No helpless, blushing dove, this one.
“Young,” he said carefully. “I was about to say you looked too young to bear such a burden of responsibility. I meant no disrespect, I assure you.”
His bad attempt at a feint put the hint of a smile on her lips.
“In that case, to save you any further consternation, the gentleman standing over there trying to pretend he can make calculations in his head is my quartermaster, Nathan Crisp, and he is as old as Beelzebub.”
“Not by half,” Crisp objected.
Varian was still studying the girl’s face. He had read every scrap of documentation with the Dante name on it before he departed England. He’d read the English, the French, the Dutch, even the Spanish reports dating back some thirty years and knew there were two sons who had followed in their father’s footsteps. Nowhere had he found a reference to the pirate wolf having a daughter, much less one who commanded her own armed privateer.
He must have winced under the weight of his thoughts, for without warning, she reached out and laid a hand across his forehead. Her fingers were long and cool and although they were withdrawn after a moment or two, he continued to feel their imprint long after.
“You have no fever and we’ve not seen the wine again. I suspect, apart from the ringing in your left ear, nothing has been too badly damaged.”
“How do you know my left ear is ringing?”
She reached out again and this time when she touched him, it was to scratch a small fleck of dried blood off his neck. “You were fairly close to the explosion. You’re lucky you didn’t lose your hearing entirely.”
“Beacom said you tended my wounds. You are the ship’s surgeon as well as the captain?”
“Necessity dictates that everyone learns to do a little of everything. Unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of a surgeon. The carpenter has some skill with a saw and auger, thus he usually handles the serious wounds. If you had a cut or a gash, the sailmaker would ply his trade, but a cracked head and a bruised rump hardly seemed critical enough to warrant special attention despite the—” she paused to glare at Beacom— “incessant and interminable wailings of your manservant.”
Varian attempted a smile, one that showed a lot of straight white teeth and cost very little in effort. “You must forgive Beacom’s enthusiasm. He served my father and my elder brother before me and has very rigid standards to which everyone—including myself—must aspire.” And although she did not ask, he added, “I had two older brothers, actually, but neither had the foresight to produce an heir before they died, and so here I am, the twelfth Duke of Harrow by default. It is a tiresome and annoying responsibility, but it is mine and I must bear it as best I can.” He paused, sweetening his smile with small, seductive curve, one that rarely failed to soften a woman’s heart and limbs. “May I say, Captain, since we are discussing merits, that I was impressed by your display of swordsmanship on board the galleon. I warrant not ten men of my acquaintance could have conducted themselves so admirably.”
“I do not fight to impress anyone, my lord. I fight to survive a day longer than my enemy.”
“Nonetheless, for a woman—” He stopped, feeling yet another distinct thud inside his chest as she turned the full power of those remarkable eyes back on him. “For a young woman such as yourself,” he amended slowly, “I would perhaps have suggested a lighter blade. Your left shoulder tends to droop somewhat when you tire and a more diligent foe might be able to take advantage.”
Her eyebrow arched. “You say that as if your expertise goes beyond knowing how to choose your plumage to match your founts of lace.”
Beacom let out a gasp that sounded like it had remained strangled in his throat too long. “Good gracious heavens, madam! Milord, his grace the Duke of Harrow, is one of the most renowned swordsmen in all of England! His reputation is legion among the very masters of Europe. His sword, madam, was a gift from His Most Gracious Majesty King James, bestowed by his own hand. Moreover, for these past many years, that selfsame sword has been at the king’s right hand, there but to answer the crown’s call at the merest hint of peril. His grace is a former captain of the Royal Guard, as well as a loyal and—”
Varian shot the spluttering Beacom a look that squeezed the valet’s throat shut, reducing the last few accolades to soundless movements of his lips.
But the words that had already been spoken could not be unspoken and Varian saw Juliet Dante’s head tilt slightly to one side as if she had caught a scent of something foul in the air.
“So.” She crossed her arms over her chest and frowned. “We are in the company of a trusted confident of King James. A former captain of his majesty’s garters.”
“Th-that would be guards, madam.” Beacom held up a spindly finger to protest. “C-captain of the king’s guards.”
Juliet did not take her eyes off St. Clare. “Mr. Crisp. If that wretched little man says one more word, take him out onto the gallery and drop him overboard.”
“Aye. With pleasure,” Crisp grinned. “Mayhap, if he swims fast enough, he can catch up with the Spaniards.”
Varian looked shocked. “You threw the Spanish prisoners overboard?”
“In a manner of speaking,” she said dryly. “We landed them a hundred yards off an atoll, in water shallow enough for them to walk the rest of the way. What business brings you to the Caribbee?”
“My own,” Varian replied curtly. “And none of yours.”
For the briefest fraction of a second her hand moved toward the hilt of her sword.
“Lieutenant Beck said the Argus was a courier ship, bound for New Providence. An odd choice of vessels for an English duke to go adventuring on... unless of course you have come to deliver copies of the king’s new bible in an attempt to cleanse our heathen souls and mend us of our larcenous ways?”
Crisp guffawed. Varian glared.
“Some might regard it as an adventure to sail half way across the world in a leaking wooden bucket, madam, but I assure you, I considered it nothing shy of hell.”
