Antónia had grown up hearing about the ring. The blasted thing. And she’d wanted it. She’d yearned for it. Wondered every time a lover broke her heart if she would have known better had she been in possession of it.
Her grandmother had gotten close at some point, touched it even, when a lady and her husband had been aboard a ship full of nobles from Scotland that the O’Malleys had plundered. The woman had begged and begged and told Antónia’s grandmother the story behind the ring, of a woman named Theodosia and her lover, Lucius. The woman sobbed and sobbed, and lamented that if she lost it, she’d be lost forever, and her love would die. Granuaille, though she smirked at the story now, had given in, letting the ring go.
Granuaille had just given birth to Uncle Tibbot and was not in her right mind she said. A little more emotional than usual, and a lot more sympathetic to lovers. She’d lost the ring, but never given up on it, sharing her wish to find it with Antónia.
And then Antónia had spied it at the queen’s palace.
When she’d heard the queen’s request of Captain Graves, Antónia had stalked the English Channel. Waiting. And she couldn’t believe that she’d not had to wait long. Upon leaving court, she’d asked someone of inconsequence which ship belonged to the captain, and at the quay it had not been hard to have someone point her in the right direction. She’d memorized his sails, the length of his ship, not to mention the name. The HMS Lionheart.
The ring had been rumored to be kept under lock and key within the Tower of London overnight, beside all those other precious gems Antónia would love to get her hands on. Patiently, she’d waited for the captain to get his act together. She would have boarded ship after ship—stealing their goods, and especially their wine, until she came upon him, had he not hurried up. But, they just so happened to pass a ship leaving the harbor that morning, carrying a wayward seaman cast out by his captain for some crime, she’d not cared to ask what, and he’d told her the ring would soon depart London.
Captain Graves. What luck was it that the same man who’d taken her men into custody before would now be the one carrying the ring she desired to steal? Graves was often sent out to sea to monitor pirates and bring them to justice. He didn’t seem to remember meeting her the year before. He’d chased down another ship she’d been captaining—one that had since been dismantled, its parts used to build a few new ships. When Graves had boarded, she’d attempted to convince him that she was a mere captive of the true captain and he’d believed her. She’d donned a gown, kept her fiery hair in a bonnet and smeared soot on her face. That’s when he’d taken custody of half her crew, the other half able to escape.
They’d been sentenced to death for pirating, but Antónia would never allow her men to die. She’d staged a coup and set her men free, only regretting never being able to tell Graves to his face it was she all along. Her parting words to the captain would have been something like, better luck next time, fool. He’d been searching for her ever since—which was the main reason Granuaille had insisted on her getting a new ship.
Antónia was downright shocked he’d not recognized her now. She’d certainly recognized him.
Well, that didn’t matter. She’d blown it. Years of searching ships and thieving from nobles, hoping to find the ring, and when she finally had, she lost her chance. He’d not be so easy to take down. Especially now that he knew her agenda. Graves, it seemed, was smart. And his men were well trained. Plus, he’d be looking for her. Damn her temper! Why did she have to tell him she wasn’t going to stop?
Standing on the bow, Antónia studied the sea beyond, then gazed up at the nondescript merchant’s flag she’d changed out from her O’Malley and rebel flags. This plan, as harebrained as it was, had better work.
“Ship in the distance, Captain,” Sweeney said.
She’d kept her men busy since the incident just the hour before. They’d sailed fast away from the English toward Ireland, though as soon as they were out of range, she’d made them turn around and head back. They had to sail fast to catch the bloody English before they reached the shores of France.
None of her men had dared say a thing to her about the kiss, or the blunder, but Sweeney, he’d been on edge, and she knew it was only a matter of time before he spoke his mind.
Antónia pulled out her spyglass and flicked it open. Just as she’d thought, the Lionheart.
“Appears he’s still headed for France,” she muttered.
“Aye. Permission to speak freely, Captain?”
Antónia closed the spyglass slowly and stared at Sweeney. He never asked permission. They’d grown up together, learned to sword fight on the decks of Granuaille’s ships. He was the only one she allowed to speak his mind openly and now he was asking for permission.
