Dead Man's Kiss

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Henri shuffled past with his cane in impressive speed, hollering to “cut and run”. Someone brought down their sword upon the hawser, releasing the ship from her anchor. Amalia jerked forward. Her sails fluttered with wind, gathering the breezes, snapping and filling, and pushing her through the water.

  They were fleeing? She twirled back to Rissa, searching for Valeryn.

  Amalia gained speed.

  Where was he? They’d almost cleared Rissa when she spotted him running along the deck. Valeryn vaulted off his ship, landed with a thud and tucked and rolled on the deck.

  Gunfire crackled all around. She cowered, but refused to lose sight of Valeryn. She raced to him as he used his knee to push up to stand. It took considerable effort, and not without Cocklyn’s help.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She smacked into him, hugging him for all she was worth. “I was so scared for you.”

  Gently, he peeled her off. His grim, bloodied eyes assessed her, and he nodded approval that she was indeed not harmed. But there was something else in his stare. Something more frightening than she’d seen from him before. Something on the other side of the far reaches of her imagination. Anger mixed with resolve and retribution. Almost otherworldly. Whatever it was that had buried deep inside him chilled her blood. She wanted to eradicate it from him, opened her mouth to tell him so.

  He looked back to Rissa, and she followed his gaze. Bloodied and almost unrecognizable, Diego stood at the railing, holding onto a line of rigging for support. Venomous hate roiled off him, and in that moment, Catalina knew he would come for them, and never stop until they were all dead.

  Valeryn let go and turned away, spouting orders and headings, before searching out Sam.

  “Get the injured below,” he said to Big John. “Sam, my cabin, if you will.”

  Below, in the captain’s quarters, Catalina stood in the corner and watched as Henri and the ship’s doctor, Fili, dressed Sam’s wound. Valeryn sat at his desk, his chin resting in the heel of his hand, his arm perched upon the desktop. His face was terribly battered and he labored against the pain in his ribs. But the stubborn man refused aid. He seemed deep in thought with his finger curved under his nose, as he, too, watched the men tend to the colossal black man.

  “How ya doin’, mate?” Henri asked?

  “Don’ ’urt more t’an t’e time I got knifed in t’e t’igh,” Sam said.

  “That’s ’cause a saucy wench wielded ta blade,” Henri smirked.

  Sam flashed his white teeth in good-natured harrumph.

  “Fili says the ball went clean through,” Catalina said, relaying what the Spanish doc had assessed. “Keep your dressing clean to aid warding off infection.”

  Sam thanked her with a nod.

  “Hear that, ya whale?” Henri popped off the cork from a bottle, took a gratuitous swig, and handed it to Sam. “Ya ain’t gonna get no ’fection, are ya?”

  With a crooked smile, Sam said, “Can’t. Ya won’t make a good nursemaid, ’Enri.”

  A knock rapped at the door.

  “Enter,” Valeryn said.

  Cocklyn and Fraco stepped inside and Valeryn motioned them to sit. By the firm set of his mouth, they were not to speak unless addressed.

  “What happened, Sam?” Valeryn’s tone alarmed Catalina. ’Twas the anger still boiling beneath the surface.

  The breezy air disappeared with Sam’s grin. “Took a day ’fore Diego stormed onto Rissa. Lined up Montoya’s soldiers, shot t’em dead. Tossed t’em into t’e bay. T’at scabrous fella, Bart’olomew, was to find and kill t’e rest of us on shore.”

  Catalina tried to hide her surprise. But she was sure she failed as Valeryn’s gaze slid to her, lingering a moment too long. Why would Diego kill Tio’s soldiers?

  “Go on,” Valeryn said.

  “Rounded us up, but not ’fore a scuffle.” He dropped his head, as if what else he had to say pained him.

  “Go on, mate.”

  “Willie was knocked overboard.” Sam’s solemn words were followed with hushed cursing all around. Valeryn slammed his fist to the desk. Catalina convinced herself she could see his fury manifest itself into a swirling dark cloud engulfing him and spreading outward into the cabin. Willie must have been an important friend to them all.

  “He was a mighty good man,” Henri said, shaking his head. “God rest his soul.”

  “Goddamn it!” Valeryn shot to his feet and paced the floor.

  “Branson dove in after him. Couldn’t see, but Diego’s men shot at t’em’.”

