by Andrea Jones
Snaring Red-Handed Jill would be a task, with a tantalizing reward. Lean Wolf’s once handsome features smoothed as uncertainty left him. He was equal to the challenge. Like that picnic hamper from which she and her lover had indulged their appetites, her existence would be pillaged. Overturned.
Silent Hunter had scented his prey.
✽ ✽ ✽
Deep in thought as he left Lily at the Clearing, Captain Cecco traveled a path he’d never followed before. It led him through the forest, a narrow track of earth just visible between long grasses. Made by the Indians, it was wide enough for only two feet to walk, as if those who trod upon it were reluctant to claim more than their share of forest floor. As natural to the wood as the underbrush, it snaked along according to the shifting landscape, and, like Cecco himself, always heading toward the sea.
Cecco whiffed the smell of salt when he approached, a vitalizing tang. The sound of breakers on the shore grew steadily more insistent. To the left and right other paths intersected from time to time, but stealthily, so that Cecco didn’t detect these tracks until he came upon them. He knew the trails to the left would end at the beach of Neverbay. The tracks to the right he must avoid, as they led surely to the Indian encampment— and certain death.
Even armed as he was, Cecco preferred to meet with the beasts of the forest than with the natives. One crack from a pistol would send a pack of animals fleeing; used against a warrior, it would serve only to incense the People. Even if he encountered a single brave, even if he killed him, the tribe was sure to hear and hunt Cecco down. And to wield his dagger would bring no better. Skilled as Cecco was, the warriors of the tribe, too, lived by their knives. A fight between sailors might be child’s play compared to battle with a brave.
Cecco remained cautious, weaving his way between the trees in the soft green glow, and treading as lightly as his boots allowed. He had pushed his bracelets tight upon his arms to still their music. No longer a gypsy boy, nor yet a brash young sailor, he felt responsibility weigh upon his shoulders. His men depended on him; his commodore relied upon him; his wife…Cecco shook his head. His wife had plenty of men to protect and adore her. She needed him less than anyone, yet it was she who would grieve, if he met with Fate. That thought alone caused him to guard himself. On no account would Cecco bring pain to Jill.
Pain was, however, the very thing Jill brought to her husband. Lily’s words confirmed his faith in her affection. That first morning at anchor, Jill had injured him— with deliberate intent. She had drawn Cecco close only to shove him away, wounded, in an attempt to satisfy Hook as to her loyalty. Yet Cecco recognized that she had acted out of love for him. Her rejection was his shield. Death, after all, did not lie only in the hands of the natives.
How brave she was, how valiant, to dare to wear his ring. How Cecco longed to capture that ring and kiss it, to clasp her red hand, too, and bestow upon it more gold than she could hold. Until that time, Cecco must endure the cuts she dealt him, the watching from afar, the tension in his gut, the jealousy that ate him alive…
An incline brought him up short. Looking around, Cecco concluded that the sea lay just over the ridge. A cluster of spruce trees stood sentinel, as if guarding the forest from a tumble over the cliff. He spied a track on either side of the trees, indicating that his trail converged with that path, in view of the ocean. The steady shush of the shore sounded beyond those trees. Silently, Cecco approached. Between blue-green arms of spruce lay a shelf of rock, a cliff top, white, wide and bare. Seeing no one, he slid between the firs, their needles scratching his neck and arms and shedding a spicy scent of resin.
Before him lay the ocean. The myriad peaks of its ripples glistened in the sunshine. No beach graced the shore here, but rather a rocky wall against which the waves lapped far below him. At an angle to the left, the waters of Neverbay bounced against the coast. The Roger stood out, magnificent, and Red Lady behind her, dancing in the gentle swell. Protected by the arms of the bay, the ships rode at anchor as if embraced by the Island.
Cecco could make out the lookouts in the maintops, more vigilant here than in any other place, for near the Island peril might move in the air, and swiftly. In the distance, the longboat floated beside Cecco’s ship. Yulunga’s party of Frenchmen scaled Red Lady’s side, and Yulunga himself leaned over the gangway handing up his woman. Immediately behind Mrs. Hanover, Cecco recognized Pierre-Jean’s blond streak of pigtail. Pierre-Jean helped her place her feet on the steps, poised to react if she slipped. Cecco snorted. No danger there. Mrs. Hanover had her situation well in hand— Yulunga before her, Pierre-Jean behind, so that should she require a new champion, she had only to turn to him.