She nodded, watching him shift back and forth on his large, booted feet.
“Get on with it then.” Antónia’s voice came out filled with as much irritation as she felt.
“Should we not be getting back to Clare Island? Neither your father nor your grandmother know that we’re on a wild goose chase.” The more he spoke, the more animated he became and the more she wished she’d told him no, that he could not, in fact, speak freely with her. “And that display… The men, what are they to think?”
“Display?” Antónia’s eyes shot toward his and it was hard for her not to lash out. She hated feeling judged, feeling as though she were incapable. Not with anyone, and especially her dear friend. “What you mean, Sweeney, is what are ye to think.”
It was no secret that Sweeney had feelings for her. He always had, and every time she’d taken a lover, he’d grown jealous. But he was like a brother to her. She loved him, aye, but she could never see him as anything other than family. And she knew this for a fact, as she’d tried hard before to return his feelings. Sentiments that were forced and never true to heart.
“What is anyone to think?” Sweeney’s fists clenched at his sides. His voice was low, filled with anger. She was lucky he wasn’t trying to rip the masts from the deck. “Ye fairly tossed yourself at that maggot!”
Antónia worked to keep her calm. She gripped the helm, and said levelly, “I did no such thing. He grabbed me. He took liberties he shouldn’t have.”
Sweeney’s regard grew incredulous. Even he knew she was lying. But what else could she say? She could barely admit to herself how much she’d enjoyed kissing Graves, let alone say it aloud.
“And ye kissed him back.”
Blast! Why did he have to go and point that out? Heat that she tried to force away filled her face. “Nay. And it’s none of your business. Besides, he has something that my grandmother wants and I intend to get it back.” And then, of course, she’d keep it, begging a boon from her grandmother who would no doubt allow her to have it.
Sweeney put his hand on the helm, his voice calmer when he spoke. “I think ye’re putting the men in danger.”
Antónia lifted his fingers from the helm, letting them drop back at his side. “Do ye want to be captain, Sweeney? Is that it? Do ye feel ye could do a better job than me?” Antónia placed her hand on the hilt of her sword, a silent warning that she was willing to fight for her ship.
“Nay.” Sweeney shook his head, held up his hands in surrender. “I’d never take it from ye, Annie,” he said, calling her by the nickname he’d given her as a child.
A reminder of how close they were. Of how close he wanted to be.
Antónia scoffed, purposefully ignoring his intended intimacy, even though she knew it would hurt him. But wouldn’t it hurt more if she gave in to feelings she didn’t return? “Then quit your blustering. If the crew is wondering anything, then it’s your job to dispel rumors. You’re my first-mate. I need ye. And I promise, if it wasn’t important, we’d be headed back to Ireland posthaste. But my grandmother is old, and the Lionheart holds a treasure she’s been searching for, for nearly thirty years. I want to give it to her before she… Before she… Ye know.”
Sweeney’s expression softened. “Aye,
Captain. I know.” He dragged in a breath, lips pressed together as though she’d asked him to reach for the moon and give it to her. “All right. I’ll talk to them. All will be well soon, I swear it.”
Antónia breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Because if there is any man on this ship who’s not willing to do as I say, they can walk the plank. I don’t need a weak link to sour this trap.”
Sweeney took a step back, determination back in his eyes, and any sign of his love for her masked. “Aye, Captain, ye have my word.”
“Raise the sails,” Antónia ordered. “We need to slow down, else Graves gets close enough to see the only difference in this ship is on the surface.”
They followed the Lionheart, closing the distance. She’d had her men change from their usual Celtic garb into more mundane English breeches and shirts. No need to call attention. Painted boards bearing the name, Little Dove, were nailed overtop of Lady Hook, a task they’d done a hundred times before. If she wasn’t tricky, she’d not be a good pirate, and if there was one thing she had a talent for, it was piracy.
“If this is going to work, Sweeney, I need ye to pretend to be captain. I’ll climb down the stern and swim beneath the water toward their stern, boarding them without them knowing. It will be better for me to rummage through the captain’s quarters while he’s negotiating with ye. As soon as I have it, I’ll climb overboard and return to our ship.”
