Captive Splendors (27 page)

Caleb looked up, startled, at the open door, which she didn't bother to close. He dropped the boot he was about to pull on and stood up, his face becoming mottled because of her uninvited intrusion. “What are you doing here?” he demanded harshly.

“That's a silly question for you to ask me, Caleb. You know very well what I'm doing here. Actually, I'm here for two reasons. One, to make love to you, and two, to make you the happiest man in the world. So far I'm the only one who knows the secret, but because it involves you, I'm going to share it with you. It's the secret that will make you the happiest man in the world. Sit down, Caleb, and let me help you with your boot,” she singsonged, sending chills up Caleb's spine.

His mouth tightened. “Sara, a storm is approaching and I have to take the wheel. Look, I don't want to hurt you, but this . . . this lovemaking is not going to work. I don't love you; I never did. I love Wren, and I think you know that. I'm sorry, but I told you in the beginning that it was just a—”

“Fling,” Sara again singsonged. “But,” she said, wagging a playful finger under his nose, “that little fling has made me pregnant, and now what are we going to do?”

Caleb had bent down to pull on his boot, and when he raised his eyes, stunned at her words, he saw Wren standing in the doorway. She, too, wore a stunned, unbelieving expression. Then she vanished. Sweet, merciful God. Of all the goddamned, ill-timed luck! Rage boiled in him as he pulled on his boot and got to his feet. He took Sara by the shoulders and shook her wildly. “Do you know what you just said? Do you know or care, for that matter, that Wren heard your lie? No, I see that you don't. I can count, Sara, and it's impossible for me to be your child's father—if there is a child. Your trick won't work, Sara. I'm not the father, and well you know it I'm ordering you to go below and tell Wren that what she overheard was a lie! What you've done is despicable, and I can never forgive you for it. What we had was nothing more than a physical encounter. We both spoke of it that way, if you remember. No promises were made by either of us. I took you to be a worldly woman; you certainly acted like one. It was never my intention to deceive you in any way, and if you misunderstood me, then that becomes your problem. Not mine, never mine. You would be wise if you'd go below before the storm worsens. In the morning you can talk this matter over with your brother and seek your best course of action. I can't. I won't allow you to ruin my life with this false accusation.”

Sara heard the words, understood them and nodded. “If Wren weren't here, you would love me—I know it. You would love me and our baby. You don't need me now that you have Wren and Aubrey Farrington. If you don't want to have anything to do with our baby, then I will do as you suggest. I will go to Bascom and have him help me. I don't want you to worry about our child. Somehow I will manage without your help. In later years, if you have the desire to see your child, I will not stand in your way.”

Caleb stared at her, not quite believing what he was hearing. He knew damn well he wasn't the father of her child. What was wrong with her? And, for Christ's sake, why was he standing here wasting time worrying about what she was saying, when he should be concerned with the coming storm and Wren? Of all the damnable luck! He couldn't waste any more time; he had to get on watch. “See yourself out and be careful on deck,” he called over his shoulder.

“Of course I'll be careful. I know that you're just upset now because it is difficult for a man to know he's going to become a father and that he'll have to put his wild ways behind him and settle down to a domestic life. Have no fear, Caleb. I'll walk with great care to protect our child.”

It wasn't her words that sent a chill down Caleb's spine, it was the vulturelike look in her eyes and the singsong way she spoke.

After he had left, Sara sat for a long time on Caleb's bunk. Thoughts skittered through her brain like wildfire. She smiled as she picked up a shirt Caleb had discarded, and a brush. She held them against her cheek and then hid them beneath her petticoats. Her child would have these articles as remembrances of his father. They weren't much, but they were something. She looked around for an item for herself and picked up a pair of faded trousers. These few mementos would prove to her child that he did have a father.

She trotted happily out of the cabin, singing softly under her breath. The strong wind almost lifted her off her feet, but she held on to the masts with a firm grip. She had already made up her mind to ignore Wren, so there would be no problem. All she had to do now was wait.

