Captive splendors, p.18
Captive Splendors, page 18
A vision was coming to him and he closed his eyes. He saw Wren kneeling on the slippery deck, her arms reaching out . . . to him . . . to help her. Her clothes were ripped and tattered, her breasts bared, one long leg and thigh silken from the slick rain. He was helping her . . . His breathing became ragged and his eyes narrowed to slits as the ache in his loins grew more pronounced. When he felt the exquisite release of pain, he would know the Lord had purged her soul.
Wren flailed out with both fists when Bascom bent down to drag her to her feet. “Take your hands off me. Help me, somebody!” she shrieked to be heard over the crashing waves that beat against the ship. “I’ll kill you, you lecherous bastard!” she screamed as she lashed out with her foot to give Bascom’s stick-thin leg a vicious kick. No one made a move to help her. All of them would merely stand by and allow this crazy person to take her topside in the storm. She screamed her protests and continued her struggles, to no avail.
She was almost comical in her entreaty as she prayed to the real God to help her. “Please, God, don’t forsake me now; deliver me from this madman who is bent on killing me.” Bascom was shouting for his God to purge her soul, that he was doing everything in his power to follow the instructions of his visitation.
Caleb was stunned when he saw the two figures hurl themselves onto the deck. Now, what in the name of holy hell was going on? He tried vainly to see if any of his men were about, but all were secure in their posts and following his previous orders. He couldn’t leave the wheel. All he could do was watch the macabre scene below. His ears rang with Wren’s cries for help, and for the first time in his life he felt powerless. His heart hammered in his chest, not from the storm, but from fear for Wren.
Bascom lost his hold on the screaming girl when a wave leapt the side and crashed down upon them. Wren struck out and grabbed at a water barrel standing next to a heavy tack box. She managed, amid the vicious downpour, to wedge herself between them and at the same time loop the thick ropes around her wrists. She hung on for dear life, the waves and the rain beating against her like a drum.
Bascom was shouting words and prayers to his God, words and prayers which sounded obscene to Wren’s dulled mind.
Lightning raced across the sky like a fleet-footed runner, and Caleb saw a swell coming and groaned. She would drown or be washed over the side by the force of the water. He drew in his breath as the rain lashed against him, beating him, clutching at him, trying to claim him, trying to claim Wren. Caleb wasn’t a religious man, calling on God only when he felt the need, and those times had been few and far between, but he prayed now. Please save her. Surely He would hear that it wasn’t a prayer for himself.
Wren had seen the wave at the same time Caleb had, and she drew in a mighty breath. She had to hold on. She wedged herself tighter between the barrel and the tack box till the rough wood cut into her ribs. It was all she could do. The rest was in His hands. Her eyes were tightly closed, and so she missed Bascom’s departure from the quarterdeck to the stern rail as the elements washed him from her sight.
Caleb watched helplessly from his position at the wheel. He saw Bascom being swept along and saw Wren’s indrawn breath. If she could just hold on long enough and not lose her grip, she might make it. The tightness in his shoulders was the searing pain of a branding iron.
The ship heaved with the force of the swells; the masts groaned with the weight of the saturated rigging. Rhythmically, the Siren rose and fell as she rode the turbulent waves. Caleb guided the vessel from the trough to the crest of each gigantic wave. For moments the Siren would balance dizzily on the crest, then plunge steeply into the next trough as though dropping off the edge of the world.
For hours the storm persisted, each hour an eternity that took his toll on Wren and Caleb. He couldn’t see her, didn’t know if she was alive or dead. She could have been washed overboard. As for that preaching emissary of the Lord, he had to be dead. Nobody that evil—and Caleb had decided he was evil—deserved to live. But Caleb had never lost a man at sea. How would he explain to Sirena and Regan that he had let Wren go overboard? They would never understand, nor would they ever forgive him. Especially Regan, who loved Wren as if she were his own flesh and blood. Regan would pierce him accusingly with those agate eyes of his. Regan would never forgive him.
He experienced a loss that he had never known before. Wren. How well he remembered the feel of her, the warmth of her slim body. Even then he had realized he wanted to know her better, the way a man knows a woman. The way Regan knew Sirena.
