Caribbean Reign Ch. 17-18

It is time to leave.

I prefer not to get in a fight with every man in this tavern, but I'm willing if necessary. Many here would jump at the chance to seduce an inebriated beauty. I won't give them that chance. I toss Ana over my shoulder and carry her towards the exit.

She thumps on my back to a litany of cheers. "Rafael, put me down!"

"Sorry, Ana. This is for your own good."

It's amazing how one woman can be both a shrewd negotiator and a belligerent lightweight at the same time. I make a mental note to keep her away from my personal liquor supply.

As we stroll out of the tavern, I relish the feeling of her slim legs pressed against my chest. Sometimes I think that if Ana weren't my slave, she'd be the marrying kind.

Chapter 18: Fine Wine - Catherine's Perspective

The ale strikes me with the force of a battering ram.

Rafael, a much more seasoned sailor, warned me about this, but of course, needing to prove him wrong, I didn't listen.

Crinoline crumples against the inside of my skull. This vessel's intemperate rocking does little to appease my nausea. Earlier, I was viciously hungry. Now, having eaten and then lost the nerve, I desire only to empty my stomach once more.

What hour is it?

It seems a long time ago that Rafael carried me to bed and closed the shutter over the window. All remaining light comes from a tall, waxy thing in an iron sconce.

Discarded skirts and petticoats slump over the chest in the corner. Rafael removed them for me, but the stays remain on my form. I wouldn't let him at the laces even under the Devil's influence.

A knock echoes through the wooden walls.

"Enter," I say, propping the blanket around my uncovered parts. Nothing improper will be able to find its way through the large swaths of wool.

The door opens. Cool, briny air rushes in. Rafael comes bearing a tray of crackers and tea. I welcome the square tray onto my lap. Apparently, my appetite has returned. I am also parched. I never knew alcohol was so dehydrating. Even my muscles ache from the gin-lashing.

"I told you to be careful," he says.

"Yes, you did. Now, will you please lower your voice?" Even the sound of my chewing grates on my nerves.

"Perhaps next time you will listen to me!" he bellows.

My hands reflexively jump to my ears, and the tray slides onto the floor. The fragile cup shatters amidst a tornado of crumbs.

With a sigh, he says, "Stay there, I'll find someone to clean that up."

"Thank you," I whisper after him. Truly the fault lies with him for making such a tasteless joke in the first place.

I lay flat under the covers, wishing for death, as a deckhand scurries around the room with a dustpan. As edges of nausea subside, the lull of sweeping urges contemplation.

Rafael is caring for me.

Not because he first unduly spanked me or starved me but merely for the recognition that I am a person who requires his assistance. It is a development without firm conclusion.

I prop up the pillow and drift towards transient sleep. I suppose being thrown over his broad shoulders wasn't so horrible after all. If he wishes to climb under the covers once I am in a slightly more presentable state, I might even oblige.

***

Far from the Joaquina, formless walls begin to take a familiar shape. Waves of heat ebb and flow until they dissolve in the gelatinous air. I watch as my arms carry a silver tray through the corridors. The polished tile floor gleams ominously.

I have returned to the Navarro estate. This time, my legs are ensconced in a wispy négligé, in what I can only imagine to be an attempt to seduce Rafael. Strangely, children's voices echo through the halls. The lilting voice of a girl and the soft tone of a young boy. Once again, the estate houses a family.

Could it be mine?

My wispy attire is hardly befitting of a mother. Without my willing it, my feet continue through the house and into the courtyard.

There, upon the dais, Rafael with fine lines in his forehead and a bolt of silver in his hair reclines with a much younger Spanish beauty. The young woman's hands rest gently upon cascading sage-colored skirts. Upon her finger is a ruby of such size that one can only assume that it was gifted upon the occasion of marriage.

An intangible pull drags me to the cushions at the base of Rafael's throne. I sit, wondering how this tall creature managed to entrap him. Reluctantly, my ankles tuck into a submissive position. A mist of sandy particles falls into my hair. Above me, the woman eats, flicking crumbs off her tray. I shake myself clean, even knowing that more shall follow.

Rafael's right hand drifts into my skimpy gown and fondles my breasts. Warmth floods the region beneath my collarbone. The sensation is almost pleasant until I see Rafael's other hand, lovingly tucked behind his new wife's ear. A strand of her hair has fallen out of place and requires his immediate attention.

I try to get up from my cowering position, but the fingers tighten around my nipple.

"You are mine," Rafael's voice reverberates even as his lips are buried in the neck of the other woman. The two of them groan in sensual pleasure.

I move to assuage the pounding in my temple. In touching my cheeks, I find that my skin is no longer soft and supple. Its wrinkles are cavernous and swing like jowls beneath my chin. The long tresses that once grazed my waist shrivel into grey feathers. They disintegrate in a cloud of dust. A warm breeze rushes over the head of a plucked bird.

