Mistress by Magick

by Laura Navarre

  He was Calyx’s uncle.

  Apparently, the two had been in secret contact for months. Still, she scarcely dared hope the capitán of the Arcángel truly intended to defect.

  “What news?” she asked, after a restorative swallow of nut-brown ale. “They must be starting at shadows in the village.”

  “They’re mewed up behind locked doors with weapons bristling,” the Lord Sheriff said wryly. “Convinced to a man the Armada’s heading straight for us, though our seadogs intend to harry them down the Channel. Our lads know every rock and shoal of English waters—and they still have the weather gauge. Wind, tide and currents all favor us.”

  Jayne lowered her eyes modestly. “God be praised.”

  Secretly, she felt a warm glow of satisfaction. The weather was her modest contribution to England’s defense. The two fleets had locked horns less than ten miles from Portland Bill. From the cliffs, she’d watched the engagement with her heart in her throat. Under an obliging breeze, the English left under Frobisher had run before the wind, hard between the Armada and the coast, while packs of seadogs harried the Spanish flank.

  She’d whistled up the wind and prayed. For any weather that aided England could be working against Calyx.

  “You can watch the engagement with a spyglass from the lighthouse,” Knyvett offered. “You’ve been huddled here all night, my lady. Why not take a look?”

  “I must remain where I am,” she said swiftly. “If he comes ashore, my lord, we must find him quickly! What chance will he stand otherwise—a Spanish pirate with an infamous reputation, creeping about our shores?”

  Knyvett grunted agreement with that. He seemed cautiously optimistic his unknown nephew planned to transfer his loyalties. But he could not possibly be certain.

  Surely, if Calyx was coming, he would come soon.

  Otherwise, there was always Sandwich—last of the rendezvous points.

  “Your devotion to his cause is admirable,” the Sheriff said, dark eyes keen upon her features. No doubt he’d begun to suspect that devotion to England was not the only demon that drove her. “You must try harder to ration your strength.”

  “Of course,” she said mechanically, turning back toward the shrouded sea.

  Knyvett sighed and rose, brushing sand from the serviceable fustian of his trunk hose. “I’m going to patrol the Undercliff, see if he’s landed anywhere near Bonchurch. You’ll remain here, aye?”

  “I intend to keep my vigil,” she said.

  I mean to keep it until I can no longer hold my eyes open. I owe that to Calyx.

  Again her tired eyes searched the isolated cove, the most likely landing spot she’d found along this shore. It was foolish to fancy she could read Calyx’s mind, which had never been her magick. Yet somehow, when she’d seen the spot, instinct had whispered in her ear. She felt certain this would be the place. He’d always sailed under a lucky star.

  Or was it his guardian angel bending down from Heaven to whisper in her ear?

  Exhausted, she barely noticed the Sheriff depart. Rearranging the petticoats and skirts of her sensible gown to pad her bottom from the merciless rocks, she rested her chin on her knees.

  Toward evening, the fog dispersed. As the sun sank toward the cobalt sea, a soft purple twilight deepened around her. By now, the battle had drifted past them to the east. Calyx could not row against tide and current. He would not backtrack to this spot, but bend all his efforts toward Sandwich.

  If he intended to defect at all.

  Tears of frustration stung her eyes. Angrily she brushed them aside. Never in her life had tears availed her. She must simply find the Sheriff, collect her few possessions from her lodgings in the village and ride hell for leather to Kent.

  Mouth firm with determination, she rose stiffly and shook out her rumpled gown. Now where was her basket—

  “Somehow I knew I’d find you here, belleza.”

  The familiar voice, liquid with the rolling consonants of Castile, deep enough to vibrate through her bones, nearly stopped her heart. One hand flew to her throat to contain the cry that sprang to her lips—a cry from the heart, fired by desperate, painful hope.

  Against a fiery sky, braced on a rocky outcrop, a silhouette stood carved against the sunset. The salt breeze stirred the short spikes of his silver-blond hair and riffled the pale shirt under his leather jerkin. Beneath his booted legs, water dripped and pooled.

