The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11)

by Anna Markland

  “Tonterías,” Manuela retorted. “Legitimizing piracy isn’t progress, it’s rubbish.”

  “But Papa insists Capitán Velázquez is of noble Spanish blood. His line apparently goes back hundreds of years.”

  Therein lay the real reason she was determined to attend the ceremony. What little her father had told her about Santiago Velázquez had piqued her curiosity. She loved living in La Florida, but day to day existence in this outpost of the Spanish empire could be tedious. The busy social life they’d lived in Madrid was a distant memory. The royal appointment had been a promotion for her father, a feather in his cap; the tropical climate had cost the frail Paula Melchor her life.

  However, if Valentina revealed her yearning for excitement to the still-muttering Manuela, it would doubtless make her dueña more determined she not be allowed to go.

  Christian braced his legs against the gentle rocking of the Santa María at anchor and folded brawny arms across his broad chest. “You look like a macaroni,” he told his captain.

  Santiago’s cabin was large, but he was getting overheated in his finery. He feigned annoyance. “What would a runaway slave know about the fashions of the nobility?” he asked, tilting his tricorn hat to a slightly more rakish angle. “Especially one from Jamaica.”

  Christian shrugged. “At least you’re not wearing one of those foppish powdered wigs.”

  “No fear of that, my friend,” he replied. “I have no intention of emulating our dear governor, until I am old and grey.”

  He privately hoped that day would never dawn. He was proud of his shoulder-length, black hair. In some ridiculous way, as long as it stayed that color, he was still a Spaniard, a nobleman from a land with a far more advanced culture than the Americas.

  Christian winked, running a hand over his wiry black curls. “Would I look more like a gentleman if I grew my hair long and tied it back at the nape like yours?”

  Santiago laughed. “I’m afraid it will take more than that.”

  Christian grinned. “A rose-colored velvet suit similar to the one you’re wearing, perhaps?”

  Smiling, Santiago shook his head. “Pink isn’t your color.”

  His first mate grimaced. “Who are you trying to impress with this macaroni outfit?”

  Santiago inhaled deeply. “Let me explain fashion to you. Macaronis perch tiny hats on top of enormous wigs, whereas my tricorn sits perfectly atop my own hair.”

  “But the feather is outrageous,” Christian exclaimed.

  “That’s the point,” Santiago replied. “It will draw attention.” He pointed a toe. “Furthermore, macaronis wear tiny pumps, whereas I am shod in buckled shoes of the finest leather.”

  “Stolen from a Spanish merchantman,” Christian interjected.

  Santiago ignored him. “Macaronis wear short, tight trousers, whereas mine are of the appropriate knee length and fitted comfortably to my frame.”

  Christian made a show of examining his fingernails. “By the French tailor we kidnapped.”

  “And set free once he’d completed my wardrobe,” Santiago countered. He was about to add macaronis wore silk stockings, but since his own hose were made of silk, he thought better of it. “Lastly, macaronis are effeminate.”

  Christian wagged his head from side to side. “Well, such an accusation could never be leveled at you, Captain. The señoritas would rush to your defense. Perhaps you intend to sweep some lady off her feet.”

  Santiago shrugged. He’d sworn off women since tangling with Salomé Velázquez. “It’s unlikely there’ll be women present at the ceremony.”

  “I heard Melchor has a beautiful daughter.”

  Santiago wasn’t interested. “It’s difficult to estimate the governor’s age. Any offspring he has could be ten—too young—or thirty—much too old.

  “And she doubtless has an equally ugly dueña who will make sure she doesn’t attend. I want Melchor to realize he isn’t dealing with a nobody, but with Don Santiago Fernando Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada. I venture to guess the governor is from a family of lesser rank. If we are to plunder British ships, I want a share of the spoils.”

  Christian shook his head. “Is it not enough we escaped the noose?”

  “What good is life if we do not live it to the full, my Jamaican friend?”

  He eyed his first mate’s attire. The shirt was clean, the trousers acceptable, the boots scuffed. “I suppose that’s what you’re wearing?”