A jagged streak of lightning danced across the sky, followed by a low, threatening roll of thunder. Sara drew her knees up and locked her arms around them, frightened of the ominous sounds coming from the heavens. Did she have the courage to carry out her plan? The idea of going anywhere near the locker box again terrified her, as did the idea of being near Malcolm again. I must do what must be done, she told herself, or else Wren will have Caleb and I will be an outcast with a child.

Almost as soon as the blackness overhead was silent, she moved on cat's feet toward Wren's bunk and shook her awake. “Shhh,” she cautioned, a finger to her lips. “Come with me. There's something I have to show you. Be very quiet and follow me,” she implored, “and don't awaken Lydia.”

Startled by Sara's intrusion on her sleep, and even more apprehensive about the girl's strange behavior, Wren crept from the bunk and her place beside Lydia. Sara's glassy-eyed expression was the same one she had worn the night Wren had found her standing over the bunk she shared with Lydia. A flutter of fear tugged at Wren, but she disregarded it as Sara led her through the darkness, nimble as a cat.

Their trek took them below, into the belly of the ship, and they turned to the right, toward the bow. Sara had lit a candle stub and carried it in front of her, her hand protecting the feeble flame. Finally she came to a halt and put her finger to her lips to indicate silence. “I want you to see what's inside.”

“Sara, are you all right? You don't look well to me.” Now Wren's skin was crawling with fear, the hackles rising on the back of her neck, and she felt as though her hair were standing on end. This was crazy! Sara was crazy! What were they doing here in the belly of the ship, below the waterline with the rats? Wren wanted to turn tail and run, but she had come this far, and her curiosity was heightened by Sara's furtive attitude. She decided to humor Sara for the moment and then take her back to bed.

“Don't make a sound,” Sara warned. “You're never going to believe what I'm going to show you! Be careful, now. When I open the door, well walk through and stand to the right. Stand perfectly still, and you'll see what I'm talking about.”

Wren reached for Sara's hand, holding it tightly, feeling the pressure returned to her own fingers. As Sara slowly and silently slid the bolt and swung open the door, Wren's flesh crawled at the thought of what might lie behind it. Together they moved from the darkness into a room Wren recognized as the locker box, which was sometimes used as the brig. She moved to the right, as Sara had instructed, still holding the girl's hand. Before she had felt Sara wrest her hand free and heard her slip outside the door, she knew what was going to happen. The terminal sound of the bolt sliding across the iron flange greeted her ears.

She whirled, her fists beating against the stout door, screaming at Sara to set her free.

“It won't do you any good, my dear,” said an oily, ugly voice.

At the familiar tone, the blood froze in Wren's veins and she slowly backed off, her arms held straight in front of her for protection. “Stay away from me.”

“Oh, no, my little bird. I want you to see what you did to me.” Malcolm turned and picked up the lantern and held it high over his head. Wren gasped and edged away a few more steps till her back was against the damp wall. “Do I frighten you? Ah, I see I do. Look at your handiwork and know that I'm going to return the favor. When I finish with you, there won't be a man who will look at you.”

Wren tried to breathe through her mouth to avoid smelling the rotten stench that was everywhere.

“Come here, little bird, kiss me the way you used to and whisper all those pretty words. Damn you, come here! Scream, I see you want to. No one can hear you in the storm. Scream if you want to, I won't stop you.”

Abruptly she was in his arms, his foul breath on her cheek, his hot, moist lips crushing hers. She stiffened and tried to free herself from his grasp. He was harsh and brutal in his handling of her as he tore at her clothing, exposing her breasts to his greedy mouth. Overcome with revulsion, she struggled vainly as his mouth moved again to hers. His lips were avid, searching, and she felt his tongue force her lips apart. The harder she struggled, the tighter his embrace became. He freed his mouth and let his lips travel down to her throat, and again they touched her silky skin. When his viselike hand grasped her breast, her eyes widened in fear and her breathing grew ragged. Loathing him, loathing herself because she was in this situation, she continued her struggles, which only made him more demanding. Cruelly, he twisted the soft flesh of her breasts until it stung. She whimpered with the pain and felt scalding tears course down her cheeks, knowing that no matter what she did, the inevitable was certain to happen.