  The blazing sky cast his features into darkness. But she would have known him anywhere. His towering height, the proud set of his powerful shoulders, the graceful swing of the saber at his belt.

  Body of God, had he swam ashore?

  Her heart gave a great leap, as though it meant to explode through her chest. Her breath suspended in her lungs for a long, shimmering moment that seemed to tremble with possibility. Then a mad, impossible joy bloomed in her stomach and flooded her limbs with heat.

  Another rush of hot tears deluged her eyes. This time, she let them fall—tears of gratitude to the Providence that had brought him. This time, they were tears of joy.

  “Calyx?” Her voice shook. She pressed fingers to her trembling lips as though she could steady her words that way.

  Struggling for composure, she tried for humor.

  “Clearly my surveillance skills have grown a trifle rusty. I should have...heard your approach.”

  I should have felt your approach, heart of my heart, calling to me across the distance. Oh, my love!

  Lithe as a desert lion, he dropped from the outcrop to land before her. Without the burning sun behind him, his features sprang into relief—square jaw hard with resolve, brow carved with the weight of a captain’s burden, mocha-dark eyes warm with an intent that turned her knees to water. His wide mouth tilted in a rueful smile.

  “Have I finally caught you at a disadvantage, señora? That’s a rare gift, worth a soaking and a knock on the head, for certain.”

  Despite the maelstrom of emotions churning through her heart, a dart of concern shot through her.

  “A knock on the head? God have mercy, Calyx, I trust you are not—”

  “Later,” he growled softly, closing in. The hard heat of his body surrounded her as he pulled her into his arms.

  She’d meant to practice more restraint. Their last encounter, with accusations of sabotage and treachery blazing between them, had been anything but harmonious. He knew she’d lied to him with every breath. In all likelihood, he wanted naught to do with her.

  Yet now, with this volatile brew of love and hope and boundless joy bubbling through her veins, every thought of restraint flew from her head on wings. With a choked sound, she rose on tiptoe against him and flung her arms around his neck.

  He was drenched, the seawater trapped in his garments seeping through her gown. But it made not a particle of difference when he lowered his head and kissed her.

  How she’d dreamed of his kisses, longed for them, thrilled with the searing memory of his hot mouth claiming hers. He tasted of salt and desperation and a subtle ripe tartness that reminded her improbably of summer cherries. The woody scent of cypress and ambergris swam in her head as he plundered her mouth, hard hands sweeping down her back to lodge her snugly against his hips.

  Through the layers of cambric and petticoats between them, the blade of his arousal sent a flush of tingling heat sweeping through her.

  “This is what brought me back,” he muttered. “You’re what I returned for, Jayne. I should never have let you leave without me.”

  “Brought you back?” Head swirling from his kisses, she gripped his shoulders for balance and stepped reluctantly back, dimly aware Thomas Knyvett could appear any moment. “You know why I left, Calyx. I’ll have no more lies between us, not even for England.”

  “Si, belleza. Your days of deception are done.” Frowning, he circled her waist with his hands. Even through the cage of corset and bodice, the heat of his touch radiated through her and stole her breath. “I know you flew from Corunna straight to your spymas
ter. You made little secret, finally, of where your loyalties lie.”

  “If only you’d confided in me,” she exclaimed, alive with the memory of those exhilarating, terrifying days aboard his ship and in his arms. “You gave every indication you intended to lead your Armada straight down this Channel into the very Thames! Little did I realize you’d already cast in your lot with England.”

  His mouth tightened. “Spain lost any claim to my loyalty years ago. For a while, the twin lures of gold and high adventure made sufficient incentive. But when Philip trained his malice on England, my mother’s country, I knew my stint as his tame pirate was finished. Through my web of smuggling contacts, I connected with my mother’s people.”

  “The Knyvetts.” She nodded. “Speaking of which—”

  “Since you were clearly waiting for me, you must have found the map. I thought you might, clever girl.” He squeezed her bottom playfully. Even that casual caress was sufficient to kindle her. Slow heat built between her thighs. She struggled to apply her wits.

  “But I misunderstood your intent.” Frustration rose within her at the memory. “I thought the marks on your map indicated potential landing spots for the fleet.”

