Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  Perched against a small mountain of canvas, bemoaning the inconvenience of having to wait on the carpenter’s pleasure, Beau supposed her father did not want to think of how truly lucky he had been today. A step slower and he could as easily have had the other leg shot out from under him. She remembered all too well the night he had been brought home in a two-wheeled cart, straight off the ship, his flesh burning with fever, the stump of his leg a bloody, festering mess. The doctor had not given him much hope of living through the night and Beau, only ten years old at the time, had refused to move from his side through the night, the next day, the next night, and two full weeks after that. She had made her decision then and there that if he survived, she was not going to stand on shore and watch him sail away again. Not without her.

  Beau pulled at the threads of her bandage again.

  “Do ye remember her at all, lass?” Spence inquired softly, seeing the melancholy expression creep over his daughter’s face again.

  “Mother? I remember everything. The way she looked, the way she smelled—like cinnamon, all the time.”

  “Aye. I used to liken her to sunlight, hot an’ clean, an’ bright as flame. Why she ever stayed with the likes o’ me, I’ll never know.”

  “The way I have heard you tell it, she had little choice in the matter.”

  “Only because I knew she were the one I wanted. Knew it the minute she flashed them hot eyes at me an’ told me she wanted me too.”

  “You knew because of the way she looked at you?”

  “Well, that an’ a few other things.” The bandage on his head slipped down and he nudged it back in place with the stub of his finger. “She had this funny way o’ always makin’ my skin feel two sizes too small for my body, an’— an’ my hair—when I had it, that is—stand up on end like I pricked my finger on lightnin’.” He cocked an eyebrow. “There wouldn’t be a particular reason yer askin’, now, would there?”

  “No. No particular reason.”

  Spence pushed himself up on one elbow. “Ye’d tell me if that Dante fellow were pesterin’ ye, wouldn’t ye?”

  “He isn’t pestering me, and, yes, I would most certainly tell you if he was.”

  “Is it that ye want him to pester ye an’ he’ll have no part of it? I’ll skewer his gizzards just as deep for the insult.”

  “No! No, it isn’t anything like that at all, it’s just…”

  “Just what, daughter? Spit it out!”

  Their amber eyes met through the glow of the overhead lamp. They kept few secrets from each other. Beau had spoken to him openly and freely when she had lost her virginity and with whom she had done the deed. Conversely, she knew all of his mistresses and his favorite whores and exactly what it was about them that made them his favorites.

  “It’s just that … there are times he makes me so angry I feel like I could explode. And others …”

  “Aye? Others?”

  “Others … when he doesn’t make me angry at all, but I feel like I could explode anyway.”

  Spence pursed his lips and gave her a long, contemplative look from the top of her head to the scuffed toes of her boots. “Mayhap yer doublet’s too tight.”

  Beau, who had not realized she had been holding her breath, released it on a curse that was not as casual as Spence was expecting, and he recanted immediately.

  “Bah, I’m sorry, lass. ’Tis the drink an’ all. Ye know I’m not good at givin’ advice on such things. For a man it’s different. He sees somethin’ he wants, he takes his ease an’ walks away with a clear head in the mornin’. For a lass, well, what kind o’ father tells his daughter to go an’ scratch the itch if she’s got it?”

  “The itch?”

  “The itch, lass, the itch.” He waved a flustered hand in the approximate vicinity of his crotch and scowled. “Ye’re not a virgin, for pity’s sake, ye must know what I mean. An’ don’t go puffin’ yerself up like a peahen tryin’ to deny it. He’s not the ugliest bastard on this earth, an’ neither are you, an’ if he makes ye feel like ye’re wantin’ to come out o’ yer clothes all the time, well then, ye’ve got the itch for him, plain an’ simple.”

  Beau stared and Spence glowered an addendum. “As long as that’s all it is, is an itch. Ye wouldn’t be expectin’ anythin’ more from him, would ye?”

  Beau’s mouth sagged open to reply, but she was cut short.

  “Because he’s had one wife already he couldn’t tame, an’ I doubt he’d be lookin’ for another. Ye knew he was married, did ye not?”

