When she was suitably covered, she turned around again. The formerly well-coifed crown of glossy black curls was skewed over one ear with twists of hair spread across her shoulders. Her face was smudged with dirt, her chin was jutting with stubborn determination, and it was only her eyes, smoldering with shades of blue and violet that kept Dante's laughter in check.
That, and the subtle rocking motion that prompted him to cock his head and listen to the gentle creaking sounds coming from the hull.
"The tide is going out."
As he pushed himself out of the chair, he let out a shout that startled the lad awake, causing him to bang his head on the bulkhead. "Master Pitt! Fetch the lady something hot to drink. Some broth if it is to be had, or heated wine if she prefers."
"Aye, sir." As the young man scrambled to his feet, Jonas glanced at Bella.
"Best thing for you to do now is rest while you can. Try to get some sleep."
"Sleep? How can I possibly sleep?"
"Speaking for myself, I always sleep best after the most terrifying sea battles."
She looked sceptical. "The infamous pirate captain, Jonas Dante, gets frightened?"
"Only a fool does not experience fear when he is staring down the barrel of a musket or a cannon. As my father has always said: the braver the man during a battle, the more he pisses himself afterward."
"How very profound," she murmured.
He smirked as he rolled up a chart and tucked it under his arm. "I'll be needed up on deck. Young Pitt will see to anything else you require."
"I should like to see Molly. Or at least know where she is."
"I believe she is in Grundy's cabin for the moment. Young Pitt can show you the way… after you've had something to eat and tried to rest a bit."
She opened her mouth to object, but he was gone. And if he did not quite slam the door on his exit, he certainly closed it with a firmness that caused the lantern hanging beside it to tremble.
Both Bella and Young Pitt stared at the door for a moment, then at each other.
"Is he always like that, Master Pitt? Brusque and rude?"
"That wasn't him being rude at all, m'lady. That was him being quite genteel. Rude is when he sends someone out of the cabin carrying their ears in their hands."
Young Pitt was tall and slim, all arms and legs as only a gangly youth can be. His face was too smooth to have yet seen any hint of beard, and his dark brown eyes too dazzled by the presence of a real lady to tell anything but the earnest truth.
"I see. Well, would there be any chance of some hot water so that I might wash some of the street filth away?"
He followed her gaze down to her feet. "Aye, I can fetch a bucket and a bit of soap. I'll do that and fetch some broth for you as well. Chedley makes a fine fish soup, so he does. Puts hair on your chest, it will. Er… I mean… it will warm your cockles and… er…"
"Both the soap and the broth would be appreciated, thank you."
He blushed and touched a tawny forelock before dashing out. Bella waited until she was certain he was gone down the companionway before she hobbled over to the big desk and quickly retrieved the gold cross. On a second thought, she gathered up all of jewels and replaced them in the velvet pouch, including the ones Dante had set aside for his payment. She tucked the lot securely inside the voluminous folds of her shirt and was about to turn away when she noticed the carvings on the top of his desk.
From across the room, the marks had looked like deep scratches but she was surprised to realize it was actually a map of the New World etched into the surface of the dark wood.
Few men and even fewer women paid attention to life outside the walls of the royal court and Bella was only vaguely aware of the Spanish-held territories that lay far to the south and well across the Ocean-Sea. This was the first time she had occasion or interest to study a clear depiction of the Spanish Main and the vast bodies of the surrounding land and islands Spain had claimed as their domain.
By comparison, the whole of England resembled a small lion sitting back on its haunches in the upper right corner of the desk.
Her gaze wandered farther afield, to a wooden rack tucked into a shadowy corner of the cabin. It contained eight muskets with pouches of shot hanging by chains from the stock. Next to the rack were a series of wooden hooks that supported dozens of swords and cutlasses in many shapes and sizes, some with ornate basket hilts in gold and silver, some with jeweled guards, some with wickedly curved, double-edged blades.
