Blaggard's Moon (35 page)

Jenta shook her head. “Wentworth, don't—”

Conch snatched up the pistol and aimed it at Wentworth. He cocked back the trigger. “I'll kill 'im right here, little missy, you don't shut up. And wouldn't that be a pretty sight for pretty eyes to see?”

She sat still as a stone.

Conch sniffed. He set the pistol down. “What I mean is, this is his game to play, Miss Jenta. Yers is next.” Then to Wentworth, “I believe it's yer turn, son. Pick up the cards.”

He did.

“Now, discard one.”

Wentworth laid down a card without hesitation. Mazeley stood, reached across the table, and swept it to the Conch.

Conch looked at it. “I'll be.” He looked at Jenta. “Looks like he don't want ye no more.” He flipped the card face up on the table. It was the queen.

“Next hand!” he announced. “Wentworth, ye can stay fer this if ye like, though yer a dead man watchin'. Might as well see the end, you bein' the cause of everythin'.” He turned to Mazeley. “Deal.”

Mazeley dealt one card down to Jenta. She looked at Conch sadly, shaking her head almost imperceptibly.

Then Conch slid the queen of hearts across the table toward her with
a flick of his fingers. “Pick up yer husband's discard. Got to play the game right.”

She did.

“Go ahead, take a look.”

She looked.

“Now show 'em both.”

She laid them faceup on the table.

“I'll be. The queen a' spades to go with yer heart. Pair a' ladies. Good hand. But yer gonna have to discard one of 'em. Would ye like to know the meanin' of 'em first?”

She raised her chin in defiance.

He laughed. “Sure ye would. So I'll tell ye. The queen a' hearts, that's still you. And the queen a' spades, that's yer mama here. Yer gonna need to discard one or the other.”

She stared at him. “Captain. Please,” she said gently, as though there might be a different man inside him somewhere, or a heart with which she could reason.

He ignored her. “First thing ye might do is discard the queen a' hearts. That means yer givin' yerself to me. I know yer husband already threw ye over. But you got a say in it still. Though ye may hear otherwise, I never have made a woman do what she don't want to do. Jus' not sportin'. And by way of makin' my case, I can tell ye right now that bein' the Conch's woman is good work, and many a lassie has wanted the position, though few has ever got it. So, ye got a choice. And that choice is the other card ye can lay down. Ye can give me yer mama.”

Shayla cringed, a visceral flinch that she could not control.

Conch watched her. Then he said, “Discard mama, and yer free to go, just like Runsford did. Go do whatever ye please. Go back to Mann, marry some society tra-la-la, whatever comes into yer pretty head. But just like him savin' his own skin at the price of his son, why, you'll be savin' yerself on the back of yer mother.”

There was a pause.

“Yer probably wonderin' what I'll do to her. Fact is, I ain't rightly decided. But I'll tell ye what, though. Jus' to make yer choice easier, I won't even kill her. There's a promise. But I will say that there's markets in this world where she'll fetch a gold coin or two.” He looked at Shayla. “Maybe three.” He looked back into the distant, depleted eyes of Jenta.

Jenta didn't look at her mother. She knew the dark emptiness that Shayla had become. “You know I'd never let that happen.” Now she
heard a catch in Shayla's breathing. But Jenta looked only at Conch. “So where's the choice here?”

He shrugged. “Jenta, ye threw in with the weasel,” he nodded toward Wentworth, “bringin' my enemies right to my hometown. Don't ye see that there's a price to pay fer that? Sure ye do. Anyone else, and yer dead. But I'm not killin' ye—that ain't even on the table. I'm givin' ye a chance to walk, jus' up and walk away like nothin' ever happened. So don't be sayin' there's no choice in it.” He paused, waiting to be sure she wouldn't argue with him.

She did not.

“Good,” Conch said, almost gently. “Now, Miss Jenta, pick up yer cards.”

She did.