  She found her voice and her indignation. “Yes, I knew, and I wasn’t—”

  “Did ye also know she whelped two bastards on him while he was away at sea?”

  “No,” she admitted softly. “I didn’t.”

  “Aye, well, it’s not the kind o’ thing a man like him would talk about too freely, nor is it the kind o’ thing he would forget or forgive too soon. Seems she got caught twice with her legs too wide an’ her belly too full an’ tried to tell him they were his. He knew they weren’t, bein’ as how he were away at sea both times. With the first, I heard he forgave her an’ even offered to give the brat his name. With the second, he disowned the lot, petitioned the court for a divorce, an’ took himself off to sea nearly two years before he ventured back home. It’s likely he’d keep himself well away from any more graspin’ females for fear o’ bein’ duped again—just like you carve a man’s liver out if he smiles at ye, all on account o’ what that nob-licking Nate Hawethorne did to ye.”

  “I am hardly a grasping female,” she said with a flush of resentment. “And Nate Hawethorne is not the only reason I keep to myself.”

  “Maybe not. But he’s the best excuse ye can think of in a pinch. God above, girl, ye can’t judge all men by the measure o’ Nate Hawethorne. He was a bastard an’ led ye by the nose, promisin’ ye all manner o’ things he had no intentions o’ givin’ ye. Use him to take yer soundings an’ yell dry up like a piece o’ salted fish.”

  “Are you telling me I should keep the door to my cabin open all the time?”

  “No, I am not!” He surged forward, pointing a stubbed finger at her. “I’m not tellin’ ye in any shape or form to go out an’ jump on every man who waves his nethers at ye, for I’ll not have any daughter o’ mine called whore!” He bristled himself back against his prop of cushions and glared. “But I am sayin’ it’s a hard life ye’ve chosen for yerself an’ sometimes ye just have to take yer pleasure where ye can find it. Bah!” He dropped his chin to his chest and swirled the last dregs of his wine around his cup. “Yer mother would have my ballocks for earrings for tellin’ ye such things, but it pains me sometimes—as I know it would pain her—to see ye so afeard o’ the very thing that gave her one o’ the greatest pleasures in life.”

  “I’m not afraid,” she protested weakly.

  “Ye are! An’ I blame myself for not takin’ ye back to yer aunt Mavis an’ tyin’ ye hand an’ foot to the newel post when I should have! Look at this—” He waved a hand around the cluttered cabin. “What kind o’ life is this for a young wench?”

  Another minute, Beau feared, and he would be weeping into his cup. She jumped to her feet and crossed to the side of the bed, bringing the bottle of wine with her as she did.

  “It is the only kind I want,” she insisted. “And if you have any thoughts of leaving me behind with Aunt Mavis … ever … you will be wearing your ballocks for earrings!”

  “Bah!” he said again, giving the snort less conviction this time. He held out his cup, however, and chided her soundly when she would have filled it only halfway.

  “I’ll have to fetch another bottle.”

  “Fetch it, then,” he grumbled, “ere a body dies o’ thirst.”

  Spit had thoughtfully brought half a dozen on his last visit and Beau took out her knife, about to peel off the wax seal, when she looked up and saw Simon Dante standing in the doorway.

  He was just standing there, with several rolled charts tucked under his arm and a lar
ge wooden crate balanced in his hands. The shirt he had changed into earlier was black, and with the dark hose, the dark boots, the dark richness of his hair, he had simply blended in with the shadows. Nothing in his expression indicated he had been there long enough to overhear any part of their conversation, but all the same, Beau felt an airless tickle pass across the nape of her neck, like the filament from a spider’s web.

  “Come in, come in, come in,” Spence urged, having noticed Dante the same time as Beau. “Fetch up a cup an’ join us.”

  “Actually”—Dante grinned and stepped into the brighter circle of light—“it was cups I was bringing you.”

  He set the heavy crate on Spence’s desk and started lifting out goblets, all solid gold with jewels encrusted around the stems and bowls. Spence’s eyes bulged when he was handed one embedded with diamonds and sapphires as big as his thumbnail, then another studded with rubies, tourmalines, and topaz.

  “I thought, if you were toasting your victory, you should have the proper vessels to do it with.”

