Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  “She could stand two thousand. Three. I would know her guns anywhere.”

  Beau traced the glint of sunlight across the wide expanse of water and caught the metallic reflection off bronze muzzles. She recalled something Pitt had mentioned during an evening discussion: that he had fitted Victor Bloodstone’s ship with some of the same demi-cannon he had commissioned from Marseilles specially for the Virago. She herself had remarked at their uniqueness, with the elegantly long snouts scrolled and embellished with gilded eagles in full wingspread.

  “It does not mean Victor Bloodstone is at the helm,” she said lamely.

  “He is there. I can feel him.”

  Dante’s eyes were a raw, angry blue, his face was a chiseled mask of rage, the squared edge of his jaw so prominent, Beau could have drawn a line by it.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked in a whisper.

  “What would you suggest I do? Invite him to share a tot of rum?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “But what?” The blazing blue eyes speared her. “What, Isabeau? Tell me what! You don’t think he deserves to die? You don’t think he deserves to be lashed to the shrouds and run through by every man on my crew? He ran, God damn his soul. He turned and ran like a greedy, sneaking thief in the night. He stole our food, our water, our gold, then left us to the zabras to cover his crime. Killing is too good for him. He deserves to be slashed open and his wounds packed with salt until he screams himself to an agony of madness.”

  “He appears to have told a different version of what happened. According to Carleill—”

  “According to Carleill, he made me out to be a martyr, sacrificing my ship and crew for the sake of his scrawny neck.”

  “And indeed, Captain Dante, who would believe that?” His eyes narrowed dangerously, but she kept going. “Who would believe you would throw yourself in front of another ship to help buy time for a wounded comrade to make good his escape? Having seen you in battle, I would. Jonas would. Every man on board this ship would.”

  “You have a point to make?”

  “My point,” she said carefully, “is that Bloodstone has friends. Important friends, some of whom are probably here, sailing beside him. What is more, he has made you out to be the hero of the day, saving him and his crew from certain death.”

  “A brief reprieve, I promise you.”

  “I have no doubt you want to kill him—”

  “With my bare hands,” he interrupted with quiet ferocity.

  “—but do you really think Sir Francis will allow it?”

  “He will have little to say about it; this is between Bloodstone and me.”

  Beau bit down on her lip and looked hesitantly at the fleet of galleons, huge deadly warships bristling with purpose, entrusted with safeguarding England’s future. Having met Drake, having seen the hunger in his eyes, the ambition, and the lust for power, she was not entirely convinced he would simply stand aside and let the personal grievances of two men divide his forces and jeopardize his mission.

  “Why do you suppose he did not tell you Bloodstone and the Talon were here? He had ample opportunity to mention it.”

  “Maybe he wants me to kill the bastard.”

  “Maybe he does. Maybe he knows your temper well enough to predict you would run Bloodstone through the instant you set eyes on him, without troubling with explanations, without seeking the benefit of a jury. Maybe he would just let you kill him so he could be justified in throwing you in chains and hauling you back to England on a charge of cold-blooded murder.”

  “Why in damnation would he do that?”

  “To take full credit for Cadiz?” she suggested quietly.

  Dante stared at her for a long, disbelieving moment before he exploded. “He is Sir Francis Drake! He does not have to resort to throwing me in chains to protect his reputation!”

  “Did you not see the look on his face when you told him about the San Pedro de Marcos? Did you not hear the way his teeth grated when he spoke of Vera Cruz? When was his last victory against the Spanish? When did he last plunder a ship or sack a city? How many heroes can he afford to bring home to England if he is to convince the Queen he is worthy of being Lord Admiral of the Fleet?”

  Dante’s mouth snapped shut. His knuckles were bleached white where he gripped the rail, rivaling the slash of his teeth as he drew his lips back in a snarl. “Can these words be from the same mouth that defended Drake as the greatest seaman and hero in the world, at the same time comparing myself to a French bull rogue who could not sail his way out of a gale?”