My right nipple is squeezed even harder.

The young lady's legs stretch beyond the confines of her gown. Like smooth, endless tree branches, they continue to warp and sprout until they've wrapped themselves around Rafael's neck. In all of my misery, I laugh one last brittle sound.

Soon, the fleshy root is around my neck. It contorts and squeezes until there is nothing beneath me.

***

I awaken to damp sheets coiled around my torso. I toss and turn until my feet are once more planted on the wooden floorboards.

Let us hope that this barrel fever was the cause of such dark imaginings. One hardly requires a philosophy master to interpret such a dream. A towering Spanish woman taking her place beside Rafael. The dresses, the rings, and myself, a lowly, aging slave who has lost her use. Even in my most voluptuous years, I detest the idea of being Rafael's courtesan. I certainly have no desire to shrivel up at his feet.

From a purely diplomatic perspective, there is no reason that I cannot be his equal. Catherine Eleanor Marguerite de Guînes has an empire of her own, the only empire to rival Spanish power on the island. Unfortunately, for a Navarro, to be a French aristocrat is worse than to be a commoner. If he knew that which I was, that which I am, we wouldn't be allowed in the same room. The only way to stay close to Rafael is to remain as Annalise - a false identity that may lose its charm at any time.

I hazard a guess that this dream is a vision conjured by my more sensible nature. Crawling back to him night after night will lead only to my eventual demise. There is nothing to gain from developing feelings for someone who can never accept me as I truly am.

I collapse onto the mattress and throw the blankets over my limp body. The room's candle has withered to a stalk. With any luck, I'll be able to escape Rafael's clutches before I slip further into madness.

***

Too soon comes the click of the door.

Rafael enters, speaking softly. "I heard noises. Are you alright?"

His face holds genuine concern but cannot distract from the ever-present bulge in his trousers. My task is far from simple.

"Yes, I feel much better. Thank you for the tea."

"Anything to help a creature taken down by a bewitched pint."

He proceeds further into the room with a devilish grin. "I was thinking that once you get back on your feet - perhaps you'd like to get off them again."

He must think these lines so cunning.

I yawn. "On second thought, I might just go back to sleep. We have a long voyage ahead of us."

"Port Royal only two days' journey from San Miguel. And thanks to you, we have much to cheer." He lifts an imaginary glass. It does little to improve my mood.

He comes to the bedside. "Ana, tell me what's wrong."

Ana.

Although I'm sure he means no harm by it, the name hangs stagnant in the air. To him, I shall always be Ana. Not the one from his fantasy but the one from my nightmares, a girl who shall be forgotten the moment that a prettier opportunity presents itself. Even now, I see the lovely Spaniard wrapping her branched legs around his neck.

I press my hand flat against his chest. If I can be strong, it will be much easier to say goodbye. "Rafael, we can't do this again. I shouldn't have let it happen the first time."

"Or the second time or the third," he adds, moving in for a kiss.

My fingers blockade the space between us. "I know, and that is just as much my fault as it is yours."

My syllables become thicker, more decisive. "Neither of us is pleased by this arrangement. Let us not make it any more complicated than it need be."

He stumbles backward as if I've told him that half of the estate will be placed under his sister's control. He blinks, taking a moment to lick his wounds. Then, like an injured horse, he rears in anger. Shadow reflects across his jaw.

"Do not forget who ordained this arrangement. I am your master. If I tell you to open your legs, God help me, you will do it."

"I shall not. I am not a wild filly for you to break."

His hand comes to rest on my knee. "Perhaps a stallion, then."

The room shrinks to the size of a broom closet. Though Rafael seems cheered by my stubborn retort, the banter is no longer endearing. Mostly because he's right.

He may do whatever he wishes to me, and I should have no means to stop him. At the end of the day, I am livery that will one day outlive its use.

"Please leave me be."

He deflects, "Ana if it's something I said, I'm sorry."

I cannot take this any longer.

"Just go, please."

There was a time when I would have been ecstatic to have drawn an apology from his lips. The great master of the Navarro estate humbling himself before a half-dressed slave. A merit to be celebrated on its own, and yet my heart has no room for joyful tidings.

My numb despondency drives him towards the door without another word. With a puff, the final candle is extinguished. I'm far too weary to fumble for a match. Light isn't needed to sit in the tears pooling on the pillow's surface.

***

Alright. I tricked you into reading another less than steamy chapter, but I promise that the next installment will have the most spice and non-con yet. Again, thank you for sticking with me this far. I've been pretty good about posting chapters every week, so let no man (or woman) say that I'm leaving them hanging!