A slim, silver-hilted dagger caught her eye and, glancing over her shoulder to ensure the door was still closed, she slipped the knife into her shirt quick as a blink.
She moved back a pace, the better to see around a thick wooden support, and there were more weapons: daggers, pistols, short-swords, axes. There was even a bow and quiver of arrows hung on the wall. And pennons. Dozens of pennons likely taken as trophies from the ships Dante had captured in battle. Above these was hung what she assumed was his own flag, a square of black silk with a crimson depiction of a wolf crouched over crossed swords and beneath it, a crimson salamander, its claws curled around the hilt of one of the swords. The edges of the flag were ripped and scorched as if it, too, had become a battle trophy.
For the briefest of moments Bella imagined she could see that flag snapped open in the wind, raised above a tower of white sail, enveloped in clouds of smoke rising from the battle below.
To her further surprise, there were three small cannons inside the cabin. They were mounted on wooden carriages so they could be wheeled in place to fire out the gallery windows. At the moment two sat crouched under the wide berth, the third under the dining table.
The cabin, like the man who occupied it, was not without scars. Portions of the walls and floors, even the ceiling showed the paler wood of timber patches where various repairs had been made over the years. Some of the square panes that formed the slanting bank of gallery windows had obviously been replaced as some were clear, some mottled, some colored and cut from whatever scraps of glass were available.
Her eye was caught by a glint of candlelight and she moved again, this time limping over to where a small washstand stood against the wall. A mirror no larger than the palm of her hand hung over the stand and in it, she saw the reflection of a bedraggled woman with dark circles under her eyes, her hair strewn in a black tangle about her shoulders, her face gray beneath the streaks of grime.
Only hours ago she had been in a glittering ballroom with men admiring her beauty and vying for a smile.
Her thoughts then turned to Molly, her head cut open to the bone. And to Hendricks, tortured to death.
Dante was correct in saying any place she thought might be safe, probably would not be, especially if Dimcock had men lurking in the shadows watching the wharf. Even if, by some miracle, she managed to sneak past them, she could not return to her house. She had no friends in London. The gray-haired shylock who took her stolen lucre and changed it into coin acted all fatherly and sincere, but he would sell her out to Dimcock in a heartbeat. And as soon as word spread that Dimcock was hunting for her, she would not find a safe haven anywhere in London.
She could not go back to her house, she could not seek help from any acquaintances old or new. She could not even appeal to her own flesh and blood.
"If you cannot go back," she whispered fiercely to her reflection, "your only choice is to go forward."
Chapter Eight
Jonas was on deck, Hobson Grundy beside him. There was still an hour to go before dawn lightened the river. The mist lay as thick as a blanket on the water, making it difficult to see to the end of the planks on the gangway. Huge deck lanterns glowed fore and aft on the Tribute's decks like great yellow globes, attracting swarms of moths and bugs. Droplets of mist touched the heated surfaces of the glass and sizzled faintly.
Grundy had been second in command aboard the Tribute for less than a year, but he had been a part of the crew since the day the ship had taken her maiden voyage from Pigeon Cay. H
e had initially been in awe of the red-haired son of the notorious Pirate Wolf, and, like others who had joined the crew, had been eager to sign the articles declaring his fealty to the ship and its captain. Over the last decade that sense of awe had been tempered by bouts of unfathomable fear, incredible pride, unbelievably ridiculous wealth, forays into unparalleled danger, and admiration for his captain's exhilarating yet near-insane adventures.
It was a common belief aboard ship that Jonas Dante was afraid of nothing at sea. He attacked ships two and three times the size of the Tribute with nary a hesitation. His crew of one hundred and twenty was hand-picked for their own fearless lunacy and to a man, they would follow their captain into the mouth of a Cyclops if he asked it of them. After so many years in the Caribbee, almost a third were former slaves taken off captured ships. They were a fearsome-looking lot, and while Jonas was well aware that it made the folk of Londontown uneasy to see black men armed and treated as equals aboard the Tribute, they were some of the most loyal and fierce fighters amongst the crew. They were also the least likely to go ashore and get lost in the maze of gambling dens and whore houses that lined the banks of the river.
