"My husband did not want to stay. He was not successful here. He wanted to go to Manila; his uncle had gone there two years
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ago. So we sailed the Pacific. Within six months he died. Of a fever."
He regarded her steadily. "And now you are going home."
"Yes," she said, low. "With my daughter."
"And Tina," he said. "You know, señora, you could sell Tina for a deal of gold, in Spain."
Her face grew stormy. "I never shall," she said determinedly. "Captain, what do you think I am?"
He laughed, throwing his head back.
"I love Tina," she said.
"Transfer it to me," he suggested, his blue eyes alight.
"You hardly deserve it," she said. "Tina does."
"I would not want the same kind of love, though." He hauled a big fish into the boat.
"Oh, that's a huge one!" Catherine exclaimed.
He thrust his fingers into its gills and held it up for her to see.
"A nice one," he said proudly, dropping it into the basket. He washed the blood from his hands in the water. The lines and hooks were under his feet.
Catherine said quickly, "You have been very successful with the camp."
He leaned forward, looking at her, resting his chin on his hands.
"Jesu, señora," he said, "you are a wench to love. Why do you put me off?"
"Fish," she said.
"That's a splendid answer. You're paying no more attention to your line than I am." He reached forward, and took the line from her fingers, hauling it in the boat quickly. In a tangled heap, he tossed it under the thwart. She sat stiffly, facing him.
"I want to say something to you," he said. "Listen."
"I want to say something to you! And if you were polite, you would listen."
"I am," he said. "Speak out."
"I worry over David," she said. "He—"
"Is that what you had to say?"
"Is it not enough?" She was breathing quickly.
"No," he said.
She struck her hand on the boat's side, angrily.
"Then what do you wish to say?" she asked, her chin set. "I'm ready!"
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"I've changed my mind," he said, roughly. He got to his feet and sat down beside her. His arms reached for her, deliberately.
She tried to move. She twisted her head away.
"No!" she said.
He hardly heard her, only the sound of her voice. He pushed the blown curls back from her ear; he looked down at her profile, tightened his arms around her and began to kiss her ear, her throat, and the curve of her cheek; as she tried to turn her head away from him, he followed the movement with his lips, and then, as if he tired of that, he put his hand on the back of her head and found her mouth with his, pulling her across the seat, his heavy shoulders pinning her back.
Her hands were crushed up against his chest. He felt her try to move her body, and he shifted his weight until she was lying back against him, imprisoned easily. Holding her, he took his mouth away for a second, then brushed it across hers, drawing back, and when he bent to kiss her again, the first sound of gunfire echoed out over the bay.
Even then he did not release her instantly. For a long second his mouth drew from hers a yielding sweetness he knew he would get; then, abruptly, he let her go. He sat up, his hands still on her; at last he dropped them.
He moved to the anchor rope and began to haul it in, hand over hand, evenly. By the time he had heaved it aboard, Catherine had hoisted the sail, and the longboat leaned precariously as the wind caught the unfurled canvas. But she brought the boat around and he took the tiller from her hand.
"Thank you," he said.
She was silent. She felt his arm against her side, as they sat in the stern sheets together.
"No more shots," he said, after another minute. He turned his head to look at her.
"No," she said, remembering. And then she moved to the opposite thwart, sitting down facing him.
The wind blew her hair. Her blouse had been pulled awry; she straightened it, under his gaze, tucking it into the wide band of her skirt.
"You have very little respect for me," she said equably. "I don't like that."
"Nonsense," he said.
"Not nonsense," she said, and she folded her hands in her lap
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and her lids shadowed her eyes. He could not see the clear green color of them.
He said, "Why should you pretend?"
She didn't raise her eyes. "I try to be truthful," she said, slowly.
The wind bellied the sail. "I do not lie," he said.
"I know you do not."
"Why did you come with me today?"
She raised her eyes. The truth could not be told. "Because I wished to sail with you, and I thought—"
He was looking toward the bay. They were near enough to see a boat pulling from the Desire, toward the river, toward them.
"You thought what?" he asked.
The longboat sailing before the wind was fast. Already he could discern Havers' figure.
"I cannot talk to you now," he said impatiently. "I shall see you this evening."
"No," Catherine said. "I don't want to see you tonight."
The quiet answer made him glance at her.
"Do not bother to come," she said.
His own anger rose. "You refuse to see me?"
"I do," she said.
They had come out into the bay. Cavendish could see men on the deck of the Content; the boat with Havers' figure standing in the stern, was very near.
"You refuse to see me?" he asked again.
"I do," she said. "I can sail the boat to the beach. You may leave me."
He looked at her face; her hair was blown by the wind. "I cannot do that," he said, thinking of the stretch of water between them and the beach.
Havers called out, and Cavendish brought the longboat up alongside; hands reached over to steady the two boats; and Cavendish saw Tyler.
"Take Señora Catherine back to the beach," he said, and stepped into the other boat. She did not say good-bye to him; in a second her bright head would be lost to his view unless he turned to look—and he could not do that. He stared straight ahead toward the Content.
Chapter XII
David had arrived ashore at two o'clock, he knew lola was waiting for him, but he spied Brule and de Ersola talking together and watching the progress of the bark. He walked over to the two men.
"She's coming along," he said, over the noise of hammering.
"She certainly is," said Brule.
David said, "In fact, she is almost finished. God grant she'll be sturdy." He paused. "She'll need to be," he added. He watched de Ersola's expression.
But de Ersola's expression did not change. "Is your brother well?" de Ersola asked, politely.
"I have not seen him this day," David replied, "except to tell him good morning. Excuse me, sirs."
He met Lola at the edge of the tents.
He started right off down the beach with such long strides that she scampered along at his side, looking up at him to see his face. Presently she reached over and took his hand.
"You walk so fast," she murmured.
"I forgot," he said, slowing his stride.
"You were in camp last night," she said, clinging tightly to his hand.
"I know it, little one. How did you know it?"
"I was watching," she said. "I heard what you said."
"What?" He frowned.
Lola was silent.
He stopped walking and faced her. "What did you do? Listen outside the tent—Señora Catherine's tent?"
"Are you angry?" Lola asked.
"I am," he said.
"I wanted to hear what you said," Lola confessed.
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"You should not spy on me, though," he said, firmly, as to a child. "I mislike it very much."
"Oh," said Lola. "But I was not spying. I just wanted to hear your voice, and how you talk to Catherine."