  Spence beamed and sent his plain silver cup clattering onto the floor. “Daughter, have yer hands frozen on the bottle? Crack it open an’ bring it here. How goes it topside?”

  “The lads are putting their backs to it. We should be well fixed by morning.”

  “How well fixed?” Spence asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “A rough estimate? Sixty thousand. Possibly as much as a fourth more, depending on what the gold and silver will fetch in London.”

  Spence’s jaw sagged and he did not seem to notice or care as the bandage on his head dropped down over his eye.

  “Sixty thousand … ducats?” Beau asked breathlessly.

  Dante held up a goblet and gauged the depth of the fire glinting off the gemstones against the sparks kindling in Beau’s eyes, and handed it to her. “I read ducats off manifests, but I think in terms of good English pounds.”

  “Sixty thousand pounds,” Jonas whispered.

  “Enough to gild your Egret in gold if you want.” Dante laughed.

  “Sixty thousand,” Spence muttered. “Why, that would be—roughly—thirty thousand for me, an’ thirty for the rest o’ the crew, including you an’ yers, o’ course,” he added, snapping his head around to Dante, “—for all fought equally hard an’ are equally deservin’ o’ shares.”

  Dante raised his goblet to acknowledge the compliment as well as Spence’s generosity. Seeing that the bottle was now indeed frozen in Beau’s hands, Dante lifted it gently away and poured a brimming measure in all of their cups.

  “To the Egret,” he said, “and her fearless crew!”

  “To the Egret!” Spence roared, spilling as much Madeira down his beard as he did down his throat. “An’ to the good grace an’ common madness o’ Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville, bastard Frenchman, pirate wolf, an’ … have I forgotten aught o’ yer titles, my lord?”

  “Admitted heretic and free-rover,” Dante supplied with a smile.

  “Oh, aye, aye. Well, we’re all of us heretics in the eyes o’ the foamin’ papists, are we not? An’ though we may rot in hell for our earthly sins, while we’re here, we’ll bloody well enjoy them!”

  Beau shared the toast and felt her head take a delicious twirl toward weightlessness.

  “Where, by Christ’s tailfeathers, are McCutcheon an’ Pitt an’ that other black devil o’ yours?” Spence demanded. “It was a good part their skill on the guns won us this day, they should be here to share it.”

  “Lucifer is standing guard over the Spanish crew—God save them—and McCutcheon could not be dragged from the cargo holds if you wrapped a hundredweight of chain around his ankles. Mister Pitt is, I’m afraid, in love again, so I doubt we’ll see him tonight either.”

  “Eh?” Spence sputtered a mouthful of wine down his chin. “Did ye say … in love?”

  “The little Spanish duchess is quite a rare beauty, and if there is one thing Pitt cannot resist, it is a ravissante dark-haired, blue-eyed young innocent who speaks in waiflike whispers and flutters her lashes like butterfly wings. He was smitten the instant he saw her and I doubt he’ll be much good to either one of us over the next few days.”

  “You’re still planning to bring her to England with us?” Beau asked.

  “The duchess and her little silk pennant. A day after the San Pedro makes port, every Spaniard worth his salt will be after us. A hostage against safe passage would not go amiss, here at sea as well as at home.”

  “At home? Why would we need a hostage at home?”

  “Have you forgotten the prize ship Drake towed into port two years ago? The spider king screamed piracy and demanded the ship be returned and El Draque brought before a Spanish tribunal to answer for his crimes. Coincidentally, the ship was also carrying a member of the royal family, whose safe return to Seville was all that saved Bess and Sir Francis from a lengthy diplomatic battle. In this case, we not only have your sorry hide to bargain for, but mine as well.”

  The wine was fogging Spence’s thinking. “Yours?”

  “Vera Cruz,” Beau supplied dryly. “And Victor Bloodstone. Do you think, Captain Dante, a youthling duchess and a few Spanish documents will placate the Queen when you declare Walsingham’s nephew a thief and run him through? Think you Bloodstone has not already paid her handsomely from his profits and told his uncle all there was to tell about what you found in the documents at Vera Cruz?”

