Chapter Twenty-Six
The hold of the
Santa Teresa
was a cramped, fetid hellhole unlike any Finn had ever seen, and it was a terrific struggle to not give into tears each time she inhaled the stench of unwashed flesh and bodily fluids mucking up the small space. Her wrists ached furiously, the skin worn raw from the tight manacles binding them. The pain was a constant reminder how she would not be in this situation if she had but kept her word to Iñigo Sebastiano.
Her escape from the hillside villa had been perfect. She’d quickly rinsed her boys’ togs after her bath that first afternoon, laying them out to dry beneath the narrow bed. The breeches were still damp, but it didn’t deter her. After dressing in silence, and without the hated bandages, she slipped out onto the terrace and scaled her way to the ground. Without even a peek over one shoulder, she disappeared into the foliage, using the sound of the ocean as her guide.
It was dawn when she reached the harbor and shortly after, her luck soured. A merchant had been willing to buy her only possession—her mother’s gold cross—for the pittance of twenty francs. She was tucking the money into her boot when a shadow fell over her and a meaty fist gripped her arm.
“Well, well, what do we got here?”
The voice was sickeningly familiar and when Finn lifted her eyes, she was afraid she would retch.
Jeremiah Stamper was Eden’s Pass’s overseer, a man who lived to punish the slaves toiling beneath him. Finn’s stomach cramped at once as she stammered, “I…that is…you…”
“Little Fiona? Damn near didn’t recognize you dressed a fine lady.” He sneered, squeezing her arm tighter and ignoring her squeak of pain. “Puttin’ on airs, are ye? Ye always did think right high of yerself.”
“How did you…?”
“The cross, ye stupid wench. I saw ye barterin’ it to the fool fruit merchant. Mist’ Tobias gonna be happy to see ye, wench. He’s been about mad with rage how ye managed to get away. Put ideas into the others’ heads. Eden’s Pass’s lost fifteen slaves since ye lit out.”
Her stomach roiled harder, its contents bubbling up almost to her mouth. “Please… Let—”
Jeremiah slapped her hard across the face, the taste of blood filling her mouth as her teeth sliced open the inside of her cheek. “Hush up, wench! Think ye I’ll
not
take ye back? Mist’ Tobias put a price on ye, wench, and I’m goin’ to collect on it.”
He dragged her down an alley and away from the streets, away from any aid whatsoever.
Four days passed and she was chained in the hold of the
Santa Teresa
with four men. Fortunately, all were chained, for not one of those men was shy about their gratitude at having a female in such close quarters with them. Twice a day, Jeremiah passed through with stale bread and water, and each time, he threatened to unlock the four men and let them take their pleasure of her. Though he had yet to actually make good on his threat, it was enough for her to live in constant terror that he might still do it.
Her terror mingled with her bitter regret at having broken her word to Iñigo. Had she not run, she would still be on St. Philippe. Heartbroken, mayhap, but her heart would have healed in time. Now, she would never again lay eyes upon him. All he would know was she vanished without a trace and, even if he was inclined to come after her, he couldn’t possibly know her fate.
Tears clouded her eyes as she tried to stretch her cramped legs. “How stupid am I?” she whispered, gagging at the rancid odors torturing her nose. “What have I done?”
One of the others leered at her, smacking his lips in her direction and laughing hoarsely as she tried to shift to give him her back. She shuddered as the other three chimed in with lewd suggestions. If Stamper made good on his threat—
“Please,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes shut once more and trying to block out the rough voices floating over her shoulder, “please, give me strength. I am sorry…so very sorry…”
Tears stung her eyes, leaking out beneath her lashes to trickle down her cheeks. It was the lowest she’d ever been, even lower than when she was enslaved at Eden’s Pass. She dreaded her return there, dreaded what it would mean when Stamper paraded her before the others. A lashing was inevitable. The one she’d received seven summers ago would pale in comparison.
