The Beast of Blades

by Winchester, Rosamund

“There is no more to it than I do not need a cabin boy, and I want to put him ashore once we reach La Rochelle. I will give him enough livres to last him his journey back to Calais—if that is where he wishes to go. He can go anywhere he wants to, if he has the mind to.”

  And he knew that young Rio had a quick and wary mind, one that had easily bested him in a battle of words, even when she was still muddled from her time in the water. A grin lifted the corner of his mouth when he remembered how much he actually enjoyed the sharp back and forth between them, how he watched her cheeks flush with a pink glow, how her honey-colored eyes blazed with a fire he wished was blazing for him. In desire for him.

  Because he desired her. And that was the crux of the matter. How would it look to his crew if their captain kept turning lusty eyes to his own cabin boy? And more, what would they think if they discovered that their captain was tupping that same cabin boy—and that the same cabin boy was really a cabin girl, kept in secret. And God, he wanted to keep her, to peel those filthy clothes from her body, to bathe her in scented soaps, to wash her supple body, watching as the flush from her cheeks spread to her breasts, then lower to her belly, and even lower, to a place he couldn’t help but imagine as lush, plump, and aching for his tongue.

  Callet’s grumbling thrust Brendan from his lascivious thoughts.

  “Ye sure ’bout this, Captain?” he asked, pounding the stopper into the flask and then stowing the flask in his coat.

  Was he sure about this? Was he convinced that Rio would be able to make the journey from La Rochelle back to Calais by road? Was he sure that she would be safe, that no one along the way would accost her? That she would arrive in Calais and use what was left of her money to find food and shelter—for herself and the crew she seemed to love like her own brothers?

  “Damn,” he cursed.

  Callet didn’t even flinch at his captain’s outburst.

  “Tomorrow, first thing, have the lads draw a bath for the whelp. He will want to bathe after his first bath in the ocean.”

  Brendan ignored Callet’s knowing gaze as he ascended from the hold and into the dwindling night.

  Chapter Nine

  Rio blinked at the man standing before her, his ruddy face wide with a grin.

  “What is this?” she asked, peering at the wash tub filled with steaming hot water.

  “What’s it look like, lad? It is a bath, a proper one,” Callet answered, signaling to the other two crew members who’d hauled in the last two buckets of water. The other crew left, and Callet remained, placing his armful of linens, a small brass tin, and a hair brush at the foot of the bed.

  “I see that it is a bath, but what am I to do with it?” she blurted, confused and still exhausted from her ordeal.

  Callet chuckled—which he seemed to do a lot—and said, “The captain wants ye to wash, clean up, and maybe find some healin’ in the hot water.”

  “He does?” she inquired, surprised. Why would the captain care about her? He’d nearly killed her!

  Perhaps it is guilt that drives him. Perhaps he means to make amends. With a bath.

  Oh, she’d make him give her more than that! He’d nearly killed her! But, until she could confront him, she would enjoy a long, lazy, wonderful bath.

  Callet answered, “Aye.”

  She nodded. “I will, then—but only if I get to lock the door.” Rio knew she was asking for something that could very well get her into trouble with la Bete, but she couldn’t very well enjoy her bath if she worried about him opening the door and discovering her naked in the bath. With breasts instead of bollocks.

  Reaching over, she ran her fingers over the lid of the tin. “What’s this?”

  “Soap. Scented. The captain raided his private collection of luxury items to make sure ye had the best soap.”

  Thrumming with excitement, Rio removed the lid then reached into the tin to take hold of a small, round soap cake. It was something she’d only ever seen in boutique windows along Rue de Beaumont. Lifting the soap to her nose, she sniffed.

  Strawberries! It smelled so delicious, so decadent. So feminine. At the thought of her body scented with wild strawberries, she nearly closed her eyes on a groan. Until she realized what it meant.

  The thrill died quickly.

  “Why did the captain give me soap that smells like a bordello whore?” she snapped, tossing the soap cake back in the tin. Had the captain, somehow, discovered her secret? Was this his way of teasing her, telling her that he knew and was holding the revelation over her head?

