Mistress of the Stone (5 page)

Maggots! She hadn’t thought of that.

She caught sight of her dagger still embedded at the top of the chest of drawers and leaned toward it, hoping Daltry wouldn’t notice.

Instead, he shoved her in the opposite direction and walked her to the bed.
If he meant to—Madre de Dios! Surely he wasn’t that mad. Not here. Not on her father’s ship.

“Daltry, heretic Englishman or not, you know you can’t get off this ship.” She dragged her feet, hoping to impede the inevitable.

“I’m not getting off—at least not right away. What is our heading?”

“I don’t know.”

Daltry turned her around roughly and lifted her chin. “Come now, dearest, don’t play the witless damsel. It’s not becoming, especially on you.” He pushed her on the bed, then knelt, one knee between her legs. “A pretty girl wearing leather breeches and a shirt that betrays her womanly charms is quickly discounted as a woman of easy virtue.”

Luísa shot up in protest, but he shoved her down. She countered with a sharp knee to his
cojones
, forcing him to stumble back two paces.

“What do you think of my virtue now
, Inglés
?”

Daltry groaned, and then recovered with a wag of his finger. “Naughty girl,” he said when he caught his breath. “You are Inácio Tavares’s daughter, a pious man even while he robs half of England blind. I’ve no doubt he’s locked you in one of those infernal chastity belts.”

With lightning reflexes, he grabbed both her hands and pulled them above her head. He bent down and with his free hand swept long fingers across her midsection and places lower.

Luísa squirmed, not out of modesty, but need. The wickedness of that need shocked her to silence.

A thumb dipped between the juncture of her legs and grazed it lightly. Luísa was certain she’d explode and promptly end up in hell.

“Hmm…no chastity belt. Poor planning on your father’s part. Any man could have his way with you. Perhaps I should have a word with him.”

“Let me go, you scoundrel!”

He laughed and sniffed the one finger that had pressed itself against her privy area. “Perhaps you appease your lust in other ways.”

Her eyes widened in horror. “O-oh! The impudence!” She stuttered a few incoherent syllables before she could speak whole sentences again. “Blast you, Xander Daltry! I will personally hang your head on a tether and let the gulls feast on your eyes.”

Daltry hoisted her up by one arm. “The only thing that will hang on a tether is your life if you cross paths with Luc Saint-Sauveur. He’ll kill whoever gets in his way and sell off whatever is left. You’re no match for his kind. The bastard already shot me in the back.”

Luísa jerked away from him and lunged for the dagger off the chest. She turned and stabbed at the air in front of him, unwilling to suffer this demon further. “He’s taken my father!”

Daltry didn’t flinch, only crossed his arms with cold assurance. “So I’ve heard. Didn’t think you’d be fool enough to come back for him though.”

“I do not abandon my family.”

His brow softened and beneath it a spark of understanding lit his eyes. “Then we have something in common, kitten. I too have someone I’ve come back for. And I could use your help to free her.”

“My help? Bah! Your tricks for capturing my brethren are legendary. Do you honestly think I’d fall for your lies?”

He moved toward her with the stride of a predator, his steely amber eyes locking onto her as if she were prey. Even his shadow had weight.

In that split second, Luísa wondered if she’d have time to scream. To her relief the door burst open. Paqua stood at the front of several men, all of them carrying matchlocks.

“You’ll move away from the mistress of this ship now,
Capitán
Daltry.”

Daltry stepped back from Luísa, tossing the pistol to the mattress and lifting his hands to show he had no other weapons. “I meant no harm to the…” He paused and stole a glance her way. “To the lady.”

Bastard!
Was that mirth in his voice?

Paqua gestured with his firearm for Luísa to come to him. She complied without argument.

The men moved in like a wave, surrounding Daltry on all sides.

“You recuperate remarkably fast,
Capitán
Daltry. We thought you near death.”

Daltry nodded in response. “I mend quickly.” He tugged at either sleeve on his shirt with the subtle indignation of a gentleman. “You might say it runs in the family.”

