Captive Secrets (2 page)

 

Furana van der Rhys fingered the costly material of her ball gown, a gown of her mother's choosing, with deep sadness. She would wear it this once, and then it would be packed away with all her other worldly possessions. The sadness in her indigo eyes deepened as she gazed around her bedroom. For many years she'd slept in this room, cried in this room, fought and played with her brothers in this same room . . . and always at the end of the day she prayed.

For days now she'd kept herself busy packing up her things in huge brass-bound trunks that would be carried to the attic when she left this house, this room, for the last time. There was very little left now to prove she'd inhabited it all these years, save her comb and brush and the jewelry she would wear for her birthday ball. When the clock struck midnight she'd be twenty-one years old. Parents and old friends would toast her and say good-bye. Only then would she smile.

At noon the next day she would leave for the convent, where she would lead a cloistered life until her death. It was the only thing she'd ever wanted. For years her parents had denied her entrance into the convent, saying she was too young and didn't know her mind. Finally they'd agreed that she could follow her vocation when she was twenty-one and of age. Just a few more hours. . . .

Fury, as her parents called her, walked away from the elaborate ball gown to stare out at the bright sunshine she loved. She'd been so happy here, growing up with teasing, boisterous brothers, climbing trees, sliding down trellises, and chasing after her siblings as they played game after game.

Doubts assailed her, and immediately she started to finger her rosary. She was doing the right thing, the right thing for her. Only once had she questioned her vocation—when her four brothers were lost at sea aboard the
Rana.
After their deaths, she was all that was left to her parents; only she could provide grandchildren to carry on the ancient lineage. But the thought of herself with a man—and a child of that union—brought a rush of color to her cheeks. A man, a strange man who would covet her . . . want to make love to her . . . Her lips moved faster, fingers furiously working the beads in her hand.

A fluffy cloud sailed overhead and dimmed the sun for a moment. Fury blinked to ward off tears. Of course she would miss the sun and the bright blue sky. She would miss a lot of things, at first. But she would adapt to the cloistered life, learn to sleep on a straw pallet, adjust to the perpetual gloom of the convent. The vow of silence would be hardest to accept, but that was years away, not until her novitiate was over. She would be ready then.

The rosary at an end, Fury pocketed the beads. If she hurried, she could say another in the chapel before lunch, this one for her parents. It was going to be so hard for them when their only remaining child stepped aboard the ship that would take her back to Java. Will I have the strength to leave, Fury wondered, to say good-bye to those I love with all my heart? She had to trust in God that her leavetaking would be bearable for all of them.

The chapel was small, intimate, built for her mother by her father, who was not of his wife's faith. It had been a labor of love, and any who entered to worship thought it a beautiful place, peaceful and holy. Fury herself had from her early years kept fresh flowers on the small altar—mostly jasmine, her mother's favorite. The rosary found its way to her hand, familiar prayers tumbling from her lips.
“I believe in God the Father . . .”

 

Sirena van der Rhys crept close to the chapel, her emerald eyes full of unshed tears. She knew Fury would be inside, but she could not bring herself to cross the threshold. Her daughter, the most precious jewel in her crown, would soon be lost to her forever.

Sirena swallowed past the lump in her throat. Fury was so beautiful. Long-limbed like herself, and with the same tawny skin, but with her father's indigo eyes and square jaw. She had Sirena's hair, but Fury's was thick and curly, cascading down to the small of her back. As a child she had changed her hairstyle seven times a day, delighting in using all manner of jeweled combs and sparkling hairpins. Once she entered the convent, they'd shave her head and make a pillow of her hair.

Sirena raised her eyes heavenward. “Why?” she whispered. “Why are you doing this to me? You've taken everything from me—my parents, my firstborn, Miguel. Wasn't that enough? Five sons I've given up to you, and now you're taking my only daughter. You're punishing me, aren't you? For all those years I sailed the seas to avenge my sister and uncle. I renounced you as my God, and now you're claiming what is yours. What kind of God are you, that you leave me with nothing? Miracles are for other people, not the likes of the Sea Siren, is that it?”