  Non.

  The captain was not a subtle man. He was a beast in man’s clothing. Growling and roaring and snapping. He was fearsome to those who chose to fear him, but that was not her. She refused to fear any man.

  “I have no need for such a thing,” she ground out adamantly.

  Callet arched a brow. “I suppose he didn’t have anythin’ else that would make ye smell better than sweat and sea.” At that, Callet curled his lips in distaste. “Ye stink, lad. Take advantage of the captain’s lapse in mercilessness, and enjoy what he offers ye. Believe me, ye may never know the captain’s mercy again.”

  She fought the full body shudder at the tightness in Callet’s voice.

  “Oui. I will.” With a curt nod, Callet left the cabin, closing the door behind him. In a flash, Rio flew to the door to turn the lock. Leaning back against it, her palms fell flush against the wood. She waited, one heartbeat, two heartbeats…listening for the sound of an angry approaching giant. When several minutes passed and no one came pounding on the locked door, Rio saw her chance to finally know the pleasure of a bath.

  Hurriedly stripping the stiff, smelly clothes from her body, she tossed each garment into a heap on the floor. Once she was naked, she halted just outside the tub, staring down into the water.

  Lifting one leg, she dipped her big toe in the water, gasping at the heat, but then groaning as the heat seemed to caress her foot, and then her calf. Losing a semblance of control of her limb, she slipped it into the water up to her knee. Her other leg followed. Soon, she was in the bath up to just below her breasts, her nipples erect, her belly muscles making strange butterfly-like movements beneath her skin. She moaned at the sensation of the hot water sloshing over her sore, aching body. Her fingers, which had been cold to the tips, flexed beneath the surface, the heat drawing off the chill.

  She leaned her head back, absorbing the heat, closing her eyes, luxuriating in something she may never experience again.

  Not true. Brendan had said that his crew bathed regularly, which meant that as a member of his crew, she could expect more baths. She giggled, suddenly thrilled by the prospect of being part of a crew—a ship’s crew. Her thoughts tumbled into the streets of Calais, where her crew was still living, surviving—hopefully. She’d left them with the sack of coins Brendan had given her, but she had no way of knowing if Remick and Bruiser were being diligent with the money. In the past, she’d had difficulties with the boys spending their take on back alley tupping and rich desserts rather than meat and cheeses, which would do them better than sweets and swivving.

  Opening her eyes, she stared into the ceiling, sending a silent prayer to the God who’d never spoken to her before or even showed Himself to her and the other lowly inhabitants of Calais.

  Catching sight of the tin with the soap inside, Rio took hold of it and removed the soap, raising it to her nose to smell it.

  It was truly one of the best things she’d ever smelled.

  Brendan smells like leather and the sea…and man. It was a heady scent, one that stole her senses, making her regret her ruse. She wanted to be a woman with him, to lean into him, inhale the musk from his strong neck, run her fingers through his thick hair, and brush her lips over the mouth that was always in a grim line. She wanted to be the one to make la Bete smile—really smile, and not the sneering grins that so often lifted his lips.

  Her body vibrating with sensations she’d never known before, she closed her eyes and gritted her te
eth against it. What was happening to her? Whatever it was both terrified and aroused her, making every inch of her flesh tingle.

  You cannot lay around thinking about this. Non, she could not, not with the threat of Brendan returning to his own cabin to find the door locked against him, and his cabin boy taking his time in his bath.

  Heaving a sigh, Rio went about lathering and washing, rinsing, and washing again, just to make sure the stink was gone. Sliding under the water, she soaked her hair, then used the soap to wash it.

  By the time she was done and drying her glowing pink body with a linen, she felt like a whole new woman.

  Perhaps a woman that would stir a man like Brendan Rees.

