“Madre de Dios.” The words husked from a throat dry as parchment. “What happened?”
“Nothing happened. But I have only this cat to thank for my escape!”
Tight-lipped, she gestured toward Behemoth, now perched alertly on the bunk. Calyx allowed himself one moment of debilitating relief.
Tuna, he promised the cat in silence. A whole damn steak.
Once the relief receded, his doubts came crowding back. An image of Nicanor’s scratched face floated through his mind. The man was a slave to his opium; he’d seen many such among the Ottomans. But Nicanor was wealthy and powerful, kin to the King himself. You didn’t accuse such a man of treason without ironclad evidence.
And often not even then.
Given the Duque’s vile conduct on board, Calyx had no difficulty believing him capable of any crime. Yet the thought of Nicanor creeping about the hold with a hammer, holing his own tercio’s water supply, was ludicrous. Jayne could be telling the truth about the rape and lying about the sabotage.
In truth, she could be lying about anything.
The dull band of a headache clamped across his brow. Grimacing, he kneaded his scalp, sick to death of this entire dilemma.
He wanted to trust her. But he knew damn well he couldn’t.
She read the truth in his eyes. Her mouth tightened with resignation.
“You wanted the truth from me,” she said quietly, “and I have provided it. I cannot force you to believe me.”
“True enough,” he grunted. A flicker of pain surfaced in her still features, worsening the vicious ache that stabbed behind his eyes.
Restless, he strode to the desk, eyes sliding over the familiar clutter of volumes, gadgets and astrological implements.
His Bible lay open, which meant she must have been reading it. God knew he hadn’t touched the Good Book, which he retained in his library for scholarly purposes, in months. Idly his eye passed across a passage from Genesis. He’d always had a knack for language. Effortlessly the translation from Latin into Spanish surfaced in his mind.
“And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the earth and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw that the daughters of men were fair, and they married any of them they chose...
“The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward...They were the heroes of old, men of renown.”
Barely seeing the words, his gaze lifted to the porthole and the dark expanse of night. Glowing lanterns rose and fell on the waves—the rest of his squadron, drawn in close formation. Earlier, he’d raised the signal flag to hail Don Alonso on the San Martin. When he rowed across to consult with his commanding officer, he’d found the capitáns of the major vessels—the San Juan de Portugal, the Florencia, the Trinidad Valencera—already aboard.
“We’re putting in at Corunna,” Calyx said abruptly to the woman whose pale image floated like a spirit in the dark glass. “Several ships suffered damage to masts and rigging in the storm. Others report spoiled food and brackish water. The King ordered us launched too quickly, against the admiral’s counsel. We don’t dare sail into English waters without putting in for supplies and repairs.”
He pivoted toward her. “So you see, belleza, your little act of sabotage was quite unnecessary. Corunna is the last Spanish port before we cross the bay. If you’d only waited, I’d have put you ashore as promised.”
She stood beside the bunk, her gaze pinned on him, and absently stroked Behemoth as though for comfort. She’d even managed to seduce that blasted cat, he noted grimly. The beast would take a man’s hand off for such presumption, but the infernal creature was actually arching and rumbling beneath her touch.
“You do not believe me.” Her voice was tremulous, a masterful performance. “I suppose I can hardly blame you. When we reach port, what do you intend to do?”
When she chafed her arms, an unpleasant sensation churned in his belly. He recognized it as guilt.
Angered by the reaction, he tossed her a pair of breeches. “I may be a pirate, Jayne, but I’m a man of my word. As promised, I’m letting you go.”
A blind man could sense the current of energy that arced through her. In the porthole, he watched her work the snug fabric of his breeches over her shapely legs.
“Thank God,” she murmured. “And thank you. You are an honorable man, Calyx, a better man than Spain deserves.”
“We’ll make port tomorrow,” he said curtly, rejecting the warm glow of her flattery. “While we’re provisioning, I’ll hire a carriage to return you to Lisbon. And there’s an end to it.”
