Pirate's Rose

by Janet Lynnford

  He put one finger under her chin and raised it tenderly, forcing her to meet his eyes. "It is hardly a waste of time for me to admire your beauty. You are a beauty, you know, yet you continually deny it, and I cannot think why."

  "But what is the purpose?" she insisted, determined to argue. "Beauty is not useful. It doesn't feed my family, nor can it cure the sick. It cannot help my business—"

  "It gives folk pleasure," he interrupted, "to gaze upon your lovely face." His hand shifted to cradle her cheek.

  "Which ones?" She held his gaze uneasily, unable to look away from him. Holding her breath, she waited, in mortal terror of what he would do. Not because of him, but because of her—of how she would feel.

  "This one." He leaned nearer, one hand caressing her cheek, the other encircling her waist. She looked deep into his eyes—they were a dark, stormy blue, like the waves of the Dorset sea she loved so well. Transfixed, she let this gaze engulf her, while thrills of pleasure raced up and down her spine.

  The shrill cry of a gull shattered the moment. An odd thing. Gulls seldom came out at night.

  Instantly Kit turned toward the water, letting her go. The unexpected move jolted her. She stared at his back, feeling bereft.

  "It seems, Rose, I am called to my duties." He turned back to her. His face wore a preoccupied look. "My work awaits me. You, my dear, must hurry directly home."

  "I'll not!" Roz wrinkled her brow at him, his words evoking hot fury inside her. How dare he kiss her one minute, then turn away the next. "I came here for a walk, if you recall, and I wanted it alone. You, sir, have interfered."

  "I have. Forgive me." He pivoted back to her, knelt sud­denly before her on the sand. "I most humbly beg your pardon."

  "You should beg my pardon," she told him with a shiver, her fury cooling abruptly. "You do the most horrible things to me. Things I don't like."

  Kit regarded her intently. "Perhaps I should not tempt you with these private meetings. I'll not, if you send me away. Is that what you honestly desire? Think carefully before you answer, for it is not my wish." A faint sound of water splashing drifted in from the mist to where they stood on the darkened shore.

  "I do wish it," she told him firmly, though her blood sang desperately otherwise. "I need no more trouble in my life. I have enough as it is."

  "Then I shall cease to bother you." He rose swiftly, look­ing suddenly mysterious in the black cloak. "But before I go, I'll have your vow. You'll keep my secret. I know you will. But I'd hear it from your lips."

  "Secret?" she echoed dismally, thinking only of how she was sending him away. "I'll not say a word. Not to anyone."

  He studied her face thoroughly before he indicated the mask in his hand. "I never asked for this masquerade, yet it is my duty. No one else of West Lulworth knows. I place my trust in your care."

  Roz gulped, wondering exactly what he meant. Clearly it was important, or he wouldn't swear her to secrecy, wouldn't want to hide the fact that he was on the shore at night, wearing a black mask, about to rendezvous with someone at sea. She felt overwhelmed by his trust. Or was it something else that overwhelmed her? "I won't tell a soul I saw you here," she whispered, reaching out to touch his face, tracing the hard angle of his cheekbone softly with her fingers. "By my troth. And I will aid you, if you have need."

  "I shouldn't think that necessary. But I thank you." Clasping her hand, he pressed it for a long, fervent moment to his lips. Then he spun around and went away.

  Rozalinde sat down abruptly on a stone, frozen in place as she watched his retreating back. The fog thickened, then swallowed up his form. She heard the sound of oars splashing in the water, pulling out to sea. Soon even that was gone.

  Christopher Howard watched the waves beat against the side of the skiff and his man heave away at the oars as they floated out to sea. Just at the mouth of the encircling cove, he discerned one faint point of light deep in the fog. It was straight toward that light they rowed.

  Soon a ship reared up before them, a sleek, one-masted pinnace, its sails reefed. Kit gave the shrill cry of the gull as they approached. At his signal, a rope ladder came hurl­ing over the side. He clambered up, vaulted over the rail, and landed with a thud on the deck of The Raven.

  "Faith, 'tis about time. I thought you'd never come." Captain Courte Philips thrust his hand into Kit's in a hasty greeting.

