Caribbean Reign Ch. 17-18

We are more than halfway through this adventure, but the greatest heartaches lie ahead, so press on! Thank you so much for your faithful readership and encouragement. Every comment and message truly brightens my day, and makes it all worthwhile.

If you're just joining us, I recommend that you start at the beginning. This is a historical enemies-to-lovers novel whose full content is published elsewhere, but I will be releasing the whole thing on a weekly basis.

To recap: Catherine, our spoiled and headstrong heroine, was mistaken for her maidservant and sentenced to penal slavery on her rival's plantation. On the merits of her guile and charm, she has risen from field slave to scullery maid to courtesan. She is now meant to play the part as of arrogant master's French translator, but despite the burning passion between them, has become increasingly reluctant to spread her legs.

Chapter 17: Lost in Translation - Rafael's Perspective

We dock in Port Royal. The infuriating girl has not coupled with me since the first day on the ship. It has only been two nights, and yet it is, two nights too many. The most I have coaxed from her was a peck on the cheek after breakfast. Certainly, it a mistake to have given her ladyship her own quarters.

She claims to be concerned about her propriety - an excuse that conveniently disappears whenever she is flipped on her back. Just two nights ago, I watched her bask in our union like a kitten in the sunlight. In truth, our mutual attraction makes captives of us both. The way she blushes makes me want to take her every time I see her.

Still, I promised her the option to refuse, and to that, I shall hold true.

When the anchor drops, her eyes grow wide. Ana has never been on a ship before; that much is evident from the way she reacts to its motion. I didn't expect her to be well-traveled, even if she is some disinherited aristocrat. She is a woman, after all.

The men set out a gangplank. This trip will provide me with an excellent opportunity to monitor her while her guard is down. The situation between us is rapidly evolving. One little slip and the canary will sing.

I exit the vessel with an excited Ana in tow. Traders of all colors buzz around the port. Rows of ramshackle stores promote the constant circulation of people. Port Royal buzzes with frenetic energy not often found within San Miguel. It is a fascinating thing, a world set in motion. It is also more dangerous. My men and I watch our backs carefully as we navigate our way through.

Not much has changed since the last time I visited with my father. Lower-class men trip over the skirts of any visible female. They will say anything to entrap a nightly companion. If they're lucky, they might even catch a wife. Outside of broad daylight, many wouldn't hesitate to deploy a more persuasive means than conversation. I'm grateful that Ana has her locket, even if she doesn't see its merit.

A flock of crows muddy our path forward. They've gathered to feast upon the crumbs tumbling off stall counters. I prefer the crows to the masses. A roadside merchant clothed in a patchwork of fabrics steps through the birds to make our acquaintance.

"Marchandises, monsieur? Très bon, très bon," she croons. Her trinkets jingle in the breeze.

With a nod, I defer to my translator.

"Non, madame." Ana gestures backward at the men carrying my bushels of sugarcane. "We are quite busy and must be on our way to meet our associates."

The woman tries to speak again, but Ana holds up her hand and presses forward. The woman backs off.

I must say that with every confident shake of her hips, Ana appears more and more the grand lady. Those who vie for my coin soon direct their attentions to her. Someone watching from afar would not anticipate this to be her first trip off of the island.

She flags down a horseman and begins organizing our chariot to the destination. Port Royal is a pirate bay, after all. It would be unwise to carry our samples on foot. The nature of this portending deal is less straightforward than most. An arrangement with Jean Portier would keep our crops in good rotation, clearing out our overflowing storehouses and stimulating the local market. Monsieur Portier has an unsavory reputation. And yet, in the Caribbean, you would be hard-pressed to find a man of importance completely faithful to the morals of the church.

My hand hovers above my rapier at all times.

To the locals, I'm sure I seem but another gullible plantation owner. Around here, our breed is not in short supply. Waves of portly gentlemen's ships docking at the harbor pull some of the attention off our entourage. There are far less seaworthy vessels to board.

"Do you see this chipping lacquer?" Ana shouts, "You are lucky to be getting our business. Thirty reales - take it or leave it."

Her adorable little foot stomps down in the sand. She is irate. Her new satin slippers probably shouldn't be traveling on such terrain. I'll need to have them replaced when we return.