“I know it's a hard choice, and I don't want any confusion. Give me the spade, that's yer mama, or give me the heart, which is yerself.”

There was a request in it. Almost a plea. She shook her head. Here he was, promising to murder her husband and sell her mother, and yet in his mind, he was showing mercy.

“Discard me, Jenta,” Shayla said suddenly. “I'll kill myself, and you'll be free.”

“Mother!”

Furious, Conch snatched up the pistol. “Shut it!” he yelled. But he couldn't figure out at whom he should aim the weapon. “I'll kill the room of ye, and forget the game!” He calmed himself again, seeing that Shayla would speak no more. “What I'm tryin' to tell ye is, ma'am, that it's yer daughter's choice and not yers.” Conch's voice was still ragged but now under better control.

“Don't worry, Captain,” Jenta said, feeling a rush of cold strength from within. “I'll play your game.”

She laid down a card.

A look of respect grew in Conch. “Well, good fer you. A card player.”

When Mazeley swept the discard to Conch, the pirate left it on the table, facedown, and stared at the back of it for a long time. Then turned it over. He smiled. “The queen a' my heart.” He stood, rubbing his hands together vigorously. “Well, our game's done! Mrs. Stillmithers, I had a game all set fer you, but we won't be needin' to play it now. Yer carriage awaits. I apologize fer gettin' ye outta bed fer nothin'. Jenta, on the outside chance ye'd make just the choice ye did make, I got a stateroom all decked out, right next to mine. I took the
liberty to order ye up some widow's weeds. I think ye'll look fine in black. After ye cry yer eyes out a while, fer which I won't hold a thing against ye, then I think ye'll find yer quarters quite comfy. I'll take ye there now, if yer ready.”

Conch stood. “Wentworth,” he said with a sideways glance, “ye always were a wretched little puke. But I do feel a might sorry fer ye, losin' a woman like this to the likes a' me.” He slid his pistol over one place. “Clean my pistol when yer done wif the boy, will ye, Mr. Mazeley?”

“Don't I always?”

“That ye do, Mr. Mazeley. That ye do.”

Wentworth hung his head.

“Well, let's jus' skip over the sad goodbyes, shall we…?” He held out a hand to Jenta.

Jenta did not stand. She watched Wentworth for a moment, then looked at Conch. Her eyes were calm defiance. “One more hand,” she said evenly.

“What?” Conch asked.

“I want to play one more hand.”

“No, missy, my game's done.”

“But mine's not.” There was no anger, no animosity in her voice. In fact, she said it with perfect poise.

He stood in silence, looking around the room.

“Not a risk-taker then?” she asked. Her tone was light and there was a glint in her eye, as though he had done no more than to refuse to dance.

Shayla looked at her daughter in confusion.

“Well, what's the game?” Conch asked, amused.

“A cut of the cards.”

“What's the stakes?”

“If I win, Wentworth lives.” Wentworth's head came up.

“Yer a soft heart. But I cain't do it. He survives, and people will think I'm the soft one, and then they'll try to take me down. Makes fer all sorts a' trouble. Asides, if he lives, yer still married.”

“My dear Captain,” she said, pleased and surprised, “that matters to you?” Her look now was almost coy.

And now Shayla's confusion melted into recognition. Jenta had made a choice, but not the choice Conch gave her. She had decided to play a different game, one she'd been learning to play all her life. While Jenta didn't bat her eyes at him, a lady with less sophistication might have.

He shrugged a shoulder. “Well, no, to be frank. But it matters to you,
I reckon. And asides, I'm a society man in this town. What would people say?”

Mazeley smirked.

“My marriage can be annulled,” Jenta told him, her eyes not leaving his.

He blanched. “Not if ye've ever—”

“The marriage can be annulled,” she repeated easily.

“Even once—”

“Captain. My marriage—can be—annulled.”

Conch looked at Wentworth and laughed, a low rumble. “I called ye a weasel. That was overgenerous. Yer naught but a mouse.”

