by Sarah Monzon
Like a flash of lightning, Captain Montoya’s sword struck—down, up. Small, short strides propelled him forward while the other man stumbled back, his parries slower and the determination seeping from his eyes. Isabella wasn’t sure how the captain did it, which expert maneuver had unarmed his opponent, but the other man’s sword clanged on the wooden deck and rolled toward her feet. She picked it up, the weight unfamiliar in her hands.
“You need more practice, Mario. His majesty expects the shipment we are to bring back to reach Spanish soil and not to fall into the hands of thieving pirates. Understood?”
Captain Montoya didn’t wait for a response, but turned, eyes scanning. His penetrating look stopped on her and the weapon she held in her hand.
Heat flooded Isabella’s cheeks, and she averted her eyes.
In three long strides he stood before her. “Come. You will be my next opponent.”
Her head snapped up. “Me?”
He turned and walked back to the middle of the deck. She shuffled forward, the hilt of the rapier held tight in both fists. The captain stopped and took a stance Isabella could only assume was the starting position for a spar. She raised the sword in front of her, her arms already shaking and wrists aching from the weight.
The captain lowered his sword and regarded her. “Have you never sparred before, boy?”
“N-no, sir.”
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath. With a look of annoyance, he approached her. Large hands cupped the top of her shoulders and pressed. “Shoulders down.”
The rapier wobbled, and she tried to keep her hand steady. He tapped her right arm. “This hand holds the sword. Up a little more. Good. Now your other arm is going to work as a counter balance, and you hold it out behind you just so.”
He demonstrated the stance, and she attempted to imitate it.
“Now, when I attack, try to block my strikes.” Slowly he brought the sword toward her. Right, left, center. Each strike she blocked reverberated down her arm and echoed up her spine. She gritted her teeth and adjusted her grip.
Displaced air zinged in her ear, and too late she brought her arm up to block. The side of his rapier smacked her upper arm. Her eyes went wide at the sting. A flash of metal caught in her peripheral vision before her thigh exploded with pain. The point of her sword dropped, and he caught her again on the shoulder.
Her body screamed. Muscles already fatigued from work aboard ship protested at the unusual abuse. Chapped skin that had once been as soft as rose petals shrieked with each hit of the captain’s sword. Images, unbidden, came from the recesses of her mind—the hiding places where she thought they were locked away. Hernando looming over her mother’s hunched form. A fist raised, a black eye, and a lie on her lips for its cause. Bruises in the shape of fingers.
Resolve hardened Isabella’s spine. No more would she allow men to have the power over her to cause harm. It was time to fight back.
She bore down and braced for the strike she knew was going to fall. Willing to take the hit in order to make an attack of her own. As Captain Montoya’s sword ripped through the air and landed on her shoulder, she struck.
Using her smaller stature to her advantage, she swung her sword upward, muscles in her arms, legs, and back jumping to attention and straining in their frontal assault. She caught the captain under his arm, her movement mired as the sword came in contact with his body. Surprise registered in his eyes, and a thrill of triumph surged through Isabella’s body.
She had no idea what she was doing. No training or strategy on which to rely. An innate need to no longer be on the defensive, to no longer be the victim, powered her attack. Fear had made her a prisoner in her own body, but now she was breaking free.
Her sword never touched the captain again. He parried her every move, and exertion overtook the wildness of her movements. Soon she doubled over with her hands on her knees, gulping in deep breaths. Her side ached, her skin stung, and her hands and arms tingled from the reverberation of clanging swords. But most of all, her spirit flew.
Captain Montoya stood beside her. “Again. Tomorrow at dawn.” He strode away without a backward glance.
Pepe rushed toward Isabella, his hands reaching out, then retracting back to his sides. “What were you thinking?” he hissed.
She turned her head and looked up at him, a grin in place.
Juan clucked his tongue. “It is lucky for you the captain is a fair man. Another not so noble would have taken it upon himself to teach you a lesson.”
Isabella kept silent as she straightened. She had not asked to spar, nor did she have a choice when he’d commanded her to. She’d not apologize or explain herself.
“You are fortunate they were only practice swords.” He ran a hand down his face. “I cannot imagine how you’d look otherwise.” He shook a finger at her. “No more sparring. If you see the captain or any of the officers practicing, then make yourself busy on one of the other decks.”
“I am to meet Captain Montoya again at dawn for another bout.”
Isabella flinched at the fire in her uncle’s eyes. It slowly died, and he began to pace in front of her. “The captain is a good man. I will tell him your situation, and he will work everything out.” His arms moved in wide gestures. Was he talking to her or himself? “I may lose my position, but what is that compared to your safety?”
Isabella reached out her hand and touched his arm, stopping him midstride. “You cannot tell. I will not allow it. You said yourself the captain is fair. He would not harm me. And if I learn to defend myself with the sword, then I will be even safer than I am now. I would have a way to protect myself.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Please. This is something I must do.”
He sighed and looked out at the horizon. When he met her gaze, she knew she had won. “Your madre would kill me if she knew what I was allowing to happen. I only pray to Díos you know what you are doing.”
