LITMIR.BIZ

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German, as well as Spanish, Italian, and French.

      She began to talk haltingly in English to this man with the kind eyes. While she was talking, she felt something hardening inside her, just like the little boy in a fairy story whose heart had turned to ice. Why, a few days before she would have been terrified at the sight of her own blood sticking to her thighs and staining these fine sheets. But last night had taught her something: she had survived the very fate she had been running away from, and she had learned to hate—both at the same time, it seemed.

      Donald McGuire made clicking noises with his tongue and shook his head. Yes, he at least was sympathetic. He sounded almost like a father as he turned his head away after pointing to a door which disclosed a luxurious bathroom, the first that Marisa had ever seen.

      “It’s a heathenish invention,” he warned in a grumbling voice. “Sunken tub made out of marble—just like the old Romans used to have, the captain says. But there. Ye’ll want to soak your poor bruised body in hot water, and there’s plenty of that, at least. Warmed by the sun in a cistern on the roof so they tell me. And while you’re in there, I’ll see what I can do about finding you some garments to cover yourself with. Don’t you worry now, little girl. You won’t be molested again—I’ll see to that meself.”

      Once the door had closed behind him, Marisa cast aside the sheet with which she had covered herself and gazed curiously about her, managing, for a few moments at least, to forget her unpleasant predicament. She was in a blue-tiled, Moorish-style room, which was lit from above by a skylight set in the roof. Varying shades of tile, ranging from deep blue to turquoise, gave the impression that she was underwater. Steps led down into the sunken bath that Donald had talked of, and there was the golden pump-handle he had described, which would bring heated water pouring into the tub. All the appointments were made of gold, and in shelves set into the wall there were crystal bottles, stoppered with gold, which held an assortment of oils and perfumes. A wet towel, flung carelessly to one side gave mute evidence that someone else had used this chamber a short time before. Had it been Donald’s mysterious captain—the same man who had captured her last night and had, just as heartlessly, deprived her of her virtue this morning?

      She remembered his irritable, brutal words before he had left. Her face flushed, and her whole body became hot with humiliation and anger. How lightly he took what he had done! He had actually blamed her for everything—and now he was only anxious to be rid of her.

      Marisa became conscious for the first time of the gold-streaked mirrors that reflected her body from all angles. Averting her eyes, she began frantically to pump the gold lever and watched the streaming water gushing into the bath. As it filled, she wondered with a kind of detachment whether she would have the courage to drown herself. That was what she should do—she did not want to go back to the gypsies, to face Blanca’s knowing, malicious grin or Mario’s jealous rage. And now she could not possibly go back to the convent. No, she was cut off from everything and everyone familiar, and all because of her own foolishness.

      Steam filled the room, clouding the mirrors, and with a sigh Marisa let herself sink into the water. Almost immediately, her tense muscles began to relax, freeing her mind; opening it to all kinds of thoughts that began to weave in and out of her consciousness. She was her practical father’s daughter, and her sensuous mother’s child. What was there left to lose that she had not lost already?

      But Marisa didn’t drown herself, and three days later she had her first view of the ancient port of Cadiz.

      Whitewashed houses and old fortresses, meant to keep off pirate attacks, leaned towards the sea. A sharp breeze had come up, and the ships lying anchored in the great harbor seemed to dance in a stately fashion over the heaving swell of the waves.

      A tiny cockleshell of a boat took them to a long, sleek-hulled schooner that lay close to the harbor entrance.

      “She’s sharp-ended, instead of square,” Donald explained proudly. “Baltimore Clipper type. Takes very little rigging and a small crew, but she’s fast!”

      Looking up curiously, Marisa almost expected to see the vessel flying the skull and crossbones flag of a pirate, but the flag that fluttered from one mast was one she had never seen before—bold red stripes against a white background, and in one corner a blue square, clustered with silver stars. The flag of the young Republic of the United States of America.

      “Captain’s not back on board yet.” There was a relieved note in Donald’s voice as he hustled her up the rope ladder that someone slung over the side. “Now, mind you lie low like I told you; and try to remember you’re a young lad now—I’ll tell the boys you don’t speak nothing but Spanish, so you’ll be spared the questions they’d ask otherwise.”

      He hurried her below to a tiny cabin containing only two bunks and a tiny porthole. He told her, in a harassed tone, to stay there until he sent for her. He was obviously having second thoughts about bringing her aboard, the poor man, and Marisa told herself penitently that she should be ashamed of herself for taking advantage of his kindness to her. She had practically blackmailed him into it, ever since he had mentioned that they would be sailing for France.

      To France! But she had relatives there—she had run away from the convent with the gypsies only because she wanted to get to France. Oh, if she could only go there, she wouldn’t be a trouble to anyone….

      The gypsies had already left Seville, and in any case Donald had had reservations about delivering her back to them. Unlike his captain, he was a man possessed of a conscience. He couldn’t very well abandon her—the “puir lassie” needed protection. And when, in a fit of temper and contrition, Marisa had sheared off her long hair, he had reluctantly given in. Very well then. Since she was small enough and slim enough to pass off as a youth, he’d smuggle her on board the Challenger as the new cabin boy. The short voyage to France would take less than a week, and if during that time she followed orders and kept to herself, perhaps they’d both get away with the deception.

      Now, remembering a pair of steely grey eyes, Marisa shivered, preferring not to think of the consequences if they were discovered. If only she could contrive to stay out of his way! She could pretend to be seasick as Donald had suggested. She suddenly recalled her dream of being made to walk the plank, and she shivered again.

      She heard the sound of raised voices and activity on deck and tried to control the dangerous direction her thoughts were taking. What kind of man was he, the cold-eyed stranger who had taken his brutal pleasure of her unwilling body and then promptly wanted to be rid of her?

      His name was Dominic Challenger. What conceit, to name his ship after himself! Or was it the other way around? Donald had been mysterious on that point, although he had talked freely of some of the adventures they’d shared. They had been common sailors on an English man-of-war at one time, and had deserted, sailing off with a French ship that had been taken as a prize. No doubt the English themselves would have called it mutiny! But now “the captain” as Donald called him, commanded an American privateer, a fast schooner with rakish masts, meant for preying on other vessels. A pirate ship, no matter what kind of flag she flew and in spite of the fact that this same ship had brought the new American ambassador to Spain.

      “Ah, something’s up, but it’s not my place to ask,” Donald had admitted. “We’ve had conferences in Washington—once with the president himself! But now don’t you be repeating anything I’ve told you, mind, for the captain doesn’t take kindly to other folks prying into his affairs.”

      Well! As if she cared for anything except getting safely to France and finding her aunt again, or maybe her godmother. France was different now under the consulate, and she’d learned that they’d just signed a peace treaty with England—the Treaty of Amiens. Paris must be as gay again as it had been before the revolution. Gay enough for her to lose herself—or find herself—if this Captain Challenger didn’t find her out first.

      The thought that he might discover her made Marisa remember her instructions, and with a hurried glance around the tiny cabin, she heaved herself onto one of the narrow, uncomfortable bunks, and pulled a dirty brown blanket over herself. Her head felt light, without the heavy, familiar weight of her hair.

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