He tugged a lock of hair by way of a salute before he wandered away to talk to Nathan Crisp.
Juliet only sighed and placed her hands on the rail, turning to face the harbor. The scarlet plume in her hat was barely ruffled by the passage of air, indicating the Iron Rose had slowed considerably as she glided toward an anchorage. The Avenger was just ahead, half pistol shot off their starboard side and they could hear the running of the cables through the hawser, the splash of the huge iron anchor as it hit the surface of the water.
“He is right, you know. Perhaps we should—”
“Keep a modest distance from each other? Are you afraid of shocking the sensibilities of a tent full of privateers? Or are you afraid of what my father might do if he found out where you have been spending your nights?”
“I am not afraid of your father. Not entirely, that is.” He flushed. “I just think—”
“You think we should behave with proper decorum outside locked cabin doors?”
Varian’s breath caught, for her hand had slid between him and the bulwark and cupped around his groin. “It might be prudent to show a little restraint, yes.”
She laughed and withdrew her hand. “Prudence and restraint? My, how you do test me, sirrah. Shall I test you, then? Do you have your speech prepared? Father will not want any time wasted on niceties. This late in the afternoon, most the captains are likely drunk or well on their way, but first thing in the morning, he will be tossing you to the lions and you will have to be convincing. The fact you have arrived under his protection will gain their initial attention, but the rest will be up to you. If you falter or show any hesitation... ”
“What is there to hesitate about? If these men cannot disrupt the fleet, then England will be at war with Spain. There will not be peace on either side of the line. And exactly who is this Van Neuk your brother referred to?”
Juliet thought she saw the smallest flicker of green in the midnight eyes and almost smiled. “He is a Dutchman, Anders Van Neuk. He has been sailing these waters nearly as long as my father and fancies there should have been a stronger alliance made between our two families. A brutishly handsome devil he is too. I was almost tempted, the last time we met, to accept his last invitation to enjoy a private dinner on board his ship.”
“What stopped you?”
She shrugged and answered honestly. “I’m not sure. Perhaps because every woman in every port brags about how big he is, how tireless, how magnificent a lover. And because if I ever did find myself carrying someone’s bastard, I would not want it to look like every other yellow-haired, green-eyed bastard scattered throughout the islands.”
Varian’s reaction to her bluntness tightened the lines around his mouth. It was not the first time he had pondered the consequences that might result each time he spent himself in her arms. But to hear it stated so flatly, so matter-of-factly that she would regard any child of his a bastard unnerved him more than if it had just remained an unspoken thought.
Nathan Crisp signalled from the quarterdeck and Juliet left to oversee the final moments of dropping anchor. Varian leaned his weight on the rail but could not stop his gaze from following her as she took the steps to the upper deck two at a time. The wing of her cape was folded back over one shoulder, showing a splash of crimson silk. The blade of her sword had been polished until it shone, and freshly honed so that it could slice a candle cleanly in half without dislodging the top from the bottom. She was magnificent and his feelings for her grew more terrifying every day, for what frightened him more than any roomful of pirates, any indignant fathers or brothers, or any war that might be looming ahead, was the thought that he might be falling in love with her.
~~~
Anders Van Neuk was almost a caricature of what every rascal in every ballroom in London described as a pirate in order to titillate the females in the audience and leave them swooning. He was tall, with incredibly broad, square shoulders that tapered to a narrow waist and long, powerful legs. His hair was bleached almost white by the sun and hung in a mass of gleaming curls past his shoulders, interlaced here and there with braids strung with beads of pure gold. Long lashed green eyes blazed with fire. A thin, hooked nose and full sensuous lips completed the picture and needed no help from the studded black leather doublet and crossbelts festooned with guns and knives of all size, weight, and description.