  Kit headed for the stern cabin, letting Courte issue orders for the first mate to take them out of the cove. When the two of them were inside, he calmly bolted the door.

  "Do you think we'll make the rendezvous?" Courte asked anxiously. "What if we miss them in this fog?"

  Kit removed his hat and cloak, tossed them with his mask on the bunk. "Calm yourself. Now's not the time for nerves."

  Courte sat on a stool at the table and held his callused hands before the lantern. They shook slightly. "I am nervous, especially now. Why were you late? Does anyone suspect?"

  Kit reached for a wooden box where bread was stored. His hands, Courte noticed, were steady. Selecting a chunk of hard biscuit, Kit bit into it.

  "How can you eat at a time like this?"

  Kit regarded him darkly. "I did not dine tonight—too many things to attend." He shook his head grimly and finished eating, then got up and moved to the porthole, taking

  the ship's roll in his stride. "Rumors fly everywhere. In the town, in all the shops. Even my servants gossip in the kitchens. All this talk about the Beggar King."

  Courte's face registered skepticism. "I've heard it, too. Everyone saying he'll land in Dorset—saying he's done it before, giving away heaps of goods to the poor. He's quite the hero to our Lulworth friends. But I can't think why he would bother to come here."

  "He will, though."

  Courte searched his friend's face quickly, wondering how much he knew. "You haven't seen or met him, have you?"

  Kit shook his head in the negative. "No, but I received this." From a small box on the table he produced a square of paper, handed it to Courte.

  Courte shot him a questioning glance as he took the paper. He unfolded it and scanned the contents, squinting as he struggled with a few words. "Where did it come from?" he asked finally. "One of my regular crew of The Raven brought it, along with this." Kit pulled a bag from the pouch at his waist, let it fall beside the note on the table. It released the pungent scent of cloves. "Another sailor on the wharf passed it to him—someone he didn't recognize, who said it was for me. The cloves are from the Canary Islands. Pirated."

  "Pay it no heed." Courte dismissed the message. "Probably a hoax."

  Kit merely looked at him.

  "There you go again, so trusting," Courte broke out in exasperation. "Assuming this Beggar King sent it when it might be a trap—a note from someone who doesn't address you directly." Holding out the paper, Courte read aloud. "He wants to 'discourse with Her Majesty's favored servant.' Signs himself 'a loyal subject of the Prince of Orange.'" Courte threw the note on the table. "Doesn't even sign his name."

  Kit remained silent, his jaw set.

  Courte tugged on his jerkin belt in a frustrated gesture. "All right, let me put it another way. What if you're right? What if it is from the Beggar King? He's nothing but a pirate, who could end up in the noose, same as anyone."

  "If he's a pirate, we're the same." Kit's warning was terse. "It seems you forget that fact."

  "But we serve the queen."

  "And he serves the Prince of Orange, as lord admiral of his navy. It's Spain who sees him as a rebel and a pirate. And if that's the case, how do you think they see us? We could all, as you say, end up in the noose. Or at the point of a sword." Kit gave Courte a compelling stare. "I would have you understand my decision. The Beggar King has long been my inspiration—as well you know. I do talk about him as if he were godly. It seems to me he is—a nobleman who gave up everything he held dear—even his identity—to take the mask of the Beggar King and fight for something he believes in. We don't know his real name or anything about hi
m. Nothing but rumors. Now, since the queen has asked me to work against Spain, it would make sense for me to join forces with him. In truth, I relish the opportunity. I intend to meet with him, as he requests in the note."

  "When? How?" Courte writhed on his seat, discomfited by Kit's statement, still worried about a trap. "I don't like the queen giving you this mission. 'Tis uncommon hard."

  "I agree." Kit was silent for a moment before he went on. "When the queen asked me this favor a year ago, we were at Whitehall. I almost said no, that place reminded me of so many things." He grimaced. "My father took me there when I was seven; my brother, thirteen. Harry was presented to Her Majesty. I was left in a stable courtyard all day, where naturally I played in the dust and dirtied my linen. Earned a whipping for it." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "My father believed childhood was a disease. Only when I got over it would I be worth anything. And manners were taught with a cane. He was the coldest man alive."