Sweeney shook his head and crossed his arms obstinately. “I don’t like this plan.”
“I knew you wouldn’t, but there is little choice in the matter. In and out without anyone the wiser.”
“I don’t think it works that way. At least take someone with ye.”
Antónia squared her shoulders, giving him a no-nonsense expression. “Nay. So remember, ye’re a merchant and ye’ve lost your way. Ye’re looking for East India. Muddy up your face and hair so he doesn’t recognize ye. Wear the fake beard I got ye when we were heisting the Spanish.”
Sweeney crossed himself. “Dear lord in heaven.”
“Cut it out.” Antónia poked him in the chest. “Or I’ll have ye walking the plank first.”
Though he pursed his lips in a pout, Sweeney did stop his prayers.
“’Twill take him a while to give ye correct directions. Waylay him. Then offer to sell him your goods so ye can go back to Scotland.”
“The Scots are the enemies of the English. Why can I not be Welsh?”
Antónia rolled her eyes. “Fine, ye can be Welsh.”
Sweeney grinned like a child just offered a sweet he’d been begging for. “I’ve a cousin who married a Welsh wench. All I have to do is perfect a whiny tone. How is this? We’re looooossttt.”
Antónia blew out a long exaggerated breath. “Heaven help ye if he doesn’t try to burn our ship to make ye shut your mouth.”
Sweeney laughed, a genuine sound that had Antónia’s heart warming. She didn’t want him to be mad at her. Didn’t want him to be frustrated with her either. She needed him on her side for many reasons. To have her back, but also, she needed an ally when she did return to Ireland, because though she’d have a prize her grandmother had long been searching for, she’d also have to explain why she’d violated a direct order to return to Ireland after delivering the gift to the queen.
Antónia descended to her quarters to prepare for the impending heist. She braided her hair, changed into leather breeches and then wrapped linen tightly around her chest, binding her breasts. She pulled on a black linen shirt that wouldn’t be see-through when wet—a mistake she’d made in the past—and then strapped her weapons in place on her arms and ankles. Last but not least, she tied a small bag to her waist, big enough to hold the ring and any spare coins lying around Captain Graves’ chamber. Aye, she wasn’t hurting for coin, but the more she could offend Graves, the better.
Antónia paused a minute, blowing out a deep, calming breath.
She was ready. And she was terrified.
So much had already gone wrong, she prayed nothing else did.
In and out. That was it. Easy and clean.
Chapter Four
“Just how many bloody galleons are going to interrupt our journey?” Titus growled.
Grenville grunted, knowing it best not to respond.
“What should have only taken a few damned hours is lasting all day.” Titus slammed his hand down on the rail, approaching the merchant vessel that was sailing at a swift clip in their direction. “This is bloody familiar.” He grumbled the last and then bit down ferociously on the apple he’d been eating.
He was duty bound to at least issue a greeting to the ship as it sailed for England. The Lionheart should have already landed at Calais. The crew should have disembarked. He should have been sipping an ale and eating a meat pie at the port tavern he enjoyed, whilst deciding which wench to pleasure for the evening. Dammit if the business with Lady Antónia hadn’t delayed them, and then he’d waited until the irksome pirates were out of sight on their way back to Ireland before continuing on his way toward France, circling more eastward in the second attempt to keep the pirates from following if they dared.
And every blasted minute he was reminded of Antónia’s kiss. A sudden salty gust, a mist on the air, even the taste of the bloody apple. He flung it out to sea. Hell and damnation, but he wanted to kiss her again.
“Raise the sails and steer us starboard,” Titus ordered. “Ready the guns in case our luck strikes once more and we are facing pirates.”
The closer they got, the more suspicious Titus became. The ship looked very familiar. A lot like the Lady Hook. But he could see the name on the bow was Little Dove. The men on the ship were large, but they were dressed plainly. Still…
“Remain cautious,” Titus told his crew.
They pulled alongside the other ship, tossing grappling hooks to tie the ships together. A large man doffed his cap.
