Майкл Салливан - Deep Magic. Fourth Collection

Human nature was no different. Capricho knew that by the variation of a few degrees, any man’s strength could become his weakness.

Hmm. A different tack might make Salvador come about. “Cousin. When we make Havana, we join the armada to head for Spain, for home .”

“Don’t,” Salvador said.

“Remember the feeling when we spill treasures on the quay before King Philip’s courtiers? Philip jigs for joy when he hears of our arrival.”

“Stop.”

Capricho twisted his mustache. “The clip-clop of hooves as chargers prance those cobbles. The smell of suckling pig roasting in fat vendors’ stalls. And cooing women everywhere, hungry for rugged men of the sea, like your Angela.”

“How I miss home!” Salvador cried. “Stop! You torture me, you beast!”

Capricho smiled wickedly. “Good.” He stood. “One moment. I live for this.”

Turning to the windows, Capricho looked at the ocean beyond, drawing the fresh sea air deep into his lungs. He watched the crest of the sun descend. Almost there, almost there . . . ahhh.

An emerald flash. The last bit of molten orb slipped beneath the ocean. Capricho sighed, returned to his meal.

Salvador stared into his cup as if seeing visions in the reflection. “ Por favor , Capricho, forgive my rant. I just miss Angela. I want to make it home alive.”

“Returning to the bosom of your lady, that I can understand.”

Relief flooded Salvador’s face. He looked up. “Why not take a bride, Capricho? More than one man would feel better knowing you’ve got a lady to return home to.”

Pain lanced Capricho. “I will never love again.”

Salvador cleared his throat, entered dangerous waters. “You have to let her go, Capricho. Her memory suffocates you.”

Capricho carefully set down his fork and drew bead on Salvador. His voice rang like steel, cold, deadly. “Diedre’s memory is all I have.”

Salvador lifted his hands as if to say unarmed. “I am first to say she was the wind in your sails. But she clings to your heart now like an anchor.”

“Enough.”

“No, it’s not enough!” Salvador leaned forward, pleading. “Open that door, Capricho. Let it out. Deal wi—”

Capricho slapped his hand on the table. “Enough!” He took a deep breath. If he lost his temper now, he’d lose the whole objective of this meal. He forced a smile. “Not tonight, por favor . Enough tension for one day.”

Salvador stared Capricho down, finally shrugged, sat back with a grunt. “As you wish.”

Capricho nodded, reached out, hoisted the pitcher. “More wine, cousin?”

“Always.”

He filled Salvador’s glass to the brim, set the pitcher aside. Awkward silence hung in the air; Capricho tugged at the ruffled sleeve protruding under the cuff of his waistcoat. “Well then, it has been decided.”

“What has been decided?”

“We do not turn back to Cartagena. San Mateo and the Espírito Santo were blown off course, and will no doubt make their way to Havana. We will wait for them there, where the convoy gathers. I pray the squall does not double back, but I fear this prayer will fall on deaf ears.” Capricho slapped his left knee. “Bones do not lie.”

Salvador softened a biscuit in his wine, popped it in his mouth, took a long time chewing it. He washed it down with a swig of more wine before looking up. “You’re the captain. Do you wish to meet with the other officers?”

Capricho leaned back, elbow resting on the padded arm of the chair, fingers twisting an end of his mustache as he studied Salvador’s eyes. “Trust me on this one, cousin. We’ve circled back and come round again—we should have spied their masts. We’ve waited too long already. We set course for Havana. Tonight. ”

Salvador rubbed a finger under the broad tip of his nose, the perspiration glistening in the lamplight. He straightened in his chair and nodded. “You’ve steered us true so far. I’m behind you. I’ll see to it the men are as well.”

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.