Halting at the edge of the crowd, Caroline peered through the swaying bodies for a sign of her Philippe.
“Forgery, cheating at cards …”
Caroline pressed through the mob.
“Making a lewd suggestion to a lady,” the man continued, causing some ladies to gasp. “And piracy.”
“Hang him! Hang him!” someone shouted.
“Cuelgalo a el!” others repeated in Spanish, stirring the crowd into a frenzy. Even a few of the ladies joined in.
“What does ‘hang’ mean?” Abilene asked.
“Nothing.” Caroline drew her daughter close, glad the little girl was too short to see what was happening.
Caroline, however, had a full view of the man who had committed all those horrid crimes as a masked executioner escorted him up the steps of the scaffold to a waiting noose. Dark hair jostled over the collar of his brown open shirt. A red velvet sash was tied about his waist, while baggy black trousers fed into thick boots that clacked up each wooden tread of his death march. He glanced toward the crowd. Her heart froze. She’d never forget a face like his. Nor his imposing figure. The only thing that was missing was the sword and pistols he had kept stuffed in a thick leather belt—now conspicuously absent from his chest. Yes, she’d know him anywhere. Particularly when his eyes now reached through the crowd and locked upon hers. Coffee-colored eyes, if she remembered. Eyes that—against her best efforts—had once made her insides melt.
Eyes that had assessed her with impunity above a devious grin, while he and his crew had plundered the ship that had brought her and her husband François to Santa Barbara.
“What have you to say regarding these crimes?” the magistrate asked him.
The villain pulled his gaze from her and faced the portly man. “I am innocent, of course!” His baritone voice bore a slight Spanish accent, while a boyish grin elicited chuckles from the crowd. “On what evidence do you charge me, señor?”
One man pointed toward the ship in the bay. “On the evidence of your ship, you vile pirate!”
“My ship? It has done nothing wrong. As for myself, I was coming ashore to purchase supplies.”
The eloquence of his speech surprised Caroline. Certainly not what she expected from a pirate.
“Purchase? You mean steal!” another man yelled.
“And then murder us all in our beds,” someone added.
The pirate snapped hair from his face. “I had no such intentions, I assure you.”
One of the wealthy ranchers stepped forward, adjusted his embroidered vest, and nodded toward the pirate. “This bandito robbed me of my money and my wife of her jewels when we sailed from San Diego to Santa Barbara three years ago.” He glanced over the crowd and huffed. “And he even propositioned my poor wife. She has never quite recovered from his lewd suggestions.”
The pirate shrugged with a grin.
“I was there as well,” another man shouted. “I can vouch for what Señor Lucero says. This man boarded our ship and looted all the passengers.”
Caroline could very well add her testimony to the others, for she had been on that same ship. But her experience had been quite different. This pirate—this Dante Vega—had done her and her husband no harm. In fact, quite the opposite. He had hidden them away in their stateroom and forbidden his men entrance. Not only that, but he had not taken their money or any of their possessions. Nor had he frightened the children. In fact, he seemed quite intent on keeping the little ones safe. Caroline could make no sense of it, though at the time she had thanked God for giving them favor in the cullion’s sight.
“Therefore,” the magistrate shouted, bringing her back to the present, “as judge of the court of Santa Barbara, I deem that you shall be hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
The executioner slipped the noose over Dante’s head. Still, his eyes held no fear as he faced the magistrate. “Is there no mercy to be found in this hellish mockery of a court, sir?”
“No mercy for pirates,” the potbellied magistrate spat back. “Unless”—he grinned and scanned the mob—“according to our law, one of these ladies agrees to marry you. Make a decent man out of you.” His jovial tone spoke of the lunacy of the statement.
Laughter swept through the crowd. Caroline’s heart thrashed like a storm at sea. This man had obviously not come here to pirate. In fact, for all she knew, he’d given up the trade and had become an honest man. And she needed a man. A strong man. A man who knew how to fight. Someone to protect her and her children from vigilantes and help her workers harvest the grapes. If not, they would lose everything, their wine, their grapes, and eventually their land.