“Ho, there!” he called in an accent Titus couldn’t place. Returning his cap to his head in just a way that lay shadow over his dirty face, the bloke said, “Would ye be willin’ to ’elp us out, Cap’n?”
Titus, hands on his hip, finger tapping his sword hilt, replied, “Where are you headed?”
“We’re a bit lost m’afraid. Supposed to be at Cape Comorin in t’weeks.”
“You’re a long way from India,” Titus drawled. “Where did you come from?”
“South Wales.” The man stiffened slightly when he said it.
Odd. But he just didn’t strike Titus as a man from Wales. “Must be going in circles,” Titus drawled out.
“Aye. Could ye point us in the right way?”
“Mhmm.” Titus pointed southward. “You should have stayed in the Atlantic sailing south around the African continent to the Indian Ocean. You swung upward here and you’re in the English Channel.”
“English Channel.” The merchant captain doffed his cap and scratched his head, looking at his men, an overly exaggerated, perplexed expression on his face.
Titus didn’t know whether to consider this entertaining or if he just wanted to knock the man into the water and tell him to have a pleasant day. “Have you never sailed to India before now?”
“Aye, plenty o’ times.” He shifted a little, putting his cap back in place.
“Then how did you end up here?” Titus worked hard to keep his voice sounding genuine, not giving away his awareness of their ruse, whatever that ruse may be.
“Well… ’Tis a long story, Cap’n. Ye, see, I ate a bad pottage. Tore my guts up something fierce.”
Titus listened as the man went into great detail regarding his stomach ailment. The men aboard his ship stiff as they listened, biting their lips in their attempts not to laugh. Even his own crew was suppressing laughter, a few covering their mouths with their hands and pretending to cough.
The water lapped at the sides of their ships and overhead the clouds that had been nonexistent started to crowd the blue sky. They needed to get moving, else it would begin to storm before th
ey reached Calais. They’d not be able to dock if the winds were blowing fierce and he wasn’t in the mood to anchor in the Channel to ride it out. But the bloke continued on and on about the bad pottage and how he wished every ship came with a privy like the one back in his manor home in South Wales.
Titus finally cleared his throat, interrupting. “Well, I thank you for sharing such a… detailed story with us, though it wasn’t necessary. Sounds like you need a better cook.”
“Truth be told, he was well into the pot, too.”
Titus grunted. “What cargo do you carry?” Duty required him to inspect. The queen would expect him to check all merchants sailing, and he should review their itinerary, to be sure they were on the up and up. If they were exporting, she’d want a portion of the profits, and she’d like to know what it was. If they were importing, she’d want to charge a tariff. From what Titus had gleaned over the years, the Welsh weren’t much for exporting. They were a country of drovers, cattlemen. What could they want with India? If they were importing, Her Majesty would want to see the goods were taxed.
The Welsh captain’s mouth dropped open long enough for Titus to garner he was left unprepared to answer. Bloody hell. He didn’t want to go aboard the Little Dove. He wanted to be on his bloody way!
Titus blew out an annoyed breath, prepared to tell the man he was coming aboard, when the merchant opened his mouth.
“Cheese, Cap’n. We are bringing cheese.”
“Cheese?” Titus raised an incredulous brow.
“Aye. The owner of this here ship, Master… Cáis, his daughter is an excellent cheese maker, and he was hoping to get a leg up on the cheese market in India.”
“The cheese market.”
“Aye. Cheese to the Indian people.”
Damnation. The bastard was lying. Titus glanced at Grenville whose eyes had widened, and lips pursed. Grenville was thinking the same thing. The merchant was lying through his teeth.
Titus gave a curt nod to his first mate, who then whispered to one of the men.
Returning his attention to the fake Welshman, he said, “I regrettably inform you, and your master, that there will be no Welsh cheese sold in India as they do not consume western cheese, but instead, a cheese called paneer. Any good merchant would know this about their intended clientele.” Titus waved his hand and his men lifted the board to be placed between the two ships so he could debark. “I will also need to examine your cargo and itinerary by order of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.”
Ever My Love: The Lore of the Lucius Ring (The Legend of the Theodosia Sword Book 2) Page 22