Raised By Wolves 3 - Treasure (82 page)

“Nay, nay,” Morgan said smoothly. “It was not so foolish. I am – as our good Will said – distraught, and I mistook his words. He was giving good counsel, as he ever does.”

I was sure those who knew us best were not convinced in the least, but the rest of the men seemed mollified.

“That’s our Will, always speaking his mind,” Striker said with passably feigned amusement, and clapped my shoulder as he walked past me. “I was damn pleased to hear you three survived. How are the rest of the ships?”

Pete was now beside me, and I snagged his shoulder and pulled his ear to me to whisper. “He has made his accusation and I met it. The others do not back him.”

“Good Fur Them,” he muttered darkly.

I let him go and met my matelot’s gaze again. “I am fine. Let us walk,” I said quietly, and began to lead him back to the Queen.

He slipped an arm around my shoulders and fell into step with me.

“Do not walk off without telling me,” he admonished through clenched teeth.

“I know, I know,” I sighed. “However, it would have gone worse than it did if you had been present. There would be blood on that sand.”

“What did he say?”

I sighed again, and repeated all. “My quick tongue has ever been my blessing and my curse,” I finished.

We were nearly back at the place where men were arranging lines to haul the Queen up onto the beach. He appeared thoughtful, and he did not stop or try and steer us away from the others. Instead, he returned to where he had been working when I left him, then stopped and turned to me to whisper in French with a small smile, “I find your quick tongue a blessing.”

I kissed him, and he savored it with a small sound of pleasure.

“I am sorry to cause you worry,” I whispered when we parted. “I thought it best I met with him alone to see what he would say. And I am glad I did.”

He met my gaze with concern and admonishment. “So am I. But now, you will stay away from him? Even if you are his better in all ways a thousand times over?”

I grinned. “Oui, Papa, I will not play with the wolves, or poke them with sticks.”

He rolled his eyes and turned back to assisting with the cable.

I slapped his arse, and returned to standing where I had before, watching others work. I did not feel so very useless now, though. I mused on the encounter, and smiled to myself. I was not as impotent as I had been feeling of late. I looked at the place where the Oxford had been, and wondered at the Providence of the Gods.

Seventy-Eight

I watched Morgan’s boats push off from the beach a short time later. Ash and some of the others who had run to my aid were quick to return, but Striker, Pete, and Cudro were deep in discussion and made slow work of their walk. Gaston and I went to meet them. They ceased speaking as we approached, and Striker regarded me with a gaze hung between anger and curiosity.

“What was said?” he demanded.

I told him. Cudro whistled with quiet amazement as I finished, and Pete nodded from behind his matelot’s back, but Striker looked away to study the waves and chew on his lip.

“And what was said to you?” I asked.

When Striker would not answer, and Pete did not seem inclined to, either – as he was staring upon his matelot with troubled eyes – Cudro spoke. “He is displeased we are careening and hunting. He would have the lot of us sail as soon as possible. He has instructed Bradley to remain here only long enough to repair those vessels in need of it, and for himself to return from Port Royal. Then we are to sail east to Savona.

That is a thing they decided last night. Once there, they planned to regroup and sail south and plunder the coast of Caracas. Now…” He shrugged. “He will sail with Norman on the Lilly to Port Royal, with the French prize.”

“So the Cour Volant is a prize now?” I asked.

Cudro sighed. “My words, not his. It might as well be. He’s still claiming they committed piracy. He swears the French had a Spanish letter of marque – which is a foolish thing, as to my knowledge the Spanish do not issue letters of marque. But when we asked of it, the document they described sounds to be a certificate of trade from a Spanish governor. We have one.” He shrugged again.

“Burn it,” Striker said. He turned to me. “You’re correct. He doesn’t trust me.”

“I am sorry,” I said.

“We told them we were thinking it might have been the French trying to escape – and Morgan liked that well enough – but then he reveals that he intends to try their captain for piracy and I feel…” Striker turned away again and cursed.

“Aye,” Cudro said sadly. “It seems we are helping to dig that poor French captain’s grave, when all we’re trying to do is save our own hides.

