Mistress of the Stone

by Maria Zannini

  “This bastard’s goin’ to die on us, and Paqua will have me head when he does. I can’t do nothing about this fever. He’s burnt up with it.”

  Luísa leaned over Daltry’s sweat-soaked body. The reek of sickness rose from him like bad air, and she covered her mouth with the sleeve of her shirt. She felt his face, almost too hot to touch. “Damn English constitutions. I just need him awake for a few minutes.”

  “Ha!” McLeod grunted a laugh. “’Tis what they get for fouling their bloodlines.”

  Luísa looked around the room. They’d had to kill the milk cow when her udder went to rot, and her carcass was still hanging all about them.

  Mice scampered at Luísa’s approach, despite Fat Jack’s constant vigilance. She flinched when he pounced from the shadows and caught two of the vermin with one swipe. The mouse squeals ended abruptly and Fat Jack hauled them away so he could eat in peace. If Daltry didn’t die of his own rot, he’d surely die in the surgeon’s care.

  Dooley kicked at the door as a means of knocking, and then entered, his arms loaded with rags and a big bucket of water.

  “Take those to my cabin, Dooley, and set up a hammock at the far side. We’re moving this man to my quarters.”

  Dooley’s eyes widened as big as oysters. “Ma’am?”

  “Go on. Do as I say.”

  Dooley turned to leave, but McLeod threw a dagger at the doorpost. The shiny hilt waggled on the beam, halting the cabin boy dead in his tracks.

  “Belay that order, lad.” The surgeon turned to Luísa. “Ye can’t have a man in your quarters, Mistress. Yer father—what would he say?”

  “I need this heathen to live, McLeod. And he can’t do it in this squalor.” She snapped her fingers at Dooley. “Get going, boy. I’ll get a couple of men to carry him.”

  Dooley took off, but McLeod refused to give in.

  “Luísa, lass, be reasonable. Paqua will report this to yer father when we find him.”

  “We won’t find Papa without information. Besides, this man is nearly dead. What exactly do you think is going to happen?”

  McLeod wrung his hands. “That little shaman will take it out on me for sure. Ye know how he likes to use his weirding ways.”

  Luísa looked up at McLeod, a big bruiser of a man who towered over everyone else on the ship. She lifted up on tiptoes and patted him on the cheek. “There, there, Muffin. I’ll protect you from mean old Paqua.” She finished her petting with a resounding slap, forcing the giant a half step back. “Humor me this once, Scotsman, and I promise to ask God to grant you bollocks in the afterlife.”

  McLeod turned his back with a grumble. “Paqua ought to wash yer mouth out with soap.”

  “What was that?”

  “As you will, Mistress. You’re the Captain.”

  She glanced back at the Inglés, Death warming over him like a lover. “Make haste, big man. Get him to my cabin while there’s still time to save the bastard.”

  Two men dumped the dying man into a hammock and backed out of the captain’s quarters as quickly as they could.

  Daltry’s shirt and trousers were soaked with sweat and blood. Luísa stripped them off his body just before Paqua barreled into her room.

  “Sinvergüenza! Are you mad?”

  “Not now, viejo.”

  “Luísa, you can’t have a man in your room.” His eyes widened when he noticed Daltry in his skivvies. “Especially a naked man!”

  “Aye, and do you think I’ve never seen a naked man? I am stranded on a ship full of muscle and spit. We need this pirate-hunter alive.”

  “What will the crew say?”

  She soaked a rag in the pail of warm gray water and rung it out. “They’ll say Luísa Tavares did what was necessary to find the capitán of the Coral.” She wiped the sweat from Daltry’s face. “Blast you, Paqua. It’s not as if he’ll be sleeping between my sheets. If we’re lucky, he might live long enough to tell us what we need to know before he goes to the devil.”

  Paqua glowered in disapproval. “It is shameful.”

  “As shameful as having one woman on a ship full of men with stiff breeches?”

  “They’d never touch you. You know that.”

  “Neither will this one.” She patted the pistol tucked under her belt. “Have a little faith.”