***
Isabella awoke and groaned. She hurt everywhere. Muscles she didn’t even know she had protested as she slowly stood. Her hands curled into themselves and then extended back out. How was she going to be able to hold a sword, let alone lift or swing it?
The ship tilted and she stumbled, arms outstretched to try and catch herself. Her fingers scraped along a wooden beam, and a splinter pierced her skin and lodged itself there. Ah! Sticking the offended digit into her mouth, she sucked hard. As she took the finger out of her mouth, she shook her hand vigorously, trying to shake out some of the sting.
How long had she been aboard this ship now? With no calendar, she hadn’t kept track. Hard work and the necessity to remain unseen marked each day. That had been accomplished. Until yesterday. A snort escaped as she thought about all the times she’d been in the captain’s cabin performing her duties without any notice. She should have left the sword where it had lain.
I may be trading my prison of fear for an actual prison if I am found out.
A candle and tinder pistol lay in the bottom of a small box by her bed. She retrieved both and lit the candle. The stench of burning tallow wrinkled her nose.
With caution, she descended to the hold. She’d discovered a small alcove among the barrels when she’d been searching for some dried apples near the beginning of the voyage. Her grandmother’s necklace bit into her side, and she needed the privacy the alcove afforded to rewrap the jewelry into her bindings. Her fingers wrestled with the tightened knots on the strips of cloth encircling her chest. The ends were frayed, and the fabric showed spots of tearing. What would she do if the fabric didn’t hold up for the entire voyage? She folded the linen, creating a pouch for the necklace, and began rewrapping it.
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and Isabella froze. She tucked her body more fully behind a large crate and blew out her candle. The hold plunged into total darkness, but Isabella crouched wide eyed. She prayed the strong smell of moldy cheese and wine would overpower the lingering fumes from the flame.
Light flickered and e
xpanded as two men descended into the hold.
“Have you thought more about what we discussed?”
“Are you sure the plan will work? If we are found out beforehand or your men have second thoughts and we are outnumbered, then the penalty is death.”
Isabella’s heart drummed in her ears. She covered her mouth with both hands, afraid to make a sound.
“Of course I am sure. It would be easier if Captain Montoya was not so loyal…or at least more loyal to himself than the crown. But it is of no consequence. More of the men have sailed with me than the captain, and those not already on our side…well…let’s just say they can be persuaded.”
“I do not know…”
“Think about the gold. Ingots the size of your head. Hundreds of them. Why should King Charles benefit from all of our hard work? I say we take what is rightfully ours.”
“Shhhh. Keep your voice down. Do you want someone to hear you?”
“Like who? The rats? Are you in or not?”
The silence stretched, and Isabella was afraid to breathe. If the consequence of their plans was death, she did not want to think of what they would do to her if they found out she had overheard.
“I am in. You will have to fill me in on the details later. I am late as it is to report to Señor de la Cruz.”
Boots thudded against plank stairs, and Isabella exhaled. Now what? Should she run to her uncle and inform him about what she’d heard? No, she couldn’t do that. At least not yet. One of the men said he had to report to the first mate. And she was supposed to meet the captain. In fact, she was probably already late. Should she tell him? If she told him, she would have to explain what she had been doing down in the hold in the first place, and she couldn’t do that without exposing her secret. Besides, she had been so scared that the men would see her that she hadn’t peeked from her hiding spot to get a look at them. She would never be able to identify the sailors behind the heinous plot. Nor did she know what the plot was.
Something scurried along the floor and over her booted foot. She sucked in her breath and swallowed a scream. Time to head to the surface and the light. Stretching her hands out in front of her, she felt along the barrels and crates until she reached the small circle of light that spilled through the opening to the orlop deck. The boards creaked as they bore her weight, and she hoped the men hadn’t lingered on their ascent.
As she rounded the corner to take the last flight of stairs to the surface, Luis’s small frame almost collided with hers. She reached out a hand to steady him. “Slow down, hijo.”
Large, round eyes brimming with fear stared up at her. He tried to sidestep her, but she kept a grasp on his shoulder.
“Let me go. I have to go.”
She knelt down in front of him, and he wiggled under her hold. She pinned him with a look, and He quieted, scrubbing balled fists over bloodshot eyes.
“Mi papá…” His thin voice cracked.
Isabella looked over Luis’s shoulder. No one was behind him. Had his father hurt him? By Díos, if that man had laid a finger on his sweet boy, she would… She returned her focus to his crumpled face and allowed her expression to soften. If he had been injured by his father, then he did not need to witness any more anger. One more thing for her to hide.
Luis sniffed, and Isabella felt his shoulders straighten under her hands. “I must go. I cannot help him if I stand here crying like a bebé.”
The boy scurried around her and was at the other end of the passage before his words registered in her brain.
“Luis, wait,” she called after him. “Why does he need help?”
He paused, his young eyes drilling in to hers. “I think he is dying.”
Chapter Ten
Bahamas, Present Day
Trent had never been on a flight when the passengers all erupted in applause as soon as the wheels hit the tarmac. If it wasn’t for the death grip Summer had on his arm, he’d join in the clapping. He peered down at her huddled form. Her breathing was shallow and…wait…was she quivering? Still? They were out of danger. They’d made it. Now was time to celebrate. Move on from the fright and chalk it up to a great story you could tell your friends.
