He left Tyler at the helm. The course was east northeast. As he came down the companionway aft, one of the men stationed there stopped him at the foot of the ladder.
"Captain," he said, hesitantly.
Cavendish waited.
"Sir, this door." He pointed to it. "It's locked."
Chapter V
The door was heavy gleaming teakwood. "i know i should have noted it before, sir! I thought I'd seen to all these cabins, here, with Master Moon!"
"Where is the Captain's cabin?" Cavendish asked.
"Next, sir. I lighted the lamp for you, sir."
"Thank you," said Cavendish.
The soldier moved away to his post. He shifted his musket and listened. Fifteen feet away, Cavendish lifted his hand and knocked on the teakwood. Two sharp knocks.
There was no answer. He did not knock again. He said, in Spanish, "Open this door, or I shall have to force it."
There was a scuffling sound. He heard the bolt drawn back. But he waited, and finally the door opened. Facing Cavendish stood a slight boy, black-haired, with long almond-shaped eyes. Those eyes were full of apprehension. He didn't speak. He blocked out the rest of the cabin.
"Who are you?" Cavendish asked. "Cosmos," was the answer. The boy hesitated, started to speak, and did not.
Cavendish smiled. "Are you of China?" he asked.
The boy shook his head. "Japon," he said. Again he started to speak; again he was silent, respectfully.
"Step aside, Cosmos," Cavendish said, pushing the door open farther. His eyes searched the cabin briefly. He frowned at the three smaller boys of graduating sizes; he was sure they were Filipino children, brought back to be pages to Spanish nobility. This boy Cosmos—Cavendish had already decided to acquire him for himself, as a personal servant. Cosmos' eyes were still on him, hopefully, questioningly, and Cavendish's gaze flicked past the three Filipino boys, past a little girl and a Filipino woman who guarded her with hostile face turned to the intruder.
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Cosmos could keep silent no longer. His tone was woefully anxious. "Señor," he blurted, "have you seen the Señora?"
Cavendish, puzzled, frowned at him.
Cosmos rushed on. "She is beautiful and she wears green and she was with us! She is gone!"
Cavendish said, "You shall probably see her in the morning. She is, most like, with the other women. Do not lock this door again; there is no danger."
He closed the door behind him. He called the man on guard. His tone was sharp.
"Have you had sight of a woman in a green dress?"
The guard replied instantly. "No, sir!"
"I see," said Cavendish, looking at his face. He turned, walked the few feet to the Captain's cabin, and opened the door.
For the first second he was caught off guard. He had not expected to see anyone, and the woman who stood just inside the door almost succeeded in brushing past him. Then he put out his arm to bar her way.
The door was still open. Against the paneling of the cabin, she leaned back, arching her body away from him; his mailed arm blocked her path.
She did not move. He looked down at her face; her hair was tangled. It was reddish gold, and the eyes that met his were as green as the rumpled satin dress she wore. There was dirt smudged on her cheek.
He said, quietly, "Your name, señorita?"
"Señorita?" she whispered. Her head was tilted back and she shook it. "I am a widow," she said. "Señora de Montoro."
She was rumpled and it suited her. She was beautiful. As Cosmos had said. Cavendish kicked the door shut with a movement of his boot. He didn't move his arm. "How did you come here?" he asked.
"I—was with my child." She spoke as though this could not be quite real. Then she remembered it was real. "Tomas told us to go up on deck, but I did not. I kept the other boys with me." Her gaze was steadily on his tanned face and the blue eyes under the helmet. She spoke more spiritedly. "I did not want the children to see—what they might. I kept them in Tomas' cabin."
He did not take his own eyes off her. "Tomas?" he asked. There was a little edge to his voice. "Who is Tomas?"
"Señor de Ersola," she said.
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Cavendish saw clearly the face of the tall Spaniard. "Señor de Ersola is being held hostage aboard my ship," he said.
Her eyes were as green as the emeralds that were among his richest prizes, loot that lay in his own storeroom aboard the Desire.
"You hold him hostage?"
"I do," said Cavendish.
She was rather tall. She stood six inches below him. "You are the English Captain, then?"
"Cavendish," he said. "I might have said so before, señora."
"You might," she said. She made a little movement, as though toward the door, but he did not move. He still blocked her path.
"A moment," he said.
Her lips were parted slightly; she ran her red tongue over them. "I wanted to see what was happening," she said. "We are under way."
"True," he said, his tone almost bemused. Was she so fair, or was it a year and a half at sea that made her seem so to him? Her face was dirty, her eyes were shadowed, but there was a sweetness about her that he wanted to taste.
"You're Spanish?" he said.
"My mother was Dutch," she said, evenly, as though a great many men had asked her that question before in the same tone of voice.
"Your hair," he said.
She looked as though he were proceeding the way she had expected. She said nothing.
He wanted to touch her. He reached for her hand, letting his fingers slide down her arm. She stood motionless; their hands met, and for a second her fingers curled around his, and then her hand was small and stiff. He drew her over to the table where the lamp burned above. He dropped her hand.
"Were you afraid you were going to die?" he asked.
The hours of battle that had passed were a jumbled panorama. "I don't know," she said.
He poured two cups of wine from the decanter that stood on the table. The cabin was rich in appointment, spacious; it had a large Venetian mirror; the mirror reminded him he had his helmet on. He took it off gratefully, running his hand over his gray-tinged hair. She watched.
"Drink this," he said, holding out the cup.
She took it from him. Her fingers were strong and slim; he:
45
wrists delicate. She raised the cup to her lips; she drank slowly.
"If you had stayed below, there was little danger to you," he said. "Our guns were aimed at your decks. Until we could bring the ship in close.
"Tomas had put us below decks," she said.
He said suddenly, a little jealously, "My name is Tom—"
"He is unhurt?" she interrupted.
"Quite," said Cavendish. "Drink your wine. There's more."
He watched her lift the cup to her lips. She drank it all. She held out the empty cup and once more their hands touched. The tension tightened in the cabin; the soft motion of the ship made the lamp flicker. Cavendish turned to refill the cup.
"I do not want more," she said.
"It will do you good." He straightened up.
"I do not want it!" There was anger in the green eyes, and the sight of it brought the brilliance into his own blue eyes.
"Take it," he insisted, holding out the cup.
She struck it away and it rolled over the floor. The wine splashed. The calm was broken into shattered pieces.
He caught the hand she had used; for a moment she tried to pull away, but that was useless, and she raised her other hand and struck him as hard as she could with her clenched fist.