“Then why are you here? And spare me the further insult of denying that you are another of the king’s lackeys sent to spout dictums of peace.”
“I am no man’s lackey, madam.”
“And I am no man’s dupe, sir. The king has been sending a plague of messengers here for the past five years and they all bring missives demanding the same thing. They want us to stop attacking Spanish ships; they want us to leave the Caribbean entirely. They—and I must presume it is not entirely the king’s idea, for he holds his royal hand out readily enough when we send his percentage of the prize monies back to London—they presume to think that if we cease to harass the Spaniards, Phillip III will happily open the ports to honest trade. The last buffoon who came brandishing his sealed and beribboned documents even threatened to rescind all letters of marque. A threat, I might add, which had us trembling in abject terror, as you can imagine.”
Despite the contempt in her voice, Varian could not help but be intrigued. The pale blue of her eyes were sparked with azure flecks, changing their character entirely. Where there had been amused indifference and disdain a few brief moments ago, there was now a depth of anger and passion that almost took his breath away. The heat had moved into her face as well, burnishing the already lusty effects of the sun and sea, suffusing her skin with enough of a ruddy glow to make him wonder what she would look like if she removed the scruffy blue bandana and let her hair loose about her shoulders.
“Well?”
He blinked. “Well... what?”
“Do you honesty believe the Spanish would ever honor a treaty with England? Can you even pretend to believe it after your own ship was attacked without provocation? Hah! No, you cannot. There has been no peace beyond the line for a hundred years, and the fact your king and his ministers now send a duke in fancy plumage to deliver more of their puling threats changes nothing... except, perhaps, the method of your removal from my ship.”
Varian’s temples thr
obbed anew. She had the distinct advantage in this duel of wits and words for he was wounded, naked, lying flat in a bed with no recourse but to let her flay him with her contempt. In spite of the way she fought and talked and looked beneath all the grime and dried blood that stained her clothing, she was still a woman, for heaven’s sake, and he had never met a woman he could not seduce with a smile and a silky word. Until now, that is, for this one appeared to be completely immune. She was not afraid of him, not the least impressed with his title or his position as the king’s emissary, nor did she seem to be concerned that she had just threatened to drown a peer of the realm.
Some of what he was thinking must have shown in the sudden tightness in his jaw, for she leaned forward and smiled. “Indeed, my lord, you are not in London now and there are no courtiers present. You have no friends on board this ship, no power, no authority, no influence over so much as the lowliest seaman. On board the Iron Rose, I am the only authority. I am the queen, the duchess, the countess, the high priestess, and the only one who decides whether you remain here, as our guest... or become fodder for the first school of sharks we see swimming past. Had we not happened along when we did, the Spaniards would have sunk you and left no witness behind to the deed. Make no mistake, sir: it would not cause me a moment in lost sleep to do likewise.”
Varian stared up into eyes as implacably cold as ice and had no reason to doubt her. He did not believe in coincidences, and while he might have been persuaded to believe at first that it was by the greatest stroke of good fortune he had wakened to find himself in the presence of the daughter of one of the men he had indeed sailed halfway around the world to find, nothing could convince him he had not simply wakened into another kind of hell.
He was not given to blushing like a shy dove either, but nothing in his experience had prepared him to do battle with this blue-eyed Amazon and he could feel the blood rising warmly beneath his skin.
Her point made and her position clear, Juliet Dante turned without another word and walked back to the desk. Crisp, who Varian had already recognized as a man of few words, smirked at him with the belligerence accorded idiots and annoying children.
The duke drew a slow, calming breath. The wine he had enjoyed earlier now rolled over in his stomach with an audible gurgle and raised a sour bubble in his throat.
“Excuse me Captain, but may I at least ask where we are and where we are bound?”
Juliet answered without glancing up from her charts. “You are about twenty leagues distance from where you were, and you are bound for wherever we take you.”
“Are you by chance thinking to hold me for ransom? If so, you should know the king is exceptionally... penurious. I doubt he would pay much for my return.”
“If I had the time to drop you off at a British port, believe me I would sir, and not ask a farthing for the pleasure of doing so.”
“In that case, Captain Dante, I would be verily obliged if you would take me to your father.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. I also heard you deny not five minutes ago that you were one of the king’s lackeys.”
“I denied being a lackey. I did not deny being dispatched to this godforsaken place to meet with your father.”
“Why?”
“I really am not at liberty to say at the moment. I will tell you this much, however, that if the Argus had made it safely to New Providence, and if I had met with... as an example... Captain David Smith, or Captain Frederick Mounts, or any of a dozen other privateers before ever hearing your father’s name, I would have been able to discharge my commission for the king and be happily on my way back to London on the next ship. The fact it was you who intervened today, and your father happens to be Simon Dante,” he added, “ who also happens to be one of the men I have been empowered to meet with, bears no extra weight of importance other than it is an incredible coincidence that happens to be incredibly convenient.”
“I do not believe in coincidences, sir.”
“Nor do I. Nonetheless, it appears to have happened, so we can either take advantage... or not. As you see fit, Captain.”
