The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  “Ye say what?” Alf perked his head up, then to everyone’s surprise, began to roar with laughter. He dropped his hands from the blade he was trying to extricate from the mast and doubled over, slapping the tops of his thighs as if the joke was the best he had ever heard. Varian was grinning as well. He stepped back and ran a thumb along the edge of the cutlass. He turned to hand it to Beacom, who had fainted, and tossed it instead to Johnny Boy, who was as owl-eyed and dumbstruck as the others.

  When Alf stopped laughing, he straightened and wiped his hands across his eyes to catch the streaming wetness. He clapped the duke soundly on the shoulder, which very nearly accomplished what the bout of swordplay could not, then glared a challenge around the circle.

  “Aye, then. Who’s next? A doubloon from me own pocket to the man who can at least make the bastard break into a sweat!”

  “I’ll take your doubloon. And two more from the duke for my trouble.”

  Varian turned to track the source of the voice. Juliet stood at the edge of the circle, her hands on her hips, her legs braced firmly apart.

  “Well, sir? Will you make it worth my while?”

  “Only if you make it worth mine,” he countered smoothly.

  Juliet’s slow smile caused some of the men to chuckle in anticipation. “If you get the best of me, your grace, your pockets will be heavier by a hundred gold doubloons … nay, two hundred. But for that much, I’ll want to see the weight of your wager beforehand.”

  Varian smiled. “As you well know, Captain, my pockets are empty. You will have to trust me for the amount, which I will be happy to deduct from the two hundred you will owe when we are done.”

  A murmur rippled through the men, some of them laughing, some of the more enterprising among them beginning a hot exchange of private wagers.

  “I’ll take it out in trade instead,” she said with narrowed eyes. “You lose and you’ll fetch and carry like a cabin boy for the rest of the voyage. You will go barefoot and scrub the decks alongside the rest of the crew, and you’ll learn how to set a sail, how to tie off a reef, even how to boil up a pot of burgoo to the crew’s liking.”

  Varian took his rapier back from Johnny Boy and raised the blade in a salute to accept the terms.

  The men raised a cheer and some spread their arms to usher the others back and widen the circle. Juliet drew her sword and flexed the thin, tempered steel once before slashing it down in a glittering arc and touching the point to the deck.

  Varian assumed a similar stance; then after exchanging a nod with Juliet, both blades came up and tapped lightly together to start the flirtation.

  They started to move, taking deliberate, prowling steps clockwise around the circle. Their eyes were locked, their smiles fixed. The sun was almost directly overhead, eliminating any advantage to one opponent or the other. Similarly the wind was warm and steady, lacking any gusts that might cause a man to squint or a lock of hair to blow across the eyes.

  Juliet gave her wrist a small flick, scraping metal against metal. She saw his eyes narrow but his arm remained rocklike and steady, fully extended. A split second later, his blade was in motion, clipping hers through a volley of short thrusts that were so fast, the two lengths of steel moved in a blur. With his forward foot pacing out his attack, he came halfway across the deck before she was able to reverse the momentum of the thrusts and drive him back to where he had begun. She did not let up but continued to parry and thrust, lunging forward and back, to and fro, even leaping to the top of the capstan to deliver a flurry of ripostes from a superior angle.

  When she jumped down, she landed on soft knees and went into an immediate crouch, slicing her blade parallel to the deck and forcing him to leap like a scalded cat in order to avoid the cut.

  When the exchange ended, she strode back to take up her position in the first quadrant, her blade extended, the tip etching small circles in the air.

  Varian came away from the wall of grinning men and moved back into position. A glance down confirmed the source of the laughter, for the front of his shirt had been sliced open in half a dozen places. It was loose, but not overly so, yet she had cut the cloth without so much as scraping a pink line in his flesh.

  “My compliments, Captain,” he murmured. “You show a deft hand.”

  “Do I? Shall I show you another?”