  “I’m coming with you?”

  “Of course. I need a witness.”

  Chapter Six

  HEAT

  Manuela continued to scowl, even when they entered the Great Room of the Casa de Gobierno and discovered Valentina wasn’t the only female in attendance at the formal ceremony. They might have known the pock-faced wife of the Vice-Governor would be at her husband’s side. Both stood with spines rigid, their demeanor oozing displeasure.

  The pose wasn’t unusual for Ivanna Luna de Montserrat. Valentina never felt comfortable in the unpleasant woman’s presence. It rendered the wait for her father’s arrival with the pirate all the more nerve-wracking.

  It had come as a surprise to discover upon their arrival in San Agustín that the Vice-Governor and his wife were Cataláns, though her father had said nothing. However, every Castilian knew of Cataluña’s long fight to be independent of Spain. It was hard to believe a Bourbon monarch would appoint a Catalán to an important position in the colonies, especially in a time of war.

  Still, she supposed Montserrat must have earned the honor.

  A dozen or so government officials and functionaries rounded out the gathering, conversing in hushed murmurs.

  A sweating clerk, his tongue wedged between his lips, was laboriously penning something on a piece of parchment and every scratch of the nib grated on her nerves. Perspiration trickled down her spine in the oppressive heat.

  She should have respectfully explained to her father the reasons she couldn’t attend, but had in the end felt duty-bound to be there for him. There was little doubt in her mind that Maximiliano de Montserrat coveted the position of Governor. She suspected her father was aware of the Montserrats’ malevolence. The man’s dark, sunken eyes put her in mind of the raccoons that frequented the rubbish dumps in this part of the world.

  Señor Maximiliano Mapache. Bold and crafty.

  She closed her eyes and conjured an image of Montserrat with a ringed tail that made her want to giggle. However, it was her responsibility to be her father’s sophisticated hostess—his aide-de-camp, so to speak, his comrade-in-arms. She’d felt his loneliness and isolation since her mother’s untimely death.

  She fisted her hands at her sides, determined to behave with decorum as befitted the occasion.

  That was a laughable idea. What could be less noble than granting a pirate permission to plunder with impunity?

  Ivanna Luna’s black lace fan flicked back and forth, the bone veins clicking noisily. Her efforts were ineffective in chasing away the beads of sweat decorating the not-so-faint mustache on her upper lip.

  Valentina cringed when the door hinges screeched. She would never get used to the humidity rusting everything. Two footmen entered and stood to attention by the open door.

  She proudly squared her shoulders when her father strolled into the chamber. Montserrat and others may disagree with his decisions, but she was aware of his determination to do everything in his power to defeat the British.

  The clerk laid aside his quill, came to his feet and bowed.

  Valentina’s mouth fell open when she set eyes on the man who strode in confidently at her father’s side, a black man following in his wake.

  She barely noticed the squealing hinges when the footmen closed the door and resumed their rigid stance.

  “Pirata,” Montserrat muttered. “Pícaro,” he added for good measure.

  “Merodeador,” his wife agreed.

  If Capitán Santiago Velázquez heard the disparaging accusations of marauding, he gave no i
ndication of it.

  Indeed, Valentina doubted if the arrogant man even noticed the Montserrats.

  Everything about him bespoke nobility and breeding; his bearing, the costly velvet attire, his glossy black hair, the outrageous hat with the longest feather she’d ever seen. He might have been mistaken for an envoy from the Spanish court.

  The pirate captain was the complete opposite of what she’d expected. She couldn’t stop staring open-mouthed, even when he pierced her with startling, dark eyes. She had the uncomfortable feeling he was peering into her very soul. Did he know her nipples had tightened as heat spiraled up her thighs and blossomed in her womb?

  The new and foreign sensations caused her to sway. She hoped the perceptive Manuela would think the soaring temperature had caused the flush reddening her face.