  "You never told me about him," Courte said quietly, realizing Kit's mood had changed.

  "I try not to think about him." Kit stroked his beard, expression fierce. "He beat me for every infraction, real or imagined. I wasn't the only one. The servants were thrashed daily for their errors. My brother was spared; being the heir, his hide was precious. He taunted me about it. Probably hoped it was because our father loved him. But that was highly unlikely; the Earl of Wynford didn't love anyone. He didn't know what the word meant."

  Courte shuddered at the hostility in Kit's voice. There was much he didn't know about Kit, despite their eight-year acquaintance. "You're the Earl of Wynford now," he said.

  "I know." Kit stared out at the waves, clenching one fist around the hilt of his sword, wanting to squeeze the life out of that reality. "Here I am, following in his footsteps, when I swore never to be like him."

  "You're not," Courte assured him quickly. "Not in the least—"

  "Not in obvious ways." Kit rubbed his brow, puzzled by his own statement. He wasn't like his father, was he? He looked down to where he still clutched the sword hilt, forced himself to loosen his grip. Slowly he moved away from the porthole, stood before his favorite pilot's chart while drawing a deep, calming breath. "Forgive me, Courte. I'm not myself tonight. It's coming back to West Lulworth after all these years, and taking on this damned title. I find myself doing things I don't understand." Like buying all that ruined lace, he thought darkly. And so desperately wanting that girl.

  "You're more deserving of the title than either your fa­ther or brother," Courte insisted. "They served themselves, but you—you serve the queen faithfully, protecting England against invasion by Spain. Philip is the most powerful ruler in Christendom and Her Majesty fears him."

  "Aye, he wants to rule England just as he does the Neth­erlands. If he hadn't inherited that land from his father, he'd not rule it, either. With his Inquisition and high taxes, no wonder the people turn to the Prince of Orange to lead them in rebellion."

  Courte nodded. "At least they aid us by rebelling. As long as King Philip must subdue them, he is distracted from conquering England." He paused. "That reminds me. You didn't say why you were late."

  Kit went back to the porthole, stared moodily out into the blank darkness. "I was delayed by ... certain business."

  Courte made a face. "A woman. I should have known. They're always after you—"

  "Not one of those." Kit cut him off sharply without looking around.

  Courte laughed, trying to sound nonchalant. "I've nothing against bedding. You know that. Though you get more than your share, if you ask me." He shook his head ear­nestly at Kit's questioning glance. "Nay, I'm not jealous. I wouldn't know what to do with so many women. But tell me then, what's she like? Is she from these parts?"

  Kit shrugged evasively and stood for a long moment, making Courte wait for an answer. He thought of Rose. She was not one of those, that was sure. So why he bothered with her, he couldn't fathom. Yet he'd had enough of the other kind—women who craved seduction. Skilled strumpets and bawds, noblewomen with lust as voluptuous as their figures, comely servant maids, all intent on the same thing—what he could give them. Some wanted his money; others, the pleasure he offered in bed. Images of the many he'd had blurred in his mind's eye, making them all seem the same, especially in the dark. He was tired of them. Jaded. He'd vowed to be aloof now that he was earl, and he had. For a full year.

  But then he met this girl. Once he would have wooed her, taken her to bed, forgotten her. Pure and simple. But nothing was pure and simple anymore.

  Kit rubbed his forehead, trying to clear his thoughts. What was it about her? She was sweet as the flower he likened her to, yet she bristled when he said so. How did she expect him to seduce her, acting like that? It was most odd. As was the way she spoke of astrolabes and chart-books. He thought again of her smile, the way it illuminated her face when released, and it burned in his memory like a magi's gift.

  Behind him Courte cleared his throat, urging an answer to his question. "The maid is from these parts," Kit told him gruffly, annoyed at having to let the memory fade. He stepped over to the table, consulted a map. "Enough. We have work at hand."

  Ever obedient, Courte moved the lantern nearer and they bent to their task.

  "This is the expected course." Kit traced a path with his hand. "My informant tells me to look for the Santa Maria de la Rosa. A war ship, so she's armed. But she's also doubling as a trade ship carrying cargo. There are also King Philip's dispatches to the Duke of Alva, the governor of the Netherlands. The important thing is this—when we've taken the ship, I must search the captain's cabin to find the secret communique."