  “Why?” Catalina could not comprehend any reasoning behind such vile actions. “Why would Diego do this?”

  “’Twas ’is orders,” Sam replied.

  “By who?” she asked.

  Valeryn answered for Sam. “Isaias Ochoa.”

  Catalina exchanged confused expressions with Fraco. “No. Isaias Ochoa is a confidente to my uncle. He would not do that.”

  “He would,” Valeryn said. “And still appear faithful to Montoya.”

  “Aye,” Sam said. “Diego made it look as if we Rissa lads reclaimed her.”

  “Then Ochoa could send his mercenaries out to eradicate the pirates. Why didn’t I see it before? I should have known Diego was in Ochoa’s hand.”

  “Bastard boasted t’at once he found ya, t’e whole of t’e Amalia be destroyed. All of ya. All of us.” He passed a large thick finger between Catalina and her primo. “T’em, too.”

  She’d never been struck before, but Catalina imagined the shock, hurt, and fear of what she just heard would feel very much like taking a fist to her face. She sank into the nearest chair, unable to trust her legs to hold.

  Fraco belched a bevy of colorful Spanish oaths. “I am going to kill—”

  “That dirty bastard,” Henri joined in the sentiment.

  “But Diego wasn’t gonna hurt t’e lass,” Sam continued. “Said he’d spare her and make her ’is wife.”

  Bile rose from the depths of her gut. “Never!”

  Valeryn stopped pacing and narrowed his eyes at her. Did he think she was lying? Given a choice—her life or marry the wretch—she’d jump off the nearest cliff without nary a second thought. If she were to take a husband, ’twould only be Valeryn. An impossible notion, of course.

  He returned to wearing the floorboards thin. “Why would Ochoa do this when the brethren have an alliance with him?”

  “For t’e Rissa,” Sam said.

  “Makes sense, it does,” Cocklyn said. “Rissa is a prize for any man, any country.”

  “She’s fast and formidable.” Henri lifted the bottle of rum in salute to their beloved ship.

  Valeryn nodded. “She could be outfitted for many respectable causes—blockade runner, spy ship, she could pass as an escort to the world’s royalty.”

  Henri grumbled. “Don’t think the wastrel has any of that in mind.”

  “Nay,” Valeryn agreed. “More likely to rid the seas of the brethren for his own fortune and fame.”

  “Now what?” Fraco asked.

  “Sí. What will happen when we arrive in Matanzas.”

  “If we arrive, ya mean,” Cocklyn said.

  Valeryn shot him a deathly warning stare.

  “What?” Catalina’s grip on the chair’s back tightened. “What does he mean by that?”

  Valeryn took the bottle from Henri and poured a healthy dram into an empty cup. “It means that Ochoa’s other ships will be patrolling the waters off Cuba,” he said as he crossed the room to her in two strides. “Waiting for Rissa to return.” He handed the cup to Catalina. “And only Rissa.”

  She looked at the cup he offered. It meant something that he knew she’d need it. She took the cup from him and downed the entire contents, letting the message of his words sink in with the burn of rum sliding down her throat. They would not make it back to Matanzas alive.

  “I ask again,” Fraco said. “What do we do now? Can we fight?” Genuine concern and fortitude lined his features. ’Twa
sn't something she saw often from Fraco. Valeryn must have noticed, too.

  “Aye, we can fight. We can always fight.” Valeryn refilled Catalina’s cup.

  “Then let us fight!”

  “You know the Caribbean brethren is strong,” Valeryn said. “Powerful. Just as the countries lording over one another. Our strength comes in alliances, instilling fear, keeping order, fighting for and taking what is ours, what we desire to further our stations in this God forsaken world. Still much of it is knowing when we must be patient. A virtue not many of our ilk are accustomed to. Patience is often veiled in knowing when not to fight. To recognize or anticipate when a fight will reap us more loss than gain.” Valeryn handed Fraco the rum bottle. “Your enthusiasm, Montoya, is commendable. But our odds are bleak.”

  “What we gonna do, Capt’n?” Henri asked.

  Valeryn turned to Cocklyn. “How many did we lose today?”

  Cocklyn’s shoulders sagged. “Nine.”