"Are all the men back on board?"
"Aye," Grundy said. "With two exceptions. Willy Brown got word his mam was ill and he begged off to Scotland."
Dante nodded. "And the other?"
"Cunningham. Last time anyone saw him he was drunk, tossin' dice in an alleyway with some ugly brutes. Sent a couple o' the lads to search him out, but they come back empty."
"We'll not hold the ship for him."
"He knows that."
Dante leaned on the rail and a fat bead of water dripped off the rim of his hat.
"I'll be happy when we leave this blasted English fog behind," he said quietly. "It's thicker than a farmer's cheese and tastes just as sour."
"Aye. The damp reaches right down inside my boots. I vow my toes squeak when I walk."
"The sooner away from here, the better."
"Aye. But what shall we do about that?"
"About what?"
"That."
Jonas narrowed his eyes and turned to stare in the direction Grundy was pointing. A figure had moved through the muted circle of light around the stern lantern and gone to stand at the rail, a figure whose hair hung in a loose black cloud to the waist. She had a blanket drawn around her shoulders like a cloak and in the uncertain light and drifting mist, looked like a ghostly spectre.
The girl was a mystery and Jonas did not much care for mysteries. It was obvious she didn't trust him and with good reason. In her position he likely wouldn't trust himself either. That she was a thief and a kindred spirit of sorts intrigued him, but experience told him that the intrigue only lasted as long as the first tumble between the bedsheets. After that, most women were pretty much the same, and sameness quickly bored him.
Women came to him, surely enough, and enjoyed his lusty ways for a night, a week, a month. But they never stayed longer nor had he ever found a woman he wanted to keep longer. He was harsh and crude and possessed a temper that could flame up from one heartbeat to the next. A very small part of him envied the peace his siblings had found in their mates; the larger part of him shunned the velvet collar and the thought of being bound to just one woman—any woman—caused his bowels to clutch.
This one had spirit and a temper and was not afraid to look him in the eye and spit in it if necessary. Even so, she was not the usual type of female companion he enjoyed in his bed. She was far too slender, and would likely snap in two beneath a good mounting. As sweetly shaped as it might well be, her mouth was quick and her tongue far too sharp for his liking. Moreover, it was obvious, by her presence on his deck, that she had a disobedient streak in her a mile wide!
Jonas grumbled dismissively and swung himself down the ladderway. He strode along the main deck, the mist swirling out behind him like the turbulent wake of a ship.
It was not until he was nearly behind her that Bella acknowledged his approach and turned.
"I thought you were told to remain below in the cabin."
"You told me to try to get some sleep, Captain, which I did. I tried."
"The air is rancid. You do not want to be taking the fever on top of what you have already endured."
"Do you not get fog in the tropics, sirrah?"
"Aye we do, but it does not stink of dead fish and waste from the city gutters. And it's not so thick it's like breathing water."
Bella strained to see anything through the heavy gray mist. There were sounds out there, the occasional shout from a ferryman, ripples from the river slapping on the hull, the creaking of lines and yards, and something metallic overhead that clinked in a regular beat like a metronome. It was still dark along the riverbank, that much she could tell, but little else.
"Do you know the hour, Captain?"
"I would be a poor captain if I did not."
She tipped her head briefly before looking up at him again. "Are attempts to glean information from you, even something so simple as the hour, always so exasperating?"
"Not always. I find myself making a special effort with you, however."
"Oh? And why is that?"
"Because you've not been straightforward in answering a single question I have asked you. Why, then, should you expect anything more accommodating from me?"