He felt helpless. He was more tired than he’d ever been in his life. There was no sign of the storm’s abating. How much longer could he take this torture? As long as necessary, an inner voice answered. His shoulders slumped and his head rested on his chest. He couldn’t be beaten, wouldn’t be. Imperceptibly his shoulders straightened, and with every ounce of willpower he possessed, he raised his dark head. His body leaning against the wheel, he could feel the burn marks on his rib cage from the lines holding him, and he knew that when he removed his hands from the wheel, his skin would be torn and bloody. He could bear the physical pain, but he would carry the hurt in his soul for the rest of his life. The thought of Wren’s body being hurled about beneath the relentless tides was more than he could bear. A single, lone tear formed in his eye and clung to the lash. Only once before could he ever remember a tear coming to his eye, and that had been when Sirena had told him Regan was his father. The tear had clung precariously to his thick lash and somehow, miraculously, found its way back into his eye. No one had even seen that tear; no one had known his gut-searing joy on hearing those words. His great head slumped and he felt the tear drop from his lash. He had shed his first tear. And he had shed it for a woman. No one would ever know that except him. In that moment he understood he would have given his life if Wren could have been saved. He couldn’t love her, could he? He barely knew her, but in some strange way he had always been drawn to her. Ever since the first time he had seen her.
Caleb had gone to visit Sirena and had been in the library of her London town house when Frau Holtz had entered with an enchanting little girl at her side, dressed all in pink. The first time he had ever heard her name, Sirena had said it. “Come here, Wren. There’s someone I want you to meet. He comes from the Spice Islands and his name is Caleb. He is Mynheer van der Rhys’ son.”
Wren had been staring at him, oblivious of the new frock she wanted to model for Sirena. She had moved toward him slowly and asked softly, in her little girl’s voice, “Do you know the Sea Siren?” Her brown-gold eyes had been lit from within like tapering candle flames.
Caleb had laughed, his strong, white teeth catching the light. “I know the story very well. She was a beautiful lady.” He had taken a step closer and dropped to his knee. “I think she was almost as beautiful as you are,” he had said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips. His smiling eyes had sobered as he had gazed at her.
When she had spoken, it had been quietly, and her words had startled both Frau Holtz and Sirena. “I hope the man the Sea Siren loved looked like you.”
Caleb had temporarily torn his gaze away from Wren and glanced at Sirena. After a brief period he had whispered, “I hope he looked like me. I would be proud to have someone like the Sea Siren love me.”
Wren had smiled, a knowing smile, adult beyond her years. “When I grow up, I’m going to be like the Sea Siren. Then I can . . .” She had hesitated. “Will you wait for me to grow up?”
Wait for me . . . wait for me . . . The words echoed in his head, words said by a little girl, in a little girl’s voice; yet, as they gathered in intensity, they became the words of a young woman with a woman’s voice, and they resounded over and over in his head. Wait for me . . . wait for me . . . And the words became the song of the sirens who beckoned to sailors at sea.
The storm persisted in its outrageous assault on the Sea Siren for another twelve hours. Caleb had long since slumped against the wheel, believing he was half dead. Yet his numb arms continued to steer the ship to a safe course through the swells and stinging spray.
An hour before dawn the storm wore itself out and the waters calmed to a mere boil. Peter, the first mate, and Harkin, the second mate, untied Caleb from the shoulder-high wheel and carried him to his cabin. Farrington was called in. He looked at Caleb with awe and pity and immediately set to work. No matter what he had ever said or done, the old man loved Caleb like a son. He performed healing ministrations to the best of his ability and sat back to wait.
When Harkin next appeared in the captain’s quarters, he was carrying Wren’s limp body. Farrington raised his gray brows in astonishment. The second mate gently placed Wren on the bunk opposite Caleb and spoke in a somber tone. “I don’t know if she’s even alive. I found her half in and half out of the tack box. Her shoulder’s been wrenched by the rigging and has to be snapped back in. I’ve seen it done, but I could never be the one to make her suffer that pain. And while she’s lying here more dead than alive, that preacher’s out on deck, hale and hearty, praying for our souls. He’s saying we’re all going to Hell and it’s up to him to save us from the devil’s clutches. I want permission from someone, now that the captain is laid up, to throw him overboard.”