Paqua holstered his weapon and walked up to their prisoner. His expression flattened, and the breath seethed out of his flared nostrils in a rattle. Luísa knew that look and she knew what came next. She took another step back. Before anyone could react, he landed a square fist on Daltry’s jaw.

It should’ve been enough to knock him to the floorboards. The Englishman staggered, but he didn’t fall. More importantly, he didn’t fight back.
Smart man.

Paqua was small and lean and well into his forty-second year, but no one could mistake his strength. She’d seen him send many a man on a long sleep, but this one only stumbled, his jaw slightly reddened. This from a man who not but a few hours ago had one foot in the grave.

“Hombre lobo,”
Paqua’s voice rumbled deep from his belly. “Think I don’t know what you and that French blasphemer are?”

The men mumbled amongst themselves.
Werewolf.

Luísa’s throat tightened. Silly superstitions. Was this what he was worried about? Paqua often beguiled the crew with legends and island lore. The old man believed in the werewolf, swearing on the Rosary and his bag of magic bones that he had known them flesh and bone.

Paqua spat at Daltry’s face and cursed him. “If you get near the lady again, I’ll cut off your bollocks and feed them to the crows.” He nodded to the quartermaster. “Take him below and lock him in irons. His nursing is over.”

They dragged him out, but Paqua stayed behind.

As soon as they were alone, he lashed out at Luísa. “You’re a fool!”

“Well sink me! How could I know he’d recover so quickly? He lay near death. You saw him.”

“A werewolf. I saw the signs in my tea leaves this morning, but I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Now who’s being the fool, Paqua? I didn’t see any claws or long fur. You said yourself the werewolf reveals himself at the slightest provocation. Daltry took your blows and taunts without showing the least aggression.”

“He must hide his wolf side with a mask, something to quash the fervor of the beast. Was he wearing a talisman, or did you hear him chant a spell?”

“No, but…” She walked over to where she had tossed the pouch of herbs, then handed it to Paqua. “This was hanging around his neck. It’s wolfsbane, isn’t it? I thought maybe he kept it as protection.”

Paqua’s craggy eyes widened. “Clever.”

“I don’t understand. Wolfsbane kills werewolves, doesn’t it?”

“Not in the hands of someone who knows how to use it.” Paqua opened the little bag and pulled out a pinch of the feathery remains. He took a single fragment of crushed wolfsbane and placed it between his teeth. One taste and then he spit it out, throwing the rest of the pouch back on the table. “He stays in chains. Get the information you need quickly. We must drown this demon before it’s too late.”

“You really think he’s a werewolf?”

Paqua’s brow crinkled to crocodile skin. He bent his head and sniffed her. “
Querida
. He’s already put his mark on you.”

Chapter Three

Daltry followed without a scuffle. There were only four of them, brandishing matchlocks primed for firing, but he had no reason to bolt yet. There was time enough to steal the girl, but how he’d get her off the ship was a different quandary.

His wolfsbane had been seized. He’d have to rely on meditation and breathing to keep the beast inside him under control.

Thanks to his sister, his need for the drug had diminished, but he wasn’t free of its addiction. Soon need would overwhelm good sense. Wolfsbane had kept his animal side in check, but the price for that control earned him an inhuman addiction to the herb. Wolfsbane was a tether and a trap for the damned.

He tested his chains. Old iron and poorly made too. When the time came, he’d have no trouble escaping. Rusty shackles were no match for him in his altered state, but he needed to bide his time. Luísa sailed into more trouble than she knew. If Saint-Sauveur caught whiff of the
Coral’s
whereabouts, the sea would not be vast enough to stop him.

Mice scampered in the darkness, scrambling for a safe haven from a gray striped cat with a crooked nose. Puss prowled the corridors of the ship with the arrogance of ownership. It padded up to Daltry then stopped, turning its head to hiss at him and administer a cat’s contempt.