  Cursing in French, she tossed the linen on the floor and moved to the sea chest where Brendan said she’d find clean clothes. Lifting the lid, she lost no time digging through the clothes inside to find leather breeches, a clean cotton shirt, and an overly large coat with brass buttons. The breeches would be a bit snug, but she didn’t mind that, and the shirt was overlong, but that didn’t matter. The coat would do a remarkable job of hiding her curves and the swell of her small breasts, and the buttons looked sturdy enough to hold the coat closed.

  It was a feeble set of armor meant to cover up the lie she had been living, but there was nothing for it. Brendan could never know what she truly was.

  Once she was finished dressing, she walked to the small, oval looking glass beside the door and used the borrowed brush to work at the knots and tangles in her hair. She often cut it short, leaving it just long enough to pull back into a queue but not so long that it made her look like a female.

  Her hair brushed and gleaming in the light from the sun through the portholes, she stared wide-eyed at the person staring back at her. She sucked in a breath, her heart thundering.

  She looked…different. Though she hadn’t spent much time—any time at all, really—preening before a mirror, she knew she was a handsome “boy”. But now, she looked downright pretty. Hell. She had just spent all that effort on getting clean and now she had to dirty up again just to hide her pink cheeks and smooth skin from curious eyes.

  Eyes like those of Brendan Rees, who seemed to see everything. And hate it.

  Glancing about for the hat she’d brought with her, her heart fell into her feet at the sound of heavy, booted feet descended the stairs toward the cabin.

  He’s here!

  From her experience, Brendan Rees moved like a ghost, silently, menacingly. If she could hear him coming it was because he wanted her to know.

  Was he playing with her?

  Flying to the door, she unlocked it, making sure her captain was not met with barred access to his own quarters.

  What would he do if she had left the door locked? Would he have demand she open the door or would he simply smash the door down like a beast would?

  Why did the thought of the latter make the juncture between her thighs ache?

  Her bare feet making pathetic slapping noises as she moved, she hurried back to the bed to sit upon it as though she had no worry in the world other than the dirty clothes and wet linens still on the floor.

  The footsteps stopped just outside the door and Rio held her breath.

  What was he waiting for?

  There was a long pause, then the knob turned, the door opening soundlessly.

  Then, he was there, in the room, large, beautiful, and staring at her. His sea green eyes turned stormy, and she was too easily caught up in it.

  “What do you mean Rees has the letter?” La Revanche snapped, rising from the chair behind his desk to storm around it and peer down at the wretch who dared to bring him such news.

  Draper, the man before him, pursed his lips, his eyes narrowed but gleaming with suppressed anger. “I mean that Argot allowed the Welshman to steal the letter.”

  “Allowed?”

  Draper snorted, his anger showing. “Argot lost several fingers.”

  La Revanche hissed, not in sympathy for Argot’s loss, but in disgust.

  “He should have lost his life protecting that letter!”

  Wisely remaining silent, Draper watched La Revanche as he began to pace, his polished black boots making little noise as they tread across the crimson and gold Aubusson rug.

  Damn! How such a simple thing as a letter could upend everything he’d been planning for years. He was this close to having all that he deserved and doling out what they deserved as well; humiliation, devastation, utter ruin!

  He could only hope that a mongrel of a Welshman couldn’t read French—then again, he had many connections along the coast, some of which he might trust enough to read and interpret the letter for him.

  Worse and worse! If the Welshman began displaying that letter around, word would spread, his plans would be tossed into the flames, just as his legacy would. No one knew the true identity of La Revanche, but there were clues in the letter that would ultimately point back to him, if one were clever enough to figure it out.

  Halting, he turned to meet Draper’s shuddered gaze.

  “Where is Rees now?” he asked Draper, his mind spinning. He had to figure out a way to get his plans moving, unhindered, again.

  “Our connections at the docks say the Torriwr left port two days ago,” Draper answered, his tone flat.

  “Damn!” He began pacing again. “And to where is he headed?”

  “La Rochelle. He has a job there smuggling casks of wine.”

  La Rochelle? By sea, it would take four to six days, depending on the winds and weather. By land, someone could ride there in one—if they were amply motivated.