And her husband’s dream.
“Very well.” The magistrate gave a nod to the executioner to pull the lever.
Hoisting Abilene in her arms, Caroline plowed through the crowd, ignoring the gasps and moans, and stood before the scaffold.
“I’ll marry him!”
Chapter 2
Dante couldn’t believe his luck. If there was a God, He must be looking out for Dante. Though why, he couldn’t imagine. Dante had broken every one of His commandments—at least the ones his mom had pounded into him as a child. Yet, to not only save his neck but give him a beautiful wife … Well, perhaps Dante should rethink his rejection of religion as a guilt-ridden cult of greedy hypocrites. Still, the woman was an American. And Dante hated Americans. He’d spent the last seven years plundering American ships along the California coast—beautiful shores and golden rolling hills that had once belonged to Mexico. And would belong to her again, if Dante had his way. Perhaps it was for the best that the lady was his enemy. That way he wouldn’t feel the least bit guilty when he took what he wanted from her, repaired his ship, and sailed away.
His new wife had not spoken a word to him after the ceremony except to say they’d discuss terms later. Terms? He smiled. The only terms he was interested in was sharing this lovely’s bed for a night or two and then pilfering her goods.
She snapped the reins, urging the horse forward down Delavina Street. Wisps of hair the color of the sun trickled from beneath her straw hat, drawing his gaze to a neck as graceful as the lady herself. A blue gown, bordered in lace tightened around a tiny waist then flowed down to her mud-caked ankle boots. Though her hands were small and delicate, rosy cheeks and glowing skin revealed that she didn’t shy away from the sun like so many American ladies. Eyes as green as sea kelp glanced his way. He swallowed. Why hadn’t this beauty been snatched up by one of the wealthy ranchers in town?
The wagon dipped into a hole, creaking and groaning and nearly sending Dante over the side. The children giggled behind him. He could feel their little eyes boring into his back and glanced over his shoulder. Wide, innocent grins met his gaze. Handsome children. But then he always did like children. They were so honest and pure before the harsh realities of the world tainted them—taught them to lie and steal and cheat their way through life.
Because in the end, it was every man, or woman, for themselves.
A salty breeze stirred the sycamores and bay laurels lining the street as they jostled past several adobe homes and a few wooden ones, a warehouse, a string of shops, and a Baptist church, of all things. Not something he’d expected to see in this nefarious town. In the distance, final rays of the setting sun swept over the hills bordering the city on the east and then shimmered off the white mission with its stark belfries shooting into the sky.
Jerking the reins, the lady turned down Micheltorena Street, crossed over a bridge, and headed beneath an arched sign that read MOREAU WINERY. Row after row of vines, heavy with grapes, spanned out from the dirt road like spokes in a wheel. In the distance, an adobe home with a red-tiled roof nestled among the golden hills. Not only had he married a beautiful woman, but a rich one as well! Things were looking up, indeed.
“Are you a real pirate?” the little boy asked Dante as they stepped into the cool interior of the home. The lady ushered in the little girl and set a satchel atop a wooden t
able.
“That’s not a polite question, Philippe.” She removed her bonnet and turned to face her son.
“But Mama, that’s what the other man said.”
“Forgive my son, Señor Vega. If you would care to sit?” She gestured toward a stuffed sofa in the corner, but Dante had trouble taking his eyes off of her. Ringlets of gold framed a face that would stop a thousand ships. Yet there was something familiar about her. He would never forget a woman possessing such beauty.
She must have seen the desire in his eyes, for she drew a ragged breath and lifted her chin. “These are my children, Philippe and Abilene.”
“Nice to meet you, señor.” The young boy reached out his hand and gave Dante’s a firm shake. The little girl, a mass of red curls surrounding a freckled nose and green eyes, peeked at him from within the folds of her mother’s skirts.
