Across a Moonlit Sea

by Marsha Canham

  On clear days the men still gathered on the gundeck and swapped stories. Once in a while Spence would join them, but conspicuous by his absence was Dante de Tourville. He spent most of the daylight hours poring over the salvaged letters and documents from the Spanish ship, searching for the key to the King’s code. They were all translated to the best of his abilities but if there was a key, he could not find it. Spit McCutcheon’s limited knowledge of Spanish proved to be just that. He knew how to ask a whore the price of a tup and how to barter for food and ale, but the refined Castilian spoken and written by the King and his governors left the quartermaster scratching his spiky gray stubble and scowling over the plague of the nobility.

  Lucifer’s rib, with or without the chicken foot, appeared to heal with miraculous speed. He was the only one who commanded a wide private space at least once each day while he practiced with his twin scimitars. The men would fan well back or swarm like ants into the shrouds and rigging, hanging by hooked arms and legs while they watched the enormous black man move gracefully around his cleared circle of deck, blades flashing and slashing at invisible foes.

  After a few days of watching, one brave lad ventured into the circle, his new Spanish cutlass glinting dully in the sunlight. Lucifer’s eyes narrowed warily for as long as it took the man to wipe the sweat off his palms and challenge the Cimaroon to a friendly match. The men who had put their mate up to it called out their wagers, and soon it looked as if there might be a new afternoon diversion. The unfortunate challenger had no hope of putting his blade anywhere near Lucifer and the Cimaroon became so frustrated himself at the boy’s ineptness, he started giving him instructions. From then on, at various times of the day, Lucifer’s gleaming ebony body could be seen leading a dozen or so men at a time through the intricate steps and arm movements that made him seem so invincible.

  Different groups drilled on the heavy guns. Geoffrey Pitt and Dante supervised these exercises until McCutcheon became almost as proficient, whereupon the task of honing the crew fell on his willing shoulders. As for Beau, she became as wily as Clarence the cat at avoiding Simon Dante. Whenever he was on deck, she managed to be elsewhere, and after the first few days he did not even trouble himself to look for her. The only times she could not make herself entirely invisible were those when Spence insisted on having everyone present for an evening meal. Then she would seat herself at the opposite end of the long trestle table, uncomfortably trying to ignore the hot and cold flushes that skittered along her spine each time Dante spoke or laughed, or just raked back his hair with impatient fingers.

  These were the same scarce times when Pitt and the Duchess of Navarre could sit in relatively close proximity without the bulk of the duenna intruding. These, too, were the times when Mistress Agnes Frosthip, who had started out guarding her charge with the tenacity of a fighting cock, seemed less concerned at the glances the pair exchanged than she was at the frequency with which her wine goblet was filled. As the days and leagues were swept swiftly behind them and it became clear that neither the burly captain nor the crew had any rapinous intentions toward her little lamb, the duenna even appeared to mellow somewhat, and to preen her moustache into a smile whenever Jonas Spence offered up an amusing anecdote.

  Geoffrey Pitt was, as Dante predicted, quite hopelessly taken by the petite duchess. His eyes shone like polished jade whenever they were set upon her; his hands suffered from a nervous tremor whenever their arms accidentally brushed or whenever the sky-blue eyes risked a glance into his. Because of Agnes Frosthip the two were rarely left alone, but those few moments, stolen here and there, were enough to suggest to Pitt that Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza did not really mind him finding ways to distract the duenna.

  “You were very wicked, señor,” the duchess whispered, drawing her cape closer around her neck to ward off the cool night breezes. “Señora Frosthip will have a very large head in the morning but a very short temper.”

  Pitt acknowledged his guilt with a wry chuckle. Throughout the meal he had kept the duenna’s goblet brimming and now, with Spence’s conspiratorial help, had earned a waved dismissal and permission to escort Doña Maria Piacenza around the deck for a last breath of fresh air before she retired.

  “If she so much as raises her voice to scold you, simply tell me and I will toss her overboard.”

