DOGS. Legacy Saga II

8

Just like he'd left San Juan de Ulua calm and ready to face a death sentence, Castillano came back to the cold room in the Santiago Bastion in a stormy mood, swearing black and blue under his breath, wishing only to be left alone. As soon as his door was locked from the outside, he kicked the wall a couple of times, snorting and cursing, and sat down on the bunk, holding his head in his hands.

What the hell was the damned child doing there? Hadn't she done enough already, turning his world upside down and making him break all his vows? Now she also intended to mess up his death! What the bloody devil...?

He lay down, his eyes moving over the stone ceiling. What? He knew what, and why. He shook his head, sighing. She was relentless! He'd left her barely alive in that Maracaibo brothel only six weeks earlier. And there she was now!

The guts! And Dolores didn't fall behind. It made sense that she'd left Maracaibo with Marina. She'd burned her ships in order to help the child, and she'd told him Marina had offered her assistance in the past. But all she'd said to the jury... He couldn't understand why she'd asked them to confirm her story with Maracaibo Governor.

Well, maybe one day he'd find out. Or not. Actually, he didn't give a damn. And that extension in his trial was exactly what he had meant to avoid by refusing to appeal the charges.

A scoff escaped his lips. The Pearl of the Caribbean in Veracruz! The most heavily-guarded city in New Spain! And she was at the very heart of the Spanish Armada in the Caribbean! Parading her disguise under the Great Admiral's nose, and he had hardly noticed she was there.

He couldn't help laughing heartedly, picturing the faces of all those important wigs, had they known who was right in front of them.

However, she looked unrecognizable. He himself wouldn't have noticed her if she hadn't look at him. But there was no mistaking those black eyes. There was no forgetting them, after seeing them up close.

A sigh filled his chest.

He was supposed to leave for Campeche in the morning, but nobody went for him. Castillano wondered whether Marina and Dolores had taken the Admiralty over and the jury hostage, threatening to kill everybody if he wasn't set free. But an officer he knew opened his door and invited him out.

"You're leaving tomorrow," the officer said, guiding him downstairs. "I can't cut you lose in the city, but let's take a walk at least. These walls can freeze one's bones."

Castillano had lunch with him and other officers, and in the afternoon they allowed him to roam free within the castle walls. Castillano spent the time down at the open square, mingling with his colleagues as he hadn't been able to do for so long.

By dinner, his friends had already managed to find out why he'd been left marooned there the whole day.

"They've appointed a new commander for Campeche," a lieutenant explained. "One General Segovia. They picked one from the army and new in town, so he won't go too easy on you."

"Segovia? He's just arrived from Peru, right?" asked another officer.

"Yes, and rumor has it he painted the land in the natives' blood. His reputation as a ruthless butcher precedes him."

They joked about it and patted Castillano's shoulder, wishing him good luck with his new watchdog.

"And that's the reason of the delay?" he asked.

"No. He put up some excuse, but the truth is that he's not going alone. He's taking along his friend, fiancée, whatever, and he went so far as to offer her passage on your ship. But looks like the lady needed one extra day to pack and couldn't leave today."

Castillano laughed with the others. Did he dare to bet on who was his watchdog's friend? Could Dolores' contacts reach so far?

"But it's not all bad news, Hernan." The officer produced a folded paper and Castillano felt a chill down his back. "Here. Your counsel sends it."

Castillano took it, thanking the man with a smile, and put the note in his shirt's chest pocket. He wouldn't read it in front of them. On second thought, he wouldn't read it, period.

Back to his cold room in the Santiago Bastion, with his door locked, he took the note and brought it close to the lantern hanging from the wall. Would he dare to open it? Wouldn't it be better to just burn it? Yes, without reading it. But what if it really was an important message? And hand to heart, he was curious. If it came from Marina, as he suspected, what would've she written to him?

He breathed deep, as if expecting a punch in the face, and opened the note. Which was a message from his counsel, of course. And it was good news: the jury's commissioner had left for Maracaibo in the afternoon, and he was expected back in Veracruz in four weeks tops.

He slipped an end of the note in the candle to set it on fire and climbed to his bunk. He threw the burning note out the window, refusing to admit he was disappointed.

He lay down with his hands under his head, his eyes on the patch of sky he could see through the window. He knew that as soon as he closed his eyes, he'd see her again. Beautiful and frail in her chaste dress, the very image of modesty, breathtaking. But absent.

For that wasn't her.

He remembered her at the main deck of the Trinidad, wearing breeches and a sleeveless shirt, barefoot, soaking wet, her braid messed up, sword and knife in her hands. That was her.

He remembered her caressing the damaged hull of her legendary ship, talking with him about shot angles and dying in battle. That was her.

He remembered her chained to a cart under the beating sun, stopping him with nothing but a glance. That was her.

The Pearl of the Caribbean.

He remembered her in the riving, trapped between the mizzenmast and him, shaking in his arms, the agitated chest against his, parted those ruby lips nobody had ever touched before. Until him, that night, in that forced contact nobody would seriously call a kiss.

He crossed his arm over his eyes.

He should try to sleep.