Caribbean Jewel Page 4

  “Of course not. And I have no intention of allowing her presence to interfere with my command on this voyage, if that is your concern.”

  “And keeping her locked away in your own cabin is the perfect way to ensure that she doesn’t interfere with your excellent judgment and leadership.”

  Marcano glared at him. “Unless you have a suggestion as to where else I can put her without a shipful of starving seadogs sniffing her out, Lieutenant, that is where she will stay. Believe me, I don’t relish the thought of giving up my bunk for the rest of the voyage.”

  “I would be glad to accommodate her in my cabin, if you find her presence such an inconvenience.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I will think of something.”

  “Well, should you need any assistance,” Guillarte pressed, “with our feminine guest, I mean—I would be delighted to make certain her voyage with us is more than comfortable.”

  Marcano rose stiffly, eager to end the conversation. “Our ‘feminine guest’ is not on your list of priorities, Luis. I need your undivided attention on managing the crew. And now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my duties.”

  He strode around the table toward the door, and Guillarte stood to follow. “Aye, aye, Captain,” Marcano heard him chuckle under his breath as he left.

  #

  Jolie awoke late; according to the Swiss clock attached to the wall above his desk, it was 11:15. She stretched languidly beneath the smooth sheets. Except for the one nightmare, she’d slept well in the large, comfortable bunk.

  The morning sunlight filtering in through the bay window seemed to bring a new optimism with it. Last night she’d been utterly terrified as she ran for her life, but today held the promise of a new beginning. Lord Hauste could no longer torment her, not in her waking hours anyhow, and she was finally leaving the humid, rainy tropics for good. She longed to bundle up in winter clothes, sit by a crackling fire, drink tea and gaze into the eyes of a strong, handsome husband who adored her. A romantic, daring man, not like Hauste’s sniveling nephew Wilkerson whom Hauste had wanted her to marry. She wanted a man who could not abide human suffering, a fierce champion who would wage war against cruelty and greed. He must be fearless like Captain Marcano was when he backed down Lord Hauste.

  She threw back the covers and went to the washbowl to freshen up. She was eager to speak with the captain today; she wanted to thank him for his hospitality as well as ask for paper and ink so she could keep a journal. She also wanted to ensure they would be sailing to Europe at some point, and decided it was only fair she should offer to clean or do sewing or mending for the men in return for her passage. After all, he’d provided her such a nice room and hot bath. The only thing she needed was a dress, which she could make herself if he could provide her with needle, thread, and fabric. She couldn’t very well go about with his cloak over her shift for the entire voyage.

  She was running the comb through her hair when a knock sounded at the door. She froze, remembering she’d left it unlatched, then glanced down at her nightshirt-clad body. The shirt fell to just below her knees, leaving the rest of her legs exposed. “Joaquin?” she asked.

  “Marcano,” his deep voice came abruptly through the door. “May I come in?”

  “Just a moment!” She hopped into the bunk and pulled the covers up to her neck. But she couldn’t receive a visit in bed—it wasn’t proper. She threw the covers aside and scrambled to her feet, looking around the room for ideas.

  He rapped at the door again, loudly. “Miss Scarborough? It’s Captain Marcano. I am coming in.”

  “Wait!” She whirled around. The cloak? No. He’d probably come to the cabin to retrieve it. It was the bed or nothing. Hopping in and pulling the covers up to her chin again, she cleared her throat. “Come in.”

  The Captain stepped inside and shut the door behind him. His eyes narrowed as he surveyed his cabin, which admittedly did look like the shipwreck of a ladies’ intimate shop with her torn undergarments hanging about the ceiling on various hooks. Pushing a dangling stocking out of the way, he moved closer to the bunk. He looked irritated. “What’s this I hear about you taking my pistol away from Joaquin?”

  Jolie shrunk back, gripping the coverlet to her chin. The cabin seemed much smaller with his tall, muscular form towering over the bunk; he managed to look threatening even with his injured arm bound in a sling. In the daylight, his angry, flashing eyes were almost too brilliant to look at.