  The duchess looked startled, then eased somewhat when she saw his wide, handsome smile. “You tease with me, Señor Pitt. It is unkind, since my English is not so very good.”

  “Your English is excellent and a credit to the señora. But yes, it was unkind of me to tease you.”

  She accepted his compliment and his apology with a shy little half-smile and Pitt’s heartbeat stammered in his chest. She had turned her face into the soft amber glow of the stern riding lantern, and every sweet translucent curve was brushed with a pale shimmer of gold light. His belly, his chest, his arms, ached with the need just to reach out and touch her, to run the backs of his fingers along her cheek to see if her skin was anywhere near as warm and smooth as he imagined it to be. He ached to see, just once, the timid, fearful wariness washed from her eyes, and to see her look at him with nothing but trust … and love.

  It was true: Pitt loved women and fell in love with nearly every beautiful woman who crossed his path. It was his one weakness and Dante mocked him mercilessly about it, saying that he could never just bed a woman and part with a fond farewell come daylight. He had to take her to heart, to woo her and win her and regard each act of love-making as if it was a commitment of the soul.

  More than just his soul was in his eyes, lodged in his throat, knotted in his belly now as he looked at the alabaster perfection of Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza. These were no ordinary knots either, they were deep and penetrated to the core, and ached with the hopelessness of knowing this was not just another cavalier infatuation. She was the niece of the King of Spain and he was the son of an ironmonger. Who she was, her lineage, her royal bloodlines, only made it that much more excruciating to know he could never have her even if he reformed his ways, abandoned the renegade life he led, vowed everlasting obedience, even took up the Catholic cross….

  He could love her but he could never touch her.

  A frisson of shock ran up his arm as he realized he was touching her. His hand was on the rail and the edge of her cloak was brushing up against it. She was looking out over the vast black emptiness of the sea and so could not see the expression on his face as he gazed down and caressed the tiny patch of cloth with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Señor”—she was suddenly there again, her face upturned to his, her eyes wide and dark and filmed with moisture—“do you believe in heaven and hell?”

  The question took him aback and he had to swallow hard before an answer stumbled off his tongue. “I … suppose I do. I mean, I must.”

  “But you are not certain.”

  “Of course I’m certain. I mean, if there wasn’t any such thing as heaven or hell … there would be nothing to separate good from evil. There would be no rules to follow, no reason not to kill, cheat, steal, lie.” He paused and twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “No hope of redemption for sinners like me.”

  “Are you a very bad sinner, señor?” she asked in her breathy whisper.

  Pitt gave more weight to the question than he normally might have done, partly because of the solemn expression on her face, partly because, in his twenty-nine years, he had not given it much thought before. Surely, he had done his share of cheating, scheming, and lying; it was a necessary evil in order to avoid spending the rest of his life molding iron over a peat fire. He had done his share of killing as well; it went hand in hand with the life he had chosen. But he had never deliberately betrayed the trust of another man, never raised a hand against a woman or child, never kicked a dog or slit a man’s throat for the sheer sport of it.

  “Not as bad as some,” he said finally. “Possibly worse than others. But I sleep well at night, and know many men who call me friend.”
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  “Including your Capitán Dante and Capitán Spence?” Her lashes fluttered down to shield her eyes. “They helped you tonight, did they not?”

  Pitt cleared his throat. “Helped me?”

  “Distract the señora.”

  He had the good sense not to deny it, and the better sense not to say anything at all while she struggled through whatever dilemma was putting a small frown on her brow.

  “You all seem so … kind. And far more honorable than I was told to expect in an Englishman. My … maid … warned us before we were taken from the San Pedro … that both the señora and I would probably be raped by every member of the crew before the first sun fell.”

  “Your maid frightened you needlessly,” Pitt assured her. “You have nothing—and no one—to fear on board this ship.”

  “She—she also said England is a pit of snakes and vipers; heretics who sacrifice children and drink the blood of their victims. She said it is a cold, dark place of pestilence and sickness where the sun never shines and terrible storms ravage the land all year round.”