  Santiago had expected sour-faced officials to be present as witnesses and felt a momentary pang of pity for a man he noticed out of the corner of his eye who reminded him of a raccoon—the vice-governor, he’d guess. To be burdened with such an ugly wife…a cross to bear.

  However, the astonishing vision of a tall, raven-haired beauty almost threw him off stride, which wasn’t a good thing. It was vital he appear in control, of himself and the entire gathering.

  Yet he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the young woman. Who was she and what was she doing here? If he wasn’t mistaken, he’d knocked her off balance too. When their eyes had met, she’d blushed profusely, nostrils flaring, back arched. Yet, he’d wager she was an innocent.

  It was a very inopportune moment for his cock to salute, and he was glad he’d decided to don the long collarless coat over the tunic, despite the heat.

  It’s as well I don’t wear macaroni trousers.

  Governor Melchor cleared his throat and spoke to the clerk. “You will record the names of those present.”

  “Already done, Your Honor,” the man replied.

  “Read them aloud,” Melchor insisted.

  “Su Excelencia, Governor Felíx Melchor de Alcobendas y Guadarrama, His Excellency, Vice-Governor Don Maximiliano Montserrat and Lady Ivanna Luna Montserrat.”

  “Mapache,” Santiago muttered under his breath, taking an immediate dislike to the man who reminded him of a Raccoon. His success as the son of a shipping magnate in Sevilla and subsequently as a pirate captain had resulted largely from an ability to size up people and situations quickly. He wouldn’t be surprised if Montserrat thirsted for the governorship.

  “Lady Valentina Elena Melchor de Alcobendas y Guadarrama.”

  Aha! A relative of the governor’s. The beauty was much too young to be his wife—or so he found himself hoping. Such a delicate flower deserved a young, virile man. He conjured a vision of waking every morning wrapped in those incredible raven tresses.

  “Señora Manuela Campo.”

  He might have known. The scowling, grey-haired chaperone dressed from head to toe in black crêpe was the quintessential dueña, an embittered widow.

  As the roll call continued, he bit his lower lip, chiding himself inwardly. It was imperative he not be distracted from what was important. In Spain he might be Valentina’s social equal, or even a rank or two above her, but in La Florida he was a mere pirate, a criminal. The governor would likely have him executed for simply looking at his daughter, if the Black Widow didn’t tear him limb from limb first.

  The clerk inhaled deeply and read out the last name on the list. “Capitán Santiago Velázquez.”

  This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He lifted his chin and tore his gaze away from Melchor’s daughter. “I would prefer the record and the Letters of Marque show my full name, Don Santiago Fernando Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada. Also the name of my First Mate seems to have been omitted. Señor Christian Williams.”

  The raccoon’s wife snorted with derision, but her predictable reaction was of no consequence to Santiago who derived great delight from Lady Valentina’s wide-eyed surprise.

  “Very well,” the governor agreed after a moment’s hesitation. “Amend the record.”

  “And the Letter of Marque, Your Honor?” the clerk asked. “That will take a few minutes.”

  “Make it so,” Melchor replied. “We’ll wait.”

  Feet shifted. The humidity climbed suddenly as though the entire house was on the boil.

  Montserrat scurried over to the harried clerk and the two pored over the documents on the desk.

  Valentina feared Ivanna Luna’s wrist might shatter with the increased fanning efforts.

  As for herself, she was tempted to flee the insistent gaze of Capitán Velázquez who seemed not to be wilting of heat stroke despite being overdressed. Indeed, he looked irritatingly calm.

  As did the smirking black man standing beside the footmen with arms folded across his broad frame.

  A tight smile from her father broke the spell. This was the kind of occasion for which her mother had prepared her. She inhaled deeply, swallowed her nervousness and bade her guests take a seat. A knot tightened in her belly when she realized there weren’t enough chairs for everyone.

  To her relief, Manuela snapped out of her scowling trance and began barking orders at the footmen. Drinks, refreshments and more chairs were to be fetched.

  Montserrat hovered over the clerk as he made the changes they had apparently agreed upon.

