Knight's Cross (The Shipwreck Adventures Book 3)

by Christine Kling

  “Oh really?”

  Riley smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes with her face tilted up to the sun. “It’s been a long time since you called me Magee. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.”

  She felt Cole straighten his back and go tense. He looked skyward. “What the hell?” he said.

  Riley opened her eyes and followed Cole’s stare. She had gradually grown aware of a soft buzzing sound, but she thought it was some kind of distant construction. It wasn’t. There was a tiny white device with four whirling propellers hovering about ten feet over their heads. “It’s a nano drone,” she said. “I heard about them in the service, but they were just a DARPA daydream back then.” The drone zoomed off, fast as a hummingbird.

  Cole scrambled to his feet and started scanning the hillside above them. At that moment, a shower of gravel and rock rained down on them from somewhere above.

  Riley covered her head. A rock hit her wine glass, tipping it over.

  “Shit!” Cole said.

  “Cole—” She was about to tell him the wine didn’t matter. He was standing, shading his eyes, staring up the rock wall. The look on his face stopped her.

  “It’s him, Riley. It’s Diggory Priest.”

  The Silversmith Shop

  Vittoriosa, Malta

  March 11, 1798

  Arzella sat down in the chair next to her father’s bed. More than a year ago he had ceased to be able to climb the stairs to their apartment over the shop. Arzella had built a small kitchen in the shop’s back room and placed beds inside for the two of them. Now their old apartment was rented out to a nobleman’s widow who’d lost her husband during the revolution in France.

  “Papa, the rest of the stew is on the stove, and there’s bread in the cupboard.” She placed her hand on her father’s forehead to check his temperature. “You’re certain you will be fine if I leave you alone?”

  “Daughter, I have been taking care of myself for over sixty years.”

  “If someone comes into the shop, Madame Benier’s grandson, Pierre Antoine, is out there to help them. He is sitting by the window now, doing his lessons. He says he will enjoy the quiet.”

  “I wish the shop were not so quiet these days.”

  “We get by, Papa.” In all the ten years Arzella had been doing her father’s work, she had not seen such lean times. Right after the revolution, the Republicans had seized all the Order’s commanderies in France and Italy, and one of the Knights’ major sources of income had dried up. Soon after, however, Grand Master De Rohan had brokered deals, and finances improved in Malta. But in the last six months, all the Knights she saw could barely feed themselves. The one notable exception, of course, being a very successful young Knight corsair.

  “Are you seeing him again?” her father asked.

  It was as though her father could read her mind. “He has a name, Papa.”

  “Yes, but we simple people are supposed to call them Chevalier.”

  “Times are changing, Papa. I keep trying to explain this to you. Also to Alonso. He is just as old-fashioned as you are.”

  “I doubt it,” her father said.

  Arzella brushed her father’s white hair back off his forehead. “I can take care of myself, Papa. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Ha! A father not worry about his daughter? The world has not changed that much, ma petite.”

  She kissed his forehead. “Au revoir.”

  After giving Pierre Antoine some last-minute instructions, Arzella picked up the picnic basket she had prepared earlier and left the shop. Winter refused to let go of the island that morning. Walking the narrow streets in the shadow of the buildings, Arzella wrapped her cloak tightly around her body. Frosted fingers of wind slid down her neck and sent shivers dancing down her spine. The idea that such shivers were brought on by her impending meeting with Chevalier Alonso Montras, her Alonso, was not something she allowed herself to consider.

  Surely it was only the sailing that made her heart beat faster whenever she was with him. Since that first time she had sailed the harbor with him and Nikola, she had been back aboard the Ruse several times. Alonso believed that Bonaparte had set his sights on Malta, therefore he insisted that his men train often rather than sit in the taverns growing soft.

