Howel Davis (Post 14)

*Happy Holidays, friends and readers! This will be my final post for an entire week (I know, a whole WEEK). But it is a necessary evil, as I have a lot of writing and editing to do before I can post again. I would absolutely love to hear your comments on the story thus far — as I said, it keeps me writing furiously, and therefore posting frequently. For those of you enjoying the chemistry between Howel and Sabrina, this is a good one. Enjoy!*

I sat on a stoop, watching as Howel Davis made his way through the crowded street towards me. It was a hot day, dusty and bright, and the road smelled of horse manure and smoke. My heart always skipped a beat when he approached me, those gorgeous eyes scanning the crowd for me from under his battered cocked hat. Today, however, he looked particularly downcast, a deep crease between his brows.

I knew he had been unsuccessful, yet again.

“How did it go?” I asked with a hopeful smile.

He rubbed the sweat from the side of his face with his shoulder and shook his head. “They’ll not sign me on, not with this suspicion of piracy hanging about me neck.”

“But you were cleared of those charges!” I cried. “They have no proof — ”

“Sabrina, a notorious pirate gave me a prize,” he said. “How do they make sense of that? Particularly when me shipmates claim I was in league with England?” He inhaled sharply. “Nay, I’ve been outlawed.”

I felt the fury rise up within me. What else was a poor sailor to do, when his very livelihood was at stake? Howel Davis had not even been officially charged with piracy, but he couldn’t get a job as a lowly deck hand on a miserable slave-ship. How did the monarchy — or whoever the hell was in charge around here — expect men not to turn to piracy as a means to an end, especially when life as a pirate was so much better?

I looked at him anxiously, and I could tell his thoughts were similar to mine. I said, “There must be someone who will hire you. We have to keep looking.”

“I can’t expect any employment here, in Barbados,” he replied, squinting into the sun. “I’ll have to go to Nassau, the only place for a pardoned brigand to find honest work.”

I looked up. “You’re going to Nassau?”

“I’ve no choice,” he said. Then he smiled wanly. “Works out well, don’t it? You can mayhaps find a way back home.”

I considered. Nassau was where Howel would become a pirate, so I felt the need to talk him out of it. But for me, Nassau was quite convenient, actually. I could visit Ruth, see if maybe she’d had any more visions. I could visit Nan and the girls. Weird — I’d grown somewhat attached to the place, and was relieved to be going back. Of course, the main reason Nassau had grown on me — Edward England — would not be there.

But I would have Howel Davis. I would be fine so long as I was with him.

What in God’s name had gotten into me?

We found a merchantman bound for Nassau, and, with the little money Howel had left with Meg for safekeeping, we journeyed as passengers back to New Providence. Howel brooded much of the time, staring out across the sea and whittling pieces of wood with his knife. I, in turn, watched Howel, wishing I could lift the burden from his shoulders. I knew how great the temptation to go on the account must have been for him, and I often wondered what kept him from just giving in. Was he so righteous, so conscientious? Or did my prophecy have anything to do with it, that maybe he wanted to prove fate wrong?

It was hard to know, since he didn’t confide in me. Oh, he was his warm, friendly self with me, jesting and teasing as usual. But he wasn’t letting me in. And it wasn’t for my lack of trying. I tried and tried to bring back that sweet, playful sailor I had first met aboard the Cadogan, to no avail. I would see the wall come down, the eyes harden. Life had done a number on him, and he wasn’t going to forget it.

It did not pay to be good in this world of kings and slaves, of dog-eat-dog and an eye for an eye.

On the eve of our arrival in Nassau’s harbor, I could not stand it any longer. I approached Howel and, with my arms crossed on my chest, said, “Why aren’t you telling me what you’re thinking? Why don’t you talk to me?”

Howel had been sitting on the deck under the stars, his knees drawn up and his arms slung over them, staring at nothing, a frown on his face. Now, he looked at me in surprise. “How now?” He grinned slightly, his teeth glistening in the moonlight. “What would you have me tell you?”

I sighed, flopping down next to him. “What you’re thinking. Why you look so sad.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Do you really need me to tell you that?”

“No,” I replied, sounding like a spoiled child used to getting her way. “But you could share your thoughts, tell me what you want, how you feel about what I’ve told you regarding your future.”

I looked straight ahead, but I could feel him next to me, gazing at my profile. After a moment he asked, “Why would you want me to do that? Haven’t you enough to worry about without me worries heaped on you as well?”

I felt a blush creeping into my cheeks. I still didn’t look at him. “But aren’t we friends? Friends support each other.”

“A man and a woman, friends? Mayhaps in 2009 such things are possible, but in 1718, if a man and a woman reveal such confidences, they enter the realm of lovers.”

I felt as though I’d been zapped. Was it just my overactive imagination, or did his voice get lower, huskier as he said the word lovers? Get a grip, Sabrina. You’re a married woman. It took me a second, but I finally said, “No, it’s not so different in 2009. We try and tell ourselves that it’s different, that because men and women are equals, close friendships — without the romance — are possible.”

“Ah,” he said softly. “Then ‘twould be a bad idea, you and me getting too close.”

I still couldn’t look at him. My nerves strummed like guitar strings. I wanted to ask, Why would it be a bad idea? Because I’m married, or because you aren’t attracted to me? I finally stole a glance at him, finding that he watched me with interest, the hint of a smile on his mouth. Damn him! He was accustomed to women wanting him. A playboy in 1718 was just like a playboy in 2009. Human nature didn’t change with time. I was suddenly furious. So he thought I wanted him, then, and that he was letting me down gently? I’d show him.

Without thinking, the next words out of my mouth were, “It wouldn’t matter. You’re not my type, anyway.”

Howel laughed. It was a gleeful laugh, like that of a naughty boy. It was wonderful to hear him laugh so, with such abandon. He said, “Aye, I don’t doubt it. A sailor with no berth and no money at all, and a criminal record to boot.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” I said quickly.

“Oh,” he said, his expression puckish. “I see. You’ve a dislike for me personage, is that it? You prefer the stockier, lighter-haired gentlemen. A man more like…. Edward England.”

“Edward England?” I repeated incredulously. “What…”

“‘Tis best,” he said, waving his hand glibly, “as I prefer the more buxom, golden-haired maidens meself.”

I was at a loss for words. I couldn’t believe he’d just said that. I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, and he stared back, those blue eyes taunting me. He was trying to get a rise out of me, the jerk! I bit my tongue, forcing myself to look away. Don’t take the bait, Sabrina. I said as calmly as I could muster, “Good. Then let’s just pretend I’m the boy Will. Can you do that?”

“Aye,” he replied, sniffing and looking back out into the horizon. “‘Tis settled, then.”

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