Cecco understood that Mrs. Hanover modeled herself after Jill, whom she had served until Hook’s resurrection. But except for a resemblance in dress and demeanor, Cecco brooked no comparison. Jill was by far a superior woman. The lady was independent, Mrs. Hanover clinging. Jill was loving, Mrs. Hanover grasping, and where Jill schemed for the greater good of the company, Mrs. Hanover’s intrigues had at heart her own advancement. The girl had been known to act unselfishly only once— when faced with the decision to preserve her child or abandon its fate to her father. Yet none could blame her for her defects. Doctor Hanover had molded her every day of her life, through neglect on the one hand and unseemly attention on the other. At the outset of the Roger’s last voyage, that man and his daughter had presented a peril no lookout, however vigilant, could perceive.
Jill’s husband wondered again as he remembered Yulunga’s generous gesture. Seeing Cecco’s dejection persist after the loss of his wife, Yulunga offered the comforts of his own mistress. Jealousy was unknown to Yulunga, but how he could imagine Mrs. Hanover might satisfy Cecco’s needs was a mystery. It was she who caused the Roger’s tangles in the first place. Cecco longed for Jill from the moment he met her, but Mrs. Hanover’s plotting had compounded his misery; had he never known the joy of union with Jill, he would not have plunged into purgatory at its passing. Still, while declining Yulunga’s offer, Cecco appreciated his mate’s sense of fellowship. He only wished that another man, of higher rank, might prove so openhanded.
A lone alder leaned over the rock on the left, its roots wedged into the cliff top like toes in sand. Under its shade grew a mossy patch, a sort of cot rimmed by the roots themselves. Here Cecco lay down, his back supported by the tree, the massive root between him and the cliff. A light, warm breeze buffed his face. To feel it better, he drew off his headdress and kerchief, setting them aside. He closed his eyes and listened to the whisper of alder leaves, and the song of the sea. Now his thoughts, not his feet, traversed a foreign path, a course they’d never traveled before.
Cecco knew Lily to be a wisewoman. He respected no one so well in matters of the heart. Still, her words had astounded him, feeding both his hope and his fear.
If he loves her, he will grant to her the deepest wish of her heart.
But the nature of Hook’s feeling for Jill was unclear to her husband. Did Hook cherish her, or did he simply possess her? Cecco’s heart had at first leapt up at Lily’s wisdom. Whether or not the commodore loved his Jill was immaterial. If he did not, surely Jill would do as Mrs. Hanover prepared to do— fall back on another champion. And if Hook did love her, he must grant to Jill her wish.
The question was, then, did Jill wish for Cecco? With his heart in his throat, Cecco hoped the answer favored him. If so, in time, an opportunity would arise. Jill would follow her feeling. All the men knew Hook took pride in the fact that he never forced a woman. And Hook esteemed Jill, certainly. Surely his dignity would lead him to release her when she asked. If she asked.
But Lily’s words had not stopped there. They led Cecco deeper into unknown territory, the murky depths of his soul.
Can your love do the same?
Should Jill’s deepest desire be, after all, for Commodore Hook, could Cecco grant what he himself so hopefully expected Hook to give? Her release? This path was, indeed, a pain
ful one, and one whose steps he dreaded. With an acid bile beneath his tongue, Cecco brooded.
With the sea’s splendor beneath him and the bounty of the forest on his right, Cecco saw nothing. He remained at the brink of his own personal precipice, teetering, and only looked up when he heard a sound— a very human sound— of running footsteps. Snatching a pistol from his belt, he sprang to his feet.
From the forest path, a native woman burst through the trees. With a look of terror on her face, she ran as if a demon pursued her. Beyond that, Cecco had time to glimpse only her beaded tunic, her bare feet and legs as they pumped toward him along the cliff. He lurched forward to seize her round the waist and roll to the mossy ground, covering her body with his own. Then he twisted toward the wood to aim his gun in his outstretched arm.
