Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  “I need ye here, daughter,” he insisted in a low, rough voice. “For if aught happens over there, I want ye to put on all sail an’ haul out o’ here like as the devil were snap-pin’ at yer heels. I’ve given Spit orders to put guards on the armory and powder magazine as well. The cap’n talked to his men this afternoon, but I don’t trust anyone on a bellyful o’ rum an’ hate—not even myself.”

  The meeting on the Bonaventure had been called for eight o’clock. Spence had been ready, fidgeting awkwardly on his ill-fitting peg for an hour now. A nervous hand constantly adjusted and readjusted the stiff white neck ruff he had finally wrested into place. He had pruned his beard to a less fearsome froth of wire fuzz, which only made him look like a bald version of a portrait Beau had seen once of Queen Elizabeth’s father, Henry VIII.

  She swore softly and on impulse went up to him and batted his hand away from his neck ruff, straightening it herself and arranging the starched figure-eight folds.

  “Be careful and look to yourself if anyone starts flinging shots about; you cannot afford to lose any more parts.”

  Spence chuckled and pinched her cheek, but she wasn’t paying heed. Simon Dante was emerging on deck. Unlike Jonas he had not made any special efforts to dress for so auspicious an occasion, despite Spence’s offer of anything suitable out of his own wardrobe. Dante wore the gleaming black silk shirt that made him look like a panther on the prowl. A wide leather belt circled his waist, notable for its glaring lack of weaponry of any kind. Not even a dagger was sheathed at his hip. No pistols, no sword, and for that, at least, Beau allowed a small sigh of relief. Walking armed onto Drake’s ship might have set the stage for trouble whether it was intended or not.

  Stepping out of the hatchway behind Dante were Geoffrey Pitt and Lucifer. Pitt looked grim, for he, too, had been told he was to remain on the Egret. Shock of hearing about the Talon’s presence had effectively blunted his own happy news regarding his little duchess, and save for one brief visit to Christiana’s cabin, he had spent the better part of the afternoon with Dante and the men from the Virago. Lucifer, standing black and enormous behind them, had his massive arms folded over his chest and his twin scimitars strapped across his back. It was obvious he was going with Dante and her father, and Beau did not know whether to be comforted by the thought of the Cimaroon’s presence at their backs, or alarmed.

  Dante had not spoken to her since the morning, and it did not look as if he was going to speak to her now. He did, however, throw an almost casual glance in her direction, one that halted whatever he was saying to Pitt in mid-sentence. His gaze raked over the pistols tucked into her waist and the cutlass slung crosswise in a belt over her shoulder. A subsequent quick glance around the deck found Spit McCutcheon, Billy Cuthbert, and a score more Egret men similarly armed, and while Beau detected a faintly mocking smile curl the corner of his mouth, he bent his head to Pitt again and finished his thought.

  The jolly boat was waiting below the gangway, and with a final nod in Spence’s direction Dante started for the hatch.

  “Coward,” Beau muttered under her breath.

  He stopped. There was no earthly way he should have been able to hear her, yet she saw his big shoulders ripple with one, two, slow breaths before he turned and walked deliberately back to where she stood. His expression was stony but his eyes sparked blue with anger and before she could react, his arm snaked out and went around her waist, lifting her, crushing her hard against his chest. Conscious of the startled eyes and slack jaws surrounding them, he kissed her, full and open-mouthed, oblivious to her first furious struggles, then attentive to her half-cursed surrender.

  “If you are going to call me anything, mam’selle, call me a fool.”

  “You are a fool, Simon Dante. And if you do anything foolish tonight, I will hate you for it.”

  “Hate me?”

  “Every minute of every day.”

  “So I will be constantly in your thoughts?”

  “Only to be hated.”

  “Liar.”

  He said the word so softly, it was almost a caress. And the way he looked at her, absorbing her into his eyes, heart, and soul, caused a hot, stinging sensation at the back of her throat.

  “Please, Simon,” she whispered. “Do not do anything foolish.”