Malcolm laughed lewdly as he taunted her with filthy phrases of what he was going to do to her and what he was going to make her do to him.

He threw her roughly to the dirty floor and was atop her in seconds. Holding her shoulders pinned to the floor, he kicked off his trousers and freed himself for his attack. He drove into her and smiled sadistically at her cries of pain and shame. Again and again he used her, each time more brutally than the last.

When he had finished with her, he pushed her against the wall and laughed. “When I'm through with you, that's all you'll be good for. To service men.”

Wren lowered her head and vomited at her feet, adding to the stench in the room. God, help me, she prayed silently.

Back on deck, Sara found her way to Aubrey Farrington's quarters and tiptoed inside. Her eyes gleaming wickedly, she lifted the club she carried high above her and brought it down on Farrington's head.

Without a backward glance, she walked through the door and out to the deck. The night was velvet black, the only light a streak of lightning frolicking across the ebony sky. Quickly she tossed the bloody club overboard and stood back to wait for the driving rain that would thunder down on the decks. Her eyes were blank, her body limp. When she felt she had been sufficiently soaked from the heavy downpour, she ran screaming to the wheelhouse. Caleb looked at her in
shock.
He heard the words but couldn't believe his ears. Wren had jumped overboard and Sara couldn't save her. Christ!

“All hands!” he shouted to be heard over the storm. “Man overboard!” What in the goddamn hell was
that
going to do? All around him was inky blackness and torrents of rain. The swells were higher than the ship. She didn't have a chance. No one, no matter how excellent a swimmer, could survive those waters during a storm. “All hands!” he repeated hoarsely.

The first mate looked at him and shook his head. “Captain, there's no way. You know that better than anyone. Go below. I'll take the wheel.”

Caleb left the wheelhouse in a daze, Sara on his heels. “What happened?” he asked, his gut on fire with the effort of his words.

“I don't know. She said she wanted to go out for a breath of air. I told her not to go, that there was a storm. I begged her, pleaded with her,” Sara babbled as she brushed her wet hair from her forehead. “She's dead, isn't she? I should have tried harder, but she was so strong and I'm so weak. I tried, truly I did. Please tell me it isn't my fault. You know how strong-willed Wren always was. Once she got an idea into her head, no one could shake it loose. Something was bothering her. She had acted peculiar all evening. Say it wasn't my fault, Caleb, please say it wasn't my fault. I refuse to believe Wren would kill herself because she had seen me and heard what I said in your cabin.”

Wren was gone. Dead. She had said she was grown up and had looked at him the way a woman looks at a man whom she loves, and now she was gone. Dead. Given over to the sea. He groaned and buried his head in his hands.

“Caleb, say it wasn't my fault,” Sara cried wretchedly.

“Go below, Sara. We'll talk later. I want to be alone.”

She couldn't be dead. Not Wren.

The storm raged far into the night. Caleb watched it and listened to it with unseeing eyes and unhearing ears. His thoughts were only on Wren. Torrents of rain beat against him. He felt nothing, numb to his surroundings. The crew, intent on keeping the ship secure, could offer him no aid. He needed his time alone to accept what had happened. It was his fault, and he would have to live with it for the rest of his life. Thoughts of Sirena and Regan crept into his mind from time to time, and he quickly rejected them. He would have to deal with them some other time and in another place. If he were lucky, the storm would claim him, too. He couldn't go back. By now God only knew where Wren's lifeless body would be. He wondered how long she had fought the turbulent waters before she had finally succumbed to the inevitable. Why?

A vicious bolt of thunder ripped down and rolled out to sea as the question entered his mind. Why? Why would Wren leap overboard in the middle of a storm? In her own way she was as feisty and fiery as Sirena had been. Their meeting on deck a few days before was hardly reason for her to go overboard tonight and end her life. She had eaten a hearty dinner, too; he himself had seen the empty plates. It was Sara and her damnable lie!

He rubbed his temples with unsteady hands and then felt the stubble on his chin and cheeks. He should go below and change his sodden clothing and shave. When the seas calmed, he would have to assemble the crew and officiate at a makeshift service of sorts for Wren. He couldn't do it. But as captain of the ship, he had to. Why? The question tormented him. Over and over he repeated the same question. Why?