Sirena's knees buckled and she would have slipped to the floor but for her husband, who had come up silently behind her and now caught her in his arms. “I have no God anymore, Regan,” Sirena whispered to him. “He has forsaken me. I will never say another prayer. Never!” she cried against his shoulder as he carried her away from the chapel entrance to their bedroom at the far end of the casa.

Regan felt his throat constrict as he gently lowered his wife to the bed. Memories of Fury, their beloved little girl, washed over him in wave after wave of anguish. He remembered her birth—during the eye of the worst storm ever to attack Java. It had been a difficult labor, but he had seen Sirena through it. The child had squalled furiously at the first smack to her bottom. Regan recalled his words from that long-ago time: “This one is a fury, Sirena!” he'd said proudly as the storm descended on Java. When they christened the tiny bundle a month later, it was he who said she was to be called Furana. “So you'll never forget the
Rana,”
he'd murmured to his wife. Now he struggled in his mind for the right words to tell her that things would be all right. But he knew they wouldn't be. He knew this beautiful woman so well, knew her better than he knew himself. The moment Fury left their lives, Sirena would climb into the same shell she'd closed about herself when their other children died. She would be lost to him. And when that happened, his own will to live would shrivel and die.

Sirena met her husband's anxious gaze with shimmering, tear-filled eyes. She knew him so well, knew exactly what he was thinking, and she wanted so much to say the words he needed to hear. She loved this man with every breath in her body. He was so handsome, with his fair hair and bronze skin. Her Dutchman. They'd gone to hell and back and survived, but this . . . At last she shook her head and smiled at him.

“I'm all right now, darling,” she said, brushing away her tears. “And I promise that I won't put you through any more misery. In the past my grief consumed me, but I won't let it happen again. When we sail for the Americas tomorrow at sundown, this life will be behind us. You have my word. Come, now we must get ready for dinner. Fury will be waiting for us.”

Regan was almost dizzy with relief at his wife's words. And when Sirena reached up and kissed him full on the lips—a long, lingering kiss—his pain melted away, and he forgot everything but the love he bore for this, the most beautiful woman in the world.

 

While the house buzzed and seethed with preparations for her birthday ball, Fury perched on the wide windowsill of the secluded breakfast nook at the back of the house. She loved this sunny spot and her feathered friends waiting outside the window. Fury's eyes scanned the birds, looking for Gaspar, the wide-winged goshawk she'd found as a wounded nestling and raised with care. Gaspar was always the last to arrive, and he did so with silent fanfare, his wings flapping with authority. The smaller birds, Gaspar's offspring, took wing and circled overhead until his perch was steady. Fury giggled as they flew down to take positions to the left and right of their impressive sire. She was reminded of a row of soldiers awaiting orders, she the general in command. She clapped her hands and watched in amusement as twenty pairs of eyes turned to watch her expectantly.

“Ladies first.” She smiled as she held out a handful of meat scraps flavored with congealed bacon fat. One by one the birds ate their fill, pecking daintily from the palm of her hand. When they finished she said, “Shoo,” and as one they flew to separate perches in the trees.

Gaspar waited patiently for the words that would signal it was his turn. And as always, it was her scarred arm, thonged with leather, that he perched on—the right one, scored deeply in several places from a long-ago battle to save him from the talons of a huge marauding kite. “For you, my darling,” Fury crooned. “Eat like a gentleman.” And he did, allowing her at the same time to tweak his long beak with her soft touch.