  Arzella adored the Ruse. Since none of the men had ever seen a woman who liked to sail, they had been suspicious of her at first. Superstitions had it that a woman aboard meant bad luck for the ship. But once Alonso began to give her the wheel and she demonstrated her prowess at the helm, even the crew jumped to her orders when she called on them to increase sail. To her surprise, Alonso began to teach her some of the more refined techniques for sailing the xebec. Her previous experience had been only on the crude sailing rigs of fishing boats. She hadn’t yet been so bold or unladylike as to climb the rigging, but she was not certain how much longer she could resist.

  Two days earlier, when he’d stopped by the shop to invite her, Alonso had told her today’s sail would be a surprise. Now, she was in such a hurry she nearly tripped on the last flight of steps that led down to the quay.

  Since Saturday was market day, the quay was overcrowded, and Arzella had to jostle her way through the throng. She saw the masts of many vessels over the heads of the crowd, but none that she recognized as that of the Ruse.

  She was standing atop a box belonging to a fisherman friend, searching the length of the quay, when she felt a pair of hands slide around her waist from behind.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Alonso said as he lifted her off the box. “I thought perhaps you got lost.”

  “I am not the one who is lost,” she said. “What have you done with the Ruse?”

  “She is out at anchor in the harbor. The crew is aboard doing some painting and rope work. The launch is over here.”

  He steered her by her elbow over to the small wooden boat. Normally, if they traveled out to the boat at anchor, some members of the crew rowed for the captain. On this morning, the boat was empty, and, in addition to the oars, a single mast was rigged with a red-and-white-striped lateen sail.

  She turned to face him. “You rigged a sail?”

  “That is your surprise. We’re going sailing in this boat today. I’m going to show you Saint Julian’s Bay.”

  Arzella took a deep breath. Sailing the small boat out to sea would be exciting, but it also meant she would be alone with Alonso for the very first time.

  The northeast wind forced them to tack out of the bay. With only the two of them on board, Arzella took the tiller while Alonso handled the sail. The breeze stiffened when they finally cleared Tigné Point and turned onto a broad reach. Her fingers looked like frozen talons wrapped around the tiller, but since she’d lost most feeling in them, she didn’t care.

  The sail was glorious. The cloudless sky and sea were broken only by the white froth of their wake and the golden sandstone walls of the fort atop the cliffs.

  “I’ve never been to Saint Julian’s,” she said. “What is there?”

  “On the south side of the bay there is a small fishing village, but to the north is a sheltered creek with a little beach. Last year about this time we took the Ruse there to careen her and paint the bottom. I hiked inland and discovered an abandoned house with a small orchard of fruit trees. There were figs, black mulberries, and pears. I’ve never told anyone about it. That is my secret place where I like to go with this sailing launch. Someday, I’d like to buy the house and fix it up. Perhaps even start a family there.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  “You will see.”

  They covered the couple of miles to the entrance to Saint Julian’s Bay in what seemed like mere minutes.

  “The entrance will be dead downwind, but we will soon veer to the right into the creek,” Alonso said. He spoke over his shoulder, his eyes shifting from the water to the sail. “Be careful not to gybe.”

  “Don’t worry, Captain.” She glanced at his profile. His reddish-b
rown beard was neatly trimmed to follow the angle of his jaw. His hair fell in waves that would have touched his shoulders were it not blowing back in the fresh breeze.

  Chevalier Alonso Montras of Aragon was a nobleman, Arzella a shopgirl. Though the revolution in France was supposed to be changing such barriers, she did not delude herself into believing that this man would consider a life with her in the house in the orchard. Did he have plans to compromise her virtue? She laughed out loud at the idea. Alonso had always been such a gentleman; if anyone were to put her virtue in jeopardy today, it would be her.

  They slowed once they entered the creek, and by the time it shallowed at the headwater, their boat was barely moving. Alonso jumped into the knee-deep water and walked to the stern to remove the rudder. He saw her struggle to peel her hands off the tiller.

  “Why did you not tell me your hands were so cold? Your skin looks nearly blue!” He pulled the boat up onto the sand with her still in it. Then he came and lifted her out of the boat. “Can you stand?”