Daltry hissed back, greeting Puss with a warning growl and the fangs he allowed to grow incrementally. Puss understood immediately. The cat’s back arched in defiance before vaulting away. Predators knew their own kind.

The scent of mold and sweat permeated the support beams and the straw at his feet. Men had been kept here. They left behind their blood and piss, markers for the next wretched occupants.

He’d heard the
Coral
didn’t trade in flesh, but she did hold prisoners, English seamen, among others. Inácio Tavares had no love for the English or the French, though it had been said he’d become less brutal once his daughter joined his crew.

Daltry scowled. He could understand bringing a son into the profession, but a daughter? Luísa had the looks men dreamt of in their sleep. The crew of the
Coral
were either blind or went to bed every night with their hands on their rudders as they stroked themselves to distraction.

He froze and listened to far-off steps. A visitor. Daltry sniffed the air, recognizing the scent at once.
The shaman.
The stories surrounding Paqua were renowned. Many believed he protected the
Coral
, and perhaps he did. The
Coral
and her crew had been untouchable for more than five and ten years. Exactly the number Paqua had been aboard.

Long moments later, the hatch opened and a ladder scraped down one side. The shaman descended, stepping into the half-light of a dim lantern like a wraith on a blood trail. He still wanted another piece of Daltry.

He said nothing at first, strolling around Daltry as if he were examining a slab of beef at market.

“Luísa doesn’t want me to kill you yet.”

“Wise woman.”

The painted man glared at him. “Why did Saint-Sauveur shoot you?”

“Does he need a reason? Saint-Sauveur is French.”

Paqua spat at Daltry’s feet. “Shapeshifter demon. You and Saint-Sauveur are cut from the same pelt.”

Daltry felt his chest tighten. His lip curled involuntarily when Paqua pierced him a knowing look.
How did he know?

“Yes,” he said slowly, savoring the word. “I’ve heard the stories about you and that false priest. You sail the waters, but your feet prefer the smell of grass and forest.”

“Check your rations, old man. Some molds bring on madness.”

That remark earned him a blow to the belly.

Daltry groaned, hoping his eyes hadn’t fallen out of their sockets. “Easy to beat a man when he’s in chains. A pirate’s way, isn’t it?”

Another blow. This one connected with his jaw. Daltry never did know when to shut up.

“Perhaps you’d like to discuss a different topic,
Inglés
.”

Daltry rolled his head up and spit out the blood in his mouth. “How about this one? If you care anything at all about the girl, you’ll get her out of these waters before the blood moon.”

Paqua grabbed Daltry by a hank of hair and threw his head back. “Blood moon! What happens on the blood moon? Out with it!”

A subtle growl escaped him before he could choke it back. “What do your little bones tell you, priest? They warned of danger, didn’t they?”

Paqua nodded. “On the next full moon.”

“The blood moon. When the gate between the living and the dead opens wide.” He hesitated. “With the proper sacrifice.”

Daltry didn’t see the next blow coming. When he came to, Paqua was gone.

How long had he been unconscious?
He watched the hanging ropes and chains sway back and forth with the roll of the ship. They were in smooth waters with a good wind at their back—Saint-Sauveur’s favorite hunting ground. Daltry’s neck muscles tightened. The fools. He had to get them to turn around. There was no point in sacrificing all of them just to get the girl.

His skin prickled, and a growing sense of agitation fed an overwrought imagination. Inch by inch his control weakened. Worse yet, the hunger for the wolfsbane grew stronger.

He smacked his lips, trying to swallow the sharp tang in his mouth. One thin trickle of sweat slid down his jaw. Not good. He needed that wolfsbane.

The crew sounded busy. Sails were being unfurled and stores tied down. There was every manner of squawk and bellow from beast and quartermaster alike. The winds had freshened, hell-bent on driving the
Coral
to her doom. They sailed without effort, so the
Persephone
had to be gone by now. And his crew had not been brought aboard, or else they’d be here sharing his lovely accommodations.