Wentworth closed his eyes. His chin sank to his chest again.

“And what if I win?” Conch asked. “Ye save the mouse if you win. What do I get if ye lose?”

“Then you take his life.”

“I already got that. Give me somethin' I don't have.” He watched her for a moment in silence, then said low, “And don't be sayin' it's you, 'cause I already won that game, girl.”

Shayla closed her eyes, lowered her head.

Jenta paused a moment, but she didn't falter. She raised her chin. Her nostrils flared. And in a voice smooth as silk she said, “I'll bring you Damrick Fellows.”

“Whoa! She'll trade Damrick for Wentworth?” Sleeve asked.

“Naw, bad choice, Jenta!” shouted another.

“See, Conch's already won her, and that's how he beat the Gatemen!”

Ham waited. “She's a woman of secrets, as I been telling you. You want to hear how it goes, or not?”

“Tell it!” and “Aye, we're shuttin' up!”

Conch leaned in toward her. “Yer sayin' you can give me Damrick Fellows. And how do ye propose to do that?”

She folded her hands on the table, and stared at him. “I will tell you, if you win.”

The silence in the room was heavy. Mazeley began shuffling the cards. Wentworth looked at Jenta, his head shaking back and forth. Shayla watched in something close to awe, her mask in tatters. Jenta refused to look away from Conch.

Conch pondered. “You don't even know 'im,” he said to her at last, watching her eyes.

She raised an eyebrow. “Are you playing, or not?”

“I'm thinkin'.” He remained standing, studying her.

She watched his eyes as he watched hers.

Then he said, “Yer bluffin'.”

Alarm went through her, but she just smiled. “Am I?” She knew he needed something more. So she gave it to him. “Damrick is in love with me.”

Now Conch's head cocked to one side. “Ye knew him from before. In Mann.”

She stared at Conch, raised one corner of her mouth just slightly. She felt the pained eyes of Wentworth, the emptiness of her mother. Neither of them, she realized, could know for certain if she was lying or telling the truth, any more than Conch could. Somehow, that fact gave her more confidence. “Are you in or are you out, Captain?”

Now his mind started turning. The possibilities clicked through his eyes where she could fairly see them. A beautiful woman…not highborn, she would have had many admirers. Damrick could easily have been among them. He might have been in love with her for years. He could have come to Skaelington just to find her. Jenta watched as the bitter sting of jealousy took root. She did not know what he would do with it, however, until he said, “Mr. Mazeley, cut the cards.”

“No,” Jenta said easily. “This is my game. My deal.” She held out her hand to Mazeley. “Unless you don't trust me.”

“I don't trust you,” Mazeley offered easily, continuing to shuffle.

“Give her the cards,” Conch ordered. He watched Jenta, but now she wouldn't meet his gaze. He looked at her differently; she could feel it. She was no longer the sweet young prize, but a crafty doe in a dense, craggy forest. Worthy prey. Maybe even dangerous prey. Maybe a lioness, and not a doe at all.

Mazeley gave the cards one last sorting, and handed the deck to Jenta. She fanned them in her hand, turned them over, examined them. Then she began to shuffle. She had some skill.

“Where'd you learn that?” Conch asked.

“From my mother.”

“You learned a lot from her.”

“I learned everything from her. Are you in?” she asked.

“I'm in. Mr. Mazeley, pick a good card for me.”

She put her hand on top of the deck to prevent Mazeley from touching it. She looked at Conch. “Am I your woman, or am I his?” Her question mingled the pleasure of ownership with the sting of jealousy, and she knew it.

He put both hands on the red felt and leaned across the table toward her. “You cut for me,” he said to her.

She picked up the top third of the deck. The card was the jack of hearts.

“Nice cut.”

She shuffled the cards, laid the deck down again. When she cut the deck this time, she showed him the king of clubs. The corner of her lip rose.