  Her father watched the goings-on with a slight smirk on his face. It occurred to her he too was aware that the pirate captain had taken charge of the proceedings and caused the flurry of nervous activity.

  She became annoyed by the thought that the pirate’s cool arrogance in requiring a change to the prepared documents had undermined her father’s authority. He’d also remained standing, long legs braced, hand on the hilt of his sword. Why was a thief allowed to carry a sword, and wear buckled shoes, an exquisitely tailored tunic, and fine hose she suspected were made of silk? No doubt his entire wardrobe had been plundered, mostly from Spanish ships. The wretch should have been forced to surrender his ill-gotten gains and come before them as a penitent, stripped of all…

  She swayed, overwhelmed by the carnal image of a naked Santiago Velázquez that shocked her to the core. She shifted her gaze to the window, her confused thoughts galloping in an entirely unladylike direction.

  She squealed when a firm hand grasped her elbow. “Are you unwell, Lady Valentina?”

  The melodious voice plucked a chord deep inside, her heart racing when she looked up into warm eyes full of concern. Drawn into the brown depths of the pirate’s gaze, she couldn’t look away.

  “No…sí,” she spluttered, wishing she had Ivanna Luna’s fan. “The heat.”

  He guided her to a newly-delivered chair she didn’t recognize. The overly-familiar action was appalling, not to mention he’d used her given name without permission, as if they were…friends. However, she drew strength from his support, and the strange tingling in her nipples wasn’t unpleasant. In fact…

  She gulped air when he whipped off his outrageous hat with a flourish and tucked it under one arm. “You have been standing too long in this insufferable humidity. My pride has caused a delay. I apologize. Do you forgive me?”

  Valentina was aware of shocked murmurs and Ivanna Luna’s loud tutting, but her eyes darted from the long feather sticking out behind him at an odd angle, to the inky-black waves that framed his noble face. She was absurdly relieved the feather had miraculously survived, but ashamed to find herself wondering what his thick hair would feel like if she sifted her fingers through it.

  He brushed a kiss on her knuckles. His moist lips barely touched her skin but her resolve to resent his arrogance faltered. “Of course,” she murmured, fluttering her eyelashes in a most unseemly way.

  The heat had obviously stolen her wits. At least, that was the excuse she would offer Manuela.

  Chapter Seven

  LETTER OF MARQUE

  It was essential Santiago listen carefully to every detail of the document as the clerk began to explain the c
ontents. The lives of his crew depended on it.

  He dragged his gaze away from the assembly and looked up at the whitewashed beams, but his attention still wandered during the reading of the formal preamble. Was Valentina still watching him? He was standing in the Great Room of her home. Was her bedchamber close by? Perhaps on the second floor, directly above his head.

  To All in Whom these Presents Shall Come or May Concern…

  He seemed unable to concentrate on the lengthy introduction, his mind daydreaming of long, raven tresses wrapped around…

  By virtue of the Power and Authority Vested in Me by His Most Sacred Majestad King Carlos…

  Santiago clenched his jaw. He remembered Carlos all too well—the gangly monarch who’d taken the word of a courtesan and apparently issued a royal warrant for Santiago’s arrest. As if a member of the noble Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada family would indulge in forbidden rituals and sexual acts. Three hundred years had passed since his ancestor’s thieving exploits. It bordered on the ludicrous, but the charges had forced him into piracy. The irony of it. He would consider it his patriotic duty to attack British ships for his country, not for the king.

  He lowered his chin and scanned the hostile gathering. Every eye in the room was upon him, but he saw only the intense gaze of Lady Valentina. To his dismay, sweat trickled down his spine as his arousal thickened.

  He looked away quickly.

  Reposing special trust and confidence in the loyalty, courage and conduct of Santiago Fernando…

  He narrowed his eyes at the governor, whose blank expression gave away nothing of his emotions. Did Melchor really trust him? He hoped so, for he sincerely intended to fulfill his part of the bargain. Aiding his country in a bloody war might earn him a pardon, enabling him to return to his native land—perhaps with Lady Valentina on his arm.