The Golden Cross (45 page)

“Indeed I shall.” Tasman’s brow wrinkled with contemptuous thoughts, even as his lips curled in a knowing smile. “Better late than never, eh, Doctor? Perhaps I should be grateful that you will not wed my daughter—”

Frowning, Sterling interrupted. “I will have you know, sir, that I have not behaved improperly toward the lady, and her own conduct has been quite above reproach.” He paused. “I
was
betrothed to your daughter.”

“That did not stop you from kissing the wench before every man on these two ships.” Tasman spoke softly, but the venom was clear. “Did you take one moment to think of my daughter, sir, when you drew that false ketelbinkie into your arms? My daughter will undoubtedly meet these ships at the port. She will be there, dressed in her finest gown, awaiting your return, and you will step forward with another woman upon your arm!”

Sterling flinched but did not retreat. “I assure you, sir, that I never meant to hurt Lina. I would do anything to spare her pain, but at the time I could think of no other way to save the map-maker’s ward. Even now I can think of only one way to keep her from becoming a hindrance upon your ship, so I am prepared to take her as my wife and my responsibility.”

“There is another way.” Tasman tilted his head slightly, then jerked his chin toward the retreating barge. “Another officer has considered my daughter’s feelings and honor. In an effort to spare Lina from the shame of a broken betrothal, Witt Dekker has volunteered to marry the map-maker’s wench.”

Sterling felt an icy finger touch his spine.

“That,” he spoke slowly, searching for words, “would not be a good idea.”

“Why not?” The angry color was fading from Tasman’s face, but his eyes were still narrow and bright with fury. “Does the woman mean so much to you?”

Disconcerted, Sterling crossed his arms and pointedly looked away. “We are a good match, I think. She is English, as am I. We have endured a recent trial together. She has agreed to marry me, not Dekker. She does not know that officer, and I cannot believe she would want to marry him.”

Tasman did not reply, but slowly pursed his lips in a thoughtful expression. Standing erect, he thrust his hands behind his back and stepped so close that his breath brushed the hair falling upon Sterling’s shoulder. “At least be honest with me, sir.” His eyes snapped with malice. “If you want the cartographer’s assistant instead of my daughter, you shall have the woman you choose. But know this—if she causes one moment’s trouble aboard either of my ships, I shall set you both ashore at the first possible opportunity. Do you understand?”

Sterling found a perverse pleasure in the captain’s challenge, and he smiled. “I will marry her now, sir. And you need not worry about anything. She is a lady and quite capable of handling herself.”

Tasman nodded abruptly. “Bring her to my cabin with a witness,” he called over his shoulder. “I shall take care of this irregularity immediately.”

Sterling paused a moment after rapping on the door, then closed his eyes in relief when a voice bade him enter.

He stooped to enter the small cabin, then relaxed when he saw T’jercksen Holman at his desk, a quill in his hand. The skipper lifted a brow as Sterling entered.

“Come in search of other adventures, Doctor?” Holman asked, a trace of amusement in his voice. “I’m afraid you’ll find nothing here. I am a family man, I have simple tastes. There’s not a single woman to be found hiding among my trunks.”

“I do not seek adventures, sir; I’ve had my fill of those today.” Sterling clasped his hands at his waist, feeling at once foolish and presumptuous.

Holman shifted in his chair, then folded his hands. “Then why are you here?”

Sterling drew a deep breath. “The captain has agreed to marry me to the lady. We are to be wed at once, in the captain’s cabin. I am to bring a witness, and I thought of you.”

Holman smiled, a quick curve of thin, dry lips. “I am honored.” He reached for his hat. “And I would not want to keep an anxious bridegroom waiting.”

“There is one more thing.” Sterling bit his lip as Holman froze at his desk. “My bride, sir—the lady has nothing to wear but the boy’s clothes she brought aboard. And since she will henceforth be living among us as a woman, I thought it only right that she have a woman’s gown, particularly for the wedding.”

Holman gave a brief croaking chuckle. “Do you not find her attractive in breeches?”

“Of course, sir.” Sterling looked down at his hands and grinned. “But so does every other man aboard.” His smile faded. “And I know that you bought silk gowns for your wife and daughter while we were anchored at Mauritius.”

Holman frowned, his eyes level under drawn brows. “Why should I deprive my family in order to please a red-haired wench who has the bad sense to turn up where she ought not be?”

Sterling looked the skipper directly in the eye. “I would not deprive your family, sir, but I believe you would seek the best for
your bride, were your wife in Aidan’s place and you in mine. You are an honorable man and a gentle soul; you would not suffer a woman to be wed in a man’s clothes when she could be outfitted like the gentle lady she is.” He drew a deep breath. “I would be happy to reimburse you for the expense once we reach Batavia—as soon as I receive my wages.”

“You certainly shall, for there is a limit to my generosity,” Holman answered, standing. He moved to his bunk, then knelt and pulled out the trunk that rested beneath his bed. He lifted the lid, then shifted several dark-colored doublets and breeches until he uncovered two bright piles of silk, one green, one brown. “My wife and daughter will not be deprived, no matter how fervently I wish you well,” he said, slowly pulling the fragile fabrics from his trunk. “When we return to Batavia, you will pay me three hundred guilders.”

