Pirate Wolf Trilogy (88 page)

Something hot
and stinging welled along Juliet’s lashes, blurring him into a blot
of white shirt and blowing dark hair. A blink sent a splash down on
her cheek and a soft gasp parted her lips, for it was all there.
All of it was in his eyes. How much he loved her, how much he
wanted her, how desperately he needed her to want and love him in
return. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time to realize
she had that kind of power over another human being, and to know
that someone had that same kind of power over her. Not the kind of
power won with a sword or a knife or a blustery command, but the
kind that would come in quiet moments, with a look or a touch, or
in the promise of a smile.

“I sent you
away,” she whispered, “because I didn’t think—”

He pushed away
from the boulder and moved closer. “You didn’t think... what?”

“I didn’t
think... you could love someone like me.”

He raised his
hand, touching a fingertip to the fat tear that rolled slowly down
her cheek. “Someone like you?” he murmured. “Someone who takes my
every breath away? Someone who makes me want to be more of a man
because she is so much more than any other woman I have ever had
the privilege, the honor, the pleasure of knowing? Someone for whom
I would gladly slay dragons the rest of my life?”

Juliet felt a
flush rising up into her cheeks. Her eyes met his briefly, the
tears brimming with damnable persistence as if once started, they
would never stop. All four of his fingertips were wet now and he
tried using his thumb to staunch the flow, but they just kept
coming.

“You never
thought it would happen to you either?”

She shook her
head. “No. I never thought it would.”

“And? Has
it?”

It was a
foolish question, for of course he knew. He had known it before she
had even acknowledged the possibility to herself that this wild
beating in her chest, this molten heat in her limbs, the pleasure
of simply have him sit with her through the night and hold her was
more than anything she had ever expected. She did not know how or
when it had happened, but he had not just won his way into her
body, he was inside her blood, a part of her now, flowing through
her veins like life itself.

Juliet was
looking studiously at the hollow at the base of his neck, unable to
lift her gaze above the level of his collarbone. Even when he
tipped his head, trying to make contact, she bowed hers lower,
leaving him no choice but to thread his long fingers into her hair
and gently turn her face up to his. He must have seen the answer to
his question shimmering in her eyes, for he smiled and closed his
own. She thought she heard him breathe a faint, “Thank God,” but
she could not be sure, for in the next heartbeat, he was kissing
her cheeks, her eyes, her temples, her brow. He brushed her lips
lightly two or three times before his mouth came down hard and firm
over hers but by then her arms were already around his neck, and
she was partly laughing, partly sobbing as he swept her up off her
feet and spun her in a dizzying circle.

She heard him
say her name over and over, and she shuddered violently, knowing
she wanted to hear it said that way, hoarse and ragged with
passion, forever. Her own lips moved, and whether the words she
uttered had substance or not, she could not tell, but at least she
knew without any further doubts or hesitation that she wanted to
say them and that, for the time being, was enough.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

Havana,
September 15, 1614

The
Contadora
was
among the thirty-two warships anchored in a protective semi-circle
around the harbor, and one of the larger warships that comprised
the
armada de
la guardia
. There were
fifty-nine merchant ships inside the ring of galleons, their
captains increasingly anxious about the coming voyage to Spain. As
early as last summer, the captains, the island governors, the
officers in every garrison along the Spanish Main had been on edge,
knowing that it was important for the vast armada to reach Spain
safely. The king needed the ships and the treasure the flota
carried. Almost more than the gold and silver, Spain needed her
best soldiers and officers if the plans for the new invasion of
England were to succeed.

Common sailors
and officers below the rank of captain were not told in advance
that the treasure fleet would be larger than usual. Seamen were
notoriously loose-tongued and privateers from every nation would
have descended on them like locusts. Nor were they told the Indies
would be stripped of her biggest warships. Those same loose tongues
would have been bragging about how they planned to exact revenge
for the fleet of 1588, and Spain would not only lose any advantage
of surprise back home, but there would be open war with the English
privateers in the Caribbean.

Of those who
did know something was in the air, there were very few entrusted
with all the details, fewer still who had realized the full scope
of the enterprise until their ships were approaching the rendezvous
in Havana and they saw the crowded conditions of the harbor. At the
same time, most reported that there had been increased attacks on
the ships attempting to reach Havana. Each cluster of ships that
arrived brought stories of French and Dutch marauders thick as
flies on a rotting corpse. Seven ships had been sunk or captured,
another twelve had turned back to their home ports not wanting to
risk their valuable cargos.

The
Contadora
had
sailed from Vera Cruz. She mounted forty-eight big guns, which was
enough of a deterrent against the privateering vessels that plagued
the smaller, unescorted merchantmen. Her captain, Luis Ortolo had
been recalled from his normal duties patrolling the coastline off
Cartagena, and this would be his first trip home in five years. On
board for the voyage to Spain were twenty-three important
passengers, including the former governor of Nuevo España and his
family. Also on board was Captain Diego Flores de Aquayo and
several of his officers who had themselves been victims of the
marauding privateers. News of the stunning capture of the
Santo Domingo
had spread like wildfire
through the fleet, adding to the tension that was building
incrementally with each tale of attacks and sinkings received in
the harbor. For a ship so large, so heavily armed to have come
under such a brazen attack, how could smaller vessels expect to
defend themselves?