But none of the French want to sail with Morgan – not after the damn duel with Burroughs last year – and now this. Now the French will likely avoid Port Royal, and that should anger Modyford when the merchants complain of the lack of French booty. But Morgan cares not; he’s angry the French will not support him in lining his own pockets, so it seems he’ll take their ships how he can. They’re all a bunch of hogs rooting after gold.”

“Aye, they might well all be hogs and not wolves,” I sighed.

“It is a good thing he will not cross you,” Striker said with a bitter tone that brought my gaze quickly to him, only to find him walking on toward our working men.

“What the Devil do you mean by that?” I asked.

Striker stopped and turned to me. His mien was guilty. “I did not…”

He sighed and at last met my gaze. “I’m neither a threat nor a boon to the man. I’m a kicked dog.”

“My good friend, I know not what to say,” I said softly. “Do you wish for his regard?”

“Nay,” Striker said with exasperation which seemed to be as much directed at the Heavens as at me. “I wish for things I can’t have.” He turned away again and started walking.

I let him go, and turned back to Pete, Cudro, and Gaston. I met the Golden One’s blue eyes: once more he appeared age-old and weary. He did not speak, but his shrug was eloquent enough, as he too, walked by me. “Have I done poorly?” I asked Gaston and Cudro.

Our Dutchman scratched his massive head. “That’s hard to say. We’ll only know in the fullness of time.” Then he, too, left us.

I met loving green eyes and felt my doubts ease.

“You may well have saved his life and command,” Gaston said.

I frowned. “Morgan’s or Striker’s?”

He grinned. “Both.”

I sighed and followed him back to the cables coiled upon the beach.

Morgan sailed to Port Royal on the Lilly the next morning. I had been sitting on guard for hours, as it had been my turn, and I watched the sloop raise sail and race out and around the reef with the dawn breeze: golden light making her seem as if she were gilded with some intangible thing of far more value than wood and canvas. The somewhat less nimble French frigate followed in her wake: a dirge of a darker shadow, despite the fine color to the light. I awarded my poetic whimsy a snort of ironic amusement.

Gaston looked up sleepily from where he cuddled beside me in the nest we had made in the sand. In addition to taking the watch prior to mine, he had been bent and strained over cables for much of the evening, assisting in bringing the Queen to lie with her crew upon the beach. I had not wished for him to wake as yet, but the beach smelled of roasting beef, and there would soon be too much activity for him to continue to slumber like a babe.

“They are gone,” I said in French. “Sailed away to wreak havoc elsewhere and apologize for the duplicity of others: seeking gold when it surrounds them and they are but blind to it.”

He nodded and smiled, and pushed my leg flat so he could place his head upon it and arrange himself with more comfort at my expense.

Striker stirred from beside Pete, and rose to stretch. He did not meet my curious gaze before wandering up the dune to relieve himself. His sleep, if he had indeed slept, had been fitful in the hours I had watched over us, such that his tossing would have woken any man except his exhausted matelot.

I reluctantly pushed Gaston off my leg, and scratched his scalp before standing and stretching. My matelot peered up at me speculatively, and I cut my eyes in the direction Striker had gone and mouthed his name. He rolled over and lifted his head enough to see Striker at the top of the dune.

He sighed. “Tell him to stay down. Men will be clearing their weapons soon.”

I sighed my understanding and arranged my weapons about my belt as I went to join Striker.

“You should not stand so tall,” I said with a smile when he turned at my approach.

Striker frowned. “I will not crawl.”

“Even when shot at?” I teased.

He shook his head with a sad smile. “I wish to say, especially not when shot at, but those are the words of a fool. I well know it.”

“This business with my father will pass…” I hesitated, surprised at my next words: rather like, after spending months watching a foal grow, turning one day and finding it a horse. “When I kill him,” I finished.

Striker regarded me with concern, and I wondered what he found upon my face. I knew discomfiture roiled about behind it, but I felt I was not truly showing that any more or less than nonchalance.

I met his gaze. “I think I have known that since this began, possibly longer. I have not wished to speak it, though. It will take care and arrangement, as I do not wish to hang for it, but that is how this will end.”

“That’s what Pete said,” he sighed.

I nodded solemnly. “So, as Pete has also said, we must clear pieces until we can position ourselves to deal with them: my father and Shane.