Now he remembered them. The beautiful señora, her adorable children, and her spindly whiffet of a husband, who had been too cowardly to defend them from pirates. “Thank you for saving me from the noose, Señora … Señora …”
“Moreau. Señora Caroline Moreau. And you are welcome.” She inched backward toward a rack of rifles hanging on the wall. “But your life comes at a cost.”
“I have no doubt.” Dante snorted as he glanced around the room. A rug covered most of the redbrick floor while white-washed adobe walls boasted tapestries, brass sconces, and oil paintings. A piano sat in one corner, an olive-green sofa in another, and next to the beautiful señora stood an oak dining table. Open french doors framed in yellow velvet curtains led to a veranda overlooking the vineyard, while arched openings on either side of the room led to additional chambers. Perhaps there were more valuable items elsewhere, for there certainly wasn’t anything worth stealing here.
“They were going to hang you, señor.” Philippe’s eyes widened.
“Indeed, they were,” Dante replied with a smile.
“What’s ‘hang,’ Mama?” The little girl, still clinging to her mother’s skirts, pulled the thumb from her mouth to ask.
“Never mind that now, ma chère. Philippe, please take your sister and go fetch some water from the creek. I wish to speak to Señor Vega alone.”
“Ah, Mama,” the boy complained, but one stern look from his mother made him grab his sister and slog out the door.
Turning, she plucked a rifle from the rack, spun back around, and aimed it at Dante’s heart.
Caroline judged the distance between her and the pirate. A good fifteen feet. Time enough to shoot him before he charged her. Oh, bon sang, what had she done? Why did she always rush into things before considering the consequences?
Before the pirate could do whatever evil deed his salacious gaze bespoke, Caroline cocked the rifle. “I know how to use this.”
He chuckled and rubbed his dark bristled chin. “Yet it makes no sense why you would save me from the noose only to shoot me.”
“Regardless, I will shoot you if you try anything untoward.”
“Untoward?” He took a step in her direction, his dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now, why would you presume such a thing?”
“I know that look in a man’s eyes.”
He took another step toward her.
“Stay where you are.” Her hand trembled, sending the barrel of the gun oscillating over his chest—a very muscular chest that peeked at her from within his open-necked shirt.
Stopping, he shook his head with a snort. “You marry a known pirate, bring him into your home, and you expect him to act like one of the monks from your mission?”
“I expect him to be grateful for his life.”
“I am grateful.” He stepped closer, his boots clacking on the brick floor. “Let me show you how much.” He reached for her, his eyes flashing. Before she could react, he jerked the gun from her hands. “You’ve no need for this, señora.” He unloaded it and set it down on the table. “I have no intention of hurting you or your children.”
Heart crashing against her ribs, Caroline backed away from him. He towered at least a foot above her, all muscle and man, and she knew he could do whatever he wanted. But the look in those coffee-colored eyes made her almost believe what he said. Almost.
“Don’t point a gun at me again, señora.” A breeze brought his scent of sweat and the sea to her nose, a briny aroma not all too unpleasant. He gestured for her to move away from the rifles. She did. Over to the piano out of his reach. He raked back his slick dark hair and stared at her. “Why bring me here if you fear me?”
“Because you were kind to me once,” she said.
He nodded.
“So, you remember?”
“You are a hard lady to forget, señora.” One side of his lips quirked as his eyes roved over her yet again.
She hugged herself, trying to hide from his gaze. “Why did you help us? On the ship. Why did you protect us?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and stared out the open french doors where the sun stole the last of the light. “My men would have …” He hesitated and faced her. “Let’s just say they would have sorely used you, and then … well, a white woman of your beauty would bring a great price down south.”
A sour taste climbed up Caroline’s throat. She had always longed for freedom. She had wanted to live life outside the strictures of her wealthy family back in New Orleans. And so, against their will, she had married François, a penniless Frenchman with a dream of producing the best wine in America. But she hadn’t realized that freedom came with a price: hard work, uncertainty, scarcity, and worst of all danger—danger to herself and to her precious children and finally, death to her husband.
“And the little ones,” the pirate added. “I could not tolerate their innocence stolen at so young an age.”