Farrington waved Harkin away, his gaze intent on Wren. He peered down at her white face and noticed that the bodice of her gown was torn, revealing deep red welts peppering her sides. Her ribs were bruised at best, if not broken. Harkin was right. She was more dead than alive, her breathing ragged and raspy. Yet if her shoulder was to be snapped to, no better time to do it than when she didn’t know what was happening to her.
“Harkin, come over here and help me with her. And if you’re not man enough to make a good job of it, send me someone who is. I’ll hold her neck and shoulder, you do what must be done with her arm. And make a good job of it, man, or it’s the captain you’ll be answering to.” Aubrey’s voice was gruff and revealed little of the pity he was feeling for Wren. His knowledge of medicine was limited, and he relied on common-sense remedies. Warm blankets, hot tea, bindings for the wounds and tender, loving care.
Farrington was unwavering in his care of the young couple as he tended and mended their battered bodies as best he could. Both spoke in delirium from time to time. Wren would cry out pitifully, “Caleb, help me!” And the man in the next bunk seemed to answer her. “Wren! I’ll wait for you . . . Wren!” his cries tortured and heart-rending.
Though exhausted from bathing their fevers and changing the dressings on their wounds, Farrington refused the help of the crew and spurned the suggestion that one of the women from below assist him in his care of Caleb and Wren. He would allow no one to touch them save himself, and he spent the long hours stretched out on the floor between their bunks.
By the end of the third day Caleb was lucid but in severe pain. Aubrey grew fearful. “Cal, it is I, Aubrey. You must lie still. You’ve been ill for days with a raging fever. I’m almost sure your ribs are broken, but I couldn’t chance taping you up for fear I would do something wrong and pierce a lung. I’ll do it now, but you must remain still. Cal, do you understand me? Just nod your head.” Caleb nodded weakly. Sensing his need to talk, Aubrey warned him not to make the effort till he was bandaged and resting comfortably. Again Caleb nodded.
He was as weak as a newborn infant and barely had the strength to lift his head. Aubrey had to balance his shoulder and neck as he wrapped strips of cloth around his rib cage. The effort left Caleb exhausted, and he fell into his first natural sleep. The old dandy sighed. Caleb would be hale and hearty in good time. It was the girl who worried him. By now she should have come around. There were periods when she was so still, so pale, locked in the embrace of a deep, unnatural sleep, and other times when she would cry out for Caleb to help her.
When Caleb awoke the following day, the first thing he heard was Wren’s voice calling to him. For a moment he was back in the thick of the storm, lashed to the wheel, hearing her cries for help. His tortured eyes sought out Farrington’s. The old gambler pointed a finger at the other bunk, and Caleb’s eyes widened in shock. The enormity of what he was seeing hit him full force. She was alive—and calling for him! He struggled weakly to get up, and the pain that shot through him brought him back down on the hard bedding. “Tell me, Aubrey, how bad is she?” he rasped faintly.
Farrington shrugged. “I’m no physician, Cal. I think she may be dying. She’s been calling your name, but that’s all she says. Her fever’s been raging, just like yours was, but you met your crisis and conquered it. Her ribs are bruised and her shoulder was dislocated, though not too severely. Harkin and I saw to setting it, but I can’t say we didn’t do her any harm. She’s been developing chills these past few hours, and I’ve covered her with as many blankets as I could lay my hands on. Harkin keeps me supplied with heated bricks from the galley, but nothing seems to help. There isn’t much more I can do. I’m sorry, Caleb.”
“It’s my fault. I never should have let that preacher get his hands on her. There must be something you can do,” he pleaded.
“All we can do is wait,” Farrington said miserably.
“To wait is to see her die,” Caleb moaned. Then he remembered when Sirena’s son Mikel had been ill and had violent chills. She had taken his small form into the bed with her and held him close. Her body warmth had been all the small boy had needed, and the chills had soon ended. His mind refused to remember that little Mikel had died two days later. Wren wouldn’t die! She couldn’t die!
