Pirate Wolf Trilogy (54 page)

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 done 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.”

There was iron
in Varian’s voice, iron in his body too, gleaming across the broad
expanse of his shoulders, down the hard flat plane of his belly,
and in the long, sinewy legs.

Though Beacom’s
very bowels liquefied at the thought of being caught helping
himself to the lady captain’s store of spirits, he was more than
passingly familiar with his master’s temper and at the moment, he
was not certain which bode worse for the state of his own
well-being.

Drawing what
comfort he could from the knowledge that he was at least not alone
on this dread pirate ship, and that his master was an admirable
adversary when it came to dealing with either sex, he released his
hold on the blankets, and, after giving the covers a tremulous
smoothing, ventured to the cabinet. There was only one bottle on
the shelf, the contents amber when he poured them into Varian’s
outthrust cup.

“Oh dear. I
should think it looks quite off, your grace.”

Varian held the
goblet to his nose. For the first time since he had wakened, the
smile that spread across his face was genuine and the darkness of
his eyes lit with a glint of pleasure. “It isn’t off at all,
Beacom. It is quite damnably on. Rumbustion,” he explained with a
hearty wink and took a long, satisfied swallow. “As lusty and
restorative an elixir as God could provide.”

“Nonetheless,
your grace, you... you might want to exercise caution in restoring
too much too soon. You have had nothing by way of food or drink for
the past twelve hours.”

Scorning his
valet’s advice, Varian tipped the goblet and drained it. For all of
ten seconds he felt little more than the warming sensation of the
tropical spirit gliding down his throat—he was, after all, no
stranger to the sharp effects of spirits—but when the ten seconds
passed, his body went numb from the waist down and his knees folded
like sheets of paper. He would have gone down hard had Beacom not
caught him under the arms.

“I have you,
your grace,” he said, scrambling to keep his own balance. “Shall I
help you back to the bed?”

Varian could
not speak, he could only nod. When he was safely back on the narrow
berth he allowed himself a gulp of fresh air, but that caused the
room to spin faster and the fire in his throat to blaze hotter.

Beacom emptied
the goblet into the washbowl and filled it with water from a pewter
jug. Varian gulped his way through that and another before he was
able to lie flat again, his brain giddy, his flesh prickling as if
it had been charred from the inside out.

“She fights
like a man,” he rasped. “She smells like a fishmonger’s trollop,
and swills rum like a common jackanapes. A truly delicate creature,
our Captain Dante—when she and her crew are not sacking Spanish
galleons.”

“Or slitting
the throats of unwanted guests and feeding them to the sharks.”

Varian’s eyes
rolled to the back of his head. “You will have to allow me the
luxury of a day or two to decide which may prove to be the happier
course.”

CHAPTER
FOUR

Juliet climbed
the shrouds as nimbly as any crewman. She had been doing so almost
from the moment she could keep her balance on the deck of a ship.
The highest point on the main mast was her sanctuary; from there
she could imagine herself perched on the top of the world. If the
ship was shrouded in fog, it felt like being suspended on a cloud;
in full daylight, with the wind turning her hair into sleek, dark
ribbons, it gave her the exhilarating sensation of flying. There
were clouds tonight, fast-moving veils that glowed iridescent blue
where they were flung across the path of the crescent moon. The
wind was strong from the west, laced with the faint taste of spice,
hinting that a storm was brewing somewhere, bringing the scent of
the islands out to sea.

Part of
her did not want to return home yet, was never anxious to exchange
the powerful surge of the sea for the powdered white sand that
meant she was land bound. Nor was she particularly eager to explain
to her father how a simple sea trial had turned into a rescue of
one vessel and the capture of another. Hopefully the sight of
the
Santo
Domingo
being led into
the harbor behind the
Iron Rose
would mollify her father’s temper somewhat.

Countering the beneficial effects of the captured galleon
would be the presence of a ducal envoy on board the
Rose
. Perhaps
Crisp was right. Perhaps they should have loaded his grace the Duke
of Harrow and his valet into the longboats with the Spaniards. The
duke, especially, had the look of trouble about him.

Unfortunately the
Iron Rose
was already long overdue and her father would be climbing
the hills daily to watch for a glimpse of her sails. As it was,
they would have to take a circuitous route back to Pigeon Cay,
sailing well south of their destination to ensure there were no
predators lying below the horizon. There was no excuse for failing
to take such precautions regardless of the time or energy it took,
and if someone did show an interest in following them, it could
take several more days to lead them astray and circle
back.

Pigeon
Cay had been her father’s stronghold for the past
thirty years and although the
Spaniards had been searching for it nigh on as long, none had been
able to discover the Pirate Wolf’s hidden base. On each galleon
caught or captured, a careful inspection was made of her charts and
maps, but none had ever been marked with the tiny island that held
the wolf’s lair. Not even English ships knew the exact location of
Dante’s atoll—and from a distance, it looked like just that: a
crown of barren volcanic rock thrusting up from the sea. Occasional
news, messages, missives from England were delivered to the port of
New Providence in the Baja Mas and retrieved at irregular
intervals. Once a year, the Dantes sent a ship back to England
laden with the crown’s share of his privateering ventures, and
while both Jonas and Gabriel had been to London on one of these
voyages, Juliet had never been curious enough to trade warm
sunshine and salty sea air for fog, coal dust, and rain.

Juliet’s
beloved grandfather, Jonas Spence, had overseen these voyages until
his death four years earlier. He had been a villainous old sea lion
but Juliet had loved him dearly. All bluster and brine, she could
only wonder what it must have been like sailing in the company of
men like Jonas and her father, Sir Francis Drake, John Hawkins, and
Frobisher in the glory days of Elizabeth’s seahawks. Were it not
for the courage and daring of scores of these privateers, England
would not have had a navy to defend England against Spain’s
invasion armada. She would likely not have a private navy in the
New World either, ensuring the need for the Spanish king to divide
his naval forces in order to keep a strong and active fleet
patrolling the Spanish Main.

Phillip
II had tried, two years after the Great Armada and again ten years
later, to amass enough ships to threaten England’s shores again,
but neither fleet had left port. When Phillip III had come to
power, there had been a marked increase in ship building to counter
the fear that Britain’s navy was growing too strong. There had been
noticeable changes in their Indies fleets as well, with galleons
like the fifty-four gun
Santo Domingo
replacing the smaller forty gun zabras and thirty gun India
guards. And while the actual number of treasure ships in the plate
fleets had been decreasing steadily over the years, the number of
warships that sailed in the protective escort had increased to
insure each cargo of treasure arrived safely back in
Spain.

Conversely, men
like Simon Dante, Captain David Smith, and Captain Frederick Mounts
did their damnedest to see that it did not.

Of the
original band of Gloriana’s seahawks led by El Draque, only Simon
Dante remained active in the Caribbean, and only he continued to
elude the Spanish hunters best efforts to bring him to ground. The
reward on the
pirata lobo’s
head—whether he was taken dead or alive—had become a large
enough sum to tempt more than just Spanish carrion-eaters. It was
not that she had any overt suspicions or any doubt that Varian St.
Clare was here for any reason other than to deliver another of the
king’s edicts for peace. She thought it highly unlikely an assassin
would travel with a manservant who fluttered and fainted at the
least turn of a knife, yet his evasiveness annoyed her.