  Jolie took a deep breath and summoned her courage. “You should keep better watch over your cabin boy, Captain. I found him with the gun right there in his lap.”

  Marcano glared down at her, hand on hip. “What did you do with my pistol, muchacha?”

  “I hid it, of course.”

  He rolled his eyes with impatience. “Do you mind telling me where you hid it?”

  “I’ll tell you where it is but it really should be kept somewhere safe. A young boy shouldn’t be playing with guns, Captain, and, oh…please don’t glare at me like that.”

  “Diablos!” Marcano swore. “My cabin boy is my concern and so is my pistol. The boy cleans it for me regularly. Joaquin is extremely intelligent and he does not need you or anyone else to mother him...Do I make myself clear? Now tell me, where is my bloody pistol?”

  Jolie flinched, then pointed. “It’s in the top drawer of the desk there.”

  As he turned to push her undergarments out of his way and strode over to the desk, she blurted at his back, “And I think Joaquin does need a mothering influence!”

  “What do you know about me or Joaquin?” He paused to swear violently in Spanish as he tore through the drawer. “I told you I give the orders on this ship, not a stubborn, spoiled English princesa. In the future you will keep your haughty opinions and your—your hands to yourself!” He stuffed the pistol into the back of his waistband.

  Jolie couldn’t help it—she burst into tears. Her emotions were raw from the previous day’s events, and she was hurt by his unfavorable assessment of her intentions. She pulled the velvet bedspread over her head to hide a sob, and to avoid the scowl in his breathtaking blue eyes.

  She heard him mutter something under his breath as he made his way back to her side, pausing near the bunk. When he spoke again, his voice had softened a bit. “Have I...are you...all right?”

  She heard him step closer, and then felt his hand touch her bedspread-covered head. She jerked the covers down to glare at him through the strands of crisscrossed hair over her face. “I’m not spoiled and stubborn. I was just trying to protect Joaquin!”

  To her surprise, Captain Marcano’s expression gentled. “Muchacha, I did not expect your feelings to be so easily bruised. I understand that you meant well with Joaquin. However, I must insist that you never touch my pistol again.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jolie stared up at his face. His apology sounded heartfelt. Her gaze traveled down to his bandaged arm, and guilt washed over her. That bullet wound was her fault. Perhaps he found her ungrateful. She didn’t want him to think she was spoiled.

  “I wanted to say...I mean, I was going to tell you how sorry I am that you got shot.”

  He didn’t say anything in response. Those incredible eyes of his were silently boring holes into her, which she found fairly mesmerizing. He was actually rather dashing today in slim black leather trousers and tall boots; his tucked-in white lawn shirt contrasted nicely against his olive skin, black eyebrows, and ebony hair. Jolie found her gaze drawn to where the shirt’s unlaced neck revealed a tantalizing section of his tanned chest muscles.

  He cleared his throat. “I will sit down and chat for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

  She nodded, and he moved to grab one of the chairs. She stayed in the bunk, keeping the bedspread tucked securely to her chin, a barrier between her body and his line of vision as he strode past.

  He came back to her side, set the chair on the rug, and turned it around backwards to straddle it. He gingerly rested his injured arm ac
ross the back and studied her a moment. “Have you been comfortable?”

  “Oh yes. The cabin is very accommodating.”

  “Is Joaquin treating you well?”

  “He has been wonderful. Last night he drew my bath and...brought me the soap you sent...” Jolie’s voice trailed off, and she swallowed. Heavens, why did she feel so self-conscious in front of him?

  “He told me you had a nightmare.”

  Jolie was embarrassed that Joaquin had related the incident to him. “Oh, it was nothing. I always have nightmares.”

  He frowned. “Always? You mean every night?”

  “Well—almost.”

  “What are these nightmares about, muchacha?”

  “The slaves, usually. And, um…Lord Hauste.”

  Marcano looked away, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I told you there is no reason to worry about him any longer. He is dead.”

  “Yes. I will try to forget about him.”

  “That would make me glad.” He gave her a dazzling smile, increasing the attractiveness of his face ten-fold. Jolie stared at him, swallowing again, and smiled back.