“I can arrange my own transport,” she said swiftly, lacing his breeches with a deftness that heated his blood. It reminded him how skillfully she’d eased him out of his breeches. “When do you sail?”
“That’s none of your concern,” he bit out.
He needed a diversion from the damnable temptation behind him. This was her last night aboard—which should leave him rejoicing, blast it. Absently his fingers drummed against the open Bible.
“The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward...”
Frowning, he wondered why the Devil she’d been reading up on an obscure race of half angels who surfaced occasionally in Bible lore. If they shared this cabin for a lifetime, she’d never stop surprising him.
He crushed a vicious stab of regret and slammed the Bible closed.
Her tentative voice at his shoulder caught him off guard.
“Do you wish to know why?”
“Why what?” He pivoted and brushed past her, determined to ignore the wounded expression that flickered in her sea-colored eyes.
Her shoulders lifted in a small, helpless shrug.
“Why I lied to you, Calyx. I cannot tell you why I sabotaged your ship, since that is one crime I have not committed.”
Still she denied it, even now at the end. In the oval mirror, he glimpsed his face, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, as though he steeled himself against a blow. His eyes darkened with rage.
“Frankly,” he got out, “I’ve concluded I don’t care. You can save the lies for your next lover, si?”
She released a frustrated breath and reached for her jerkin.
“I meant to ease into this, Calyx, but you never make it easy. You have described your sentiments toward the Church and the Inquisition. I know you are not sailing to save the damned souls of England or dethrone our heretic Queen.”
“You’ve got that right.” He pushed a hand through the tousled spikes of his pale hair and ran a palm over his smooth jaw in disgust. He’d resolved years ago not to dwell upon his oddities, but the thought snuck in below his guard.
God made me an aberration and my mother a madwoman. Why should I give a damn what happens to His Church?
At his throat, the silver key with its Hebrew sigils gleamed, an enigma whose riddle would always mock him. He battled the sudden urge to rip it from his throat.
Her voice was gentle, as though she sensed his turmoil, but laced with purpose. “You have claimed you fight for Spain because Spain pays you the most, is that not so?”
He’d never been ashamed of his mercenary impulses. Yet his face in the mirror darkened with ruddy color.
“I’m a pirate, querida. Philip fills my coffers with good Spanish gold,” he said gruffly. “What of it?”
Bare feet silent on the floorboards, she slipped up beside him. The haunting aroma of moonflowers flooded his senses. She spoke in a whisper he couldn’t have heard three ells away.
“What if another master could offer you more?”
Insidious as a siren’s whisper, her offer slid through him. In a heartbeat, new vistas of possibility opened before him.
She was spying for the English. Of course she was, despite her tempestuous rivalry with the Queen over Dudley’s so-called charms. She was Elizabeth Tudor’s cousin.
Still, unless she’d slipped aboard for the express purpose of corrupting him, turning him traitor—a possibility too farfe
tched to stomach—she couldn’t possibly have the authority to deliver what she offered. Someone at the Queen’s court—the Lord Chancellor, the Exchequor, the spymaster Walsingham, perhaps even Elizabeth herself—would have to decide a turncoat Spanish pirate who’d murdered his own father was a worthy investment who could now be trusted. A pragmatist himself, he knew precisely how likely that was.
Unless they discovered his secret dealings with Lord Thomas Knyvett.
Jayne awaited his reply, her sweet face upturned, a scandalous figure in her pirate’s attire—as though she fancied he might actually entertain her impossible offer. He allowed himself one last moment to savor her striking and unconventional beauty—slim brows arched in perpetual curiosity, turquoise eyes sparkling with fire and intellect, her pert nose and stubborn chin, her luscious mouth shaped for sin.
Tomorrow she would climb out of the Arcángel and sail out of his life, as alluring and mysterious as the night she’d walked into it. At the prospect, something in his heart turned over.
If she’d somehow slipped past his well-honed defenses, that was his failing. He wouldn’t have her among the fleet wreaking havoc when they faced down the English cannon.