As the hammer clicked, the woman gasped, struggling in his grasp. Her panting surged but, although she fought like a feral thing, she made no cry. Cecco held her down with his body weight, his pistol poised, waiting to kill whatever emerged from the forest.
Urgently he asked, “What is after you?”
She only fought more fiercely. Cecco gripped her tighter in his one available arm, but he didn’t dare take his eyes from the forest. He couldn’t tell what pursued her. Her panicked breaths masked any sound from the wood. His shoulder hurt where she shoved at him. From her desperation, he deduced that she was just as frightened of him as of her hunter.
“Lie still, woman. I will kill it.”
At last she understood. Her body went limp beneath him. Now Cecco listened, but his ears detected nothing. Still, he kept his eyes on the path and his pistol cocked.
“Is it beast or man?”
“Neither.”
Cecco shifted to look at her, then quickly returned his gaze to the forest. “I hear nothing.”
“There is nothing to hear.”
“Something chased you toward me.”
“My own cowardice. You can put your weapon down.”
“So your brave can shoot his arrow through my heart?” He shook his head. “No.”
The strained quality of her silence brought his head around again. He gazed into her eyes, black eyes, as black as his sorrow. After a moment, she looked down.
“I have no brave.”
Something in her voice echoed home to him. His heart was pulled, as if she spoke his very own feeling. Carefully, he disengaged the hammer of his gun. “I believe I understand.” He laid the pistol down, drew the second from his belt and set it next to the first, out of the woman’s reach. She began to strive again, trying to push her way out from under him. Rolling to the side, he took both her wrists in his hands, pulling her to sit up. “You need not fight with me. I will do you no mischief.”
“You are one of the boots. A wild man.”
Cecco grunted in amusement. “May be.”
“I have heard what your kind do to mine. I have seen it.”
“I have seen yours do the same.” Relaxing his grip, he softened his voice. “Now, tell me why you run.”
“I will not.”
Smiling now, Cecco studied her. In her defiance, she reminded him of Jill. Her black eyes and high cheekbones were set in a face no longer in the bloom of youth, but handsome in maturity. Her dress was skillfully made, with fringe and modest beadwork, belted at the waist. Her manner was marked with an air of sadness. But none of these features was the first Cecco noticed.
“Lonely woman, for whom do you mourn?”
The look of rebellion fell from her face. She stared at him, and at last she asked, “How do you guess?”
Cecco shrugged. “You have cut off your hair.”
“But…you know of this?”
“Certainly. It is an ancient sign of mourning. For my tribe, too. I watched my grandmamma do this, on the day my grandpapa died.”
Her eyes attended him; she was listening. Feeling he had struck a chord, Cecco ventured, “Did you cut your hair as she did, to honor a fallen husband?”
With the slightest of movements, she nodded. A wince of pain flickered over her face.
“Ah. I grieve for you.” After he said this, Cecco realized that she no longer struggled in his hold. He released her, but she didn’t seem to notice. She simply sat looking at him. When she spoke, it wasn’t quite a question.
“You will not harm me.”
“I swear it. But I will dust you off.” Keeping himself between the woman and his pistols, Cecco brushed the leaves and soil from her dress. “I apologize for throwing you down. I believed you were in danger.”
Raven knelt there on the mossy cliff, astounded. She was astonished not only by the stranger’s attack and his sudden switch to courtesy, but by herself as well. Why did she allow this barbarian to touch her? Why did she not run?
Staring at him, she absorbed his alien appearance. He was big and broad and solid, not tall, but compact; he had nearly crushed her as he threw himself upon her. His teeth were white against his olive skin, his body decorated with shining gold at every point— earrings that bobbed as he moved, bright armbands, a heavy, layered necklace, and bracelets that made metallic music, clear high notes she rarely heard except in tribal rites. His hair was tied back with leather and it was dark brown, not black. It was a most unusual shade, like hickory nuts. A shade that, she now realized, she was tempted to touch, as if its color might affect its feel. Yet his eyes, a matching deep, soft brown, were as familiar to her as many of her tribe’s.