  Her eyes flashed hotly. “Must you remember every insult I threw at you?”

  “You did not mean them?”

  “Of course I meant them,” she snapped. “At the time, I meant every word.”

  “Since then, of course, we’ve had a few good tumbles in bed and you’ve come to appreciate my finer points?”

  Beau kept her face remarkably blank, though she could feel it stinging as if he had slapped her with the flat of his hand. She started to walk away, back into the cabin, but his hand shot out and gripped her tightly around the upper arm.

  “Let me go,” she said quietly.

  “Isabeau—”

  She looked him square in the eye. “If you want to kill Victor Bloodstone, by all means kill him; no one on this ship will stop you. Just promise me you will think about what I said. Ask yourself why Drake said nothing and if you still want to go and kill Victor Bloodstone, I will row you across myself and hold him while you plunge the knife in his heart.”

  She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and carried on through her cabin and out to the companionway. She did not stop or look back, not even when he cursed her on her way and sent his fist smashing into the gallery door.

  A dozen feet away, on the other side of the narrow companionway, Geoffrey Pitt’s fists were aching to smash something as well. He had come to Doña Maria’s cabin after spending several minutes just standing outside the door, wondering what his reaction was going to be if it proved to be true that she was the wife of the Duke of Medina Sidonia. Her value as a hostage would increase immeasurably. She would be sent directly to London, where he would be lucky if he caught a glimpse of her in a Tower window.

  He had not heard any sounds coming from inside the tiny cabin, not even after he had braced himself and knocked. He had knocked a second time, and when there was still no response, he had tested the latch and pushed the door open an inch or two.

  Both the duchess and her duenna had been given strict instructions to remain in their cabin and out of sight—for their own good, they had been told, unless they wanted to find themselves in the hands of the Dragon of the Apocalypse. Doña Maria had wilted at the very notion of seeing Sir Francis Drake; Agnes Frosthip had vowed to confront the English pirate and lay upon his head the blame for all the evils of the world. To that end she had fortified herself with the contents of a bottle of rum and, when Geoffrey Pitt eased open the door of the cabin, was lying belly-down on the narrow cot, her arms askew, her legs drooping over the side.

  Doña Maria was sitting in a straight back chair, her face as pale as candle wax, her eyelids swollen and polished as if she had been crying through most of the morning. She held a small crystal glass in her hand, and as Pitt came all the way into the cabin, she drained the last few drops of amber liquid and pushed shakily to her feet.

  “Have they come for me, señor? The soldados who will arrest me and throw me in chains?”

  “There are no soldados. No one has come to arrest you.”

  “We heard voices. Many voices. And there are many ships in El Draque’s fleet, many soldados.”

  “No one has come to arrest you,” he insisted quietly, closing the door behind him. “No one is taking you anywhere, not unless they go through me first.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over her lashes. She wept without making a sound and there was no movement other than a slight tremor in her lower lip, but the tears flowed
hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks in such a quantity, they dripped off her chin and stained the rich silk of her bodice.

  “They will know. They will discover the truth and come for me, and not even you, señor, will be able to stop them.” She waved her hand in a futile little gesture and sobbed pitifully. “They will kill me. They will kill me for being so deceitful.”

  “Maria—” He moved forward, but for each step he took, she retreated an equal distance until her back was against the wall and she had nowhere to go. “I swear to you, on my soul—!”

  She covered her face with her hands and her slender shoulders started to shake with sobs. “No! No! They will have me killed!”

  Pitt took hold of her wrists and tried to ease her hands away from her face. “Maria, listen to me…”

  “No! I am not Maria! I am not the Duchess of Navarre!”

  Pitt’s hands tightened around her wrists and he had to fight himself to keep from cursing out loud. This was the moment he had dreaded. If she wasn’t the Duchess of Navarre, then she was indeed …

  “I am only a poor maid! A poor, foolish maid, and the Dragon will kill me for the deception?”

  Pitt stopped trying to force her hands and simply held her wrists as he stared down at her.