  Dante’s eyes narrowed. “I can assure you the Queen will claim the first bloody thrust once she is apprised of how he came to sail so gloriously up the River Thames, his holds bulging with my silver and gold. She abhors treachery in her Court almost as much as she abhors the thought of marriage and having to share her crown with a man.

  “As for Walsingham, he takes pride in his web of spies and puts great store in the accuracy of the information he receives from his hundreds of little moles. No doubt Victor has already dazzled his uncle and the Queen both, by reporting the contents of the letters we took from Vera Cruz, but since I was the only one with any skill in translating, he would only have been able to base his reports on what I shared with him.”

  “Which was not the complete truth,” she surmised with grudging admiration.

  “‘It is the nature of every man to err, but only the fool who perseveres in error,’” he quoted. “Cicero, I believe. At any rate, I made an error once in trusting someone completely and paid for my mistake dearly.”

  Beau saw the muscle shiver in his cheek again and she recalled what Spence had said about his wife.

  “But what if it isn’t enough?” she asked quietly. “What if a duchess and a few documents are not enough to convince the Queen that the death you plan for Bloodstone is not simply a vengeful, cold-blooded murder?”

  “If it isn’t, I suppose I shall have to pray the executioner’s blade is sharp when it kisses my neck, for I plan to kill the bastard anyway.”

  Beau found herself staring into eyes that were as cold as ice and she felt a shiver down her spine. Impossible though she would have thought it, the gleam intensified and a moment later, he was grinning. “On the other hand, I may have found just what we both need to keep our necks and our prize monies intact.”

  He drained his cup and set it on the desk, then reached for one of the thickly rolled charts he had brought to the cabin with him. He unrolled the sheets—there were three—and weighted the corners with gold goblets. Beau craned her neck slightly to see over the shadows, a needless exercise as Dante was quick to beckon her over anyway.

  “Philip of Spain has been bragging,” he said, stepping aside to give her a full view.

  Beau looked down and for a few moments it was not exactly clear what she was seeing. Ships, certainly. A painted forest of masts and great gilded sterns lying regally at anchor in some unidentified port.

  Seeing her frown, Dante slid a blunt-ended finger across the bottom of the vellum, drawing her eye to the artist’s signature. The name meant nothing to her, but the date beside it was ve
ry specific.

  “This is … April, is it not?” she said hesitantly. “Unless …”

  “No, you haven’t been at sea that long, and neither have I.”

  He moved two of the goblets he was using as weights and let the top painting curl back into a roll. There was another beneath, of more masts, more ships in a much larger harbor, and again she read the script, aloud this time.

  “Maius—May—anno 1587.”

  “The first port I am not familiar with, but this one”— the pewter eyes glanced from Beau to Spence—“is Cadiz.”

  “Cadiz?” Jonas queried. “Why the devil—?”

  “The King is showing off his fleet preparations,” Beau said in awe. “He is showing off his armada.”

  Dante grinned again. “I told you, you were going to have stop doing that: being so clever.”

  “But …” She looked down at the paintings. “How can you be certain these are accurate depictions? How can you be certain it isn’t just braggadocio and wishful thinking?”

  Dante gazed at her a moment, then ran the tip of his finger along the soft auburn wisps of hair that curled against her neck.

  I know because of these. They’re standing on end. And because of these—” He reached into the crate again and withdrew a thin sheaf of papers. They had been heavily waxed and sealed with the imprint of the King’s ambassador in Vera Cruz. With fresh wine shimmering in his cup, he pulled a chair under the lamplight and began skimming the pages, translating from the Spanish as he read small excerpts that might interest his audience.

  “‘Like hawks they came out of nowhere, struck, and flew away again in the night, with Satan himself blowing in their wings. We are told the attack was led by the French dog,’” He paused in his reading and scowled. “Dog? When was I demoted from a wolf to a dog? At any rate, ‘… the attack was led by the French dog De Tourville, with some measurable success, which, I regret to inform Your Most Royal Highness, bears a loss to the treasury of some five hundred thousand ducats.’” Dante stopped again. “The thieving rogue. It was no more than four, by God, although he has put the reward for my head up to fifteen thousand ducats. Five thousand more and I’ll be worth as much as your hero, Sir Francis Drake.”