He was by far the most impressive of the captains and officers gathered in the makeshift tavern built out of wooden spars and canvas sheets. Trestle tables had been set up on the sandy floor and busty women with bare legs ran back and forth to the huge barrels stacked out back to replenish mugs and pitchers with ale. There were huge fire pits dug along the beach, the coals glowing red under spitted pigs, goats, chickens, as well as a whole cow that had been butchered into manageable quarters. Platters of bones and bread crumbs littered the tables, evidence that some of the captains had been in port a few days. Dogs fought and snapped over scraps of meat while cabin boys set up games along the beach, being too old to be left on board, too young to amuse themselves with the whores.
Varian took in all the sights and smells as they walked up from the longboats.
Beacom had taken extra care fussing with brushes to remove the smallest specks of dust and lint from the sapphire blue doublet and cape he wore. His stockings were without snags, his breeches were close fitting and absent any padding or pleats. The starched ruff around his throat was made of the finest linen crimped to quarter inch folds, the front pinned in a descending vee over his chest by a ruby the size of a child’s fist. Flanking him, were the Dantes, and a more impressive display of wealth and power could not be imagined. Also in their company was Lieutenant Jonathan Beck wearing brand new garb that was augmented by a gold link torque and medallion stamped with the official naval insignia. Isabeau Dante had thought the torque was a nice touch, though Varian had not dared to ask where she came by the medallion. He had not asked about the wax seal that appeared on the forged papers, either, or the signature that was identical, even to the slant and scrolled flourishes, of James Stuart.
Most of the captains knew Simon Dante on sight and shouted hails over the heads of their comrades. Some knew him only by reputation and they turned to stare, studying each member of the pirate wolf’s party as if they had not believed all of the stories they’d heard to date. Many stalled when they came to Isabeau, confirming her identity with a quick glance down at the empty sleeve, after which their interest turned to Juliet, who simply returned their speculative stares until their eyes were sent back to their ale.
Van Neuk parted the crowd with long strides, presenting a wide grin that gleamed like shark’s teeth through the neatly trimmed moustache and rusty orange beard.
“Simon Dante, you hoary old sea dog! Still standing before the mast, I see.”
Dante grasped a hand studded with rings on every finger and returned the greeting. “You’ve not kissed the gallows yet Anders? I heard they caught you smuggling off Porto Bello last spring.”
“A tasteless rumor—the catching, not the smuggling. They fired a few shots, I fired more, and wound up adding a new ship to my arsenal. A fine young brigantine that flies like the wind. God curse my soul, nothing that compares to a bloody great fortress like the Santo Domingo!” The glittering eyes sought Juliet. “Is it true, lass? Is it true you were the one to take her?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “The Iron Rose and her crew took her.”
One green eye narrowed. “Single-handedly? Your brothers were not riding off your stern?”
Juliet crossed her arms over her chest. “If you doubt me, I can show you how it was done. I’ll hole your Dove and send you to the bottom with her.”
Van Neuk studied her a moment, almost raping her with his eyes. “Damn me if I’d not willingly let you hole me from the bottom or the top, lady love.”
Juliet did not respond to his crude humor, but he must have caught another movement out of the corner of his eye, for the piercing gaze darted over her should
er and narrowed again when he saw Varian St. Clare. “Who’s this then? Looks like you’ve brought along one of the king’s lightskirts.”
Varian stiffened and his hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but it was Gabriel who stepped forward, cutting between St. Clare and the Dutchman. “Business can keep until tomorrow, dammit. My mouth is as dry as camel dung in the desert and if it isn’t wetted soon, my tongue will be stuck fast to my teeth and I will have no way of inquiring who—God keep me sane—those two lovely wenches were who were bouncing on your knee when we arrived.”
Van Neuk chuckled. “‘T wasn’t my knee they were bouncing on, lad, and you’re welcome to them if you’ve a mind, for I’ve done with my wastrel ways. I’ve seen where my true heart lies,” he added, grinning drunkenly at Juliet, “and I’m swearing an oath of chastity here and now until she gives me ease.”