  “What,” he asked on a hoarse breath, “did you just say?”

  She shook her head with the helplessness of it all and lowered her hands enough to look up Pitt with huge, glistening blue eyes. “It was the captain-general’s idea. He ordered me to change places with Doña Maria. We were the same size and he said no one could be any the wiser. He said the duchess would be safe this way, f-from rape and from the disgrace of being held to ransom. He said—he said it was my duty to my mistress, to my country, to God, and that He would watch over me and see that no harm befell me. And—and he said even if it did, my s-soul would have earned a special place in heaven, one reserved for only the b-bravest and m-most worthy.”

  Pitt still stared. “You are not Doña Maria Antonia Piacenza?”

  “No, señor.” She sobbed, weeping harder, her eyes leaking great waterfalls now at what she thought was the revulsion on Geoffrey Pitt’s handsome face. “My name is Christiana and I am daughter to a humble soldado who served the King well. For his reward he was give a position in the royal guard, and I was allowed to tend members of the royal family.”

  “You are not the Duchess of Navarre? You are not the King’s niece? You are not … married to the Duke of Medina Sidonia?”

  Her eyes blinked and splashed tears on his shirtfront. “No, señor. I am only a humble servant. And I do not know this Duke of Medina Sidonia. My mistress was the Duchess of Navarre. Her husband was old and wrinkled and beat me with his walking stick because I would not let him put his hands up my skirt.”

  Pitt caught the faint scent of rum-induced courage on her breath, and he wished sorely for a glass himself. The bottle was empty, however, and he settled for raking both of his hands through the thick, gold-streaked locks of his hair.

  “Why … in God’s name … did you not tell me this before?”

  “I was afraid,” she whispered.

  “Of me?”

  “Oh, señor—” She lowered her hands from her face and steepled them together over her breasts. “You are so kind and brave and noble. I thought … if I told you of this deception, you would—you would …” The words, along with her ability to speak them, came to a faltering halt.

  “You thought I would do what?” he asked gently.

  “I thought … you would hate me for making a fool of you.”

  She flung herself forward with a miserable little wail and burrowed against his chest. Pitt was still too stunned to react right away. There had been signs, plenty of them, but he had misread them all. The way she drew back and cringed from any discussions about herself. The way she skirted questions about her family and her life in royal circles—questions a true duchess would have flouted haughtily to a seafaring beggar the likes of him. Even the way Agnes Frosthip seemed to lose interest in her charge, abandoning her to the care of an enemy brigand, should have alerted him to the fact something was amiss. He had indeed been a fool. A blind, besotted fool.

  And now she had flung herself at his mercy, expecting—what? That he would cast her aside as a cheat and a fraud?

  Pitt lifted one of his hands and smoothed it tenderly over the crown of dark brown curls. He closed his eyes, savoring the softness, the silkiness, the notion of doing something he had been wanting to do since he had first seen her on board the San Pedro de Marcos. His other arm circled her waist and he held her as tightly as he dared without fear of crushing her.

  “I should hate you,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “I should hate you for putting me through sheer hell for the past three weeks. Do you have any idea how difficult it has been to see you every day, speak with you every day, drown in the scent of your skin every day, knowing I could never touch you, never hold you, never …”

  She left a great wet patch behind on his shirt as she lifted her head and stared up into the jade-green of his eyes. “I—I do not understand, señor.”

  Pitt swore softly and pushed his fingers into her hair, cradling the nape of her neck. He lowered his mouth to hers, explaining with a kiss what he could not form into words. The shock made her gasp and she tried to pull away, but he would not allow it. He had dreamed of it too many times, imagined it too many times, spent too many tormented nights wishing desperately he had the right to kiss her just once without the shame of his own shortcomings standing between them.

  But once was simply not enough and he kissed her twice, three times, each with a bolder passion than the last. He kept his hand tangled in her hair until he was certain she would not shy away, then lowered it to the smooth curve of her throat, warming the fluttering pulse beat he found there. She gasped again and parted her lips to his searching hunger, welcoming the gentle rolling motions of his tongue, then the deep, devouring thrusts that made her blood race and her limbs tremble with weakness.