  To his genuine and immense surprise, she tossed the blade from her right hand to her left and without waiting for him to recover from his shock, came in on the attack again. Their blades clashed, thrusting and slashing, seeking openings to the left, then to the right. Both adversaries were leaping and weaving their way through the sea of parting men now. The fight carried unceasingly across the deck to the bottom step of the ladderway, then with a graceful, spinning leap, to the top of the quarterdeck and all the way to the crutch of the bowsprit before the tide turned and the aggressor was driven back to the opposite ladderway. Varian had his back to the stairs and knew they were close, but he dared not glance away for the smallest breadth of a second. It was time, he thought. Time to end it while he still had the wits and wrist to do so.

  Juliet saw the small spark in the midnight eyes and knew it was coming. She had watched all of his previous matches, studied his wrist, his shoulder, his footwork, the muscles in his jaw—all points where a minute signal might betray what was coming next. And there it was. The slight downward twist of his wrist as he braced for the next lunge. With each and every challenger who had gone before, this slight bend had allowed him to cut the edge of his blade beneath theirs, then to run it the length of the steel while moving his own sword in a tight spiraling motion. The resulting pressure caused his opponent’s fingers to flex open and the hilt to fly out of the hand.

  Juliet saw his thumb slip back on the guard, a prelude to executing the “fillip,” as Gabriel had called it. There was not even a tenth of a heartbeat between the shift of the thumb and the bend of the wrist, but she used it to bring her sword up and snap it down hard when his balance was momentarily suspended. Instead of coming up beneath her blade, Varian’s was forced down with a sharp biting cut that brought the hilt springing forward out of his startled fingers and turning a silvery somersault before landing neatly and solidly in Juliet’s outstretched hand.

  There was a moment of deafening, awed silence before the crew broke out in a clamorous roar. She raised both swords in triumph to acknowledge their cheers, then drove Varian’s point down in a flare of sunlight, embedding the tip in the deck before releasing it so that the shaft quivered upright between them.

  The look of absolute astonishment on his face could not be feigned. His hand was poised in the air as if it still held the hilt. The only thing that moved was the fat bead of sweat that rolled down his cheek.

  Juliet resheathed her sword. “I believe that gives me the win, sir.”

  Varian recovered enough to offer a deep bow. “Your servant, Captain.”

  “Indeed you shall be, sir. As for you,” she said and moved to the rail to address Big Alf, “Mr. Crisp will make a note to deduct the sum of one gold doubloon from your share of the profits before you drink and wench them away.”

  “Well spent it was, too, Cap’n! Well spent!”

  She waved her hands to bring an end to the hurrahs, and beside her, Nathan’s voice boomed out, ordering them back about their tasks. All save Johnny Boy, who was called to the quarterdeck with a tilt of Juliet’s head.

  “Take his grace the duke down to the galley and show him where he might find the victuals to prepare me a tray for supping. Oh, and fetch him a pot of lampblack. I seem to have won a few scuffs on my boots that need polishing out.”

  She smiled at Varian, then handed the helm off to a snickering Nathan Crisp before going below.

  Once inside her cabin, she closed the door and leaned heavily against it. She had got the better of him, but only by a hair’s breadth, for he was lightning quick and more resourceful than she had anticipated. There was dampness between her shoulder blades, more curling
the fine hairs across the nape of her neck—the humid price of pride.

  Shaking her hands to ease the ache in her wrists, she went over to her desk. On a normal day, at noon, she would carry the backstaff up on deck and take a reading to determine their position, but since they were only a few hours north of Pigeon Cay, the need was not pressing. She looked at the new journal she had brought on board. She had entered their time of departure and the date, September 3, but otherwise the pages were blank. Chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip, she pulled out the chair and sat down. She stood a moment later and removed her sword belt, then sat down again, wondering how busy she should look on the first day of a voyage.

  Opening a drawer, she took out a quill and a small knife, and trimmed the tip to a fresh point. She unscrewed the pot of ink and set it in the well, then ran her tongue across her teeth a few times between thoughtful glances at the door.

  Leaning back in the chair, she propped her boot on the edge of the desk.

