis smiled, a sweet, gentle smile, and asked the Lord to allow the priest to live to be a hundred.

  Would he be trespassing if he picked up the priest’s Bible and read a verse or two? Perhaps he would find answers in this holy book. Or were the answers within himself? What exactly was it that he was seeking? Vengeance . . . yes, he was bent on vengeance for the death and ruination of his father. He’d almost forgotten about that. He’d been so intent on the future, he’d shelved the past.

  Sudden anger ripped through Luis, driving all his peaceful thoughts into oblivion. He slammed the Bible onto the table. Honeyed words weren’t going to change past injustices or make him forget about his father and what Fury’s mother did to him. For in his mind now he was convinced that Sirena van der Rhys was the Sea Siren.

  He should return to the ship and try to get some sleep. At least in sleep he wouldn’t be tormented. He gazed around at the moonlight spilling into the room, and then, sighing, he righted the Bible on the little table, aware for the first time of the crackly paper underneath. Idly he opened the stiff paper and read the flowing script. He sat for a very long time, the words burning into his heart. When he at last folded the religious decree, he felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule.

  On stiff legs he made his way back to his ship, his thoughts as unyielding as his bones. There would be no sleep for him this night—and probably not for several nights to come.

  Fury was lost to him . . . not that she’d ever truly been his, but this evening, for a few brief moments, she’d been ready to offer herself to him. And what had he done? He’d goddamn well turned away from her. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never forget the look of shame and humiliation on her face—not at what she’d been prepared to do, but at his reaction to it. “You’re a bastard,” he muttered. “A low-down, scheming bastard!”

  When the gray-laced dawn crept over the horizon, Luis was on the deck of the Silver Lady cradling a mug of three-day-old coffee in his hands that was so strong he could have eaten it in chunks.

  The trade winds were cool and balmy as they rippled across the deck, but even they couldn’t ease his tortured thoughts. Perhaps he should cut his losses and sail the Silver Lady back to Spain, begin all over. He had the rest of his life to make a fortune. He would probably never marry now, so he didn’t have to worry about building a fine house and supporting a family. He could live at sea and call the Silver Lady his home.

  As for the real Sea Siren, let her rest in peace. Her daughter would soon be peaceful enough in the convent, praying for all their wicked souls. The bogus impostor could have his cargoes, and may she never know a moment’s peace from them. The hell with Dykstra and the Dutch East India Company. The hell with the diamond merchant he was to escort back to Spain. He would sail with the evening tide.

  But before then, he decided, he’d take one last ride back to the cove, prove to himself once and for all that Fury really was impersonating her mother. If nothing else, he wanted to carry that proof back to Spain with him. It was important to him, and he wasn’t sure why.

  The sun was creeping into the sky when Luis began his trek through the jungle. Somehow he felt sure that he would find the cove serene, with no trace of the hateful black ship. Certainly he’d given Fury plenty of time to sail her out to open water. He wondered if she would ever realize what he’d done for her. On the other hand, she might realize full well that it was within his power to sign her death warrant. Even if he chose not to expose her and her ship, but sailed away without telling a soul, mightn’t she convince herself otherwise? She would assume her ship was no longer safe here in the cove—and with no place to hide, she’d be open prey to any marauder on the seas.

  Minutes later he reached his destination. Sure enough, there was no sign of the ship that had rocked so gently in the calm cove waters the night before. Any doubts about Fury’s identity were now washed away, he thought grimly.

  Over and over on his ride back to the harbor he asked himself if he could turn his back on Fury. It was his fault she’d rushed to move her ship, and it would be his fault if she didn’t survive to enter the convent two weeks from today. Could he live with that?

  The small town was alive with bustle and noise as Luis reined in his horse at the parish house. All the von Klausner guests were departing for their homes after a huge breakfast, as was the local custom. He wondered where Dykstra was. The entire board of governors would be leaving Clarice’s about now, their morning baths and huge breakfasts a pleasant memory. Past memories were best forgotten, he thought sourly.

  “Señor, will you join me for lunch?’ the priest asked, opening the door in greeting.

  “Yes, thank you,” Luis replied. “But, Father, I must talk with you, it’s very important.”

  “Can we talk over lunch, or would you prefer my study?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Father, you must speak with Fury. . . .” All his hopes and ambitions spilled out, along with the past evening’s activities and his recent trip to the cove. “I was here last night, Father, I needed to talk with you. I was going to read a verse or two from your Bible, and the . . . the letter underneath fell to the floor. I don’t know why I read it, there’s no excuse I can offer for invading your privacy. I do apologize,” Luis said gruffly.

  “She doesn’t know . . . about the letter, that is,” the priest said fretfully. “She and her housekeeper left the von Klausners’ just as the sun came up. I intend to ride out to their casa myself when the sun sets and tell her then. I’ll give her a message if you wish.”

  “Tell her the cove and her secret is safe with me. She has nothing to fear from me. I’m sailing this evening.”

  “You have time to ride out and tell her yourself,” the priest said.

  “If you don’t mind, Father, I’d rather not. In fact, I think I’ll forgo lunch as well.” Luis extended his hand. “Perhaps we’ll meet again one day.”

  “If not in this life, then in the next one,” the elderly priest said, walking with him to the front door. “I wish you a safe journey, Señor Domingo, and have no fear, I will deliver your message to Fury just as you instructed. Godspeed.”

  Father Sebastian watched the handsome Spaniard until he was out of sight. He didn’t have much firsthand knowledge about love between men and women, but what knowledge he did have told him Luis Domingo was in love. Fury had been acting the same way, her face flushing any time the Spaniard’s name was mentioned. The thought of her in a convent for the rest of her life
was so upsetting, he walked into his kitchen and ripped the cloth from the parrot’s cage. “Go on, say it!” he croaked petulantly.

  “Say your prayers, say your prayers,” the parrot babbled.

  “Shut up!” he ordered, throwing the cloth back over the parrot’s cage. “I don’t need you to tell me to pray, it’s all I do; it’s what I do best.” To his housekeeper he said, “I’m leaving now. I won’t be here for dinner, I may not even return this evening. If you see me, I’m here; if not, I’m not here.”

  “Are you all right, Father?” the old woman asked, bewildered.

  “No, I’m not all right, but don’t concern yourself,” he grumbled. “Just give me a jug of water to take with me and that umbrella you never use. I’m too old for this hot sun. And before you can say it, I don’t care if the town thinks me daft or not.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The River of Death

  The sky overhead looked evil somehow, Amalie thought fearfully. Low gray clouds scudding together formed a thick blanket that dipped lower and lower until it was impossible to distinguish the fog from the cloud bank. But if she showed fear in any way, her crew would forget about Miguel and the allegiance they’d sworn to her. Open water at least gave a captain and his ship a fighting chance. Navigating this narrow river known for so many deaths would take every ounce of skill and determination. Amalie wanted nothing more than to squeeze her eyes shut and not open them until she had secured her ship in the first deepwater cove she came to. But she was hell-bent on a course from which there was no turning back. Amalie was steering what she hoped was a straight blind run with one of her crew on the bow to warn her if she came too close to the dangerous rocks on either side of the narrow river.

  Her hands gripped the wheel so fiercely, her knuckles showed white. She wanted to think about the real Sea Siren and the whispered diamond consignment her crew had picked up on that was due to arrive in Batavia. Until now it had all been so easy, a game of sorts; but no longer. The Spaniard’s riddles finally made sense to her. The woman her father had written about in his journal was back on the high seas—and seeking revenge. Revenge against her, Amalie, for plundering the seas in her name.