  “I fear I already have, mam’selle.” He kissed her again, tenderly and warmly, and this time, when she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him back, the men on deck grinned and slapped their thighs in approval.

  He lowered her gently to the deck again and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek.

  “We will finish this discussion later,” he promised huskily. “Do not even try to hide from me and”—his gaze fell to the open V of her shirt—“wear very old clothes you have no more use for.”

  Drake stood by the gallery windows of the Elizabeth Bonaventure, surveying a great cabin that was filling slowly with the captains of his fleet. The Bonaventure was one of four Royal Navy ships the Queen had provided for this venture. There were four others that Drake and his business associates had contributed; a ship belonging to the Lord Admiral—a pox on his always having a finger in every pie—and eight others that a consortium of London merchants, prominent in the privateering business, had supplied, making it a fleet partly driven by patriotic necessity and partly by the quest for plunder and profit. Cadiz was the main supply port for the Spanish fleet sailing to the Indies and the amount of possible plunder should be more than enough to sway the opinions of the privateers to his cause. The Queen’s men should see the strategic significance.

  The idea to raid Cadiz was brilliant. Dangerous, reckless, audacious, but brilliant. Just like De Tourville himself Drake supposed he should not have been surprised to see Simon Dante standing on the deck of the Egret It was just like him to rise up from the dead, like the mythical phoenix, and appear out of nowhere as bold and daring as ever. Drake had, along with every other sea hawk in Elizabeth’s fleet, declared the Frenchman insane for even dreaming up the scheme to raid Panama, and Victor Bloodstone a fool with a death wish for accompanying him. Instead, Walsingham’s by-blow had sailed right into London, all flags and pennants flying. He had delivered over twenty thousand pounds of plundered Panamanian gold into the Queen’s coffers and was being touted as the newest Prince of Privateers.

  Hindsight excuses from the sea hawks for not having joined De Tourville on his escapade had flown in the air like feathers. Drake, whose own exploits at Cartagena and Nombre de Dios were no longer lauded as being the boldest, the most successful, raids on the New World, had become so short tempered, only his most devoted friends had not avoided him.

  Now this further insult for the world’s greatest sailor to endure. A merchant ship, Commanded by a one-legged, eight-fingered pirate who put his daughter in breeches and likely drank whatever profits he made … he had taken one of the richest prizes on the Main.

  No small thanks, again, to Simon Dante de Tourville.

  Drake squeezed his fist tightly around his drinking cup, fighting to control the surge of jealous rage that boiled through his blood. If he had any hope, any hope at all, of being named Admiral of the Fleet, he had to return to England with more than just his flags and pennants flying. He had to leave a mark on Spain and on history that England would not soon forget.

  “Sir?”

  Drake’s head snapped around. Christopher Carleill had been standing by, discreetly guarding his admiral’s privacy while the other captains gathered around the long cherrywood table, sharing drinks and conversation.

  “Well? What is it?”

  “Captain Bloodstone and his second have just arrived.”

  Drake followed Carleill’s glance. He had not liked Walsingham’s bastard before the raid on Vera Cruz, he had less cause to like or trust him now that Dante’s unexpected resurrection threw suspicion on his sworn account of the pirate wolf’s demise. Nor was Drake alone in his dislike of the man. None of the sea hawks tolerated Bloodstone’s smug d
emeanor lightly, for they had all earned their positions through loyal and daring service to the Crown. Bloodstone had wormed his way into court through the belly of Walsingham’s mistress. Any modest skills he displayed at the helm of a ship were generally overshadowed by his vanity, his arrogance, his undisguised ambition to further himself at Court.

  It was the main reason Drake disliked him: it was like looking at himself twenty years earlier, knowing he would have rammed anyone and dragged him under his keel in order to get ahead.

  “Should I, perhaps, whisper a word in his ear about our unexpected guests?” Carleill inquired.

  “And spoil a happy reunion for two members of the brotherhood?” Drake smiled tightly. “I think not. I think I prefer to let them both surprise each other. It will make for a much more interesting evening.”