  “Of course,” she said. But when he set her on her feet her legs nearly buckled—whether from the cramped posture in the boat or the dizziness she felt from being in his arms, she was not certain. She smiled at him as she struggled to stay on her feet. She did not want him to think her weak.

  Alonso tied up the boat and brought the basket and a large woolen blanket. When he saw her face, he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, threaded the basket onto his arm, and took both her hands in his. “I shall warm your hands as we walk.”

  Arzella liked seeing her small hands in his. That surprised her. As did the tingling in her hands that continued long after her skin had warmed. She’d never felt anything close to affection for a man—but then again, she had never been alone with a man before. The sensations she was feeling were entirely new, and, though he kept the pace very slow, she found it difficult to breathe. She knew her father would not approve, but she made her own choices now.

  Alonso was right. The empty stone house, with plants growing from the rafters where the roof had caved in, was lovely—like a place out of a folktale. Several of the trees were in bloom, and the fig tree already had fruit weighing down the branches. The sun was warmer there in the clearing, which was protected from the sea wind. Alonso spread the blanket on the grass, and Arzella knelt and began to set out the meal she had prepared. The stew in the porcelain pot was still warm.

  As they ate, she felt him watching her.

  “Why do you look at me so?”

  “I have never met a lady like you.”

  “You know very well I am not a lady.”

  “In my eyes you are.”

  “Dangerous talk for a Knight.”

  “Says one most familiar with such talk.”

  She laughed. “As a Knight you have certain expectations to fulfill, certain vows.”

  “And I suppose you have noticed how well my brothers in the Order remember their vows.”

  “We are from two different worlds. While that prevents us from courting, it does not prevent us from being friends,” she said.

  He put his hand on top of hers. “I should like very much to be your friend, Mademoiselle Brun.”

  She had no memory of making a decision to do it, but she found herself leaning in and kissing the mouth in the middle of the beard.

  Alonso sat back and scooted away across the blanket. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what—”

  “Why are you apologizing? You did nothing. It is I who kissed you.”

  Alonso pulled at the collar of his coat, his eyes darting from the food to the sky. He seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. At last he spoke. “Arzella, in these past weeks, you have amazed me with your wit and skill. The more time we’ve spent together, the more often I have thought of just such a kiss. But I have seen many Knights steal the virtue from a young woman, only to send her off to Gozo when she grew large with child. I could not bear to see that happen to you.”

  This time she took his hand in hers. “It is because of that respect that I choose to be with you. I understand that we could never marry. So let me choose this day of happiness.”

  Alonso grasped her hand and pulled her to him. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. “Arzella,” he whispered.

  After holding him tight against her body for several long minutes, Arzella grew uncomfortable. Out of the wind, the sun was very warm. There were so many thick garments separating them. She untangled herself from his arms and slid his coat off his shoulders. Beneath it he wore a white shirt. She pulled the tails of the shirt out of his trousers and lifted the shirt off over his head.

  His skin shone like polished ivory in the sunlight. She reached her fingers out and touched the mark above his heart. It was red ink on his skin in the shape of the eight-point cross of the Order of the Knights of Saint John.

  “What of this?” Arzella had seen such ink on the bodies of sailors before, but never on a nobleman.

  “It is nothing.”

  She slid her fingertips across the skin to see if the mark felt like a scar. Alonso closed his eyes. She heard a deep moan from inside his throat.

  “The skin is smooth. This was done years ago.”

  He reached up and took her hand in his. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Arzella, please, let us talk no more of this. I have taken an oath. I do not want to lie to you.”

  “If Napoleon does come to Malta—”

  “He will. And I will be called to fight, perhaps to die, in service to my order.”

  She touched the red mark again. “You are my marked Knight. I, too, carry secrets and scars in my heart, but mine are not so visible.”