His legs stiff and cramped, he stood and stretched his aching arms. Empty arms. Again he felt the stubble on his chin. Why? He would ask Aubrey if he had noticed anything. Perhaps Wren had said something to him. He had a keen, if not slick, mind, and sometimes he was damn intuitive. Aubrey might know something.

In his cabin, Caleb shed his water-soaked clothing and donned dry clothes. He shaved and gave himself a wicked gash across his cheek to which he applied a dab of alum and then flinched. Why?

His shoulders slumped as he made his way to Farrington's quarters. If Aubrey didn't have an answer for him, what would he do? Sara claimed she knew nothing. Lydia might know something. That was unlikely, or she would have made her way to him during the storm. She seemed a sensible, forthright woman and genuinely fond of Wren. Perhaps she didn't know anything. But that was also unlikely, since Wren shared the same cabin with her.

He didn't bother to knock but opened the door, calling Aubrey's name as he entered. As he made his way to the bunk, he drew back in horror when he saw why Farrington hadn't answered. The old gambler's mouth was agape in a soundless cry. His dead eyes stared out from beneath a lethal wound. Caleb swallowed hard as he bent his ear to the gambler's mouth. Nothing, not even a faint breath. His fingers sought the pulse in Farrington's throat. No faint beat. Aubrey Farrington was dead. Caleb's mind refused to recognize what his eyes were seeing. Tears stung him at the injustice of it all. What was happening on his ship? Who would do such a dastardly thing? Farrington had never hurt a soul, and when it came down to the wire, he could always be counted on to do the right thing. Who? Why? Tears filled Caleb's eyes for the old man who had no one but Caleb to mourn him.

A white-hot fire took possession of his mind and body as he stormed his way to the main deck, cursing and bellowing so that the hands needed no call to report to their captain. Caleb was like the devil incarnate as he told the drenched crew of Aubrey's death and Wren's going overboard. “It's too much of a coincidence, and before we dock in America, I promise you the guilty party will hang by the neck. Now search this goddamn ship from stern to stern and see if there's a stowaway we don't know about. I want that bastard brought before me so I can stare into his eyes and know why he did this. Peter,” he shouted hoarsely, “bring that son of a bitch Stoneham here. Now!” The order was thunderous.

Minutes later Bascom Stoneham was standing before him, a prayer book clutched in his bony hands. He waited, a feral look on his face, for Caleb to make his intentions known. If he was shocked at the captain's words, he gave no sign. “We can all attest to the fact that none of us left the hold. Your own man, guarding the ladder, will bear this out. You must look elsewhere for your guilty party,” he said arrogantly.

Caleb took a step forward and grasped Bascom's shirt in his fist. “You might have been in the hold, but somehow, some way, you're responsible; I feel it in my gut. Get him the hell out of my sight before I kill him!” Caleb shouted.

Sara stood next to a weeping Lydia, watching the confrontation with wide eyes. She felt her legs go weak with relief when Bascom was dragged off to the hold. Now she had only one problem to contend with, the search. She had to get below and somehow waylay any intruders in the locker-box area. She would offer her services in the search, saying she couldn't stand by and do nothing. She would cry and plead if she had to. She couldn't let one of the men find Malcolm and Wren. She had killed once and felt no remorse. She could do it again!

Her eyes took on a fanatical gleam as she watched Lydia weep and wail. “Blow your nose,” she said curtly. “I can't stand your sniveling. Go back down to your quarters and cry there. You're doing no good here. I'm going to help in the search, and you're only getting in the way.”

Lydia, used to obeying orders, turned and walked away, crying loudly and dabbing at her eyes with the hem of her skirt. She had lost the only friend she had ever had. Now what was she to do? And who had killed Aubrey Farrington and why? Why would Wren jump overboard? Why? Lydia might not be as smart or worldly as a man or more experienced than some women, but she knew one thing for a certainty. Wren van der Rhys would never kill herself. She knew this as well as she knew she needed to take another breath in order to live. Someone on this ship had killed Aubrey Farrington and caused Wren to go overboard. Who? Why?