Virgin Star (16 page)

"Well, if it's anything like your other ministrations, that potion will bring a howl of pain and no doubt paint my skin green with infection."

The old man chuckled like a hyena, his frail bent form shaking like a bowl of jelly. "I'll just let it cool for a bit."

The spacious apartment sat beneath the quarterdeck. Sure fast footsteps continuously sounded from overhead, but somehow the sound was muted and soothing, like the patter of rainfall. An expensive dark tapestry hung on the polished wood wall, depicting mythological creatures of the sea. Shalyn stared at this, then at other things: the hand-carved Oriental trunks, matching bedposts, colorful bedclothes, and a low table, thick brocaded pillows around it instead of chairs. She tried to reconcile his obvious fine taste with his character, but found it impossible—she would swear the captain would be happy in the hay of a foul-smelling barn.

There were many other strange adornments in this room, things drawn from the Orient and Arabia. It was odd, but the curious choice of furnishings seemed reassuringly familiar. They were in no way European. The beech wood walls and flooring had recently been polished, and a faint lemony scent mixed with a wine aroma of the doctor's secret concoction for burns. She studied the tapestry on the far wall in front of her. Beautiful sirens bathed in the sun on jagged rocks rising from blue waters. A lush green island rose in the background ...

An island... She closed her eyes as a white sandy beach appeared in her mind. Footprints. The scene suddenly came at her in a rush as if she were running after the footprints, and how strange—

It disappeared, vanishing the moment she opened her eyes. She looked up to see Seanessy taking off his shirt, only to find it stuck like glue where he was burned. With wide-eyed fascination, she watched as he tugged once and ripped the burned skin from his back. The tightly corded muscles of his back tensed with what must be an excruciating pain and yet all the while he was insisting that some or another ship would be late, as if he didn't feel it.

She turned to watch as Seanessy stretched out on the indecently large bed set upon rollers to absorb the motion of the sea. The movement sent the thick long rope of her hair over Butcher's hands, and he lifted the whole thing over her shoulder. " 'Tis this hair of yours, lass." Butcher shook his head. "These Arab heathens are willin' to part with a whole chest full of gold for a pretty young wench with hair like yours. Why, I know of a man whose fair-haired daughter was snatched from a bench in bright daylight right in the middle of Hyde Park."

"They didn't care about the color my hair, except, perhaps, as it identified me."

She waited for Seanessy's response, but he appeared suddenly subdued. She lost his attention again, though Butcher was telling her not to worry about it, that Seanessy had sent men out to try to find her relations, and where she had come from.

"I don't have much time," she replied. "You don't believe me, but it is true." And somehow I must make you believe me ... "I must get away from here before 'tis too late!"

Butcher looked over at Seanessy, his concern obvious without words.

"You're not going anywhere, child."

"You have no right!"

"Perhaps not," Seanessy agreed evenly, easily, this having little meaning for him, as his gaze filled with a strange sad light and he stared at Butcher. "Once I was riding past Saint Paul's Cathedral when I came across a crowd shouting and staring up at a man standing on the edge of his death. In the moment I saw he was trying to gather the courage to leap. In the same way I suppose I had no right to race up the

four flights of steps to that upper landing and yank the man back to a safe spot. So mind my words, Shalyn: I really don't care about these, ah, rights; if I have to lock you in a basement room to keep you from courting disaster, I will."

Silence came over the room for several long moments. Even Toothless seemed suddenly subdued by the reminder of life's sanctity and tenacious humanity that tried always to save it.

Shalyn stared, for a long moment she stared, unaware of the emotion shimmering in her eyes as she did. She half wished he could keep her safe; she wondered if it were possible. They were so close to finding her. They might even know she was here on board this ship!

True, the captain was a great fighter and he did have a number of men working for him, all of them fighting men. How many men could be after her, anyway? Perhaps it was best that Captain Seanessy was mean enough to extend his protection. At least for now. Until her memory returned or she somehow convinced him to grant her passage to Malacca.

Stripped to his waist, Seanessy stretched out on his bed at her side. The angry burn sat in the dead center of his back, but he was not thinking of this, not as his gaze suddenly discovered the arresting view.

After the explosion, he had attempted to help the girl up, only to watch her roll from his grasp and right into a burning piece of wood. She had sounded a brief shocked cry, that was all, and somehow that sound had struck his gut like a jagged piece of ice. She had taken it in the arm. Toothless had ripped her shirt all the way to the collar; the rest had practically fallen off her slender form and now sat in a heap at her small waist. The long gold braid hung in front of one shoulder, curving delicately over her front. She wore only the loose-fitting vest, and as she leaned slightly forward, the vest gaped slightly offering him a side view of the rounded lift of her breast. Against his will; he imagined opening the vest completely before cupping the full softness of those tempting peaks as he laid her on the bed and then parted the slender thighs-

Toothless never warned of pain. He sneaked up behind and slapped the ointment on Sean's bare back. The searing unexpected sting brought a loud animal cry a sound only slightly louder than the curses that followed. The other men chuckled, but a wild fear sprang in her dark eyes as she waited for Seanessy to leap up and kill the poor old man.

Apparently unaware of the danger, Toothless laughed like a madman, one effeminate hand held over his toothless mouth as his small body shook with his high-pitched laughter.

"You cod-sucking sadistic son of a bitch—"

Seanessy stopped suddenly. Still, tense with anticipation of violence, she watched as the huge giant seemed to collapse and lose wind, turning his head away as his curses changed with the warm deep sound of his own laughter.

Laughter because, God knew, he deserved it, lascivious bastard that he was. She might think she was twenty-one but she had a pissant poor memory, and she looked closer to ten and six. That might be plenty old enough for some men, but it felt like robbing the cradle to him. And the vixen, for all her worldly abilities, was a white-clothed virgin. She was also irritating, foul-tempered, shrewish, and most certainly mad.