  A deep sadness knotted in her chest. Death was a constant—disease, age, misfortune, war—no one could cheat death. Yet, slaughtering men for selfish gains ’twas unfathomable. She supposed the same could be said of war. But this felt like murder. And she witnessed it firsthand. Suddenly, the reality of the dangers ahead of them were palpable. She thought she might vomit.

  “Sam? How many when Diego seized Rissa?”

  “Four, ’cludin’ Willie and Branson.”

  “That leaves twenty men unaccounted for,” Valeryn said.

  “Six escaped when the guardia costa captured us,” Henri added.

  “Leaving fourteen rotting in a cell set to hang if we are not back in time.” Valeryn resumed pacing.

  The cabin fell silent. No one dared to speak. Not while Valeryn marked the floor deep in thought.

  Catalina studied him. A part of her, the unfettered, emotional, spirited side of her, exalted his every move, his powerful presence and his unwavering dominion. This same part of her wanted desperately to rub her hands over his corded muscles, taste his beautiful determined mouth, get lost in his golden eyes. She wanted to feel his weight upon her again, his length inside her. The other, more rational side of her feared just how much they relied on him to pull them all through this very real danger.

  Valeryn ceased pacing, stopping in the middle of the room. “We take our chances,” he said. “We do not have time to circle Cuba and come in to Matanzas from the west. We will have to sail the original heading and pray for good trade winds. As we near the Windward Passage, we hug the Hispaniola coast. Ochoa’s ships will not likely wander in waters patrolled by French and British ships. We make it to Cape of St. Nicholas before changing our course to Matanzas, complete this commission and get our men out of there.”

  Commission. She was nothing more than a commission. The sound of that was clean, sharp. And she hated it. She wanted to be more to Valeryn than a burdensome assignment heaped upon him without alternative. Never mind that was exactly what she was. Hadn’t they crossed that line? Wasn’t she more than that now? Another dose of reality sloshed through her, sickening her further. No one knew of their intimacy. He spoke strictly of the objective. Still, the definitive way he referred to her as just an order of business cut deep.

  “And then?” Henri prompted.

  “We hunt. We kill. We reclaim Rissa.” His words were laden heavy with malice. God help Diego and his crew.

  The men nodded. ’Twas solemn, and yet decisive. There’d be no other outcome.

  Catalina couldn’t help the pinch in her brow when she glanced at Fraco and saw he nodded, too.

  The cabin door burst open. Nalda, with her white hair wildly askew atop her head, stood with either hand on the door frame. “Catalina! ¿Qué diablos pasó?”

  The poor frazzled woman recounted her harrowing ordeal of how she came topside and was shot at, and spun out crazed accusatory questions about what kind of trouble Valeryn and his pirate friends had gotten them in. They were going to get them all killed. Just wait until the alcalde heard about this. She shook at crooked finger at Valeryn and the men around the table, reserving a special evil eye and extra finger wag for Henri.

  Henri’s jowls flapped with objection. He yanked down his vest, muttering about giving Nalda a what for, and stood. Eye to crossed eye, Nalda and Henri snarled at each other.

  “I don’t know what she’s runnin’ her gab ’bout, but she ought ta shut it.”

  Catalina decided not to mention Nalda ranted about how ridiculous she thought he—a pirate—looked with his red beard ribbons, and for the love of Dios, could he not learn to tie a proper bow?

  Nalda shook with anger. Though Catalina did not want to leave, she must get Nalda out of the captain’s cabin. “Come. Let us leave. The men have much to discuss.” She ushered Nalda from the room.

  “Miss Montoya.”

  She paused with her hand on the door knob. They were back to formalities, were they? She shouldn’t be surprised. ’Twas the agreement they made at the tavern.

  “You are aware we are done here in Los Roques.”

  “Sí, Capitán.”

  As she closed the door, she stole one last glance at Valeryn. He plucked another bottle from the cask, handed it to Sam, and patted the large man on his good shoulder. The captain was worn, haggard from burden. She hated that she was one of those burdens. Well, she would have to show him she did not have to be an albatross.

