After a few quiet moments, Sirena became aware that she was not alone. From behind some large shrubs near the verandah the sound of a woman’s light laughter was wafted by the evening breeze. She was about to go inside when something about the pitch of the woman’s voice struck her as familiar. The slight intonation of derision, the lilting quality—husky yet girlish. Gretchen!

  Suddenly Sirena remembered riding on the back of the baggage wagon along a hot dusty road, the sun baking the black bombazine dress into the flesh of her back, heavy black hair falling awry, sticking to her damp, perspiring neck. And the sound of the laughter —taunting and scornful. Followed by the sight of a beautifully coiffed head peeking out through the hedge, a laughing face looking up into hers, enjoying Sirena’s misery.

  Sharp stabs of hatred shot through her, an icy resolve to slap that snickering mouth until its full ripe lips were swollen and bloody.

  Without further thought, Sirena pushed her way through the shrubs and found just what she had expected: Gretchen and Regan holding each other in a tight embrace.

  For a full moment she went unnoticed as her rage mounted and all reason was swept from her. She only half saw Regan’s lips pressed against Gretchen’s, one arm around her back, his hand caressing the firm, round flesh of her buttocks, the other hand pushed down into the wide deep neckline of the iridescent blue gown.

  In one sweeping motion, Sirena was upon them, tearing them from each other’s arms. Like a spitting, snarling cat, she turned on Gretchen in unleashed violence. “Since you seem bent on exposing yourself, Frau Lindenreich,” she hissed, “why allow a slip of dress fabric to stand between you and my husband!” With a claw-like hand Sirena reached out, grasped the neckline of Gretchen’s gown, and ripped it nearly to the hem.

  Gretchen rose to Sirena’s attack with surprise but with bared teeth and a show of sharp nails. Cursing with rage, she reached for Sirena’s hair, but Sirena dodged her flailing arm: Like two spitting cats the women faced each other, each seeking the destruction of the other.

  “I’ve wanted to slap that snickering smile from your face for some time,” Sirena continued. “Now I intend to scratch your eyes out, too!”

  Her tone was low, yet held such menace that Regan was taken aback. He’d have never thought his composed Sirena capable of such violent speech. More to get a closer look at Sirena than to protect Gretchen, he stepped between them. Immediately, his action was misinterpreted by both women.

  “Stand aside, Regan. You’ve had your lark with this German whore! Now I intend to have mine!” Her eyes flashed with venom; she poised, lithe as a cat, to resume her attack on the German. “If you insist on protecting her, be warned: I’ll cut you down to get to her!”

  Fear now began to take hold of Gretchen. Sirena had said she would scratch out her eyes and Gretchen had no doubt whatsoever that the Spanish cat meant to do it. So, when Regan placed himself between the women, Gretchen allowed herself the luxury of hysterics. Her mind now ran to the actual damage done to her. “My gown!” she wailed. “Look what she’s done to it! It can never be repaired!” She took a step closer to Regan’s back, enjoying its protection. Something crunched beneath her foot.

  “The crystals! They’ve been torn off! Regan, help me find them, they cost a fortune!” Crawling about on her hands and knees, she sought out the tiny beads which had been sewn onto her gown.

  Sirena glanced down at Gretchen crawling about searching for the lost beads and saw Frau Lindenreich’s breasts fall unbecomingly out of the shredded bodice. The woman’s hair had come undone and was falling in an untidy mass down her back.

  Regan, too, glanced down and saw the ridiculousness of Gretchen’s position. He burst into a great peal of laughter. Then, seeing the murderous looks the woman cast him, his mirthful sounds froze in his throat.

  A shuffle of feet and the appearance of Don Chaezar standing just outside the verandah immediately cooled the charged atmosphere.

  “Chaezar!” Gretchen sobbed, jumping to her feet, “see what she’s done to me!”

  “I see … Gretchen,” the Spaniard soothed her. “And how magnificently she’s done it!”

  Gretchen, stupefied by his remark and wide-eyed with surprise, was about to return the insult, when she noticed Chaezar’s eyes fall on Sirena. Gretchen thought she saw a light of admiration in his black gaze.

  Turning to Gretchen, however, he said, “You may go around the verandah to my chambers. Take one of my dressing gowns to wear home. I’ll have my coachman bring the trap around to the back. You can leave from there and no one will see you. I assume you don’t want to be seen in the state you’re in.”