The young business owner bows shallowly. "Mademoiselle, I cannot. Even if I could accept your offer, I only trade in French money."

"Do not test my good nature, monsieur," she spits rapid French, "This is Port Royal, you could easily find someone to exchange it for you. If you insist on such obstinance, we have other places to be."

She turns swiftly, hiking up her skirts in the process.

The man scratches his head. "Fine, fine. I will accept your Spanish money, but I will need at least forty reales."

"For two carriages, here and back?"

"Oui, mademoiselle."

She offers the carriage proprietor her hand. He takes it politely with a nervous glance toward me. I believe that we are thinking the same thing. Few women are so forward in their business dealings. Though I was initially worried for Ana's safety, I'm beginning to think that I ought to be more concerned about enlarging the size of her head.

After settling into the first carriage, I place a hand on her leg. "I expect you will use a softer tone with our wealthier compatriots."

She gives me an annoyed glance. "What kind of an uneducated trollop do you take me for?"

"One who wields authority concerningly well."

Ana turns her head swiftly and stares out the carriage window. Watching her negotiate for our carriage was oddly endearing. At such a small sum, there's hardly a need to squabble. She merely revels in the fight. That much is clear from her swordsmanship.

***

The dilapidated road leads us to a manor house a quarter the size of my own. There are obvious patches of repair to the exterior, but the grounds are pruned with men standing at rapt attention. Something I could stand to have in greater numbers. Though attired to various degrees, the men all carry weapons.

As we exit the carriage, a hulking man in peacock green silks emerges from the main entrance. I sense that bringing the softening touch of a woman was the correct decision. Monsieur Portier is the kind of man who wishes to be courted.

"Don Navarro," he bellows without a hint of malice.

I do my best to respond with equal warmth. "Jean Portier."

Jean takes my hand in a vigorous and hearty shake. He has impressive strength. I suspect that his poor reputation has more to do with his dark skin than a lack of hospitality. Even so, one can never let down their guard. Climbing to the top of the trading hierarchy in Port Royal requires a willingness to crack skulls when necessary.

Jean continues in French, "Voyagez-vous bien? Nous avons de la nourriture et de l'eau fraîche à l'intérieur."

Unfortunately, this is as far as I go with my conversational skills. Isabel dragged me to nearly every French lesson she had, but I always got more out of listening. Writing tables of irregular verbs just wasn't for me. It will be good for Ana to take the lead on this one. Great strategists always negotiate with a secret in their pocket.

Ana cuts in politely. "Bonjour, Monsieur Portier. Je suis Ana, and I shall be Don Navarro's translator for the trip."

Jean smiles at the ravishing young woman in front of him. The green ensemble suits her well. "No coincidence that he would bring such a pretty one to solidify the deal."

"Merci," she says. "You can blame either my pretty face or his incompetence. Completely, your choice."

Her tartness has Jean and his men howling with laughter. Once he collects himself, he waves his arms and drags himself back to the business at hand. "Come in, come in right away."

As I pass beside him, he tips his feathered hat. "Monsieur," he says.

From behind, I hear him chittering with Ana.

"My darling, I feel that we will be very good friends," he says.

We are led to a blush-infused parlor. I signal my men to follow. Two of Jean's men stand guard at the boundary of the double French doors. Their unmoving expressions set down the rules. My men are to wait in the hallway.

Inside the parlor, several muskets sit unguarded amongst the ceramic statuettes. The man of the hour sits unarmed. At least, there are no obvious bulges beneath his jacket.

A European woman of submissive posture comes around with tea. Ana silently accepts a porcelain cup. She seems more comfortable in this setting than the giant Caribbean man squeezing himself between two unyielding armrests. The residence's interior décor appears to have preceded his residency.

Jean leans forward out of his chair. "Now, mademoiselle, let us get down to business. We have a high volume of material goods that we would be willing to trade each month to the Spaniard. In return, we ask only for a four-ton delivery of sugarcane."

I find Jean's use of "we" as opposed to "I" to be most interesting.

"A high volume?" says Ana, sipping her tea.

"Significant."

She frowns. "Significant is not an amount I can take to my master."