  “Dagh! Get him conscious. As soon as he can be moved, I want him out of here. Understood?” He turned to walk out then stopped and tossed her a small black book that she caught in midair. “His,” he said as his only explanation. “You might find its contents interesting. Perhaps that will convince you to throw him over the rail now.”

  Luísa ignored the book, knowing the poor bastard in the hammock faded to oblivion. Daltry had sweat enough to fill an ocean, and the fever had worsened.

  There was no choice. She had to strip him down to bare skin.

  She shot a look to either side of her, then tiptoed to the door to have a listen. If Paqua thought having a man in her room was shameful, she hated to think what he’d do if he knew she stripped the bastard naked. It was best if he didn’t know—on both their accounts.

  She walked back to the Inglés, the hammock swinging gently on the steady roll of the Coral. He was handsome even if he was half dead. His skin had paled, but underneath its pallor were the undertones of golden flesh, not ruddy or sunburnt like most of the Inglés she’d met, and a thick mane of dark hair that tied in the back. His nose was straight and slender, but his lips were full. Madre de Dios, they were full. The soft stubble of day-old whiskers framed his face.

  Her fingertips brushed his stubbly cheek ever so lightly and then flinched back. Was she mad? What possessed her to touch him like that?

  Luísa swallowed hard before summoning the courage to tug off his drawers. She tried not to look down while she worked, but wicked curiosity got the better of her and she snuck a peek. He was as naked as the day he was born and her hands were all over him. She stumbled back, and realizing his skivvies were in her possession, flung them to the floor like purloined goods.

  She’d had plenty of opportunity to see a naked man here or there, but none of them looked like this one. Her mouth went dry as her gaze traveled up his long muscular thighs and a belly so hard you could bounce a gold doubloon off it. More was the pity of his death.

  She reached for a small leather bag that hung around his neck. Coin, she thought at first, but no, it felt light. She opened the pouch and poured out the dried remains of pale purple flowers into the palm of her hand.

  Wolfsbane? She’d heard of people wearing powerful herbs as protection against demons, but this herb had been dried and crumbled, as if to use in snuff or chew.

  Luísa funneled the papery skins of dried wolfsbane back into the pouch and tossed the satchel onto a nearby table.

  The Persephone’s first mate claimed his captain had been shot in the back, but McLeod reported he found the wound nearly healed. Indeed, she had to look closely to find any marks on him at all. Yet the fever clung to him like second skin.

  No matter the cause, he lay dying, and with him fled any answers she hoped to gain.

  Luísa washed him down, nearly losing her breath when her rag skimmed around his sex and down his legs. God help her, the devil had a hold of her with both arms. When she got him as clean as she could, she wrapped him in every spare blanket she had. Hour after hour, she washed his face and wet his lips with lime-water, a precious commodity until they could resupply.

  This pirate-hunter was hours from being food for the fishes. If she didn’t break the fever soon, he would be past saving.

  Xander Daltry was a strange one. The only thing she knew about him was that he was a mercenary, a bounty hunter who roamed the seas in search of pirates with the highest bounties on their heads.

  Such a man wouldn’t have lacked for would-be assassins, but Saint-Sauveur had no cause. Both were devils living off the spoils of the brethren.

  And this rogue hunted on commission as well. Many a pirate lost his name, if not his l
ife, within the annals of Daltry’s legendary black book.

  She pulled out the small oilskin-covered book and flipped through the pages. Judging by the entries, Daltry was thorough…and wealthy.

  Inside were the names of pirates now dead or awaiting trial. Blade Martin, Bootblack Jim, and Maryjayne the bold. Each had their names crossed off the list with a date and the prize money.

  Further into the book was a page with its edge turned down. She uncurled it and read the entry. The sea seemed to vanish from beneath the Coral’s bow. In bold letters was the name, Inácio Tavares, with a line through it. Beneath it—was her name.

  “Dios mío,” she whispered.

  The Coral maintained a low profile, raiding ships that didn’t raise the wrath or interest of influential people. Papa did that intentionally to protect her. Why was his name in this book? And even more puzzling, why was her name in here?