  “I don’t give a damn who sees me!” Gretchen spat.

  “But I do,” Chaezar said threateningly. “I won’t allow you to make an even greater spectacle of yourself in my house, and before my guests.”

  Regan and Sirena were amazed at how quickly Gretchen’s temper quelled in the face of Don Chaezar’s authority. They watched her sulk around to the back of the house, silently prepared to follow Chaezar’s orders.

  Both Regan and Chaezar now viewed Sirena with bewildered expressions. They were clearly wondering how she could have been a seething spitfire only a moment before and now appear to be in complete control of herself, composed and unruffled.

  In a courtly and solicitous manner, the Spaniard flashed Sirena a dazzling smile and offered her his arm. “You must put all this behind you, querida. Don’t let anything spoil your evening.” His eyes were quick to note, however, that rather than spoiling his country-woman’s evening, Sirena’s fray with Gretchen had been the highlight of it. “Now, you must both come back into the ballroom. I am ready to unveil my little surprise—my ‘spectacular,’ as everyone prefers to call it.”

  Sirena saw that Regan was scowling at the easy manner Don Chaezar had with her. And, her eyes glued on her husband, she had noticed the sudden alertness about Regan when Chaezar mentioned to them his “surprise.”

  “Yes, Alvarez,” Regan was saying, a biting edge to his voice, “I’m most interested in this little ‘surprise’ of yours. Let’s go with him, Sirena. We wouldn’t want him to keep us guessing any longer than necessary.” Muscles knotted in Regan’s jaw, the thick column of his neck was corded with fury.

  So this is what Regan was angry about on our way here, Sirena thought with amusement. Whatever Chaezar’s little surprise is, Regan knows—and doesn’t like it. She was curious to see what was going to happen.

  As the three entered the ballroom, all eyes turned to watch them expectantly. The musicians had stopped their playing and all the guests milled about a tall, shrouded shape which stood in the center of the ballroom. As Sirena and the two men stepped into the center of the throng, she heard Helga Kloss call out, “Hurry, Chaezar! The suspense is making me feel faint. But I can guess what it is, you rake. You’ve imported one of those statues from Greece, haven’t you? The ones that hardly have anything on …” Helga’s voice ended in a muffled giggle.

  A small titter of laughter broke out from around the Dutch captain’s wife. Smiling, Sirena guessed that Anton Kloss had put an end to his wife’s speculations.

  Chaezar left Sirena and Regan standing on the inside perimeter of the circle of guests. With great aplomb he stepped up to the tall shrouded object. Clearing his throat importantly, he began to speak: “As is well known by all of you, the islands of the East Indies are recently under seige by the most ruthless marauder of the seas that we have ever known. There are those among us who have been fortunate enough to have glimpsed this notorious piratess on her own domain, the sea. There is even one among us who, having confronted this sea witch, has become so infatuated with her that he commissioned the construction of her likeness.”

  Standing next to Regan, Sirena felt him stiffen. His hand, which had been resting lightly on her arm, gripped her flesh painfully.

  “Without further ado, my honored guests, I give you the Sea Siren!”

  Chaezar pulled lightly on a silken cord, and the draperies fell away. There on a podium which had been especially constructed was Regan’s figurehead.

  Gasps and oohs of delight filled the ballroom. It . was magnificent. Carved with loving hands, the figure was nearly life-sized. What Sirena saw when she looked at it was a startlingly close resemblance to herself, her flowing hair sculpted to appear as though the wind were sweeping it back from its beautifully molded face. The arms were fashioned close to the body; the breasts were high and full, and accurately displayed beneath the illusion of a short body-hugging blouse tied high over the ribs. The long satiny torso was smooth and rounded into the swells of its hips. The figure was astoundingly correct—even to the dramatic headband tied about the forehead of its finely chiseled face.

  Fearfully, Sirena looked about the room to see if anyone had noticed the astonishing resemblance to herself. Finally having the courage to glance at Regan, she watched him as he studied the work he had commissioned. She wondered nervously how he had remembered the Sea Siren so … so accurately? As Regan gazed upon the figurehead of the Sea Siren she saw in his eyes the same hunger and desire she had seen when he looked at her as she stood defiantly on the deck of the Rana.