  Victor Bloodstone was tall enough, it behoved him to bend his head to clear the low-slung lintel across the doorway. He was impeccably dressed, as always, wearing a chocolate-brown velvet doublet with satin inserts, and skin-tight hose that needed no padding around the hips to distract the eye from any flaws. Rings glittered on every finger: emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds mounted on thick gold bands. He wore a starched white neck ruff from which depended several long gold chains in varying styles of links. Around his waist he wore a gold-hilted dress sword and a dagger encrusted with bloodred rubies.

  Cool hazel eyes surveyed the roomful of ship’s masters. There was not one his equal, with the possible exception of Drake himself. He was disappointed, on the one hand, not to find himself in the austere company of Frobisher, Raleigh, or Hawkyns. On the other, there was little by way of competition. None of these petty privateers had done more than plunder a few small fishing pinnaces or sack a village or two along the coast of Spain. Penny thieves, the lot of them, hunting for their first real taste of fame.

  Fame that he, Victor Bloodstone, already had. As if it had happened yesterday, he could taste the sweet triumph of sailing the Talon into London. Watchers had sighted her from quite a distance out and sent runners through the city, sounding the alert. Shops and houses alike had emptied, the men and women spilling onto the Queenhithe docks in a great, boisterous crowd. The Talon’s flags had been up, signaling a full hold, and because everyone who could walk, talk, or piss upright was aware, by then, of what her mission had been, the quayside had been so congested, there were bodies tipping off the edge and splashing into the sea.

  The Talon and her master had been greeted, then swarmed, by a fleet of fishing boats and small harbor craft. They had acted like a bobbing, cheering escort up the Thames, their crews bartering and bickering to win bids for haulage. Coins had flashed through the air like water droplets from a fountain, for the Talon’s crewmen had been just as eager to have ready transport for their personal bounty, hoping to keep it safe from the prying eyes of the Queen’s excise men.

  Those sharp-nosed, keen-eyed vultures had lost no time hastening to the docks either. It was up to them, caped in somber black like birds of prey, to make a fair accounting of any plunder taken in the Queen’s name. If they were quick enough on board, they could almost get an honest tally. If they were delayed, they could hear the pocketfuls of coin and jewels walking off the ships and marvel at the remarkably rotund girth of some of the sailors who had lived months at sea on rations of salted fish and biscuits.

  The Talon had not disappointed anyone. The crates of gold and silver bullion taken from her hold had staggered all but the most seasoned of the Queen’s men—God only knew what their reaction would have been had they known he had stopped off first to unload half of her bounty into his private cache.

  As it was, great roars had risen from the crowds each time a group of heroic sailors had disembarked, the greatest of all coming when Victor had appeared on deck. He had stood in the last of the afternoon’s golden rays, his handsome face bronzed, his sand-colored hair streaked blond from exposure to the sun and salt air. Large hazel eyes, sensually hooded and long lashed, had sent many a gawping female swooning. He had looked magnificent. He had looked like a man who had defied all odds and sailed halfway across the world to raid the King’s treasure depot.

  Some of the hopefuls had continued to scan the watery horizon for a glimpse of the Virago and her dashing captain, Dante de Tourville. Bloodstone had known, the day they sailed out of port, that no one predicted their success in Vera Cruz. But Victor had gambled on Dante de Tourville’s star riding high, and, by Christ, it had risen clear to the heavens. They had taken nearly four hundred thousand ducats out of the treasure house—a hundred thousand English pounds, and if not for the storm that had hammered them in the Atlantic, they would have escaped cleanly away.

  Of course, if it hadn’t been for the storm and the damage to Dante’s ship, the opportunity would not have been handed to him to double his profits, double his fame, double his pleasure in watching the Spanish zabras send the bastard to hell where he belonged. Arrogant bloody Frenchman, always giving orders, always telling him the way it was going to be, always looking at him with those cold blue eyes, flaunting his noble blood.

  He probably hadn’t looked very noble screaming for his last breath, his mouth and lungs filling with water, his ship spiraling to the sea floor beneath him.