  “You are my silver-shop girl, and if I were allowed to choose, I would marry you and move into this cottage in the orchard. Together we would heal your heart and mine.”

  “The future is not ours to choose, but today belongs to us. I care little what others might think of me. I know only that today I want nothing more than to be here now with you.”

  Alonso lowered her shoulders to the blanket and pressed his lips to hers.

  Outside the Walls

  Valletta, Malta

  April 12, 2014

  By the time Riley got to her feet, Cole had already started back up the steps, chasing the man he said was Diggory Priest. The problem was that the steps angled up the hill to the right, taking him farther away from the man on the path who was running off to their left. Riley preferred the more direct route. She started to climb the rock cliff. Back at MSG school at Quantico, she’d trained in rappelling, should she as a Marine ever have to rescue embassy personnel by exiting out an upper-story window. She’d found she had a knack for it, and it had led her to the sport of rock climbing. She was rusty, but even so, she made good time, finding suitable hand- and toeholds. The fifty-foot drop to the surging blue water didn’t faze her.

  She pulled herself up onto the path less than a minute later, just in time to see the man’s back vanish over the top of a hill of rocks about one hundred feet away. Riley started to run.

  When she crested the top of the rocks, she saw the terrain was changing. A long path led down to a cluster of buildings. They looked like fishing shacks now, but maybe they had been homes or even some kind of defense system at one time. There was a launch ramp, and several of the buildings had dories resting on their roofs. She didn’t see the man anywhere, so she ran down the path, swiveling her head, searching for him around corners and through the open doorways of buildings that appeared deserted. Somewhere ahead she heard music.

  Riley leapt over a stone wall and cut through a courtyard in front of one of the shacks. A clothesline held brightly colored T-shirts and several pairs of cotton pants. She was startled by a loud voice, then saw the cage and a green parrot eyeing her distrustfully.

  There was movement inside the house. She stepped to the door and peered into the shadows. A toddler in a baggy diaper looked up at her with big,
dark eyes, his thumb in his mouth.

  “Excuse me,” she said, backing out into the yard.

  There was only one route the man could have taken to get out of there. The fishing shacks were nestled right up against the walls of the city, and they marked the end of their path down on the rocks. But there was a perimeter road fifty feet above her head, and a long, narrow staircase at the far end of the buildings that led upward. There was no way he’d had a good-enough lead to make it before she got there. He had to be around here somewhere.

  She jumped back over the wall and checked around the back of the house. Where the heck were the kid’s parents, she wondered. It was spooky how quiet it was. The music had stopped. All she heard was the breath-like swells surging up the sloping rocks. She could see the seaward side of all the buildings ahead. They were built up atop a rock promontory. There was nowhere to hide there.

  She ran from house to house, but most of the doors were locked, and those that opened to her hand were empty. At the top of the launch ramp, she saw a concrete wall topped by a rusty railing. A chair leaned against the wall, and a cigarette still burned in the ashtray on the ground next to it. All the shacks on that level had padlocks on their doors. At the far end, though, she saw a house with a little red awning. It was just before the stairs that led up to the road. Hanging from the awning poles were three little birdcages that held finches flitting behind the bars. The door to the house stood open.

  “Hello,” she called out as she crossed the courtyard.

  As Riley reached the doorway, a very large woman burst from its shadows with her mouth open and her arms spread wide. Her ample breasts and belly plowed into Riley and knocked her onto her back, with the screaming lady on top of her. Birds screeched, a child started crying, and, though the woman’s hair covered Riley’s face, she saw the shadow of a man run out of the door and turn to head for the long stone stairs. The only detail about him that registered was the gun in his hand.

  Riley shoved the woman aside and leapt to her feet. “Get inside,” she shouted, then she planted one hand on the rusty railing and vaulted over it. The man was already at the base of the stairs. His back was to her, and she noted his long, stringy brown hair. He was over six feet tall and slender. But he was slow, and she was going to catch him before he made it to the top.