Normally, people speak French with their noses pinched and their asses suspended, but the way it comes out of Ana's mouth is disarming and seductive. Especially, the way she says "master." I can only hope that these extravagant fabrics teach her to forget her disdain for the word. Even I admit that it is unlikely. However, at this moment, I would very much like to screw the deal and toss her over the tea service.

Instead, I nod along, ignorantly.

"I see," says Jean. "Why don't ask him how he feels about this?"

With a snap of his fingers, a parade of fine goods begins a stroll through the parlor. Rich silks and thick linens are displayed on the back of one of Jean's footmen. A swiftly moving tray shakes with glass jars of cumin and cinnamon. Furs and dining wares are rolled in on a wooden cart. The selection of goods is rather disordered. A lady's handkerchief with initials stitched in the corner catches my eye. Jean Portier's stock is very good, but there can be no questions about how he obtained it.

Ana angles her body towards me.

"Four tons for all this. Monthly," she repeats in Spanish, careful not to give away anything with her tone. It is quite possible that Jean Portier speaks Spanish himself. Why shouldn't he play the same game? Ana only assumes that I can't understand French because she presumes that my disdain for her people carries over to her mother tongue.

"Four tons is too high if we don't know exactly what we're getting," I say, hoping that she'll catch on. I suspect that each shipment will be comprised of the innards of some drunkard's plundered ship. The haul could be valuable, but the results will be completely dependent on the poor chap idling in nearby waters.

Ana nods.

"Monsieur Portier, this is an excellent selection of merchandise, but we cannot offer such a large, consistent delivery for unknown goods." She fingers a velvet cloak and turns the inner seam toward me. It proclaims "KJR' in gold thread, a match to the lady's handkerchief. "Especially when those goods have other people's names on them."

A moment of silence hangs in the room. To call the man out on piracy in his own home is a dueling offense. Men in Port Royal are extraordinarily quick to draw their swords. I've even started seen firearms muscling their way into heated matches.

Ana is my emissary. Any offense she causes is ultimately my responsibility. I refamiliarize myself with the exits.

"A good eye, mademoiselle," Jean laughs. "You make a fair point. Two tons regularly and for particularly good shipments, we'll make it four."

Ana sips her tea. "One ton regularly, and for particularly good shipments, we'll make it two."

I suck in my chest.

Why must she be so difficult?

I cannot ask her to back down without revealing my lingual farce. Refusing to speak for my estate is another affront that will not bode well for future transactions.

Her role here is as translator, not negotiator. Anyone would have been delighted with an offer of two tons. The quality of goods may vary, but I strongly suspect that it will average much higher than the quality of our discarded sugarcane crop. Jean understands how the game is played, and he's making his judgment accordingly.

"You disrespect me with this pitiful offer," says Jean. "There are many others who would happily trade such stock for sugarcane stumps."

"Surely," says Ana, "but how many of them would trade with you?"

I nearly choke on our gentle host's dessert. A brutal assessment of the situation.

Most Caribbean men of business are open to making deals with pirates. A vastly smaller number are willing to meet with one matching the complexion of their slaves. I'd like to think myself more open-minded - anything to break the French chokehold on our ports is alright with me. However, the delicacy of the situation is not meant to be laid bare in the man's own parlor.

Ana maintains an unblinking posture. "Monsieur, Rafael de Navarro y de Silva is not just some blasé rural upstart. He is a viscount, endowed by the Spanish bloodline with the province of San Miguel. To acquiesce par-ci, par-là is to open up a direct line of communication with the Spanish government."

I am shocked to hear her acknowledge my birthright. Within the estate, she has never expressed that our family is anything more than a group of entitled savages.

Jean pauses for a moment. "You are bold. I find it intriguing. One and a half tons and three for good stock."

She smiles, "One and a half tons. Two for good stock. Unless you're a truly excellent pirate, we'll mostly be trading in hope chests."

He breaks out into unfiltered laughter and presents his hand out to shake. "I do this only for your friendship."

Ana looks to me, and I give her a nod. She shakes, her small palms absolutely enveloped by Jean. "A wonderful reward in its own right."

"Now that business is over," he continues, "let us enjoy a wonderful déjeuner."