So the man had some kindness in his heart, after all. Perhaps she hadn’t been completely wrong about him. “That is why I chose you, Señor Pirate.”
“Where is your husband?” he asked. “The man you were traveling with.”
“Dead. Trampled by a horse.” Only six months ago, but sometimes it felt like a lifetime.
“I’m sorry.” There was genuine sympathy in his voice. He pulled a chair from the table and sat down, leaning forward on his knees. “What is it you want from me, Señora Moreau?”
“Protection.”
His brows rose. “From what?”
Philippe’s laughter drifted in from the window. “I’ll explain later, señor, when the children are asleep. But for now, I want your promise that you won’t steal from us or hurt us.”
“I already told you I would do you no harm. Besides”—his sultry grin returned—“why would I hurt my own wife?”
There he went again, looking at her as if she were a sweet beignet served up on a platter. Though her insides trembled, she forced authority into her voice. “Wife in name only, Señor Pirate. There will be no marital relations between us.”
Though the woman held herself sturdy, Dante sensed the terror storming through her. No marital relations? That would be impossible with a woman like her. He’d intended to tell her just that when the children returned, sloshing water from a bucket they fought over between them. With her head held high, Señora Moreau grabbed the pail and left the room, dragging her children with her. Within moments, the sizzle of a stove sounded, followed by the scent of garlic, and Dante made himself comfortable on the sofa, looking forward to his first home-cooked meal in years. Whatever the reasons the lady had brought him here, it couldn’t hurt to stay for a night of good food and a warm bed. Especially if he shared that bed with her. Plus, it would give him a chance to scour the place for any valuables he could use to redeem his ship from the city council.
Dinner consisted of a meager portion of beans and bread—hardly enough to satisfy the children, let alone a grown man—making Dante wonder at his first assessment of their wealth. Nevertheless, he was about to shove a forkful into his mouth when the lady shot him an accusing glance and asked Philippe to bless the food. Th
e young boy gladly complied, lifting up a prayer of thanks so sincere it would make a priest rejoice.
It made Dante uncomfortable.
Still, the simple fare was delicious. And the company even more enjoyable as the children prattled on about their day helping some man named Sisquoc tend the grapes. The little girl, Abilene, never took her eyes off Dante, even as she partook of her meal. The adoring, curious way she looked at him made his insides feel funny. He gave her a playful wink, finally eliciting a grin in return. Philippe, on the other hand, boldly asked Dante question after question about how he got caught and how many ships he had plundered and whether he had killed anyone.
Señora Moreau, barely touching the small portion she’d served herself, chastised her son and apologized to Dante, but he shrugged it off. “Curiosity is a good thing in a lad.”
“He is much too curious about the wrong things.” She gave her son a look of reprimand, but embedded in her eyes was a love Dante had never seen before. His own mother had done quite a bit of chastising but had omitted the loving part.
After supper the children happily assisted their mother clearing the table and helping to clean the dishes. So much giggling poured from the kitchen that Dante wandered to the door and leaned on the post, watching the three of them smiling and laughing as they worked together. An unusual sadness swamped him. He harbored no such memories of his childhood. No laughter, no smiles, no warm embraces.
Dante should leave. Go back to the harsh, cruel world where he belonged. There was nothing for him here. He could join one of the many games of faro downtown and win enough to get his ship back in a matter of months. But curiosity kept him in place. That and the way the little girl now stared at him after the dishes had been done and they all sat together in the main room—as if he were her best gift at Christmas. She no longer clung to her mother’s skirts but instead even dared to take a seat beside him on the sofa.
Señora Moreau brought out a small bowl of cherries for them to share and coffee for Dante. He’d prefer something stronger. Much stronger if he was to combat the odd sensations flowing through him. Especially when Abilene slid her tiny hand in his and looked up at him with those innocent green eyes and said, “Are you my new papa?”
The WESTWARD Christmas BRIDES COLLECTION: 9 Historical Romances Answer the Call of the American West Page 55