“Bring her here, Aubrey, and place her beside me. Don’t look at me like that, you old fox. My body warmth is all we have. Strip her down. I can’t get her warm if she’s wrapped in those sweat-dampened rags. Be gentle and be careful, Aubrey.”
Ignoring his pain, Caleb slid over close to the wall to make room for Wren. The effort of his movement left him breathless and lightheaded.
Aubrey gently laid the girl beside Caleb and discreetly looked the other way while Caleb enfolded her in his arms. He cradled her next to him and murmured soft words which were indistinguishable to Farrington. The gambler decided it was time to go topside; he wouldn’t watch what wasn’t meant for his eyes. Only men hopelessly in love looked as Caleb had when he had taken the shivering girl in his arms.
“Caleb, help me,” It was the barest whisper, and he almost failed to hear it. He held her closer, careful of her injuries.
“I’m here, Wren, I’m here.”
Throughout the long, endless day Wren cried out for Caleb and he would answer, his mouth pressed against her ear. His strong, sinewy arms enfolded her, and from time to time he kissed her cheek in tenderness.
During the night, as her chills began to abate and her sleep became lighter, her words became clearer as she cried for Caleb. He listened to them, his heart breaking for her as, bit by bit, the episode concerning Malcolm came to light. At first he hadn’t understood when she had whimpered with fear. But as the night wore on and he continued to whisper words of comfort, she told him about Malcolm’s losing her in a card game to the rough and surly seamen. Her eyes squeezed shut as though she were reliving the horror of the rape; she breathed the words over and over. Only the sound of Caleb’s voice seemed to assuage her as he gentled away her tremors. Toward dawn, Wren seemed disposed to answering simple questions, and Caleb knew without a doubt that the horror she had described was much more than a nightmare. It was the horror of truth.
Hatred boiled in his heart when he thought of Malcolm and what perfidy he had enacted upon Wren’s innocence. The desire to kill, crush, destroy, throbbed through his veins. He tried to tell himself he was experiencing the reaction of any brother who has learned that his sister was used and raped. But as Wren settled into a more natural sleep and nestled her body closer to his, drawing strength from the warmth he offered, he realized his pain went much deeper than that of a brother. With very little persuasion, he could love Wren. He could erase the tortures she had undergone in her first physical contact with a man. The inner strength of Wren’s ability to live with that violence filled him with awe and respect. He himself had witnessed the devastation that rape could have on a woman. He had been with Sirena through the worst of her trials, and he was familiar with the courage and resiliency that were necessary to go on with life.
Remembering what had been enacted upon Sirena and imagining what had been done to Wren, Caleb wrapped his arms more protectively about the girl who slept so trustingly in his arms, a haze of moisture in his eyes making a nimbus of the single lantern light flickering in the darkness.
By midafternoon of the following day Wren’s fever had broken. Caleb climbed gingerly from the bunk, careful not to disturb her. She was sleeping her first natural sleep since the storm. He held his bruised sides carefully and motioned Farrington, who had peered in to check on them, to go topside.
After dressing, Caleb stood looking down at Wren, a great lump in his throat threatening to choke off his air as he remembered the things she had told him the night before. Again a surge of protectiveness swept over him, existing simultaneously with the hatred he felt for Malcolm Weatherly. His hand reached out to brush away a stray lock of hair that had fallen over her cheek, but he quickly withdrew it. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel anything other than brotherly toward her. Wren needed time to heal, not to find herself thrown into the midst of another love affair. After what she had suffered, how could she ever learn to trust another man? It had taken Sirena what had seemed a lifetime to overcome the memories of what she had suffered before she could admit her love for Regan and go into his arms with trust and confidence.
Caleb told himself he had no time for waiting games. Wren was his sister, or close to it, he amended. He would find his satisfaction with a woman who would understand his need was just for that. For satisfaction. If Wren wanted someone to talk with, he would be there for her. He couldn’t allow his feelings for her, which were dangerously beyond those of a friend or a brother, to get the better of him.
