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Authors: PATRICIA POTTER
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its hold on her. I will tend to her myself, the giant had said. A giant with a body covered with the blood of her uncle and countrymen. A man with a fearsome countenance and angry, contemptuous eyes that roamed over her as if she were a sow to be bought and butchered.
She shivered. Surely there was something she could do. She would hide behind the door and strike him with . . . something.
Only there didn’t seem to be something .
The Spaniard had taken everything that could possibly be turned into a weapon. The silver. Glass. The steel mirror. Even the chair. He had gone through her trunk, searching even through personal garments to her great humiliation. He had been thorough.
She was left with a bed nailed down and several pieces of clothing remaining in her trunk. Surprisingly, he had left her small box of jewels. He had seemed not to care about them. At least not now.
She sat on the bed. The cabin had been a refuge during the first days of the voyage when the first mate had eyed her with such open lust. Now it was a prison for the condemned.
Juliana tried to block her memory of the mutineer. His eyes. If they truly revealed the soul, she could not expect mercy. She’d been mesmerized by them days ago, much as she’d heard a person could be by a cobra. Now that she saw them more clearly, nothing dampened that fear. It was difficult to describe them by color. Light brown mixed with gray and a moss green. But the shades were eclipsed by an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.
How had he taken the ship? She didn’t doubt that he was responsible, that he was the leader. All had deferred to him despite the greed and lust in their faces. Even the Spaniard obeyed, and she doubted whether he bent to many men.
What crime had he committed to bring him to this ship?
She shuddered to guess. Her uncle had called them criminals, murderers and infidels. They had proved they were murderers. What else had they been? Or what had her uncle turned them into?
The last thought was truly chilling. She remembered the scarred backs, the thin, wiry bodies. They would have no pity for a Mendoza, not when no one had had any pity for them.
She knew only one thing. She would never see home again.
“Madre,” she whispered. Would her mother ever learn what had happened to her?
She paced, then sat, then paced again. Think. There had to be something she could do.
Drunken laughter came from outside the cabin. The sounds sent new waves of terror through her, and she saw Carmita cower, a whimper coming from her mouth. With all her heart, Juliana wished she had brought someone else with her. Someone older who had already lived long years, someone who had known love.
If only she still had the dagger.
That thought led back to her thrust hours ago. How badly had she wounded the leader?
Would he want his revenge?
Her comb. The pins for her hair.
Could she use those to defend herself? Or would it serve only to infuriate the mutineers more?
Yet it was not in her nature to wait meekly. Her mother had submitted meekly. She would not. She rummaged in her trunk for her box of hair ornaments. She had placed the pins there last night when she had braided her hair for the night. She couldn’t remember the Spaniard taking them, but then she was comforting Carmita part of the time. She found the box and opened it. Jeweled combs lay on top of the pins.
She was puzzled that he had not taken the combs and the jewels, but perhaps that would come next.
It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he’d left the pins, probably thinking them innocent enough. A woman’s vanities. She took them out and laid them on her palm. Ten pins, half of them studded with tiny sapphires.
Long. Not very sharp. But better than nothing.
She looked down at her garments, aware again that she was still in the nightdress and robe she had donned when her uncle had fetched her a few hours ago.
A few hours?
More like a lifetime.
She undid her braid, and her
She shivered. Surely there was something she could do. She would hide behind the door and strike him with . . . something.
Only there didn’t seem to be something .
The Spaniard had taken everything that could possibly be turned into a weapon. The silver. Glass. The steel mirror. Even the chair. He had gone through her trunk, searching even through personal garments to her great humiliation. He had been thorough.
She was left with a bed nailed down and several pieces of clothing remaining in her trunk. Surprisingly, he had left her small box of jewels. He had seemed not to care about them. At least not now.
She sat on the bed. The cabin had been a refuge during the first days of the voyage when the first mate had eyed her with such open lust. Now it was a prison for the condemned.
Juliana tried to block her memory of the mutineer. His eyes. If they truly revealed the soul, she could not expect mercy. She’d been mesmerized by them days ago, much as she’d heard a person could be by a cobra. Now that she saw them more clearly, nothing dampened that fear. It was difficult to describe them by color. Light brown mixed with gray and a moss green. But the shades were eclipsed by an intensity that sent shivers down her spine.
How had he taken the ship? She didn’t doubt that he was responsible, that he was the leader. All had deferred to him despite the greed and lust in their faces. Even the Spaniard obeyed, and she doubted whether he bent to many men.
What crime had he committed to bring him to this ship?
She shuddered to guess. Her uncle had called them criminals, murderers and infidels. They had proved they were murderers. What else had they been? Or what had her uncle turned them into?
The last thought was truly chilling. She remembered the scarred backs, the thin, wiry bodies. They would have no pity for a Mendoza, not when no one had had any pity for them.
She knew only one thing. She would never see home again.
“Madre,” she whispered. Would her mother ever learn what had happened to her?
She paced, then sat, then paced again. Think. There had to be something she could do.
Drunken laughter came from outside the cabin. The sounds sent new waves of terror through her, and she saw Carmita cower, a whimper coming from her mouth. With all her heart, Juliana wished she had brought someone else with her. Someone older who had already lived long years, someone who had known love.
If only she still had the dagger.
That thought led back to her thrust hours ago. How badly had she wounded the leader?
Would he want his revenge?
Her comb. The pins for her hair.
Could she use those to defend herself? Or would it serve only to infuriate the mutineers more?
Yet it was not in her nature to wait meekly. Her mother had submitted meekly. She would not. She rummaged in her trunk for her box of hair ornaments. She had placed the pins there last night when she had braided her hair for the night. She couldn’t remember the Spaniard taking them, but then she was comforting Carmita part of the time. She found the box and opened it. Jeweled combs lay on top of the pins.
She was puzzled that he had not taken the combs and the jewels, but perhaps that would come next.
It didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he’d left the pins, probably thinking them innocent enough. A woman’s vanities. She took them out and laid them on her palm. Ten pins, half of them studded with tiny sapphires.
Long. Not very sharp. But better than nothing.
She looked down at her garments, aware again that she was still in the nightdress and robe she had donned when her uncle had fetched her a few hours ago.
A few hours?
More like a lifetime.
She undid her braid, and her
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