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.