  “We have a fair share of rain, but—”

  “She says the rain is God’s tears and that He despairs of ever saving England from the hands of heretics and devil-worshippers. She also says there is no beauty in England, no beauty in the people who live there.” Her lashes lifted and the stunningly clear blue eyes roved over the tawny gold waves of his hair, the handsome planes of his face, the solid breadth of his shoulders, before she continued. “She says the people are small and twisted, that they stink of sin and corruption. That to touch one, to—to lie with one, can only breed more corruption in the womb and condemn the immortal soul to everlasting hellfire.”

  “She said all that, did she? Words of comfort to cheer you on your journey?”

  “I … had never seen an Englishman before,” she confessed shyly, her eyes finding his again. “Only the señora, who told me once she used to be the most beautiful woman in her village.”

  “Had she been enjoying too much Madeira at the time?” Pitt asked with a frown.

  The duchess tilted her face higher into the light and smiled in a way that sent Pitt’s heart into his throat. “I believe she must have been, for you are not the smallest part ugly. Or frightening. And you smell … quite wonderful.”

  Pitt’s tongue suddenly felt as dry and matted as a skein of uncombed wool. All of his wit and most of his senses deserted him, and he could think of nothing either charming or amusing to say in return. He could only think of what he would forfeit at that particularly desperate moment—an arm, a leg, all his teeth, his ears, his toes—just to kiss her bow-shaped mouth one time.

  The moment faded along with her smile. “What do you think will happen to me when we come to England? Will I be … sent to prison?”

  “Good God, no. You will be treated with all the courtesy and respect due a royal visitor. Judging by what your maid has told you about England, I can only imagine the stories you have heard about our Queen, but I promise you, none of them are true.”

  “She is not thin and old and does not have hair the color of unripe cherries?”

  “Her Majesty is slender, and mature, and her hair is … er, reddish, yes, but would pale to inconsequence beside Captain Spence’s beard.”

  “She does not hang priests and burn those who follow the Catholic faith?”

  “She … discourages them from practicing openly, but the fires, I am afraid, belong to your own Court of Inquisition.”

  A fine crease of a frown reappeared. “And she has not kept her only sister locked away in a prison cell for nineteen years?”

  “Mary Stuart is her half sister and has plotted ceaselessly to assassinate Elizabeth and take the throne by force. She had the throne of Scotland and could not keep it through all her wild affairs and schemings. Our Queen has tried on numerous occasions to effect a reconciliation, only to uncover yet another plot, another attempt to steal the throne, another assassin lurking in the shadows. Would your King react any differently to someone who repeatedly committed outright acts of treason?”

  “I do not know how our King would react, I am only—” She stopped and bit her lip, consigning her face to the shadows again. “I am not privy to Court discussions.”

  It was not the first time Doña Maria had taken refuge behind the innocence and ignorance of her position. Many times, in fact, when the discussions over the meal table became heated—which they often did with Spence, Dante, and Beau expressing their opinions as freely as flowing water—the duchess would grow visibly pale and cringe in apprehension of any attempt to draw her into the conversation. Pitt supposed it was because she had been raised in a convent and groomed to do nothing more than marry into a rich alliance. Nonetheless, she was a sharp contrast to someone like Beau Spence, who spoke her mind with a frankness and authority that brought to mind a not too distant parallel with England’s own queen.

  But then everything about Doña Maria Piacenza was a sharp contrast to Beau Spence. And while Pitt had come to admire the captain’s daughter for her intelligence and wit—not to mention her skill at the helm of a ship—he was not about to discount the appeal of a woman whose unfounded fears and vulnerability struck at the very soul of chivalry.

  It was true she had been taken as a hostage to ensure safe passage home, but political hostages were taken frequently, on both sides of the Channel, and exchanged on a regular, almost amicable basis. The more valuable the hostage, the quicker the exchange.