“Three hundred!” Sterling protested, his mind reeling. He remembered inquiring on his mother’s behalf in a dressmaker’s shop in Batavia. The most ornate ball gown in the shop sold for ninety-five guilders. Three hundred was outright robbery, but Sterling had no other choice. Van Dyck had said that Aidan was an heiress, and a lady of quality could not be married in men’s rags—even if she was marrying a virtual pauper.

“Three hundred guilders … each,” Holman answered, standing. He thrust the bundles of silk into Sterling’s arms, then gave him a broad smile. “Now—shall we attend your wedding?”

Aidan paused beside the table in Van Dyck’s cabin and ran her hand over the unfinished map. “Farewell, master,” she whispered, feeling the fine quality of the vellum beneath her palm. Her eyes filled with moisture, and her voice went suddenly husky. “I shall miss you very much.”

She had already tossed her paints, pens, pencils, and brushes into a crate, but she could not bring herself to touch her master’s map. It was a mocking shadow of all he had dreamed for himself
and for her, hopes that now seemed lifeless and void. Six years before, she had gone to sea and found herself acting out of survival instincts. Now, as then, she would have to abandon her dreams of a new life. And now, as then, she found herself paired with someone who might bring about her downfall. Lili had led Aidan into the seedy wharf district of Batavia, and Sterling Thorne could lead her into an emotional dominion more treacherous than any Batavian alley.

The door creaked in protest as someone pulled it open. Aidan shrank back in reflex as Francois Visscher entered the room, his arms filled with two gleaming bundles of fabric. “These,” he said, tossing his burdens on her narrow bunk, “are for you, a gift from the doctor. And this—” He gestured at the art supplies still scattered around the cabin. “—must be gone at once. I tolerated the old gentleman because Tasman told me I had to. But you I will not accept.” He finished with a flourish, thrusting his hands to his wide hips, his face settling in a marble effigy of contempt.

“I am sorry, sir,” Aidan said, cautiously moving about to gather the remaining canvases that littered the cabin. “I will clean up and be gone in a moment. If you will excuse me—”

“A wench,” he interrupted, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “A useless woman! The old man must have been senile! What did he see in you, the dreams of his lost youth or his lost art? I would not have slept in this room a single night if I had known what you were. Shame on you, girl, you should have known better! What did you hope to gain by playing on his sympathies, his money or his favor? You are a disgrace to all women, a blot upon the face of seagoing men.”

Against her will, rage rose in Aidan’s soul. This man had insulted her master and his art, and she had never met a finer, more eminently Christian man than Heer Van Dyck.

“I am not a disgrace.” She dropped a sheaf of papers into the crate and stepped forward, not willing to let herself be put down by this brute. She lifted her chin and met his angry gaze head-on.
“Heer Van Dyck said I am an artist … and one day you will know that I am.”

Flushing to the roots of his hair, Visscher stepped back. “I don’t care what you are,” he said, his voice taut with anger, “but when I return, you had best be gone from this cabin. And take all that foolishness with you.”

“Get out and your wish will be granted.” Aidan jerked her head toward the door.

She was surprised when he obeyed, and in the resulting glow of pleasure she gathered up the rest of the art supplies, found her missing box of paints, and stuffed her discarded wet clothes into the crate. She paused at the table with Van Dyck’s map, then hastily rolled it up into a tube. She wasn’t worthy to complete it, but she would not leave it here for Visscher and his ilk to deface with their messy renderings.

She was on her way out the door with the crate when she noticed the two bundles Visscher had dropped onto the bunk. For her, he had said, from the doctor. A gift.

She lowered her crate to the bunk, then picked up the green silk. A sweet floral fragrance clung to the fabric, and fine twine, like that from a dressmaker’s shop, held it together. Curious, Aidan slipped the loop free and gasped in amazement as she unfolded an elegant shirt, underbodice, sleeves, and skirt.

These were the components of a fine lady’s gown! Where in the world had Sterling procured them? She ran her fingers over the rich emerald silk of the skirt, bodice, and sleeves, and smiled as a wave of nostalgia swept over her. She had dreamed of wearing a dress like this … but her dreams had never included a husband generous enough to provide it.

A wedding gift. The man never ceased to surprise her.

Aidan held the skirt up to her waist, and sighed in pleasure as the soft fabric rubbed against the rough texture of her man’s shirt.

Was there anything Sterling Thorne could not do?

S
terling jiggled his leg nervously as he and Holman waited for Aidan in Tasman’s cabin. The captain sat behind his desk, his brows drawn downward in a frown, his pen driving furiously across the page of his log as he pretended to ignore the men waiting in his cabin.

Silence filled the air like a heavy mist. In an effort to avoid Holman’s gaze, Sterling shifted his eyes to the wide windows over the stern. Through the open space he could see the
Zeehaen
following in the
Heemskerk’s
wake, the smaller vessel rising rhythmically on each strong swell of the sea.