  “The fleet was never going to land along this coast. But we had to sail past it to cross the Channel to Dunkirk.”

  “Dunkirk,” she murmured. Thank God Walsingham and her brother had planned for that contingency. If the English seadogs did their job, the Armada would never reach that port.

  “Don Alonso’s entire plan hinges on collecting the bulk of his land army in the Netherlands,” he said patiently. “Just as your Lord Admiral’s entire plan hinges upon preventing it. Your admiral will do his level best to engage the Armada in a running battle all the way down this coast. If he fails, and Don Alonso manages to cross the Channel, the last chance to foil that rendezvous would likely be a great sea battle somewhere near Calais.”

  “God save us all,” she whispered. The Armada was a vastly superior force.

  “Either way,” he said gently, “one could reason that the Arcángel must pass this way. After smuggling a handful of coded messages through my intermediaries, I was given those coordinates for my first meeting with my uncle, who happens to be Lord Sheriff of Norfolk.”

  “Aye, Lord Thomas.” Who was likely to come looking for her quite soon, she reckoned.

  “My plan was to decamp by night in the longboat. As it happens, the Prince of Camelot had his own plan for getting rid of me, a plan which very nearly succeeded.”

  Her ears perked up. “The Prince of Camelot? So you knew Mordred’s identity all along? They why did you—”

  “I knew there was something extraño—something odd about the fellow. But I’m no scholar of English lore, si? I failed to realize in time what he was. I failed to grasp the critical fact that the Fae, too, are caught up in this war. Half the troops waiting to board in Dunkirk are the Hagas.”

  “He told you this?” she asked, astonished.

  “Actually, I learned that from the Archangel Michael.”

  She gasped.

  His mouth quirked in a rueful grin. “You were right about me, Jayne—right about all of it. If I’d trusted you in the first place, we would have avoided a good bit of trouble. It’s been hell since you left, amante.”

  At the endearment, her heart gave a painful twinge. But she reminded herself it meant nothing. He’d always showered her with these casual terms of affection.

  “But...Mordred.” She struggled to piece the narrative together. “He struck you on the head and threw you overboard? God’s Eyes, Calyx! If you saw an Archangel, Mordred must have nearly killed you.”

  “Nearly.” Annoyance glittered in his dark gaze. “It was my own fault, for turning my back on him. Worse, I left him behind on the Arcángel, a coiled serpent ready to sink his fangs into Diego when he launches the next phase of our plan.”

  Her brain scrambled to keep pace. “Do you mean to tell me Diego Domingo is your co-conspirator? He seemed so loyal...”

  “He’s loyal as a terrier—to me. Diego’s no Spaniard, Jayne. He’s Portuguese, with no love for a King who conquered Portugal, annihilated her army and annexed her mighty navy to Spain’s. My entire crew is a pack of mongrels, of mixed blood and dubious antecedents—like me. It wasn’t difficult to persuade them, with the handsome reward Elizabeth offered. With Señor Nicanor and his tercio on board—men who were decidedly not part of the plan—our intentions had to be a closely guarded secret.”

  “So you’ve been planning this all along?” Jayne’s mind reeled with the enormity of her error. “Body of God. If only we could both have been honest with one another from the start, how much grief we might have averted!”

  She gazed into the chiseled planes of his face, hard with strength and resolve. Something had changed in Calyx de Zamorra. Always he’d stood apart and alone, a man whose rugged face and careless grace concealed a lifetime of solitude and despair. He’d believed himself cursed, the bad blood of a murderer and a madwoman running through his veins.

  Now, it seemed, he too had encountered a celestial being and glimpsed his true heritage.

  He was no freak of nature, but a divine being.

  Catarina de Zamorra, born Catherine Knyvett, had not been mad. Rodrigo de Zamorra had never been his father.

  And the silver key with its Hebrew sigils was nowhere to be seen.

  Lost in the sea? she wondered.

  Somehow she doubted it.

  A soft laugh of realization rose to her lips. “It seems we have a great deal to discuss, capitán. ’tis hard for me to trust any man. But I believe I would like to learn to trust again. Will you aid me in that effort?”