“Then I regret to tell you that you will be chaste for a very long time,” Juliet said, patting him on the chest as she brushed past. She followed her father to a table that had been hastily cleared for their use and tipped her head at Varian to suggest he join them while Gabriel had the Dutchman distracted.
He sat beside her, releasing a long breath and a disbelieving murmur. “These are the men with whom your father purports to stop a Spanish fleet?”
“That’s good,” she said. “You look indignant and sceptical. That should win them over to our cause.”
“If I look indignant and sceptical, it’s because I am indignant and sceptical. They’re coarse, they’re filthy. They are blackguards and drunkards and... and good gracious sweet God, what is that woman doing on her knees over there?”
Juliet followed his shocked glance to where a woman was locked between the thighs of a red-faced brute, her head bobbing rapidly up and down in his lap.
“Definitely not behaving with prudence or restraint, I vow,” she murmured. “Are you jealous?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Beg me later,” she whispered through a sly smile. “And I will decide if you are pardoned or not.”
Juliet was still laughing softly when she turned and realized her mother had been watching them. The golden eyes were flitting between her daughter’s face and that of the duke’s, accompanied by a small frown that suggested she had heard the whispers too but had not quite believed them.
The beginnings of a defensive flush started to creep up Juliet’s throat but it was forestalled when several pewter mugs spilling foam down the sides were slammed on the table, followed magically by platters of meat, loaves of bread, plates and two large silver candelabra. Toasts were made, welcoming the Pirate Wolf to the fold and by the time Juliet remembered the soft query in her mother’s eyes, her own were blurring from the laughter and the spirits.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The strong shaft of sunlight struck Juliet directly in the eye, prompting her to move her head to one side. It didn’t help. The sun was nearly level with the western horizon and the glare was causing the contents of her stomach to churn, her head to throb.
It had been a necessary evil to drink to each toast made in their honor last night, but as the evening wore on, the ale was bolstered by wine, the wine by rum, and it had taken all of her powers of concentration to make it back to the ship without falling out of the longboat. She did not remember climbing up the hull to the deck, nor did she remember getting from the deck to her cabin. When Johnny Boy had wakened her at four in the afternoon, she was still fully clothed, lying face down in her berth with a thin string of spittle trailing out of her mouth.
She had not bothered to do much more than splash her face with cold water and drink half a pitcher of water straight out of the jug before descending to the longboat again and rowing across to the Avenger. Varian St. Clare looked just as bleary-eyed as he sat in throbbing silence beside her, too miserable to do more than grunt when she remarked that more ships appeared to have arrived through the day, for the harbor was a forest of masts from one end to the other. It was either that, or her eyes were not uncrossed yet.
Neither Jonas nor Gabriel had returned to the ship after their night of drinking, but Simon Dante met his daughter at the gangway with a cheerful, totally unaffected smile, despite the fact he had swilled half his fellow captains under the boards before they swaggered out of the tent at dawn.
Now she was standing in that same airless tent, swamped by the stench of sweaty bodies, old ale, and women who had been on their backs most of the night. She wore the clothes she had slept in and the velvet was stifling, the cape kept slipping off her shoulder, strangling her, and one of the scarlet plumes in her hat drooped annoyingly over her left eye.
She adjusted the brim for the tenth time and, instead of thinking about how much her head hurt, she tried to concentrate on the discussions that were buzzing around her. Simon Dante had addressed the captains first, wasting no time on oratory. He gave details of the letters captured with the Santo Domingo, mentioned the various rumors from different sources concerning the strange numbers of ships in port. At this point, several captains volunteered their own eye witness accounts of increased activity along the Main, and when they started to speculate over the reason, Dante introduced Varian St. Clare, his grace the Duke of Harrow, come all the way from London with the explanation and a lucrative offer from the king.