“I'm going to miss you, Gaspar, and all the others, too, but I have to go,” Fury murmured. “I'll never forget you.” Gaspar cocked his dark head and stared at her with his shiny eyes. “I know you understand everything I say. From the day I saved you, we . . . it must be like that special feeling a mother has when her baby recovers from a sickness after she nurses it through the night. You'll always belong to me, Gaspar. And you'll be well taken care of when I've gone, that's a promise. Now it's time for you to get out of this hot sun. Go, and later I'll have a special treat for your little ones. Take this to Pilar for now,” she said, holding out two small chunks of bacon fat. Gaspar took both pieces in his talons and flew high into the trees, where Pilar sat with her fresh crop of nestlings. Fury had christened the two tiny birds the moment they'd emerged from their protective shells: Sato and Lago. She had no way of knowing from the vantage point at her bedroom window if the birds were male or female. And she'd never see the little ones take wing for the first time. A single tear dropped to her hand. She would miss them terribly. Another tear fell on her hand as two pairs of dark eyes watched from the branches overhead. Wings flapped and leaves rustled as the young woman wiped away her tears with a lace-edged handkerchief.

“Fury,” Sirena called from beyond the closed bedroom door, “is it safe to come in?”

Fury smiled and opened the door to her mother. “Yes, they're gone, Mother, dinner is over. I think Gaspar knows I'm leaving. Pilar, too. It makes me very sad.”

It was on the tip of Sirena's tongue to beg her daughter one more time to change her mind, but she resisted the impulse. Fury loved Gaspar and Pilar as much as she loved her family—in a way, they were
part
of her family—but she was willing to leave them behind. “The cook will take good care of them, darling.”

“I know, Mother, it's just that Gaspar is like a child to me. I will worry about him and Pilar, I can't help it.” She shook her head and sighed. “I'm not very hungry. Would you mind if I walked through the garden for a while?”

“Of course not, go along. But I'd like you to take a nap before the ball. Will you do that for me?”

“Of course, Mother, but only if you promise to take one, too.”

Sirena nodded, not trusting her voice, and gave her daughter a kiss as she left the room.

 

“She has so many good-byes,” Regan said hoarsely. “Every bird, every animal in the garden, will get a pat and a few words of loving remembrance. My God, Sirena, what did we do wrong to make our daughter want to leave us like this?”

Sirena toyed with the food on her plate and tried to speak past the lump in her throat. “Is it possible we loved her too much? . . . Oh, Regan, we can't talk about this again, it's killing me.” Sirena's eyes flew to the wall above the sideboard in the dining room. Crossed rapiers, hers and Regan's, gleamed in the filtered sunlight. “He's punishing me, Regan, you, too. I know you don't believe in Fury's God, but this time you must believe me. We're being punished.”

Regan's clenched fist pounded the table, causing china and silver to dance in front of their eyes. “I refuse to believe that! I won't believe some . . . spirit controls our lives, our daughter's life. I never understood all those holy words you say over wooden beads. It's demented. If there is a God, why did he allow your sister to be raped and killed? And our sons. What kind of God would allow our flesh and blood to be lost at sea? Why did he allow you to suffer so, and why is he taking Fury from us? How many times you called me a heathen, Sirena, because I don't believe. Twice now you have renounced this God of yours. Is it going to help matters? Is Fury going to stay with us? The answer is no.”

Sirena lifted her head, her green eyes sparkling dangerously. How many times they'd had this same conversation, and always it ended in anger, with each of them going for their rapiers and threatening the other with death. “Damn you, Regan, not today! I refuse to fence with you.”

“And I have no time to fence with the winner,” came a soft voice from the dining room threshold.

Regan and Sirena whirled about, surprised. Then Sirena laughed, the tense moment between her husband and herself broken . . . which had been Fury's intention. Always before when husband and wife worked out their hostilities with the rapier, it was the daughter who fenced with the winner. Every bit as artful as Sirena, she also had the stamina and hard-driving determination of Regan. She'd lost only one match, and that had been several years before. Now she was better than ever with a rapier. The cutlass was another story altogether. Her father had worked with her for hours at a time, strengthening her weakened right arm until even he had admitted they were evenly matched.

Fencing was an art, a sport, and Fury excelled at it just as she did at everything. She knew she brought tears to her mother's eyes when she plucked the strings of her guitar and again when her nimble fingers slid over the spinet that sat in the drawing room. Her voice was trained, thanks to her mother, and she often sang for guests.