  She was still weeping. The tears were bathing their mouths and he tried once, unsuccessfully, to temper his hunger long enough to wipe away the dampness. But then their mouths came together again and her hands were reaching up around his shoulders and the tears of pain and fear became tears of unbounded joy.

  “Little fool,” he gasped at length. “My darling little fool—I could never hate you. Not for any reason. Could you not see I was in love with you? In love … from the very first moment I saw you.”

  Christiana, her mouth pink and swollen, buried her face in the crook of his shoulder again. “I thought … I hoped … I prayed it might be so, for I loved you, too, señor. So much so, I wept myself to sleep each night with the shame of wanting you.”

  Pitt was all but deafened by the sound of his heart thundering within his chest. He glanced at the bed, but Agnes Frosthip’s bulky form was overflowing it, and then he felt his chest constrict with guilt that his first thought should be so base and lustful.

  His second was relief. If it was true, if she was the daughter of a common soldier, it meant there were no barriers standing between them. He was free to do, say, ask, of her anything he pleased.

  “Christiana …” He stopped a moment to taste the sweetness of her name on his lips, then released his breath on a hoarse gust. “Christiana”—he tilted her face up to his and lost himself in the depths of the huge blue eyes— “when we get to England, I want you to stay with me. I … want you to marry me.”

  “I cannot!” She gasped, her mouth slackening with shock. “I cannot!”

  “Why? Why, in God’s name …” A thought came to him and sent his head crushing down onto her shoulder. “Please, please don’t tell me you are married already or I swear I will sail to Spain myself and kill him.”

  “I am not married, señor,” she cried weakly.

  His lips moved around another soundless prayer of thanks and found the tender pink shell of her ear. “Geoffrey. For pit
y’s sake, call me Geoffrey.”

  “I am not married, señor, but I still cannot marry you. I am a poor servant and you are an hidalgo, a lord. It would not be possible, not fitting, not proper.”

  Pitt might have laughed had her face, her eyes, not been filled with such solemn intensity. He did smile, however, and kissed her with enough solemnity of his own to leave her breathless and sagging in his arms. “I am no lord, my sweet. I am the son of a gunner, a lowly ironmonger whose only claim to nobility was his pride. If one of us is not worthy of the other, it would be me. Me and the sin of my own arrogance for making me always pretend I am someone I am not.”

  “You do not pretend,” she whispered. “You are noble, you are kind, you are the bravest, most honorable man I have ever known.”

  “Then marry me, for I also love you more than any other man you ever will know.”

  Bright, silvery tears of joy shimmered and overflowed again, and he took them to be his answer.

  “First, we will have to talk to the captains and let them know they will have no hostage to give to the Queen or anyone else. Then, as soon as the ship drops anchor, we will go ashore and find a minister—”

  “A priest!” she squeaked.

  Pitt laughed. “A priest, a rabbi, an Indian chief if need be. Then an inn with a very large room and a very small bed so that nothing … nothing ever comes between us again.”

  He sealed the promise with a kiss and she moaned her assent and eagerness into his mouth. They remained that way, locked in one another’s embrace even as the captains from Drake’s fleet of warships were preparing to meet for a council of war.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Beau paced the width of the main deck, then walked back again. The sun was a round ball of muddy orange, low on the western horizon. Clouds were moving down from the north, vast black drifts of them bringing the distinctly metallic smell of rain. Her father stood beside the gangway hatch, eyeing the approaching storm clouds and his daughter’s stormy face with equal trepidation.

  Her request to accompany him to the Elizabeth Bonaventure had been flatly refused. She was not accustomed to being left behind in matters that concerned the Egret, and even though Spence agreed wholeheartedly that Dante going half cocked to a confrontation with Victor Bloodstone could well put the entire ship in jeopardy, he did not relent.