Except her hold on him hadn’t loosened a single degree. Her head lay buried in between his arm and the seat, and even though they were taxiing to the terminal, she still hadn’t raised it an inch to peek out.
Something in his world shifted, and it wasn’t the luggage in the overhead compartments.
Flyaway hairs from the crown of her head tickled his cheek, and he smoothed them down with his hand. Who was this woman, and why did she make him feel so…different?
With women it had always been the same—show them a little attention, and they returned the favor. Win-win. You had a little fun, and then you parted ways. But now? With her?
She took a shuddering breath.
“Come here.” He lifted his arm and placed it around her shoulder, pulling her close. “It’s going to be all right. We’ve landed. It’s over.”
The fabric of his shirt pulled taut against his back as she fisted it in a hand at his abdomen. A second later, and all too soon, she lifted her head and pulled away. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she wouldn’t meet his eyes. The hand wrapped around his shirt released its hold, and she smoothed the creases.
Fire exploded in his stomach, and his skin burned where she’d touched him.
“Sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
He caught her hand and held it until her eyes lifted and connected with his. Slowly he lifted her palm to his lips and pressed a kiss to its center.
He was no stranger to desire, to physical longing, but the feelings stirred by this woman…they were new, genuine. What he’d felt when he’d been with other women had been fake—cubic zirconia—and Summer, well, she was the real deal. A genuine diamond.
Summer’s eyebrows knit together. She jerked her hand away, burying it in her lap.
The plane lurched to a stop, and the Fasten Seat Belt signs dinged as they turned off. The Boston marathon couldn’t have contained as much motion as the cabin of the Boeing 747. Passengers from every row rocketed out of their seat, including the man beside Trent in 6C. The man’s shirt had ridden up during the flight, and as he turned, Trent’s vision filled with 6C’s exposed flesh—his hairy lower back.
Gross. A cold shower couldn’t have worked better to extinguish whatever it was that simmered in his blood at Summer’s nearness. He glanced at her, but she faced the other direction as she gazed out the small window, her nails making little clicking sounds as she picked at them in her lap.
A grin spread across his lips. Nervous? Had the little kiss on her hand unsettled her so much? His brain leapt at the next obvious question. How would she react if he kissed her for real?
***
Summer massaged her palm. The spot tingled where Trent’s warm lips had grazed. She squashed her hands to her stomach. Her palm wasn’t the only thing that tingled.
Traitorous body.
She couldn’t possibly be reacting to him this way. He was a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. The way that he shamelessly flirted with her and expected women to fawn all over him just because of his good looks. Oh, she’d seen how the flight attendant looked at him. She’d been extra solicitous too, right up until the turbulence, that was. Well, Summer wasn’t that kind of woman. She wasn’t going to fall for his crooked grin and dancing eyes. Not when she knew what lay beneath. Arrogance and conceit. The two key elements of all players.
Definitely not the type of man she was looking for. Not that she was looking. But if she were looking, she wanted a man that was in it for the long haul. Not a one-night stand.
Trent leaned forward to retrieve his bag from under the seat, and his leg brushed against hers. The percussion section of a high school marching band wouldn’t have been able to keep pace with her heart rate right then. She jerked her leg away and severed contact. A self-imposed restraining order was what was needed. A restraini
ng order and a chaperone. Golly, she missed Jonathan.
Trent stepped into the aisle and motioned for her to go in front of him. As she passed, she caught a whiff of his soap. Old Spice. How had she not noticed before? It was her favorite. Masculine, but not overpowering. It was what she imagined her father wore. A twinge of loss and her step faltered. If her dad was around now, what would he say? Would he warn her that guys only had one thing on their minds? Would he encourage her to follow her dreams and not let any distractions—especially one in the form of a Norse god who couldn’t be trusted—get in her way?
She pushed those thoughts back. What was the point in dwelling on them? The mother-father-daughter family dynamic had never been a part of her life. It was time to grow up. Adult women didn’t need their daddies.
She stepped out of the Jetway and into the Nassau airport, immediately moving to the side. Trent followed. Electric currents zinged, although she tried to ignore them. Impossible, since she’d never been so aware of another person in all her life. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook out her hands at her sides. Opening her eyes, she channeled her focus on the faces of the people pouring out of the Jetway. Finally, she spotted Jonathan’s tall frame above the crowd.
“Jonathan.” She reached out and touched his arm before he walked too far past them.
He turned, eyes wide. “Summer, thank God.” His large hands reached up and cupped her upper arms. They were warm against her bare skin.
His eyes darted over her face as if he was making sure she was in one piece, then glanced at Trent and gave a curt nod. “Excuse us a minute.”
Without waiting for a response from anyone, Jonathan gently pushed Summer toward the wall, her feet taking quick, small strides backward.
Her mind worked to catch up. Why was he acting so weird?
Jonathan stopped after a few feet, giving them a semblance of privacy in the public venue.
Summer’s head tilted to one side, and she could feel her brow wrinkle. “What’s going on?”