That image was enough to harden him to say what needed to be said.
“Philip pays me a pirate’s ransom in gold escudos. And your Queen has a reputation for parsimony. I think I’ll stay where I am.”
Her eyes widened in distress, revealing the glitter of tears. Was she that talented a player? The certainty that he’d never know reignited the coals of anger that had smoldered in his belly since he saw his flooded hold.
“The true reason I’ll decline your tempting offer,” he bit out, “is because I can’t trust you, Jayne Boleyn. Your Queen herself gave you a traitor’s name. You’ve done naught to convince me her judgment was lacking.”
In the profound silence that followed, the soft catch of breath in her throat was clearly audible. She swallowed hard, pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed her sky-blue irises. One hand lifted to her throat, as though to force something back. Then she squared her slim shoulders to carry the weight he’d placed there.
The quiet bravery of that gesture split his chest wide open.
“Yes,” she said very quietly, the quiver in her voice nearly hidden. “You are correct about me, of course. I cannot be relied upon for anything, not even to protect my own son.”
“Your son? What has your child to do with this?”
“‘Tis a mother’s first duty to protect her child. I failed mine utterly. The Queen holds him hostage in exchange for my services.”
Arrested, he stared at her. “What’s this?”
She pinned on a small brave smile. “No doubt you are better off without me, just as he must be. You are—very wise to put me off, I think. Now I should—I should go above.”
She spun swiftly away and fled him, tears spilling from her eyes.
* * *
One advantage of going barefoot was the ability to scale masts and rigging like a monkey. Jayne could not begin to swing from spar to sail like a pirate. But she could scramble effortlessly up the crude ladder that decanted onto the narrow sliver of the bonaventure deck, perched high in the stern.
A miserable refuge, wind-whipped and damp, under intermittent drizzle that spat from sullen skies. But no man on the crowded galleon sought this godforsaken corner to pitch his hammock. The foul weather ensured her solitude, which was her paramount concern.
She never liked to weep where others could see.
Seated on the deck, her back against the mast, she buried her face in her arms and sobbed like a child. She wept for Ryder, the child of her heart, growing to manhood without even the memory of his mother’s love. She wept for the sweet weight of his sturdy body, clinging to her as they pulled him away.
And she wept for herself, wept for heartbreak and sheer frustration. Somehow, impossibly, she’d fallen in love with Calyx de Zamorra, the Scourge of the Spanish Main.
“How could I allow this to happen?” she muttered, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. The crisp linen smelled faintly of cypress and ambergris, the fragrance of its owner.
He owned her now, body and soul. She’d barely made her escape before he glimpsed the secret of her heart.
“This is how it must remain,” she whispered. “He must never know.”
Had he not made it painfully obvious he would never share the sentiment? He would not waver in his loyalty to Spain. If she gave him this power over her, he would find a way to use it. The sooner she escaped the Arcángel and its dangerous master, the better.
After tomorrow, she would never see him again.
Swallowing against the hot lump in her throat, she patted about her leather jerkin.
A conversational voice, smooth as honey butter, asked, “Handkerchief?”
Her heart nearly leaped from her chest.
Lithely, the slender form of Zamiel, Earl of Glencross, dropped down from the yardarm. Sweeping her an elegant leg, he extended a square of immaculate linen.
When she could breathe again, she summoned a watery smile and accepted the crisp square. “My thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” The former Dominion lowered himself to the deck. Reclining with careless grace, he gazed overhead at the swatches of glittering brilliance visible through scudding clouds and slanted rigging.
“Remarkable obsession, this galleon of his,” he noted, while Jayne dabbed at her eyes. “Angels painted on the sails, angels mantling in his cabin, a splendid Archangel blowing a trumpet for a figurehead. Your captain seems to harbor a certain fixation upon us—upon them, I mean—the celestial host.”
“Why do you say my captain?” She slanted his fine-boned profile a wary glance. “You could say my captor, certainly, or my tormentor. Even my nemesis.”