  She looked over at her patient, breathing steadily thanks to her care. “Demon,” she hissed. “You have a lot to answer for.”

  Luísa watched him sleep hour after hour, trying to make sense of the entries in his book. Her eyelids grew heavy with sleep and fatigue. Unable to fight it further, she collapsed into a chair that she had pushed near his hammock.

  Somewhere in her subconscious she heard the second bell, and then the third, but before the fourth bell tolled, a raucous clatter roused her from a sound sleep. Out of reflex, she jerked out her matchlock, still unlit. Never in her wildest dreams did she expect to wake to the spectacle of a hulking man, nestling naked between her legs.

  Chapter Two

  Luísa stowed her pistol and collected her wits. Daltry moaned softly, still blindly unaware of his predicament. She struggled to pull him up, but he stayed on his knees. “Damn fool! What were you trying to do?”

  “Who the blazes are you?” He groaned, one hand on his head, the other on the floor. Daltry took a drunken look around, his naked body pitching to the roll of the keel. “What ship is this?”

  “The Coral.” Luísa helped him to her chair and quickly threw a blanket across his bare loins. “We found you in the water and fished you out.”

  His brow crinkled, eyes narrowing into amber slits. “Where’s my ship?” His voice took an edge now.

  Luísa lit a lantern and hung it on the nearest hook. “What ship is that, mate?”

  “The Persephone,” he said with authority. “I am her captain. Xander Daltry.” He looked up at her. “Who are you?”

  “Luísa Tavares.”

  He eyed her with contempt. “Humph…so Captain Tavares really was balmy enough to bring his daughter into his business.” He took another wobbly look around before his gaze returned to her with obvious disapproval.

  “My father’s business is none of yours, English rat.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and groaned. “Aye, and I suppose my English breeding offends thy gentle nature?”

  “If the English knew anything about breeding they would’ve put a proper queen on the throne instead of that bastard one.”

  “Are you Spaniards still upset about Elizabeth? You can hardly hold me responsible for who sits on the throne. Or is having English blood enough to be held prisoner?”

  “That depends, Inglés.” She waltzed around him. Maybe it was a mistake to take him aboard, but it was too late now. She’d get what answers she could. “It seems we have a common enemy and we could be of use to one another. Tell me what you know about the pirate-hunter, Saint-Sauveur.”

  Daltry’s expression darkened. “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I hoped you might.”

  Daltry stood up, wrapping the blanket around his midsection, then steadied himself against the back of the chair. He took a ragged breath, but she could already sense he was getting stronger. The pirate-hunter raised his chin with the disdain of an aristocrat. “Does your father approve of his daughter keeping a naked man in her cabin?” The man pulled the blanket above his navel.

  Luísa slapped her hands to her hips. “That shouldn’t concern you, Captain.”

  “And yet it does. I like to know what kind of people I’m dealing with.” He stumbled toward her dressing table, keeping the blanket clutched tight. “If you’re nothing more than a comfort-woman—”

  “I am not!” Luísa kicked the chair straight at his shins.

  Daltry was surprisingly quick, dodging her volley. He lifted the chair upright and pushed it out of her reach. “My clothes then, Miss. I dare not insult your delicate womanly constitution with my nakedness.”

  Luísa was arguing with a man who lay kissing Death’s hand only hours ago. He still looked weak as a newborn, wobbling with the roll of the ship, but his wits were sharp and his gaze darted everywhere. She gritted her teeth and marched toward a clothes chest. It never occurred to her that he’d be awake any time soon, if at all.

  This had been her father’s quarters before it was hers and his clothes were still here. She hated the idea of giving this heretic Papa’s things, but she couldn’t just let him stroll around naked.

  How was this man even alive, much less standing? With every moment, he grew stronger, his color returning, and his eyes never resting, searching for answers.

  She handed him a shirt, some skivvies and a pair of short breeches then turned her back. It was one thing to see him naked when he was unconscious, but now that he was awake, it was…awkward.

  Luísa heard him dressing. The skivvies barely made a rustle, but the thought of muslin skimming against his bare loins seared a trail of heat down hers as she imagined the white drawers rising up over those long muscular thighs. The slide of breeches were heard next and then the shirt as it slipped over his head.