  Pitt looked down at the duchess’s hands again, which were now worrying the elaborate lacing on the cuff of her sleeve. They were slender, delicate hands, devoid of the sort of gaudy jewelry most nobles liked to wear to flaunt their wealth. Her only adornment was a plain gold circlet, molded at one end to the shape of a tiny hand, the other an equally tiny heart, the two twined together to close the circlet.

  Was she married? Was the ring worn to signify her heart belonged to another?

  “Maria,” he murmured, easing closer and placing his hands on her shoulders, “Maria, I don’t want to squander what little time we have together debating politics or—”

  The duchess reacted as much to the familiar use of her name as she did to the warmth of his hands and body pressing against hers. She recoiled sideways and spun fully into the light, her hands flying up to rest against the base of her white throat.

  Pitt acknowledged both infractions at once. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dona Maria, I did not mean any disrespect—”

  “We can have no time together, señor. I should not have come out here alone with you tonight; I must not be alone with you again.” She turned and ran along the deck and was swallowed into the shadows of the hatchway before Geoffrey Pitt could uproot his feet to follow. He caught the merest glimpse of the hem of her cloak as she dashed into her cabin, but he was too late to earn more than the sound of the door slamming in his face.

  He leaned his hands on the rough surface of the wood, fisting them against the urge to open it and force his way inside. Behind him the door to Spence’s cabin was open, spilling a wide shaft of bright light into the companionway. The slamming of the duchess’s door had caused a noticeable break in the conversation, and he heard the scraping of a chair as Agnes Frosthip hurriedly excused herself.

  Pitt stared at the closed door a moment longer, then pushed himself away. He crossed paths with the duenna but ignored her glowering expression with the same tense indifference he ignored the eyebrow Dante raised askance. He returned to his seat and snatched up the bottle of wine, splashing a healthy draft in his cup before glaring at Dante, Beau, and Spence to resume whatever discussion they had been having before he interrupted.

  In actual fact, with the duenna present, they had not been discussing anything remotely interesting to either Beau or Simon Dante and while both had been trying to find some excuse to end the evening, both had been wary of the look in Spence’s eye warning them against leaving him alone with Agnes Frosthip. But now Pitt was back and Frosthi
p was gone, although there appeared to be no significant increase in pleasure at the exchange of one surly face for another.

  Spence thumped his goblet on the table. “Damned if I haven’t dried out my mouth tryin’ to keep that codface from going on an’ on about herself an’ her fine life in Spain. If we were any closer to the coast, I’d gladly mount a sail on her arse an’ let her swim for it.”

  “I think she has warmed to you, Father,” Beau suggested. “Perhaps she was trying to impress you.”

  “Impress me?” The red fuzz of his beard gaped open. “God’s liver, girl. I’d sooner risk splinters from a pine knot as poke anythin’ she has to offer. Aye, Cap’n, an’ ye’ve been a dread good help fer a man worth near as much as Francis bloody Drake. Could ye not have jumped in a time or two an’ dazzled the drone with some o’ yer wit an’ charm?”

  “Neither my wit nor my charm seems to hold any merit these days,” Dante answered glibly, toying with a bead of moisture on the rim of his goblet.

  “Aye, well, no wonder at that, broodin’ all the blessed day long over them papers. Plymouth is still two weeks away by my reckonin’, plenty o’ time to work out a code … if it’s there.”

  “It’s there,” Dante said evenly. “I just haven’t seen it.”

  “Aye, well, I’ve got better things to mull on. For one, I’ve a hold full o’ treasure to make the rest o’ my days as easy as easy can be. For another, I’ve got a comely widow woman on New Street who should be watchin’ the port every day about now, waitin’ for me to drop anchor. Broad as a beam she is, but strong enough to squeeze me till my eyes roll back in my head. An’ no teeth. Not a one. Doesn’t waste a breath or a beat on idle prattle. Not like this one—” He crooked a thumb at the duenna’s empty chair. “Like as not, a man would have to stuff her mouth with flannel to keep her from talkin’ him to death.”