Varian, taking his cue from the pirate wolf, kept his words to a minimum. His eyes had more red in them than white and his mouth compressed into a tight line whenever there was an outburst of noise from the company, but he won everyone’s attention when he produced the royal decree that guaranteed complete amnesty to any privateer who was willing to aid in diverting the Spanish ships. When he added that the king was further prepared to waive the ten percent tithe due the crown on each cargo taken as prize, the tables juddered and shook with the force of the pewter mugs thumping on the boards.
Asked why the king was being so generous, he did not lie more than was absolutely necessary. Peace negotiations with Spain had broken down, he said, and the king of England wanted to strike a blow where Phillip would bleed the most—in the Spanish treasury.
Privateers were a suspicious, wary lot, and even though some of them could not read, they all demanded to inspect the royal Act of Grace, to frown over the embossed wax seal, to tap a thoughtful finger over the king’s signature. Some put their marks on the parchment without hesitation after being assured that the Dantes were committed. Some who had signed private articles of privateering with two or three of the other captains, were bound by those articles to discuss all ventures amongst themselves before voting yay or nay, but it only took a word, whispered in the right ear, for the estimated value of the Santo Domingo’s cargo to sweep through the crowd.
To a man, they signed and at the end of the meeting, there were thirty-seven signatures or marks, including the five that represented the Dante ships. There was still a long night of drinking and more debate ahead, but by the time the sun finally dipped below the dunes, Juliet’s head was on the verge of splitting. It was necessary for Varian to remain and weather the questions thrown out by the captains, but she moved discreetly to a seam in the canvas walls and ducked out into the clean night air.
The first thing she shed was the cape, flinging it away in the sand like a twirling fan. The hat was next, after which she tore at the fastenings of her doublet, stripping it off and flinging it over her arm. The laces on her shirt were next. She parted the cambric almost to her waist to let her skin breathe, then took a knife to the annoying ruffles around the collar, casting the lace away in the soft sand behind her.
She climbed the dune and followed it to the far end of the beach where the noise was reduced to a distant hum. Tucked behind a low tumble of rocks she found a shallow tidal pool, and although the stronger currents and tall waves were just the other side of a narrow breakwater, the pool itself was calm, the long, smooth water rippling over the fine granules of sand.
Dropping her doublet and hat on the beach, she sat
on a rock and removed her boots, her swordbelt, her pistols. With bare toes curling into the cool sand, she waded knee deep into the water and just stood there, her head tilting side to side to work the tension out of her neck, her hands scooping water to splash on her throat and chest. Out in the harbor, each ship blazed with lamps hung from the rails and rigging. The moon would be late, but there were half a hundred torches flickering along the distant shoreline, and as the sky grew darker, stars began to appear, singly at first, then in clusters, glittering like pinpricks through some vast black cloth.
Juliet raised a hand, tracing a fingertip through the bright stars of a familiar constellation.
“That would be Sagittarius, the Archer. A fitting symbol, all things considered.”
Juliet whirled around. Anders Van Neuk was stretched out on the sand, his hands laced behind his neck to support his head, his feet crossed at the ankles.
A quick glance told her he was alone. A longer glance, augmented by a silent curse at her own stupidity, showed that he had placed himself within arms reach of her clothes, her sword, her guns.
“I caught your signals, lass, and about time too.”
“What signals?”
“Toffing your hat every time I looked at you. You could have just walked up and grabbed me by the arm—or aught else for that matter—and I’d’ve followed you just the same. Mind, I’ll admit this is a mite more romantic, for you look like a nymph freshly risen from the sea.”
“Anders, it’s late and I’m very tired. If you thought I was signalling you to join in some romantic intrigue, you were mistaken. I was merely itching to get out of that tent.”
“Itching? Aye, I know the feeling well,” he said quietly. “I’ve had an itch for you, lass, longer than I can remember. And if you put your teasing ways aside, you’ll admit you’ve had the same damned itch, one you almost let me scratch the last time we met.”
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