  CHAPTER 18

  The sun had set two hours ago and Catalina was beside herself. Anxiety gnawed at the fringes of her sanity. Nalda had been subdued with reassurance all would be fine, that the captain had ordered their return to Matanzas. That, and the generous amounts of sweetened small beer she drank. Catalina was sure to keep the old maid’s cup full as she told her of what happened topside and gradually, but vivaciously talked of her experience on Los Roques. She spoke of her plans for the articles she would submit to the Journal of Physical Science and how, on the morrow, she’d take a closer examination of the samples she’d collected. Thereby, with ramblings and ale, she sufficiently put Nalda into a deep slumber.

  Catalina backed out of her cabin, watching Nalda strangle on a snore before rolling over and snuggling down into the covers. Satisfied Nalda had not woken herself up, Catalina closed the door with a soft click and stole off down the darkened corridor. Outside Valeryn’s cabin, she questioned what she hoped to accomplish. Would he send her away, again? ’Twas likely. But she had to try. She had to. She had willingly and foolishly opened her heart to him. Being taken on the beach, ’twas raw, primal, and overwhelming.

  He had been all together furious, scared and worried for her. Merida, she had been, too. Nearly drowning did that to a person. He’d been attentive to her silly wound. And she had let him. She could have stanched the blood on her own. Sí, dressing the injury would have been a challenge, however, not one she couldn’t handle. But seeing the concern pinch his brows, feeling his gentle, steady ministrations, she hadn’t dared to stop him. She had closed her eyes, wallowed in self-pity for a moment, and then committed to memory his touch. And when he had ravished her mouth, she’d known there was no going back. She had won out. The pirate was hers.

  What she couldn’t have known was how he’d taken her to heights unimaginable. Catalina had tasted the undeniably, indescribably, ultimate sin of Valeryn Barone. The intimate interlude was more than a passionate dalliance, ’twas a transcendent union binding her heart to him forever.

  Oh, there she went again. Swooning in the afterglow of coition. But in her heart, she knew Valeryn was something more. She wasn’t ready to say it, but the little light in her heart was there and growing. Even if her feelings went unrequited, she must continue to seek his affection.

  The irony of it hit her. Diego was to her as she was to Valeryn. She leaned her head upon the captain’s door. No. She could do better than that. She was a good woman. Despite what he thought about himself, Valeryn was a good man. The knowledge set deep within her bones.

  Mustering up her cou
rage, she knocked upon the heavy wooden door. The hatch opened, and her mouth went dry. Clad in only his breeches slung low upon his hips, he stood before her a golden god. The lone candle sconce hanging from the ceiling’s center beam cast defined shadows along the lines of his muscled body. The stubble on his face seemed to have grown these last few hours darkening the grim set of his mouth and underscoring his bruising.

  “Belladonna.” The name grated with raspy abandonment.

  “May I?”

  He dragged his hand through his tawny hair which hung in unruly waves down past his shoulders. ’Twas the first time she’d seen it free from a queue. She rather liked the shaggy length.

  He shook his head, but stepped aside, allowing her to enter. Rum, brine and a rich musk filled her nostrils as she passed. Warm, comforting smells she had come to associate with Valeryn.

  Upon the sound of the door clicking, she turned on her heel, strode past him and engaged the lock. She peered up to his piercing, assessing eyes.

  “What you did back there was foolish,” he grunted. “Every goddamned thing you do is without your head.”

  “Perhaps, you are right, Capitán. Everything I do, I do not with my head, but with my heart.”

  She reached to cup his whiskered cheek, but he captured her wrist. He searched her face through wild, hooded eyes, seemingly unable to corral his thoughts. His chest rumble as he heaved a deep, anguished sigh.

  “Sod it all,” he growled.

  Dragging her to him, he planted a rough kiss to her mouth. Catalina gluttonously took in his tongue. Hands roamed—his and hers—squeezing plump flesh, scraping over solid planes and corded sinew. She could hardly breathe from the desperation of touching him. This. This was what she wanted. Valeryn’s heat, Valeryn’s passion. Valeryn. Now and forever. Or at least until he tried to rid himself of her again. Until then, she’d make it hard for him.

  She broke away from his demanding lips. Locking eyes, Catalina held his gaze as she sank to her knees. Her palms flattened upon his chest skated down over the ripples of his stomach. He groaned, the gold of his eyes nearly hidden behind heavy lids as he stared down at her. Her hands fanned out to the flanks of his hip, fingers curled inside the waistband. Slowly, while watching Valeryn’s reaction, praying he didn’t stop her, she kneeled before him and inched down his trousers.