And… That will require sacrifices.”

“I know all that,” Striker said. “I know. But I can’t. I can’t just step down. Not because I don’t wish to save my own arse. Not because I want to make things harder. But I can’t see doing it after…” He waved his arm at the bay where the Oxford had been. “Not without…” He swore. “Well, it’s not as if the bastard trusts me now, anyway. Or likely I will have much sway with these men when all is done. We’ll likely have to leave Jamaica, for Christ’s sake.”

I could not see where he could manage surrendering his position without damaging his reputation, either, even if the Oxford had not exploded. “But you see how he will risk you; even if another does not attempt to collect the bounty? Even if you are not a threat, per se, you are surely a thorn in his side that he wishes to pluck.”

“Aye,” he said sadly. “I see it now.”

“Then will you allow us to arrange some accident that will not maim you?”

He grimaced. “Can’t I pretend to ail?”

“Enough so that you cannot be captain?”

His gaze met mine and his eyes implored. “Not yet. Not until…”

I nodded quickly. “It is necessary. I understand.”

“Aye,” he said and looked away quickly. “Speak to Pete, would you?

He acts as if all I do is argue. He’s angry with me about something.”

“You really need to learn to speak to one another,” I sighed.

“What has he said?”

I shook my head, but then I relented in the name of the knowledge that they would likely come to blows again before they did speak as they should.

“He loves you above all else – provided you always hold him before others as matelot, and not expect him to become… an old friend.”

“Never,” Striker said quickly, and frowned toward the place where Pete was still snoring.

“And he despairs that you will ever be happy,” I added. “He feels you always seek things you do not have; when he feels, perhaps, that you should be content with the treasures you now hold.”

Striker’s eyes held on my face, but when I said no more, he turned with a sigh and walked several steps down the dune to sit – with his head safely below the crest. “I’ll think on it.”

I patted his head as I passed, and returned to my matelot.

Gaston sat and stretched as I approached, his gaze curious. “You win every battle here. This must be a fortuitous isle for you.”

“It inspired you to fuck me,” I said with amusement as I recalled our last visit here. Then the things that I needed to say drove my humor way.

“What?” he asked with concern as I came to sit beside him.

“I must kill my father,” I whispered.

He nodded solemnly.

I gave a grim smile. “It seems all have known this except me. And that would be a lie: I have known it; I merely did not wish to gaze upon it; speak of it; imagine it.”

“Is it truly so unsettling?” he asked with sincere curiosity.

“I wanted to kill your father, and now…” I waved vaguely at our recent weeks.

“Oui,” he sighed. “But yours is…” He stopped, frowning in thought.

“Mine is simply a different animal, and we should not compare the two. Yet… I suppose in my heart of hearts I have ever harbored hopes as you did. That one day I would be embraced.” I gave a rueful smile.

“Killing him will end any hope of reconciliation.”

He smiled at my humor, but his words were serious. “And must be carefully done. You spoke of as much with my father. He cannot shelter us, if it were to become known that we did such a thing.”

I did not miss his inclusion of himself in my eventual act of patricide.

I did not argue with him. I could not: our lives were one. He could no more avoid the consequences of anything I did than I could hold my right hand accountable but not my left.

Instead, I recalled what had been said to his father. I concluded that, when we first learned of my father’s plotting, in my pain at the horror that had befallen us and the battles we must face, I had known I would kill my sire. It was simply a matter of when and how. And yet, despite my knowing, I had harbored a feeble hope of reconciliation. I remembered how bitterly I had argued with it.

Now, sitting on this calm beach in the dawn light, killing my damn father seemed a far more serious thing than it had, in the winds of the storm I had been fighting those weeks in Port Royal. I had guessed this to be the outcome long ago. My Horse had possibly even known it when I fled my father’s house at sixteen. It had surely known he plotted against me then, though I had tried to hold the blind trust of a child close in my heart: telling myself over and over that if my father only knew what Shane had done, if I had only possessed the courage to overcome the shame and tell him, he would have put an end to my misery. But when I at last returned to England, he had made that treasured belief a travesty by admitting he knew all along. And then I had let him send me here.