She turned and looked out over the side again, wincing slightly at the pain in her side. "My problems are my problems, Captain Dante. You said yourself in a few hours you will be gone from this place, so what does any of it matter?"
"I would caution you to stop throwing my own words back at me, Lady Nimblefingers. The river is full of leeches this time of year."
She exhaled a long, misty breath. "There are bloodsuckers on land as well, Captain."
He said nothing, just waited.
Sensing he would not be an easy man to manipulate without allowing him a few scraps of truth, she drew the edges of the blanket closer, feigning a shiver.
"One of the men Molly described… I am fairly certain he is a cold-blooded murderer named Lugo who works in the employ of a bastard named Peter Dimcock."
Jonas's expression remained blank. "Go on."
"Dimcock is under the mistaken impression that I stole from him. A thousand pounds to be precise. And for that much money, he would want to see a good deal of blood and pain before he forgot about me."
Dante pursed his lips. "Did you do it?"
"No I did not. It was my brother who stole from him then put the blame onto me."
"So you do have family in London? A brother?"
She smiled grimly. "Half-brother. He was there tonight as well. The one Molly said was wearing the green cap and red feather. I suspect it was Liam."
Dante's brows drew together in a troubled frown. "What grounds for the suspicion? Molly said she did not see his face."
"He was at the fête tonight. He demanded money and when I refused, he warned me that I would regret it." Bella's eyes sparked a moment, a reflection from the lantern light, but it could well have been from the anger and disgust she was feeling. "I have no doubt he would prefer to see me dead rather than have me tell Peter Dimcock who actually stole his money."
"He would kill his own sister?"
"To save his own skin? Without hesitation."
This was something Dante could not comprehend, for he would sail his ship and crew into hellfire for any of his siblings and never give it a second thought. In truth, he had already done so on several occasions, and them for him.
"Who is this Dimcock to you?"
Once again Bella debated the wisdom of sharing too much with Jonas Dante. This time the shiver was real, the mist was sliding down her spine like icy fingers. She could hear the echo of her own words in her ear: there was no going back, only going forward. And the only possibly sympathetic ear she had at the moment belonged to a man who likely had no sympathy at all, so what the devil did it matter if he knew the full truth about her or not?
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"My father was a thief—a very good thief. He taught Liam and I everything he knew: how to steal, how to pick a pocket, how to pluck the earrings out of an ear lobe without the wearer feeling a thing. When I was eight he was caught and hung at Newgate; my mother… fell… off a bridge shortly after and drowned. Liam and I were alone, with no money, nowhere to live, and only our wits to keep us out of an orphanage or a workhouse. Dimcock found us living on the streets and took us into his coven of thieves. He fed us, clothed us, kept a roof over our heads. All we had to do was meet our daily quota of pennies that we begged or…"
"Stole?" he prompted.
She nodded. "Yes. Stole. I excelled at most of the cons he ran and because of that he taught me how to read and write, how to figure sums and keep a tally of his daily profits. He dressed me in fancy clothes and sent me out to fleece the gentry. Truth be told, I did not mind robbing fat squires and lecherous lords, but it also showed me there was another side of life, one in which you were not beaten if you failed to bring in your share.
"In Dimcock's world, fourteen years old was more or less the limit for the games he ran and it was only a matter of time before I would become more valuable to him on my back with my knees in the air. I knew I had to get away. I started keeping aside some of the trinkets I stole. A penny here and there off the accounting. When I had saved up twenty pounds I ran and took Molly with me. We rode the public coach as far as it would take us, which happened to be Truro, in Cornwall. We stayed at an inn there while we wondered where to go next, what to do. That was when I met Lord Harper. We spun a tale that we were stranded, pursued by black-hearted relatives who wanted to do me harm… which was not far from the truth. Lord Harper offered us his protection and his hospitality. We got along well enough; he gave me books to read and brought in tutors to teach me the graces of a real lady. We lived at his manor for several years before…"
The Far Horizon Page 7