She was standing under the lamp again, the bandana glowing, the fine wisps of coppery hairs catching the light and shining in a fiery tangle around her face. The air was as still and silent as the instant before a lightning strike. So silent, Varian could hear Beacom’s knees knocking together.
“London,” she mused at length. “I have heard it stinks worse than the bilge of a slaver. That the people are so friendly they throw their offal on the heads of neighbors passing on the streets below. I have even heard that the king himself—” she paused and a humorless smile played about the corners of her mouth— “prefers the companionship of pretty men in plumes and lavender velvet.”
Varian refused to take the bait. He did push himself up onto his elbows, however, a move that caused the folds of the blanket to slip down, baring his chest and upper arms. It earned what he thought was the first glimpse of a genuinely feminine reaction when her gaze coursed over the exposed breadth of muscle—very hard, well formed male muscle that was not deserving of the insult, much less the innuendo. He also paid the price for his little show of vanity when his head thundered and the cabin took a wild spin. But at least he managed to remain upright and not careen face-down out of the bunk.
“Take me to your father,” he said through clenched teeth. “ If he throws me over the side, then so be it; I will at least have met my obligations.”
Crisp snorted. “Sharks’ll like that, aye. A man who has met his obligations. Makes for a tastier meal.”
Juliet smiled thoughtfully. She snapped her compass closed and started rolling up the sheaf of charts. “Very well, my lord, you have won your audience. Not because you plead your case so well, but because we are pressed for time. If the wind holds, we can put another twenty leagues behind us before midnight and should make landfall no later than Friday, three days hence. Between now and then, however, I’m sure Mr. Crisp can find a spare shirt and petticoat to preserve your modesty.”
“Or you could simply return my own clothes. Beacom?”
Beacom turned as pale as candle wax, his eyes bugging out so far they threatened to squirt from the sockets. “I’m afraid that is not possible, your grace. Everything you were wearing was either scorched beyond repair or had to be cut away in order to treat your wounds.”
“Everything? All of my clothes?”
“E-Even to your linens, sir.”
“What of my personal belongings? My trunks? My books... my papers?”
“Gone, your grace. Everything is gone down with the Argus. A-All except your sword, which I have here—” the valet stood hastily to one side to show that it was hanging on a peg beside him— “and your shoes.”
“Aye, an’ as fetchin’ an outfit as that would make,” Crisp said, chuckling, “I’d not wander about the decks like that or ye’ll be bent over with yer legs spread, takin’ it up the bottle before ye’ve done half a turn.”
“He’ll not be wandering about at all, Mr. Crisp,” Juliet said flatly. “This is a working ship and we have a great deal to do between now and when we drop anchor in port. I’ll not have passengers causing a distraction or getting in the way of the men going about their duties.”
Varian watched her slot the charts into pigeonholes built into the side of the desk. The dark braid of her hair slithered over her shoulder as she bent over and his fingers ached to follow it, to curl around her throat and squeeze until that insolent tongue was bitten off between her teeth. But the urge passed, taking the glowering expression with it, and when she glanced his way before she and her henchman left, she saw nothing but a politely strained smile of compliance.
When the door closed behind them, Beacom spun on his heel and grabbed at fistfuls of the blanket, twisting the cloth with such passion he nearly snatched it off the bed.
“Oh, my good gracious God, sir! I thought sure we were don
e for! We are in the clutches of dread pirates! We are hostages! We are captives! We are prisoners at their complete and utter mercy! We shall be forced to walk the plank! We shall be lashed and smote with hot irons, our toenails drawn from our feet with hot pincers, our tongues cut out and our entrails fed piece by piece to the sharks! How could you ask to stay on board? How could you provoke her temper with such bald disregard for our wellbeing? How could you not plead for release at the first opportunity!”
Varian threw the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The movement caused his bruised body to scream in pain but he was too angry to pay heed.
“Lashed, smote, and fed to the sharks? You predict a gloomy future for us, Beacom.”
“With good reason, your grace. Have we not been regaled these past six weeks since departing London by stories of the half-man, half-wolf she claims as sire? Have we not had our hair sent rising straight off our heads at the tales of torture and brutality attached to the name Dante? You witnessed with your own eyes and ears how insensible she is to the proper respect due her betters.”
“I doubt she could be rendered sensible by anything short of a blow to the head. Where the devil is the wine?”
Beacom pointed with a hand still clutched around a hillock of blanket. Varian strode naked to a side table and poured himself a goblet of wine from a heavy green flagon. He downed the first cup in three noisy swallows and pour himself another.
“Brace yourself, man,” he said, glaring at Beacom. “For all that he may well arouse fear in his enemies, Simon Dante is still the king’s man. One could pick at nits and say, rather, that he was the queen’s man, but he still flies the flag of England on his masthead. As for the daughter—” he paused to throw back another measure of wine. “In spite of her apparent contempt, did she not come to the Argus’s rescue at considerable risk to her own vessel? You saw the size of that bloody Spaniard. Our shots bounced off its hull like noisome gnats. Now fetch another bottle of wine and for pity’s sake, stop your trembling before you wear through the heels of your shoes.”
Pirate Wolf Trilogy Page 38