His dress seemed outlandish to Raven, a mixture of what was proper and what was not— a leather vest that gave his arms and shoulders freedom to move and allowed his comely chest to be displayed, yet he wore noisy jewelry, bright trousers that shone against the woodlands, and the confining boots by which the pirates came by their Indian designation. And those boots, Raven knew, would prevent him from catching her when she ran.
But just as she permitted his hands to tidy her tunic, Raven allowed the anguish in his eyes to persuade her to delay. Pirate though he was, the man had understood— instantly— the circumstance that had driven her into his arms. She, too, recognized a similar spirit; this man mourned. Still, she remained cautious. She kept her voice low and, once she had examined him, dropped her gaze.
“You also grieve,” she said.
“Aye. It is no secret. Perhaps I should follow tribal custom, as you do, and cut off my hair to honor my lost one.”
“No!” Already, she had raised her eyes again. She almost raised her hand to catch his hair.
“It would be shame to shear such beauty.”
“And this was said of you, was it not?”
He spoke openly, with frankness, and Raven’s modesty made her look away. She remembered Lean Wolf’s compliments, just as blatant. But this so-called wild man didn’t leer. His eyes showed respect. They seemed to know her, and she felt it pleasant, even nostalgic, to be seen for who she was. Always, White Bear’s eyes looked upon her with irritation. They never understood, never yet encompassed her the way this man’s did, with such intensity, with esteem. His eyes seemed to view her almost like Ash’s eyes had done. But that recollection was painful, and she redirected her thoughts. “I was not aware that your people come from tribes.”
“I am a gypsy. We are unlike the others.”
“From another island?”
“From another tradition. One similar to yours, I think. My grandmamma was a wisewoman. You put me in mind of her.”
“I am not wise. If I were, I would not speak to you.” And Raven was reminded of her precarious position. In an attempt to mend her indiscretion, she summoned the Shadow Woman. She let her face go blank, and, starting up, took two swift steps toward the forest, back the way she had come. Surely to return to White Bear’s tepee, to endure the ordeal that awaited her, was preferable to finding herself outcast.
Over his shoulder, Cecco called, “Her hair was black as a raven’s wing, like yours.”
Raven halted. He stood up to face her. She turned to fix him with her eyes, puzzling a
s if she didn’t quite believe in him. “I, too, am the Raven.” But why did she reclaim her identity? Why not submit, once and for all, to the role of the Shadow Woman? Some living chord vibrated within her, as if the stranger plucked it with his unfamiliar speech. It roused her, made her all too aware of the flesh she tried to deny.
“Raven?” Cecco took a step toward her. “Is this your name?”
Suppressing the vibration in her heart, she backed away. “I must not be found with you.”
“Found by whom?”
“It does not matter. It is taboo.” She turned to run.
“Raven.”
His accent was strange to her, and yet appealing. At his odd articulation, she stopped, somehow anchored to the earth by the speaking of her name.
He asked, “Do you not wish to know how I am called?”
“I know how you are called.” She faced him, and her dark eyes pierced his soul, like the scavenging of a raven’s beak. Now she was certain of him. “You are Another Island.” She took a step backward. “And a forbidden one.”
“I like the name. It suits better than you may guess.” But Cecco scuttled his smile. “Your intuition reminds me of someone I know.”
“The someone you would reclaim.” A flash of kinship lit her eyes.
“Yes. A storyteller.”
“I do not tell stories. I do not believe in them, any longer.”
“I do not know if I should believe, either.”
Her voice fell kindly, drawing Cecco’s heart again. “For whom do you mourn?”
Cecco said simply, “My wife. My family.”
“The more I hear you, the more I wonder…”
“Wonder what, lonely woman?”
“Why the elders forbid it. Surely, it is well to know one’s enemy.”
“In spite of your denial, you are a wisewoman.” He hesitated, then he realized with a sinking of his spirit that when she left, he would stand alone on this barren cliff top once more. Suddenly, he rebelled against his solitude. He asked her, “Will you be wise enough to come here again?”