  That was all. He was decent enough to be seen in her company. She was just about to turn around when he trapped her, his grip like a vise, wrapping a strong arm above her waist and a hand against her mouth.

  “Don’t scream, little one, or I’ll break your neck with one snap.”

  Luísa’s hands dropped to her sides, and she felt for the pistol at her waist. She nearly drew it out when he released her mouth then smacked her knuckles with a sharp rap, forcing her to drop the weapon.

  “Ow!”

  He snatched the gun in midair and pointed it at her. “You’re a naughty one, Luísa Tavares. What kind of woman lives on a pirate ship, wears men’s breeches and plays with matchlocks?”

  Annoyed but still collected, she stayed her tongue. It wasn’t the first time she’d had a pistol drawn on her, but it was the first time she’d seen her pistol drawn on her. “Don’t be stupid, Daltry. You’re all alone here. If anything happens to me, you’ll be dead before you reach the top deck.”

  “I doubt that. Besides, I don’t plan to kill you, kitten,” he said in a rough purr. “You brought me here for a reason, which means I must be more important to you alive than dead.” He pressed her back against the broad of his chest. “Where is my crew, my ship?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Daltry tightened his grip around her neck, while his warm musk thralled her into submission.

  “Your bluffs don’t hold water, Captain Daltry. You already said you wouldn’t kill me.”

  “Aye, wench. But that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you.”

  Maggots! She hadn’t thought of that.

  She caught sight of her dagger still embedded at the top of the chest of drawers and leaned toward it, hoping Daltry wouldn’t notice.

  Instead, he shoved her in the opposite direction and walked her to the bed. If he meant to—Madre de Dios! Surely he wasn’t that mad. Not here. Not on her father’s ship.

  “Daltry, heretic Englishman or not, you know you can’t get off this ship.” She dragged her feet, hoping to impede the inevitable.

  “I’m not getting off—at least not right away. What is our heading?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Daltry turned her around roughly and lifted her chin. “Come now, dearest, don’t play the wi
tless damsel. It’s not becoming, especially on you.” He pushed her on the bed, then knelt, one knee between her legs. “A pretty girl wearing leather breeches and a shirt that betrays her womanly charms is quickly discounted as a woman of easy virtue.”

  Luísa shot up in protest, but he shoved her down. She countered with a sharp knee to his cojones, forcing him to stumble back two paces.

  “What do you think of my virtue now, Inglés?”

  Daltry groaned, and then recovered with a wag of his finger. “Naughty girl,” he said when he caught his breath. “You are Inácio Tavares’s daughter, a pious man even while he robs half of England blind. I’ve no doubt he’s locked you in one of those infernal chastity belts.”

  With lightning reflexes, he grabbed both her hands and pulled them above her head. He bent down and with his free hand swept long fingers across her midsection and places lower.

  Luísa squirmed, not out of modesty, but need. The wickedness of that need shocked her to silence.

  A thumb dipped between the juncture of her legs and grazed it lightly. Luísa was certain she’d explode and promptly end up in hell.

  “Hmm…no chastity belt. Poor planning on your father’s part. Any man could have his way with you. Perhaps I should have a word with him.”

  “Let me go, you scoundrel!”

  He laughed and sniffed the one finger that had pressed itself against her privy area. “Perhaps you appease your lust in other ways.”

  Her eyes widened in horror. “O-oh! The impudence!” She stuttered a few incoherent syllables before she could speak whole sentences again. “Blast you, Xander Daltry! I will personally hang your head on a tether and let the gulls feast on your eyes.”

  Daltry hoisted her up by one arm. “The only thing that will hang on a tether is your life if you cross paths with Luc Saint-Sauveur. He’ll kill whoever gets in his way and sell off whatever is left. You’re no match for his kind. The bastard already shot me in the back.”

  Luísa jerked away from him and lunged for the dagger off the chest. She turned and stabbed at the air in front of him, unwilling to suffer this demon further. “He’s taken my father!”