  As the guests gathered around the figurehead—some to stare, others to touch the satiny teak—Sirena backed off, her stomach muscles knotted in apprehension. She accepted a glass of wine, keeping her face in profile to the guests as she sipped the crimson liquid.

  Turning back toward the crowd of guests a moment later, for she dared not be too obvious in her lack of interest in the figurehead, she saw something in the Spaniard’s eyes she’d dreaded since she had first heard of the construction of the image of the Sea Siren: recognition.

  Don Chaezar watched Sirena bring the fragile wineglass to her lips once more; then an expression of consternation, of infinite surprise, stole across his features.

  Regan turned away, finally, from the figurehead. As he did so, he saw the look on the Spaniard’s face. Quickly he glanced back at the representation of the Sea Siren; then he shifted his gaze to his wife—he too as intent as Don Chaezar.

  Then Regan’s piercing blue eyes met Chaezar’s black ones. “If,” said the Dutchman, “your purpose was to embarrass me this evening, you’ve fallen short of your victory, Don Chaezar Alvarez. The figurehead’s beauty far outshines its scandalousness! And, we shall see who is so cocky when you yourself mount my figurehead on my ship tomorrow—at the end of my sword-point!”

  The tip of Chaezar’s tongue wet his dry lips. The Dutchman’s rapier was a thing not to be taken lightly.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Shortly after eleven o’clock on a cool, balmy night several days after the ball, Sirena crept into Caleb’s room and shook him awake. The entire household had retired earlier than usual, and Sirena was certain that all were asleep.

  “Dress little brother, we take to the sea,” she whispered.

  Caleb was instantly awake and reaching for his trousers.

  “I’ll wait for you in my room. It’s down again, by way of the trellis, for both of us. Hurry now! After dinner as I passed the kitchen door, I heard Frau Holtz say that one of the Mynheer’s ships was to set sail late tonight. She’s doubtless gone by now, but we may be able to overtake her. Quickly now!”

  “But the men! The crew! I’ve taken Jan no message to have them aboard ship.”

  “I sent Ling Fu to Teatoa with a sealed message. You needed some sleep. The old Chinaman’s not one to puzzle out the whys and wherefores, he’ll suspect nothing, and he’s probably asleep in the servants’ quarters once more by now. It’s been nigh on two hours; the men should long since have left the village and reached the Rana.

  A few hours later, the first hints of dawn streaked the sky. Sirena, Caleb, and Jan stood near the wheel, the Señorita’s hands clasping it professionally.

  “It won’t be long now,” Sirena purred. “Order all hands on deck, Jan.”

  “Aye, Capitana.”

  “You’ll take the wheel, as usual, when I speak to the enemy. And, Caleb, you’ll go below as soon as we’ve approached them. I want none of our Dutch traders to recognize you. You’re too well known in Batavia now, little brother!”

  “Sirena,” Caleb asked softly, “will you … send the enemy into the sea this time without the jolly-boats?”

  “No. Not as I did with the Spanish trader’s men. But, remember, even then I gave them fair warning.”

  Only minutes later came the cry: “Sail ho!”

  Sirena called down the deck, to Jan: “Get her in your sights and fire when ready. Blow her stern first, then her bow!”

  “She’s too far away, Capitana,” Jan called back.

  “True, Jan. And only one of our shots may make its mark. But by surprising them, we may get in another shot before they’ve readied themselves.”

  “Why do you gamble like this?” Caleb asked anxiously.

  “Because we don’t have the cover of darkness.”

  The Rana’s deck rocked with the blast of two of her cannons.

  “Good!” Sirena called to her men, lifting the spyglass. “Yes, one of our shots has hit the Dutchman’s bow. I told Mynheer van der Rhys that no Dutch ship—his or any of the Dutch East India Company’s —would strike mine again!”

  A cannonball from the Dutch trader exploded from her port side but fell far short of the black-rigged Rana.

  “She fires, you see, Caleb—but in blind panic! Now, boy, out of sight below!”

  Jan Verhooch ran up to take the wheel from Sirena as the ship approached the burning Dutch brig.

  “Call for quarter and I’ll allow you to go into the jolly-boats,” Sirena shouted in order to be heard over the melee.