Her stomach clenched. There would be no mercy, no halting of the lash if she fainted at the whipping post. There would only be pain upon pain, and days of wishing death would come to ease her from the agony. Her heart lurched along with the ship. Wiping her leaking eyes, she whispered, “I never thought I’d say this, but I miss Iñigo.”
The ache in her stomach was nothing compared to the ache in her heart. She missed Iñigo terribly, acutely felt his absence. She never would have dreamed it possible, but she almost ached for the touch of his hand against her hair, the sound of his laughter, the way he had held her that last night on St. Philippe.
She leaned back against the wall, eyes still closed. Their last night together, almost no words passed between them, when none were needed. Though he might object and shout the opposite, Finn was loved that evening. It was apparent in his caresses, in his kisses, in the way he held her tight in his arms as he drifted off to sleep, murmuring something in Spanish she’d never heard before.
“Pretty wench…”
She winced at the rough voice floating across the stinking hold, lilting and sweet and nauseating at the same time. She didn’t know the man’s name, but he seemed to take great delight in tormenting her far more than the others did. He repeated her name ceaselessly, in the same sickly rasp. If she tried to ignore him, he raised his voice. If she looked over at him, he blew her kisses and made other foul suggestions until she wanted to retch.
“Fiona…”
She shivered at the lilting way he sung her name. “Leave me be.”
“Oh, love, such a fine wench ye are,” he cackled, licking his lips as his eyes fell to her breasts. “I’d be sure to take my pleasure of ye nice and slow.”
Her stomach clenched. “Why can you not simply leave me be?”
“Far too tempting, wench.”
Her manacles rattled and clanked as she shifted even further away, ignoring the burning sting in her ankles as the iron rubbed her already-raw skin. She almost welcomed the pain, as it offered something of a distraction. It was all she had to take her mind off what lay ahead of her.
Day after day, the scenario repeated. If the days were bad, the nights were worse. Rats emerged with the darkness, much to Finn’s horror. She awoke almost hourly to the feel of fur and claws on her flesh. This was followed by nips and bites which made her skin crawl and her ankles bleed. Sleep was impossible, and as the ship drew nearer to Barbados, her spirits sunk even lower.
Several days passed between the time the
Santa Teresa
reached Bridgetown and Stamper arrived to fetch the slaves from the hold. It was a gray, overcast morning and though no sun graced the sky, Finn was blinded as she haltingly shuffled topside as fast as her bound ankles would allow. It was the first light she’d seen in nearly ten days and her eyes watered incessantly as she shuffled across the deck and down the gangplank.
Once they left the ship, the four slaves were herded into an oxcart and rattled their way through the city to the north. Finn tried to ignore her roiling stomach as they left the city behind and clopped along the well-traveled road through the sparse smattering of palms leading east toward St. George Parish.
The air in Bridgetown had been humid and sticky, but the farther inland they traveled, the cooler it became. The delicate scents of orchids and oranges mingled, cloying in their sweetness. A fresh layer of perspiration rose up to coat her skin, making her feel equally sticky and most uncomfortable as her filthy togs stuck to her back and her chest. No matter how she shifted, no matter how she tugged at the offending fabric, nothing eased her discomfort. Her stomach continued to toss, her mouth filling with bile repeatedly until she wished she would simply retch and be done with it.
She raked her fingers through her matted hair, wincing at how filthy it was once again. Closing her eyes, she let her head fall back against the oxcart’s rough wooden plank side, not caring as it bounced off the wood each time they hit the slightest rough patch. She barely noticed it over the unending nausea rumbling through her. All she could think about was the mind-numbing dread at the prospect of returning to Eden’s Pass and what awaited her there. Her nausea only worsened as the scent of boiling sugar—heavy, thick, and sickly sweet—permeated the air.
As the cart creaked through the elegant black, wrought iron gates, her stomach lurched violently. Overhead, the words
Eden
’
s Pass
arced over the open gates, and Finn’s mouth went dry as she stared at the words receding into the distance.
