Relief flowed out Capricho’s lips in a sigh. “Bueno. The sooner we reach Havana, the sooner we set sail for the bosom of your Angela and Mother Spain. Gather the officers and convey my orders.”
Salvador emptied his chalice with a gulp. He slid his chair back, rose, gave a short bow. “Gracias for the fine meal and for sharing your wine,” he said.
Capricho remained seated and nodded. “De nada.”
“I will see to the men.” Salvador turned and strode toward the door.
“Oh, Salvador?”
The broad shouldered Spaniard turned, eyes capturing the lamplight’s flame. “Que más?”
“We reach Jamaica by morning, God willing.” Capricho spoke his standard Caribbean command. “Tell Juan Carlos to keep her in the blue. There are hungry shoals and reefs out there, with teeth as sharp as daggers. See to it they don’t feed on our hull.”
Salvador winked, the crow’s feet deepening at the edge of his eye. “We stay out of the green! I’ll send Emilio up the foremast at dawn—his young eyes are the keenest. Buenas noches.”
“Hasta mañana.”
As the door latched shut, Capricho closed his eyes, exhaled a deep breath, and squeezed the bridge of his nose. His emotions rose up like a ship caught in high seas, sweet churning with the bitter, and he fought to batten down the hatches. Tears welled. A few escaped, coursing down his cheeks, falling to his waistcoat, spattering upon the gold-filigreed buttons studded with conch pearls. Blast that infernal Salvador. Why couldn’t he just give up and let him be?
Capricho turned his right hand, bared the palm to lamplight. A pale scar was there, an old one, cut across his lifeline. He stared at it for a moment, then turned down the lamp and cradled his forehead in the palm.
As the ship moaned in the roll of a large swell, memories spilled from his deepest holds. He saw the hazy outlines of a summer morn, tender sunlight gracing the emerald banks of a meandering river. The swirling arms of a willow brushed against Capricho’s back, their secret willow, and he remembered the quivering passion of youth, how her touch as she rested beside him stirred his fire.
Diedre of Clan McLochlan. He could still feel the warm curve of her hip, the pleasant pressure of her head cradled soft to his shoulder. He could see the sapphire river as it gurgled past in timeless melody, sunlight skipping the waves in bright sparkles. He smelled her lavender fragrance, smiled as the long tresses of her copper strands lifted in gossamer wisps across his face. Her feminine warmth was the charm of a cottage hearth, her breath the pure whisper of the sea.
The candlelight flickered. Capricho’s lips quivered and soft words slipped forth, fragments of a poem written on his darkest night.
Capricho heaved a sigh. “Weep no more for the willow.”
With an angered swipe of his hand, he raked back the hair that had fallen over his eyes. “I need air.”
He rose, unfastened his sword belt, rested rapier and dagger upon the table. He shrugged out of his waistcoat, threw it over the chair, then stepped up a riser and slipped through the door onto the stern gallery.
The ocean’s cool breeze skipped across the damp back of his shirt, made him shudder. He stood at the rail, his mane of copper flowing in the wind as he caressed the polished teak with his palms, still warm from the day’s sun.
He stared over the expanse, dark waters dappled in silver by the rising moon’s brushstrokes. The ship groaned as swells flowed along it and lapped its barnacle-encrusted sides. Capricho exhaled the stale air of the cabin, replaced it with the sweet breath of the sea. He stood motionless, the ocean his hourglass, the waves its falling sands.
“You are my mistress,” he whispered to the sea.
With a gentle bow, he returned to the cabin.
His berth was in a corner; dark shadows beneath the bunk tugged at him like the force that turned the needle on a compass. He tried to resist, but desire pulled. He dragged a chest from under the berth, worked a key, popped the lid. The crisp cedar-scent rushed around him as he fished through the contents and pulled out a scarlet scarf spun from rarest silk. Lifting it to his nose, Capricho inhaled deeply, and, in the grip of his need, believed he could still smell pressed lavender oil resting within its folds.
He carried the scarf to the table, sat in his chair, wove the fabric through his fingers. He tugged it through them ever so slowly, remembering how good it felt whenever Diedre had coyly done it to him.
Pain seared him again. He grabbed the pitcher, filled his chalice to the brim, blew out the lamp.
It was a long wait for sunrise.
Daybreak. The sea boiled. The ship bucked her head like a mare in heat, shaking a mane of white froth over the bow.
Capricho rushed up the sterncastle ladder, stood upon the high quarterdeck, spied the oncoming storm. Salvador hunched over the hood of the helm, giving orders to the helmsman who worked the whipstaff that steered the ship. The purple mountains of Jamaica reared starboard, but as Capricho faced fore, his stomach lurched. Bruised clouds and funnels burgeoned ahead, thrashing the heights like angry sea serpents.
“Mother of God,” Capricho shouted. He turned back to Salvador. “The squall comes for us!”
Salvador’s look was dark. “We have been heading straight for her gullet all night! What is your call?”
A blast cuffed Capricho. His heart hammered. Decisions made in the splits of seconds would determine whether men lived or died.
“Sound the bell. All hands! We bring her about. Douse the topsails, reef the rest. Tell helm to set course for the leeward side of the island.”
Rain pelted the deck as rigging screeled. Capricho stood at the rail, looked down at his men.
“Ready to come about!”
As the bell rang and orders barked, decks and rigging swarmed with grim men. Tackle squealed as they reined in the bucking ship, changing the angle of spars and rudder.
They came about. Slack sails filled in a thunderous clap; the hull heeled to the wind. The galleon groaned, lumbered forward. Capricho scanned sails from bow to stern, gauged trim against gusts.
“Too much sail!” he shouted to the sail master. “Reef the main! Ándale!”
Cold rain strafed the deck. Capricho looked back. Congealing thunderheads bounded toward the galleon. He blinked. Blinked again.
Jaguars?
The clouds had boiled into shapes of mottled leonine creatures, their eyes spheres of ball lightning. As black maws opened, snarls of thunder struck the ship.
Capricho’s mind defaulted to something he understood: barking orders. “Salvador! You call this heading leeward? Tiller hard to starboard! We get around that point, the mountains cut the wind!”
Salvador slammed his fist against the helm’s hutch. “Felipe can’t work the whipstaff! Too rough!”
“Disconnect it! Get two below to crank the tiller tackle. Ándale!”
As Salvador bounded off, Capricho faced amidships, gripped the rail. The sail master stood below by lashed longboats, illuminated in the greenish glow from the sky.