  Courte groaned. "Will it take as long as last time? We have to get rid of the ship."

  "I'll make haste," Kit promised, looking sober. "The dispatches are sheaves of paper covered with seals and easy to find. But the communiques are always hidden in different places. This time it will be concealed in a lady's trinket. That should make it easier. What captain would carry a lady's trinket in his cabin?" He laughed mirthlessly before changing the subject. "The crew? Are they all agreed? They'll dispose of the ship?"

  "Aye." Courte nodded vigorously. "I've hired men to do the job. 'Tis a great nuisance, these ships. Why don't we just take the communiques and leave the ships be?"

  "Then they'd know we're not pirates, as I've explained before. We must appear to be after their goods. Besides, if we leave the ship to drift, the Spanish could retake it." Courte gulped and nodded before continuing. "The men are in agreement. They'll take the ship south and land her at The Brill."

  "Good." Kit's answer was terse. "The Prince of Orange will benefit from the goods."

  Courte bobbed his head in agreement. "I put Ned Ruske in command, as you instructed. He'll get her to the coast. He always got the Swiftsure through on trading voyages, dodging Spanish patrols, and ... oh, your pardon, I didn't mean to remind you."

  Kit turned away, trying to block Courte's words, but memory seized him with a vengeance. The vision from the past swooped down to haunt him—his entire ship's crew taken by the Spanish navy and put to the sword. Bracing his hands against the table, he leaned on it for support. God help him, but he'd sworn revenge against them. They'd accused him of smuggling when he ran an honest trader's ship. Men had died that day—men he'd held dear. He'd scarce escaped himself, and only with help from the English ambassador.

  "I swore to be revenged in some honorable way," he muttered. "Now I have it." He raised his head, stared at Courte. "But we sail only with men who have no families. You are sure of this?"

  "As best I can tell," Courte assured him. "Of course they have their doxies at port, those who can afford 'em."

  "That can't be helped." Kit sank into a chair. "I can only do so much. I trust you've warned them of the danger. If they're caught by the Spanish with a Spanish ship, they can't plead a merchantman's rights."

  Courte nodded as he bent dismally over the map, worrying.

  Kit turned away. The mention
of doxies had brought other images flashing through his mind—Rose, with her graceful form and her heavenly kisses. Like a vision of the angels, she was, with her quantities of brown curling hair, slender figure, and perfect oval face. But what could he have from a woman like her—clearly a merchant's daughter, thoroughly respectable.

  Despite that, he craved her body. From the instant he'd met her, he'd known she was hiding something. She appeared prim and proper, yet there was a secret side, a hidden fire to this flower, lurking behind the severe demeanor and plain clothes. The kiss she'd given him at the cove revealed it, as did her laugh, rippling like silk, undulating in the night wind. He paused, remembering the pleasure he'd felt to release it. She needed to laugh more. For some unknown reason it troubled him to think she did not. No one's business should give them such problems as hers. That knowledge had moved him, by God. So much so ...he'd agreed not to see her again. Sheer madness, for him to play the part of the honorable gentleman. It fit him like a poorly cut glove.

  Two hours later they were on deck, peering through the night, occasionally drenched by spray. Courte shivered as he leaned against the whipstaff, steering their course, but Kit stood stark still at the rail, swathed in his cloak, feet planted wide, staring straight ahead.

  "There she is, off the starboard." Kit pointed just as the lookout cried the sighting.

  Courte squinted. "Is she ours? That's the important thing."

  Minutes later they knew she was. The huge galleon was signaling them. Well over three hundred tons, she was one of the new, swift, low-charged English designs. She carried eight great sixty-pounder cannons, four demi-cannons, and numerous smaller culverins. A man-of-war, she belonged to Kit.

  The first mate lumbered up for instructions. "His lordship and I will board the Swiftsure," said Courte tersely. "We'll not need you more tonight. Return to Lulworth Cove and anchor. One man to the watch should be plenty, the rest can go home." With that, he relinquished the helm to the mate and hurried after Kit, who was headed for the starboard.