Free Captive Secrets by Fern Michaels Page B

stomach churned. It was wrong, he knew it was wrong, but . . . he no longer cared. He’d gone by the evidence, and in the end that’s all that mattered. He wished the girl well.
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    The blazing sun boiled downward, but Amalie paid it no mind as she walked toward the harbor, shoulders drooping and head down in a subservient manner. For once she desired anonymity and knew full well that in her present posture the scurvy few at the harbor would virtually ignore her until she raised her head and challenged them with her yellow eyes.
    The harbormaster was no stranger to Amalie. He’d always been civil when she appeared and asked to see the ships that belonged to Chaezar Alvarez. She also knew that he was a friend of the justice’s and would now know that she was entitled to her father’s property.
    A monstrous banyan tree surrounded by thick greenery at the side of the road beckoned with promise of shade, and Amalie was drawn toward it. She needed time to think, to rest a moment, time to massage her aching, callused feet.
    As she lowered herself onto a mossy patch beneath the old tree, she was suddenly assailed by doubt. Perhaps she should wait to visit the harbormaster, buy some clothes and shoes and come back another day. Those she would deal with now would regard her as a slab of meat, a slave’s bastard child dressed in a worn, thin chemise that left nothing to the imagination. Would the gold in the pouch she held in her hand garner respect?
    Her head snapped upward as another thought struck her. What would be the outcome in regard to the jeweler’s death? Was there anyone who knew how much money he kept in his cash box—his wife, some family member, a shop owner? Had she left enough coins there to satisfy the authorities that burglary had not been the motive for his death? It had taken all her strength to snap the man’s fat neck, something some men wouldn’t be able to do. Certainly no one would suspect a woman. No, a simple crime of passion, a murder—probably at the hands of one bent on vengeance—would be the verdict rendered by the . . . justice, the same justice responsible for giving her her new life.
    Satisfied that her interpretation of the incident would be shared by the authorities, Amalie rose to her feet in one effortless movement. She’d had all the rest she could afford, and as inviting as the tree looked, she had to move on. She straightened her shoulders and headed for the harbormaster’s quarters.
    Hans Wilhelm was a crusty old man with twinkling eyes and a hatred for soap and water. On his desk were two guns and a saber that he used or threatened to use on a daily basis. He was so fat he was grotesque, and his twinkling eyes were merely a trick of the light filtering through the wooden shutters. He was a hard man to deal with, and his only priority in life was to gouge as much money as he could from the owners of the trading vessels he dealt with.
    Wilhelm leaned back in his chair, his belly jiggling with his effort. His coarse shirt was stained with weeks of sweat, and he reeked of himself. Amalie breathed through her mouth as she entered his office and waited for him to speak. He knew why she was there; she could see it in his beady eyes. His voice, when he spoke, came from deep in his belly, gruff yet hollow-sounding.
    â€œI’ve been waiting for you, Amalie, my dear.”
    â€œI want to know if you’ll take the brigantine, the galleon, and the sloop and trade me a frigate.” Amalie forced herself to sound casual, indifferent, as though she really didn’t care one way or another what the harbormaster’s answer would be.
    Wilhelm’s nostrils quivered. He smelled money. “Now, why would I want those rotten ships? And why would the likes of you be wanting a frigate?”
    Staring at him, Amalie was reminded of a mound of dough with finger indentations. “I asked you a question, Mr. Wilhelm. If you can’t give