  The plan forming in his mind, he commanded, “Send our best man to La Rochelle.”

  Draper nodded. “What will you have him do once he is there?”

  La Revanche couldn’t stop the glee that spread through him. A slow, wicked smile stretched the muscles in his face.

  “He is to kill Brendan Rees, retrieve the letter, and dispatch with anyone who gets in his way.”

  Chapter Ten

  Brendan leaned, his arms crossed, against the railing, watching his cabin boy haul ropes from the bow to the stern on his order. The ropes weren’t needed at the stern, but the boy needed to work. To keep him busy. To keep Brendan from finding him somewhere alone and making him reveal the truth.

  That he was really a she. A breathtakingly beautiful she. A she with perfect breasts, shining pale golden hair, and eyes so warm they were like melted honey.

  And he wasn’t the only one on board who noticed the cabin boy’s…features.

  Features? He snorted derisively. It was more than just her features that Brendan had noticed.

  When he’d entered his cabin that morning, three days ago, he’d never fallen on his knees, whether to worship at her feet or beg the Lord to have mercy on him by taking such a temptation from his midst, he could not say. He only knew that seeing Rio in clean clothes, with her face clean, her honey eyes sparkling, and her pale hair shining was like gazing on the countenance of an angel.

  More like the very devil. For only a devil would dare fool him then tempt him as she did. Again, he reminded himself that she hadn’t fooled him out of criminal deceit, but rather out of necessity. Seeing her now, still dressed as a lad but with the face and body of a woman, he understood why she’d done it. He couldn’t imagine what it had been like for her on the streets. He wondered, also, if her crew of pickpocketing lads knew what she really was.

  He snorted again. Of course they knew! If they were as close as they seemed that night he and Callet had pursued them, they had very few secrets between them.

  Were there other boys—nay, men—who called themselves her crew? Was there a man she left behind, a man who was waiting for her return? If Brendan let her off ship in La Rochelle and left her, would she run to Calais, back to that man’s arms?

  “Goddammit,” he grumbled to himself, disgusted at the way his mind was descending into chaotic thoughts over one woman.

  “We will reach the
port by midday,” Callet reported, coming to stand beside Brendan at the railing, his too-observant gaze immediately catching on what Brendan was so intent upon. “What have ye decided about…the lad?”

  Brendan snorted. “We both know she’s no lad, Callet.”

  Callet gave a short laugh then turned serious in a flash.

  “Aye, I know she is no lad, and so do the others. They are wonderin’ if ye’ve lost yer mind, lettin’ a girl dressed as a boy crew for ye. And they are wonderin’—though I can’t blame them—if ye and yer cabin boy are…intimate.”

  Brendan snapped his gaze to Callet who seemed unfazed by his captain’s virulent anger.

  “The others should keep their mouths shut—what goes on between myself and Rio is none of their concern.”

  “So, ye’re tuppin’ her, eh?” Callet asked, his brown eyes sharpening in displeasure.

  Brendan hated how one look from his second-in-command could prick as it did.

  Tension rolled through him, his muscles flexing with unspent violence.

  “And when would I find the time to seduce my cabin boy? If you had not noticed, I have been sleeping on deck with the lot of you. We eat all our meals with the crew, and I keep Rio so busy during the day, she barely has time to piss.”

  Callet replied quickly. “We both know that if there is a will, there is an upright post, and a few stolen moments with which to make use of it.”

  Damn, he’d thought of that as well, those long nights staring up into the starry sky, wondering if Rio was as warm and soft as she looked. He dreamt of impossibly silken skin, muffled cries of pleasure, and sensually hot, tight ecstasy as he pounded into her against the locked cabin door.

  Swearing, he answered, “Nay, we are not. She does not even know I know the truth. I have not said a thing about it, and none of you will, either.” He knew his command was law, and that the others would follow to the letter, even the new one, Ricki. And Callet knew better than to displease a Rees.

  “How long are ye goin’ to let her think she has fooled us?” the bowsman asked, his thick brows arching almost comically.