  #

  Marcano couldn’t help but notice the dimple that suddenly appeared in her right cheek, and how the sunlight coming in through the porthole over the bunk glinted warmly off her silky-straight, golden-brown hair, freshly washed and temptingly tousled thanks to the bedclothes raking over it a moment ago. He admitted to himself that he’d flat-out lied to his first mate; his lust-crazed sailors had not exaggerated her charms one bit. The scent of the French soap filled his nostrils, and his mind wandered to thoughts of tracing his lips along her much-discussed, shapely, smooth calves… Marcano shook himself, remembering what he had come for, besides the pistol.

  “Jolie, I have come to ask you if you write.”

  “Why yes! How did you know?” Her face brightened, and he saw her almost drop the coverlet, then remember to keep it tightly secured to her chin to hide her nakedness from him. Her ruined clothing hung from the rafters; he was certain she wasn’t wearing anything under that bedspread, and it was driving him insane.

  She continued. “I was going to ask you for writing materials so I could keep a journal. I assure you it won’t interfere with my duties on the ship. I can clean the cabins and sew, and do chores for the men, Captain, and—”

  “No. No. I do not want you roaming the ship doing ‘chores’ for the men. I asked if you write because I have need of a scribe who can read and write English.”

  “I read and write perfect English, Captain. I was tutored in academics for nine years on the plantation. I’m certain I can perform the task well.”

  “Good. Now, ah, to other matters.” He shifted uneasily in the chair. “It is apparent that you are in desperate need of some clothing. I will have to select it for you, since you do not have a suitable garment to wear in public.”

  She nodded.

  Marcano glanced up at the filmy shift which hung on a hook to his right, feeling heat crawl up his neck. Damn Joaquin—he’d told him to give her a nightshirt. He smoothed a hand over his hair, looking down at the rug. “Jolie, are you…ah…are you naked under that coverlet?”

  Her cheeks flushed with a deep hue of red. “No, of course not! I’m wearing your nightshirt.”

  “Oh, good. Good.” He cleared his throat, stood up, and moved the chair out of the way. “Well, then, do me the favor of standing here on the rug so that I may examine you.”

  “Pardon?”

  “I need to measure your, ah—size. I cannot guess at it for the dressmaker very well.”

  Jolie shook her head. “I don’t think—”

  “Please.” He waved his hand impatiently. “I respect your modesty, and I assure you I am not trying to take advantage of your delicacy. Come now, muchacha, let me see you standing up.”

  She didn’t move.

  He sighed, irritation filling his voice. “I don’t have time to argue with you every time I tell you to do something.”

  She slowly lowered the maroon velvet spread, swung her bare feet to the floor, then stood up, head bowed.

  “Look up,” he said, and she did. Her beautiful, whisky-colored eyes jarred him for a second. “How tall are you in feet and inches?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He stepped up close enough to her that his boots were inches from her bare toes. “Stand up straight.”

  She straightened her shoulders, and he tipped her chin up with his forefinger. He saw a fresh blush rising in her cheeks from his proximity and the touch of his finger on her soft, warm chin. He placed his hand on top of her head and moved it straight across to his own chest.

  “Almost to my collarbone. Good. Now…ah…excuse my boldness for a moment.” He gingerly removed his injured arm from the sling and reached down to encircle her waist in his hands. When he found himself lingering a bit longer than necessary, she glanced up. Their gazes locked for a second, and then he stepped back, holding his hands up in a circle for inspection.

  “About twenty-two inches. One more thing, muchacha. Hold your—ah—oh, coño, let me do it.” He grasped the front of her nightshirt below her breasts and pulled it back snugly against them in order to assess their size and shape. Just as she opened her mouth to protest, he released the shirt, grinning down at her as he fitted his right arm back into the sling and adjusted it. The scandalized look in her fiery amber eyes was an unexpected delight.

  “Perhaps you will forgive me when you see how well the gown fits,” he offered with a grin. “I will send Joaquin with paper and ink for your journal so you won’t be too bored today.” With that, he turned and pushed her dangling stockings out of his way as he strode to the door.