The long dirt drive stretched nearly a mile, broken up with leafy palms and hibiscus bushes thick with blossoms. The low singing of the slaves as they worked the cane fields wafted up from the distance. The work was backbreaking and brutal, and singing was the best way to pass the time. The stench of cooking cane was stronger, though they were still some distance from the boiling houses. It was an odor Finn would always recognize, for it got into the fabric of her clothes, into the fabric of her being. She would never forget that smell and what it meant.
Still, she smiled as she mouthed along with the familiar hymn only barely reaching her ears. It was one she often heard in her own slave days, one whose words came back to her at once. The sounds died away though, as they pulled nearer the main house. Finn’s stomach clenched. Judgment day had come.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Iñigo rolled up the chart he’d been studying. His fist tightened, crushing the parchment as his temper rose sharply. Those flashes of temper happened more often than not these days, since he awoke to find himself alone in his bed.
His first thought had been that Finn snuck back into her room before sunrise, mindful of the household servants. When Flora returned to inform him she received no answer when she went to fetch Finn for breakfast, his first response was disbelief. It quickly became anger when an upending search of the house revealed nothing.
By nightfall, after the surrounding grounds had been thoroughly searched, his temper boiled over. A rare china vase purloined from a Spanish galleon suffered as it smashed into a wall, shattering into a thousand delicate shards.
The next morning, he sent Diego to round up his crew and began readying the
María
to take to the sea once more. It had taken some doing, convincing them to go after an errant cabin boy and finally, Iñigo exploded and the truth came pouring out about who Finn Eden was, and why an errant cabin boy needed finding. He ignored the shocked silence as he stormed below to his cabin. Finn had some explaining to do,
after
he wrung her neck for putting him through such hell.
Now, as he frowned at the thick pewter clouds billowing overhead, he had to admit he was no longer as much angry as he was worried. When Ennis came forth to tell him a fruit vendor had seen Finn, of how the overseer of the Barbadian plantation where she’d been whipped once before, had accosted her, fear unlike any other twisted his gut into knots. He would wring her neck
after
he made damn certain no one else laid a hand upon her.
Iñigo paid a call to the fruit vendor, relieving him of a gold cross with little more than a bit of persuasion. The steel sword tip pressed into the vendor’s throat did much to convince the man to part with the necklace. The gold pieces were the perfect salve for the slight scratch Iñigo left in his neck, and a small price for the vendor’s cooperation.
The thin, delicate chain was now snug about Iñigo's throat—a reminder of the importance of this journey. It also served to fuel his temper and strengthen his resolve to throttle Finn once he laid hands upon her, which could not happen soon enough.
He couldn’t explain his rationale in going after the wayward Finn. It defied logic why he should even care in the first place. Women came and went and it never troubled him ere now. For it to trouble him now made no sense.
“Captain?”
Iñigo turned to see Ennis standing before him. The redhead seemed nervous, quickly casting his gaze toward the deck as soon as Iñigo looked his way. “Aye?”
“I came to see if there is anything else I might do.”
“You’ve done enough, Ennis. I thank you.” Iñigo turned away, gazing back out over the water.
Ennis stood there a moment longer, before saying, “Captain?”
A harsh sigh. “Aye?”
“Are you—”
“I am most certain, Ennis. Believe me, if there is anything I need from you, I’ll not be shy about asking!”
Ennis backed. “Of course, Captain. I beg your pardon.”
Iñigo turned away once more, hearing Ennis’s footfalls die away, replaced by the crash of the sapphire waves rising higher as the storm drew nearer. He almost welcomed the unleashing of nature’s fury, almost welcomed the distraction. Anything to keep his mind off Finn and what she might be going through. It drove him mad, how she might be in danger, how she might at that very moment be in the process of being roped to a scarred, battered whipping post to be lashed. Fury burned through his gut and he squeezed his eyes closed, trying to block out the images refusing to leave him in peace.
“
No
,” he muttered, his head dropping as he gripped the railing with such force his knuckles went white. “They have but two days on you. Two days.
Maldito sea
… God damn it, I
will
find you,
mi querida Finn
. And when I do, there will be hell to pay.” He lifted his eyes to the threatening skies. “Hell to pay.”