Jean leads us into an equally mismatched dining room where we feast on chicken legs and scalloped potatoes. Observing the mealtime conversation, I see why Ana's last appeal to conscience had worked so well. Jean may be aware of his means and method, but he desperately craves legitimacy. A radiant, well-dressed woman calling him, "Monsieur," is salve on an open wound.

The two of them joke like old friends, while I nod dumbly, pretending that I can't follow the conversation. I thank my stars that we've avoided a blood bath.

***

With a final flourish of the pen, our time with Monsieur Portier comes to a close. I've had limited interaction with my new business partner. Jean has been thoroughly charmed by Ana, touching her perfect hands at every opportunity, booming with laughter at her ever-witty remarks. I'd take it as a challenge to my authority and perhaps my manhood if I didn't see them chittering in the gardens like children.

Still, I am rather eager to call an end to our afternoon. The whole affair stirs feelings I care not to admit.

Monsieur Portier insists on helping Ana into the carriage. He points to her locket, referencing the tail end of a conversation that slipped through my unseasoned ears. "And you, what are you to him, my dear?"

Her expression strikes a sorrowful note. "If only either of us knew."

Jean kisses her hand one last time and waves goodbye to us both.

Only once the horses have started pulling away from the estate, do I dare to ask.

"What was that last bit?"

"He was merely inquiring why you asked me to accompany you." She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ears.

"And what did you tell him?"

"Why, to keep you in line of course," she says, in a return to her fiendish ways.

I growl, "If Jean wasn't right out that window, I'd take you over my knee and spank you."

"For getting you twice the value of your sugarcane dregs?"

"And suddenly you are an expert on agricultural production."

"Don't patronize me. I've seen your operation -- not by my choice if you recall. I know you'd only come to Port Royal with the leftovers. You easily could've hired another translator. I am the marbled veneer meant to distract."

Oh, she thinks herself so clever, figuring me out. If she only knew.

"It isn't such a bad deal for you either. New dresses, more time with your handsome master." I squeeze her thigh gently. "Maybe next time, no dress and your handsome master?"

She laughs, "Not without a little liquor in my system."

"Do you drink?"

I haven't completely ruled out an alcoholic father from her past, and I certainly don't want to be responsible for a downward spiral.

She looks me up and down, "Not until now, but as long as I'm yours, I better start."

Mine.

Those nimble fingers could pry their way into any man's heart.

I sigh. "I suppose you do deserve a break. Just be careful, you don't know how alcohol is going to affect you."

"I can handle myself."

Somehow, I am not assured. I bang on the roof of the carriage and have Ana order the driver to pull over at the nearest imbibing establishment.

We walk through the doors of a squat building with the thatched roof. An ocean of sweaty laborers rumbles between us and our prize. With Ana close by my side, we navigate the rocky waters. Already, all eyes are on the wide-eyed girl draped over their bar stools. She orders us a few mugs of ale. Though Ana maintains a neutral expression, I can tell that she relishes the attention. She truly did negotiate me an excellent deal. I'll allow a little unseemly pride. She is not someone to be underestimated.

However, I worry for her and her boundless courage. The tavern patrons are virtually undressing her with their beer-drenched gazes. I flash my sword hilt a few times to make myself perfectly clear. I fear that it won't be enough of a deterrent.

Despite her steely interior, Ana appears vulnerable and ripe for the picking. I am far from the only warm-blooded male who wishes to bed her tonight.

A flush in her cheeks appears almost as soon as a drink reaches her hand, a truer shade of rose than any of the smeared rouges favored by polite company. She slurps down the foamy liquid as if the taste were as placid as water. I admit that her enthusiasm towards life is infectious.

"Another!" she calls out, "This time, gin!"

"Oui, mademoiselle," says the tavern keep.

I would be having more fun if we were alone. The crowd greedily closes in around us, leaving no trace of a path to the door. A portly customer bumps my shoulder, heading straight for Ana. His sour breath hits me before anything else. He may be just a drunkard, but I can take no chances. I draw my weapon and place it against his carotid artery. All my time with the damned physician must be good for something.

"The lady does not wish to be bothered."

The man nearly pisses himself out of fear and stumbles backward.

"Pardonne, pardonne-moi," he mumbles.

"Rafaelllll," Ana chides. The alcohol has already wrapped its way around her vocal cords.