  A distraction, that was what he was. Just a distraction that would be gone from her life soon enough.

  Varian only bumped into two bulkheads on his way from the galley to the captain’s cabin. He balanced a wooden tray in one hand and carried a jug of ale in the other. The captain liked ale with her noon meal, Johnny Boy had informed him, then proceeded to show him where the wooden ladle was hung and which barrel had been marked for the captain’s personal consumption. Not watered down, he had confided in a whisper, not like the weaker brew allotted for the crew’s ration of two quarts a day. They’d all be drunken sots otherwise.

  Varian was still prickling over the laughter that had followed him below deck. How a mere slip of a woman had bested him with a sword was completely beyond his ken. Johnny Boy had winked and told him it was a good thing he had let the captain beat him, and he had wanted to box the boy’s ears. Let her beat him? The thought had not even occurred after the first exchange of ripostes; in truth, he had been hard-pressed to keep her from slicing more than just his shirt into ribbons.

  He arrived at the captain’s cabin and, having no spare hands, knocked with the rounded shoulder of the jug.

  “Come.”

  He worked the latch with his elbow and pushed the door open, stumbling through with just enough balance left to keep the tray from tipping onto the floor. She was sitting behind the desk, a leg propped on the corner. A quill was in her hand, the feathers brushing her lips as she twirled the shaft between her thumb and forefinger. The bank of gallery windows was behind her, glaring brightly with the reflection of the sun off the water. She had taken the thong out of her hair, and the dark auburn curls spilled loosely over her shoulders, the finest strands glowing fiery red against the light.

  He moved forward slowly, setting the tray and jug down on the desk. She said nothing, she just watched him and twirled the end of the quill against the soft pout of her lip.

  It was such a small thing. A feather dusting her lip. But then he saw where a dark curl of hair rested over her breast. From there, it was a graceless slip down to stare at the crease in her breeches at the top of her thighs. He felt another bead of sweat trickle down his temple and before he could even reason with himself, he was standing beside her, reaching down and pulling her up into his arms.

  She could have stopped him with a word, but she didn’t. She could have resisted, could have pushed him back and flailed him for the audacity, but she was too busy opening her mouth and taking the heat of him inside. She flung her arms around his neck and uttered a soft, throaty moan as his tongue lashed her mouth. Her fingers clawed into his hair so that even if he wanted to, he could not pull away until she had her fill.

  Varian’s hands went to her waist and tugged at the fastenings of her breeches. When they were unlaced, he pushed them down over her hips, then ran his hands everywhere the moleskin had been—around the swell of her buttocks, over the flat plane of her belly, down into the warm nest of soft curls. He ran his fingers between her thighs and groaned into her mouth when he felt how sleek and slippery-wet she was. He stroked again and this time found the source of all that heat and moisture, curving his finger up and thrusting it deep enough that she gasped and shuddered in his arms.

  Without unmolding his mouth from hers, he lifted her and sat her on the edge of the desk. He managed to pull off one boot and one leg of her breeches before he reached a shaking hand down to the fastenings at his own waist. The laces were not fully loosened before he was sweeping the top of the desk clear behind her and easing her back onto the wood. He breached her hard and fast, each thrust winning a cry of pleasure from her lips. Her legs went around his waist and she kept him locked tightly in her embrace until they were both straining and clutching each other through a mutual and stunningly prolonged climax.

  He did not stop after the first flush of ecstasy, nor even the second. At some point he tore off her other boot and cast her breeches to the floor, and they moved from the desk to the chair. She sat astride his lap while his hands roved beneath her shirt and started the incessant throbbing between her thighs again. A small shift of weight forward and he was there, thick and hard, stretching up until she gasped and clawed his shoulders and could not breathe.

  “You are acquiring some bad habits, your grace,” she whispered. “You have learned to take without asking.”

  His mouth nuzzled deeper into the curve of her throat and his answer was muffled. She didn’t care anyway. She only laughed and arched her neck and felt him move inside her again, her body silky and lush with the overflow of their passion.