  “Quarter!” came the high-pitched shout.

  “Do you see the heavy cannon she carries?” Sirena yelled up to Jan.

  “Aye, Capitana. For all the good it did her,” he grinned.

  “If her shot had found its mark, we wouldn’t be standing here now. She might have hit us straight on if she hadn’t panicked.”

  A hiss of steam pierced the air as the brig now listed sharply to starboard. Before long she would settle into her new home fathoms deep.

  “All hands on the Dutchman!” Sirena shouted. “Do you carry a man aboard who has a hook for a hand?”

  “No, there’s no such man aboard!” came the reply.

  “Hold out your hands and remove your gloves.” Her order was instantly obeyed and Sirena lifted the glass to her eyes. Satisfied, she nodded. “On your return to Batavia—when you get there—” she laughed, “give Mynheer van der Rhys a message for me. Tell him I’ve heard he refuses to turn The Hook over to me if he finds the man first. I give only one warning and this is it: The next time I capture a Dutch ship, woe be it to the man who tells me the Grand Pensioner hasn’t gone back on his plan to keep The Hook from me!” She dug the point of her cutlass into the Rana’s rail and stood peering down at the brig’s crew. “What was it you carried in your hold today?” she asked.

  “Cloves and nutmeg and peppercorns.”

  “The price of spices in Europe will soar,” Sirena laughed, her voice high and melodious.

  The captain, a brash and outspoken man in well-pressed, perfectly tailored clothes, stood up in one of the jolly-boats as it was being lowered and shook his fist menacingly at Sirena. “If the Dutch East India Company is hurt by this loss, you won’t take all the credit, Sea Siren! You’ll owe some Spaniard your thanks for doing his damnedest to help you!”

  “How is that?” Sirena shouted her question.

  “Native gossip has it that unlimed nutmegs have been cached somewhere on the island of Java. The slaves who lime the nutmeg seeds have loose mouths —thank God for that!—and report that bushels of the seeds often fail to reach them. No Dutchman would do a thing like that. Only a Spaniard! To break the hold we Netherlanders have on the majority of the trade! The cursed Iberian will be wanting to start a plantation near the shores of Europe, that’s what!”

  The Dutchman’s complaints were cut short.

  “Sail ho,” came a cry from the Rana’s rigging.

  “What’s that? Another ship?” Sirena called up to her man aloft.

  “A mile or two to starboard, Capitana. By the shape of her, she’s Spanish or Portuguese.”

  “Loosen sail!” Sirena ordered her crew. “I want to be behind her stern.”

  A quarter-hour later, the Dutch brig in her watery grave and her jolly-boats bobbing in the distance, Sirena’s frigate approached a Spanish brigantine lately out of Batavia.

  Behind Jan at the Rana’s wheel, Sirena spoke calmly: “Don’t fire unless I give the order. We won’t touch this ship. She goes free.”

  At the first mate’s puzzled expression, Sirena smiled; Jan, she remembered, was a Dutchman after all.

  “What if she fires at us, Capitana?” he asked his commander.

  “In that case, we ram her. But only on my order. You see, Jan, she’s Spanish, and if I let her go free—after sinking the Dutch ship—well, Mynheer van der Rhys will be at Don Chaezar’s throat at once, for he’ll suspect I’ve made a bargain with the Spaniard. For a time, then, the Mynheer will be too busy watching the Spaniard to give much thought to The Hook.

  “Here, Jan, take the wheel. And give me the glass.” Sirena raised the glass to her eyes and read the name of the Spanish brigantine. It was the Crimson Fire.

  Picking up the ship’s horn, for the two vessels were still at some distance from one another, she called out: “Hear me well, Crimson Fire! I see that your men are at their guns, so be aware of who I am—the Sea Siren! One shot and all aboard are dead men. However … I will be kind,” she laughed through the horn. “Captain,” she said, addressing the black-bearded figure near the Crimson Fire’s wheel, “remove your men from their positions at the guns and lay down all arms, and I will allow you to sail on.” She waited for a moment. “Well,” she shouted through the horn, “do I have an answer?”

  As a response, a cannonball exploded from the Crimson Fire’s flanks and cut through the Rana’s foremast sail. But no other shot followed. Raising her spyglass, Sirena quickly sent her men to their gunner’s positions.