  When word spread that the pirate wolf was dead, there was another rippling wave of swooning women and men with downcast eyes, for despite the exorbitant wagers against success, many had gathered in London, anticipating the privateers’ return. Most had stared, stunned, at the Talon, finding it difficult, if not impossible, to believe the infamous Virago, her captain, and crew were gone.

  Elizabeth had scarcely believed it either. She had summoned Bloodstone into her presence immediately and demanded to hear every last detail of the raid and the ensuing battle with the zabras. She had questioned him so closely, he began to suspect she was searching for some false note in his reporting of the events, which was why, in the end, he had made the Frenchman out to be a hero and a martyr. Moreover, he had done such a splendid job, she had wept—actually wept!—over the loss of the rogue. And Walsingham, the same bastard who had once slapped him halfway across a room for daring to call him “father,” had swelled with pride and dared to call him son. He had called for the first toast and nearly wept into his cups when the Queen had rewarded Bloodstone with two fat estates in Devon. It wasn’t the knighthood he wanted, but that would come. It was sure to come if he stayed close enough on Drake’s heels.

  Victor was smiling now as he nodded and accepted the respectful greetings of the other captains.

  “You heard he took the San Pedro de Marcos?”

  “What’s that you say?” Victor’s sandy eyebrows came together in a sharply demarked bridge over his nose as he caught a snatch of conversation between two captains nearby. “Who took the San Pedro? When?”

  “Captain Jonas Spence. He is the reason we have been stopped here and summoned for a council. It seems he found some interesting intelligence on board the San Pedro—interesting enough to have Drake hobbling about on three legs, if you catch my meaning.”

  Bloodstone disdained the crudity with a slight curling of his lip. “This … Jonas Spence. Does anyone know him?”

  In the brief consultations that followed, no one seemed to be acquainted with the privateer personally but everyone had heard the buzz that his daughter was none other than the Black Swan.

  “The cartographer? A woman, you say?”

  “Ugly as the name implies, I am told, but possessed of a skilled hand, nonetheless.”

  “And his ship? The Egret? Equally ugly,” avowed another voice. “I am anchored off her beam and must say, I find the notion of her taking on a Spanish carrack to be almost fantastic.”

  “What do you think she would carry? Ten or twelve culverins at best?”

  “Closer to twenty,” said the same knowledgeable neighbor. “And she’s carrying demis. Big bronze teeth … exactly like your own, Captain Bloodstone.”

  The stony gaze raked over
the speaker but the response came from Bloodstone’s second, Horace Lamprey, an ugly brute with vicious eyes and a lip half missing. “I hardly think a mere merchant’s guns could be exactly like Captain Bloodstone’s. The Talon’s demis were acquired by special custom through Dante de Tourville, and there are none other like them in the world”

  The captain who had made the comment met Lamprey’s sneer. “I could swear they are similar—scrolled snouts with eagles on the barrels?”

  “Impossible,” Bloodstone decreed irately. “The only other guns like mine went down with the Virago”

  “Which, of course, you say you saw go under.”

  Victor turned his head to acknowledge the bemused voice behind him and saw Drake, standing by a small chart table, a glass of brandy poised at his lips.

  “I saw her surrounded,” Bloodstone said carefully, “staggering under full cannonades from six India guards. With the damage my own ship had sustained in the fighting, I could not risk another pass to see if the last board did, indeed, go under, but I daresay no ship could have survived such a pounding as I bore witness to. I wish, with every fiber of my being, that the Virago, her courageous captain, and crew could have survived, but I know in my heart they did not.”

  Drake smiled and his bright hawk’s eyes looked past Bloodstone’s shoulder, fixing themselves on the shadows outside the cabin door.

  “Wish for something too devoutly, too passionately, Captain Bloodstone,” he murmured, “and it might surprise you by coming true.”

  One by one the captains turned to stare at the door. Voices tailed away and conversations ended on unfinished words and half-formed thoughts. Those unaccustomed to seeing tall, black-haired ghosts with white, wolfish smiles felt the need to vent a hastily muttered expletive before they, too, fell back and stared.