  He lifted his mouth from her shoulder and watched the pleasure streak across her face, wondering why … when he had ever thought her anything less than beautiful. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth—especially her mouth when it was trembling around a disbelieving cry—they were what had conspired to keep him restless and unable to sleep for eight days and nights alone on Pigeon Cay.

  “There?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Dear Christ, yes.”

  The shaky whisper of breath on his cheek made him smile, made his flesh pulse within her. She melted forward against his chest, but there was nothing she could do. He was in control. Her feet hung several inches off the floor and with nothing to give her leverage, she was at his mercy … for once. He tightened his hands around her waist and held her until she stopped squirming, then skimmed his fingers down to cradle her bottom again.

  When she was able, she opened her eyes and glared into his.

  “You will pay for that,” she promised.

  “The coin will be well spent,” he murmured, his fingertips starting to roam in places that had her curling her lower lip between her teeth. A whimper brought her head forward so that her brow touched his chin and this time when he surged inside her, she groaned.

  “Is it because I bested you with the sword? Are you determined to prove yourself superior with a blade of another kind?”

  He laughed, low and soft. “If you had this kind of blade, madam, I would gladly concede without ever testing it.”

  “You will concede anyway,” she hissed quietly. “I will have you on your knees begging, damn you. I’ll—”

  The knock on the door cut off whatever she was about to say and she froze.

  “Cap’n, you in there?”

  It was Johnny Boy.

  “Cap’n?”

  “What is it? I’m … I’m busy.”

  Varian’s eyes narrowed. He slid his hands up to her waist and exerted just enough downward pressure to win a shivered curse from between her lips.

  “Mr. Crisp sent me down to fetch the chart.”

  “Wh-what chart, dammit?”

  “He says we’ll be passin’ Crooked Isle before the glass runs out an’ he had a thought that he might like to know where the shoals lie.”

  Juliet released her breath in a frustrated hiss against Varian’s throat. “I have to get it for him. He won’t go away unless I do.”

  Varian relented. He lifte
d her enough that she could climb off his lap, but he kept his hands around her waist until her legs steadied beneath her.

  “Just a minute,” she said loudly. “I’m fetching the damned chart.”

  She walked quickly around the desk and crouched down to search among the rolls of parchment that had been scraped to the floor earlier. She found the chart and padded barefoot to the door, glancing back once before she opened it just enough to push the roll through.

  “Here it is. Tell Mr. Crisp I’ll be up on deck directly.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” The boy tipped his head and tried to see behind her, but she closed the door with a firm slap and threw the bolt. She waited, her head and hands pressed to the wood, but it was several moments before she heard the telltale sound of Johnny Boy’s peg thumping away.

  Even so, she couldn’t move. Her legs were trembling, her thighs were running with pearly wetness, and the breath rasped hotly in her throat.

  A glance told her he had not moved, not any part of him. He was still taut and full, his flesh quivering like his sword when she had driven it into the deck. Nothing moved except his eyes and they were inviting her back, promising she could take what she wanted with or without asking. She was not even aware of her feet touching the floor as she returned. She took the hand he held out to her and let him bring her back where she belonged, settling over him without a moment to spare.

  The orgasm was shattering and intense, no more no less so than any other had been in his arms, and yet it was different. It had no beginning, and when it rushed through her, it had no end. The flood of sensations just seemed to recede for a time, knowing that another look, another touch, would bring the tide flowing through her again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  From a strategic point of view, New Providence was ideal for privateers and pirates alike. The entrance to the harbor was protected by an island that allowed two ways in and out, making it impossible to blockade with anything less than a fleet of warships. The hills behind the beach provided an expansive view of the horizon, giving lookouts plenty of time to issue a warning if hostile sails came into view, plus an ideal vantage point to spot merchant ships that were weaving their way through the island chain. Less than a hundred yards from shore there was a tangled jungle of tropical vegetation where an entire crew could vanish within minutes and never be found by pursuers. While there were no permanent structures erected, the beach could be transformed overnight into a city of tents, with canvas sails strung over spars stuck into the sand.