  #

  Once I arrive in Europe, I shall apply to a Governess or Nanny Position for some nice young Children in Devonshire (where my Mother and Father are buried, God rest their Gentle Souls), and set to work on my Anti-Slavery Papers.

  Jolie paused to butter a slice of bread from the lunch tray Joaquin had brought her. The salmon cakes were delicious, and she had eaten ravenously. There was also a cinnamon tea biscuit, which she was saving for later. She looked up and gazed across the table, out the bay window. An endless sheet of crystalline blue waves rolled past as the brigantine forged steadily ahead, shifting to and fro gently in the sea.

  She leaned over the sheet of parchment and poised her pen.

  Today is January 30th, 1734. I have not yet had the chance to explore the Ship as I have been all Day here in my Cabin and have No Clothes, save the Captain’s Cloak.

  Nonetheless, the Captain and his Cabin-Boy, Wahkeen, have been extremely attentive to my every Need. Wahkeen is a fine young Boy of eight or so who greatly admires the Captain. The Boy is, however, badly in need of Feminine Influence in his Life since it is Apparent that on this Ship he is surrounded only by Men.

  I have not, as of yet, fully evaluated the Intentions of the Captain, but he saved my wretched Life and up to now has not breached my Trust or Respect in any way. Here she paused, tickling her chin with the tip of the plume.

  I am positive that the Measuring and Inspection of my Figure he performed earlier Today was completely necessary and straight-forward.

  Still, she colored bright red from head to toe just thinking about it.

  Bust size, she added after a moment, is a very important Factor to consider when one selects a Ladies’ Gowne.

  A light knock sounded at her door.

  “Señorita, is Joaquin.”

  “Oh, yes, Joaquin. Come in, please.”

  He swung the door open.

  “I come to tell you we are almost to port. The Captain is going to shore, want to know if you need anything except the dress.”

  “That’s very thoughtful, Joaquin, but I would be delighted with only a dress. Please express my sincere gratitude to the captain. How do you say thank you in Spanish?”

  Joaquin’s young face broke into a huge smile. “Muchas gracias.”

  “Mu
chas gracias, of course!” Jolie smiled back at him. “Muchas gracias, Joaquin.”

  “I go now. Captain is waiting.”

  The door shut behind him and Jolie returned to her journal.

  When the brigantine docked, she scrambled over the bunk to peer out the porthole. Before her lay the city of San Juan. High up on a bluff, at the tip of a promontory, the Spanish stone fortress El Morro stood in solemn sentry over the crashing waves. Just beyond the pier, horse-drawn carriages traveled along a narrow cobblestone street lined with stately palm trees and two-story buildings painted in cheerful pastel colors. Pedestrians of all races, sizes, and origins milled along the promenade and around the docks. Jolie rested her chin on her hands and watched the scene longingly. San Juan reminded her of Europe. She ached to see her homeland again; England was a shadowy childhood memory since she’d arrived in Puerto Rico at the age of nine.

  Presently a familiar form stepped onto the gangplank stretched out from the side of the brigantine. Though he was a couple hundred feet away, she recognized his ebony black ponytail, his broad shoulders filling out the white shirt, and his slim hips clad in those well-fitting black leather trousers. The Captain was accompanied by another tall, proud-looking Spaniard with curly, short black hair and a third crewmember who followed along behind. Jolie watched until their tricorns disappeared into the crowd and sat gazing at the street scene absently, resting her chin in her hands.

  Joaquin tapped at the door, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Come in.”

  He entered and moved to the table to collect her tray. “You no like the biscochos?” he asked, indicating the cinnamon biscuit.

  “Oh, no, I do like them. Please leave it for later.”

  Joaquin set the biscuit aside and collected the tray. “You know how to make biscochos, Señorita?”

  “Yes, I make all kinds of baked items. Perhaps one day I shall ask the Captain’s permission to make some special treats from England. Would you like that, Joaquin?”

  “¡Sí, mucho!” He turned to go.