“Linnet figured it out right away.” Still gazing at the heavens, he shrugged, mouth curved in a rueful smile. “She warned us you were in love with him, although Uriel—I mean Beltran—scoffed at the notion. But my wife tends to be astute in these matters of the heart, so I place my coin on her.”
Uneasy with the notion of being read so easily, Jayne changed the subject. “Where are your companions? Did they find a secure hiding place?”
“You really don’t want to know.” Zamiel crossed his arms behind his head. “You’ve a mob packed cheek to jowl on this ship, like sardines in a barrel. Easy enough to lose ourselves, once we got Linnet into boy’s attire like yours. She’s resting now, recovering from the magick she invoked to bring us through, with Beltran standing watch. He may be tiresome at times, but even I concede he’s nothing if not dependable. Not to mention the fact he’s a holy terror in battle.”
“I imagine so,” she murmured.
“How’s the young lad?” he asked. “I’ve lost most of my divine abilities, but I can still summon dreams and slumber at will. Sleep is a kind of little death, you know.”
“Iago seems fully recovered, although Calyx is likely to roast him for sleeping on duty,” she said dryly. “My lord—”
“Call me Zamiel. I’m no slave to titles, either mortal or divine.”
She paused over this, the novelty of finding a peer of the realm so indifferent to his titles. “I trust I have convinced you and, ah, Uriel to refrain from blowing this galleon sky-high?”
“Never fear. Your Arcángel—and your Nephilim, for that matter—are safe from us.” He lifted his head to scan their surroundings. “The plan has always been to engage la Fée.”
“So you have said. But why would they become involved? I cannot imagine relations between the Fair Folk of France and England are any more harmonious than Tudor relations with their French counterparts, which are frosty at best.”
“Rhiannon and Uriel—I mean Beltran—have persuaded la Fée before. Thirty years ago, when Elizabeth took the throne, she signed an enchanted treaty that bound mortal England and the Summer Lands to a thousand-year peace. Then she deputized Rhiannon and Beltran on an embassy to
France, where they persuaded the French king to sign a similar accord with la Fée. Both the French and the English Fae are spellbound to peace with their mortal counterparts. Unfortunately, the Spanish Hagas were beyond their reach.”
“But not beyond Mordred’s,” she murmured. “That’s why he sought a foreign army. The Fair Folk of England cannot wage war on Elizabeth.”
“Now you see the contours of Elizabeth’s plan. She intends to forge an alliance between the French and English Fae against Mordred. If they unite, they can neutralize his power. Even now, after all he’s done, Morrigan can’t find it within herself to slay him—her only son. I think she’s still hoping for reconciliation.”
“In that case, she is deluded.” An image floated before her: the Prince of Camelot’s scarred features twisted in rage as he spat his venom. “Alas, when a mother grieves for an absent child, that is an easy thing to be.”
Dark musings threatened to consume her anew. Jayne hugged her knees fiercely and battled the black cloud of depression. “It seems a desperate scheme. What will you do if la Fée cannot be persuaded?”
“There’s always a way.” Zamiel twisted the silver signet, the slit-eyed goat’s head that gleamed on his hand. “I am the Son of Lucifer, after all, though having the Prince of Devils for a father would drive any man to despair. Lucifer’s assistance carries a price I’d rather not pay.”
An involuntary shiver ghost-walked over her flesh, raising prickles along her skin. God’s Breath, it was cold as death on the bonaventure deck.
He snorted without humor. “Men wonder why I eschew my titles. Becoming the Earl of Glencross was a necessary evil, for Linnet’s sake. She needed a strong laird to defend her lands on the Scottish march. The title I carry elsewhere, though I have abjured it, is Prince of Hell.”
Though he offered no threat, Jayne wondered whether sharing her solitude with the Son of Lucifer was a sound notion. Scrambling to her feet, she paced to the bulkhead. Below her spread the Arcángel, its decks and turrets overshadowed by a tangled forest of masts and rigging. Sails snapped and lines groaned against the brisk wind.
Mistress by Magick Page 21