  “You’d trust a pirate for that?” He threw back his head and laughed, a shout of joy that echoed from the night-wrapped rocks around them. When he gazed at her, still grinning, a legion of butterflies spiraled in her belly.

  “You want to learn to trust,” he murmured, “and I want to learn to live among my fellow man as one of them, just as you’ve done. Perhaps each of us has something to show the other.”

  A vast horizon of possibility opened before her.

  She’d been afraid to hope, even after the Queen’s amnesty for Calyx—a boon her royal cousin had been more than happy to grant, as Lord Thomas now indicated the Queen had already promised it to him. How Elizabeth must have laughed when she heard the terms of Jayne’s bargain!

  None of that mattered now. But no one would be safe until the Spanish menace was defeated. She knew Calyx would never rest until the fate of his ship and crew was decided.

  “The Arcángel,” she murmured, and Calyx sobered at once. “‘Tis the crux of the entire effort, is it not, with Mordred aboard?”

  “His presence was unanticipated,” he said grimly. “But not insurmountable. We crafted a plan to get Nicanor and his tercio off my boat. The same scheme will suffice for Mordred. If his goal is to reach Dunkirk and bring the Hagas through, he’ll want to get off the Arcángel, believe me.”

  He shook his head. “Diego and the crew will have to execute that plan without me. But none of that concerns me at the moment, Jayne.”

  His hands tightened at her waist and drew her against the leashed power of his body. Suddenly shy, buffeted by the potent shocks of passion and tenderness exploding in her chest, she ducked her head. Her hands spread across his chest, fingers curling in the wet leather of his jerkin.

  Beneath her palms, his heart thundered, strong and unfaltering. A symphony of desire hummed between them, strings pulled taut and vibrating with the pent-up passion of weeks apart.

  Briefly she thought of the missing Knyvett, for whom she really should search.

  When Calyx bent to brush the swift pulse at her throat with searing lips, every rational thought went spinning out of her head.

  “The night grows cool,” she murmured. Beneath the magick of his lips and tongue, a sweet languor seeped through her limbs. “We should get you out of these wet clothes.”
r />   “Where?” he breathed, nuzzling the hollow of her throat.

  “I’ve taken rooms at the village inn,” she managed, hands curling around his head. The wet silk of his hair slipped through her fingers. “Calyx, we should...Lord Thomas...”

  “Later,” he muttered and swept her up in his arms.

  * * *

  Steam rose from the oil-slick waters of the bath. It wreathed the whitewashed walls and low-beamed ceiling of her snug chamber above the inn. After she filled the oak basin, the serving-girl kindled a brisk fire in the hearth. She also produced a loaf of fresh brown bread and a steaming tureen of oyster stew, now waiting beside a dusty bottle of wine.

  The moment they were alone, Calyx growled, “Oysters aren’t the dish I’m hungry for.”

  “Oh?” Possessed by an imp of mischief, Jayne arched her brows. “Shall I call for something else? I am told they’ve a fine lamprey pie—”

  “Vixen. The morsel I’m starving for is you.” His voice dropped an octave, scraping deliciously across her sensitized nerves. “Strip.”

  A pang of desire throbbed in her core. Aye, this was the man she’d burned for, all these many weeks, the only man she’d ever known whose touch set her afire, body and soul.

  In point of fact, the only man she’d ever loved. But that was dangerous terrain, when he did not share the sentiment. He wanted her in his bed, aye, and he wanted the lessons she could teach him about magick in the mortal world.

  But that was hardly the stuff of which eternal love was crafted.

  Never mind, she told herself firmly. You have him now, here, tonight. Think not of the future.

  “I’m waiting.” His voice slid like silk along her skin.

  Larger than life, he stood before the fire, booted legs spread, saber swinging at his side like the pirate and adventurer he was. He’d shed his ruined jerkin. Soaked shirt and breeches clung to his powerful frame. The firelight rimmed his proud head in a halo of pale fire.

  Michael the Archangel. The Angel of War. That was the celestial being who’d returned Calyx to his mortal life. She had no doubt it was he who held the mysterious key.