He turned around to find her interested stare. She seemed to want to say something, but then hesitated with sudden uncertainty. He swung his long legs over the bed and got up to retrieve a fresh shirt from his trunk. Toothless stepped to her. "Lass, this will hurt," he said, holding a freshly dipped cloth. "Would ye like a drab of laudanum before I touch ye?"

"Oh, heavens." She shook her head. "I am strong enough for that."

Toothless gently brought the cloth to the girl's arm. She stiffened with the stinging sensation but briefly, and made not a sound. More than one man watched with admiration. "Look at that." Toothless chuckled, his free hand covering his mouth as he exclaimed, 'The young lass has more pluck than the captain!"

Seanessy was the first to admit it.

*****

Chapter 5

Mr. Rowe Eaten walked into a fantastic dream. After thirty-one miserable years of suffering in the dusty cramped space of his father's pawnshop, hour after hour, week after week, month after month. Thirty-one years of staring at shelves filled with every imaginable possession abandoned by poor masses: hair combs, brushes, hand mirrors, shawls, fichus, all kinds and sizes of coats, hats, even corsets, fibulas for boots, saddles, all kinds of jeweled boxes, reticules—most of these had been stolen— cheap glass jewels of all kinds, ribbons, festoons of lace and of silk flowers, hairpins, an entire store filled with the abandoned hope and tragedies of the truly bereft.

His whole life he had had to listen to their sad tales, tales that always ended with him offering a coin worth one-twentieth of the value of their last treasure. Of course they always argued over his price; they had to, and he had to listen to their pathetic haggling impassively, shaking his head. "Not a charity," he'd say as his heart twisted and he felt like dying.

The worst were boots. He had nightmares filled with nothing but boots. Boots in all sizes. Boots as small as a four-year-old's tiny foot. Boots caked in sewage from the mudlarks—mudlarks was the name given to boys and girls who searched through the sewers for anything of value. The last trade of the mudlarks' and the gin girls and boys—the children abandoned to alcohol and its terrible gin streets-was always their boots. When they gave up then-boots against the winter cold for a cup of gin, they would be dead soon. Everyone knew it. Lately his hands would shake as badly as theirs when he reached to take them, for he was handing back a death sentence.

Then he would go home to eat his wife's miserly meals and listen to her complaints, her hateful complaints that never changed or stopped as she chided and berated him for every penny that left the shop. "Two pence for a 'air comb? La! Ye are a fool, a fool! Oh, ye think ye are so fine wi' yer soft 'eart but 'tis yer 'ead that's soft! Canna sell it for four pence, and if ye ..." and, how strange, lately he had begun to wonder if maybe he hadn't died and was serving a sentence in hell with his nagging hateful wife and a pawnshop filled with children's boots.

So today, after it had happened, and after his heart stopped slamming in his chest and his hands stopped shaking, and after a long hour or so staring at it, he thought that maybe it was a message from God. The message was redemption for his long suffering! His fortune made for five bob. No more nagging hateful wife. No more pawnshop. No more boots! Here was a billet to heaven!

Taggart would be here in the hour...

Rowe Eaten reached trembling hands to the bottom shelf of the counter. He clutched the carved wooden box, and though no solicitors or customers were in the small shop, he bent down behind the counter, just to make sure no one saw. He carefully unfolded the plain lace handkerchief to stare at it again.

"Why, ye ole fools," he had told them, "this be a bit of brass and glass!"

"Brass and glass? Looks like gold plate to me!"

Forcing his eyes away from the miracle, he had placed his hands palm side down on the counter to hide their sudden trembling. With a pretense of contempt for the men, he said the boldest words of his life: "Take it next door then. Ye won't get more'n five bob from me."

The two oafs grumbled and fidgeted before the fat one asked, "'Tis a done deal if ye throw in a couple of farthin’s to warm me and my bloke here with a round of gin cups."

"I am not a charity."

"Ah, ye'd cheat yer own mum from 'er last bowl o' porridge, ye would!"

He withdrew five bob from the cash box. The stout man snatched it up, and without a backward glance they left the store. Five bob had got them out of the store. .

He stared at the fortune.

Intricate gold lattice work formed a five-point star, its centerpiece a twenty-five-carat uncut ruby stone, more valuable than a diamond and three times larger than any he had ever seen before, even in books. The gem would be worth five times as much once it was cut. Seven other uncut blood red rubies sat on the solid gold star, each at least five carats.

Fit for the crown jewels.

Master Taggart would start at two thousand pounds; he would hold out for four. Then he'd pay Giles to tell that miserly shrew of a wife—the fat nag who had given him twenty-two years of suffering— that he had died, that he had leaped off the London Bridge to his death just to escape another day with her. Oh, how she'd cry then! She'd be so sorry! He'd purchase a quiet cottage in Yorkshire or Stratford or maybe even faraway Dover. It would have a proper dining room, it would, and a drawing room, and a pretty garden, and a houseman and maid. He'd eat roast mutton, cottage stew, rarebit every night—

The door opened. His heart leaped in his chest as he placed the ruby star back in the box, closed the lid, and shoved it deep into the cupboard. He stood up, and his gaze settled on the two men. They appeared tall and strong-looking, healthy, well-fed brutes, dangerous-looking somehow, not the type of men to while away hours shopping for a bargain on boots.

He knew, part of him knew, even before he heard the tall one say, "We understand you purchased a little ruby and gold piece from a couple of blokes?"

"Ruby and gold piece? Me?" He forced a laugh, but it sounded strange to him. A moment later he realized the sound came from the dark edge of his hysteria. "Do I look like I ever handled a ruby and gold piece? Look around—"