Earlier
that evening, the obese, red-faced Aquayo had retold the story
again for the benefit of the new passengers on board the
Contadora
. His
version of the attack built incrementally with each telling, and on
this particular night, there were seven heavily armed ships
involved in the
Santo Domingo’s
demise. Although her crew had put on a valiant defence, had
nearly emptied her
armory
of shot and inflicted savage damage on her enemies (sinking
at least one ship in the conflict!), the captain had felt it a
merciful necessity to surrender before the pirates slaughtered them
to the last man.

Credit
was lavishly bestowed on Don Cristobal Nufio Espinosa y Recalde for
his bravery and courage. The
capitán
had offered resistance to the final possible instant and
bore the bloody scars to prove it! The lower halves of his ears had
been shot away, leaving gnarled black scabs, the remnants of which
were still visible beneath the precisely curled waves of his
hair.

Recalde himself
remained rigidly silent through most of Aquayo’s recitation of the
events, though there was the occasional flicker of exasperation in
the ebony eyes when the embellishments grew almost too outlandish
to believe. But there had been no refuting the identity of the
attacking ship and for that, the governor, Don Felipe Mendoza,
could heartily agree that Captain Aquayo had indeed been lucky to
escape with his life.

“
La rosa de hierro
. The Iron Rose.” The governor had shaken his head in
disbelief. “We were under the mistaken impression this was but the
name of a ship. We knew, of course, there were sons who sailed
under the crimson flag of the
pirata lobo
, but to think of a daughter having such boldness! She must
be so mannish and ugly it is beyond the ability of a god-fearing
man to conceive of her as a woman.”

The statement
had been met with a general rumble of agreement around the dinner
table. Also partaking of the exquisite wine and artfully prepared
platters of food were three dark haired, doe-eyed beauties—one of
whom was the governor’s wife, the other two his daughters. The
latter were seventeen and fifteen respectively and because neither
were permitted to set foot outside their cabins without the
protective shadow of their duennas, these dinners in the company of
so many handsome officers rendered them both flushed and breathless
by the end of the evening.

“Is it true,
señor capitán?” The elder daughter had asked, her intrigued whisper
inviting Recalde to look up from his soup. “Is she so ugly she
could be mistaken for a man?”

“We were but
briefly in her company, Señorita Lucia.”

“Oh come now,
Don Cristobal,” Aquayo boomed. “Surely you cannot forget a chest
like an iron barrel, a face brutish enough to frighten the Devil
himself. Had I a daughter like that, I would lock her away in a
cellar from shame.”

Recalde’s gaze
hardened. “I did not say I have forgotten her face, señor
capitán-general. In truth, it is burned permanently on my mind and
shall remain there until I see her standing before me again. In
chains, of course. With a rope around her neck.”

“With the
reward you offered the Dutchman for her capture, I am certain your
vision will be realized soon.”

“
I harbor
the same vision of her father,” said the captain of the
Contadora
. “You
speak of the Devil, Don Diego, then surely this man is his spawn.
He appears out of nowhere and rains hell down upon our ships. He
prays upon the weak and strong alike, as if he fears nothing, not
our guns, not our numbers, not our might.”

“He is a man,”
Recalde said coldly. “Cut him and he bleeds. Shoot him and he
dies.”

“The problem,
Don Cristobal,” said another officer, “is getting close enough to
either cut him or shoot him. There is not a man in this room who
can even boast of having seen this Simon Dante face to face.”

Recalde held
his silence. It had been his fondest hope, before they departed
from Havana, to have one last chance to avenge himself upon the
Dantes. Father, daughter, it made little difference. It would have
been a fine way to begin the new enterprise against England with a
victory against her most prolific sea dog.

The loss
of the
Santo
Domingo
while under his
command was an insult that would not go unanswered, regardless how
long it took. To that end, he almost considered it an inconvenience
rather than a pleasure to be returning to Spain. A thousand things
could happen between now and when the war with England was
successfully resolved.
La rosa
could be caught by another captain. She could be killed
attacking another ship. She could fall overboard and drown and
Recalde might never have the pleasure of seeing her pay for her
crimes.

The
conversation at that point had drifted, naturally, into debates
over the upcoming enterprise against England and no one seemed to
notice he was not participating. No one except Lucia, who had been
looking at him all evening as if he were a succulent morsel of some
rare, exotic sweetmeat.

Knowing she was
watching, he let his gaze slip boldly down her neck and into the
valley of her cleavage. At seventeen her breasts were small and
shapeless but through the wiles of modern fashion, they had been
pushed up and squeezed together to crown impressively over the
bodice. She had a fine olive complexion with large fawning eyes and
while she chattered incessantly about her upcoming wedding to the
son of one of the richest families in all of Spain, Recalde thought
of other ways to put that mouth to good use.

His gaze
shifted deliberately to the younger sister, who was seated farther
along the table. She kept her eyes downcast most of the time but
Recalde had caught the plumping effects of an impatient sigh heaved
whenever the sister would steer the conversation back to
herself.

Thankfully, the
ladies retired early and at the first opportunity Recalde had
begged his leave of the governor and the captain, using his wounds
as an excuse to retire early from the table.

It was not
entirely a lie. When the shots had torn off the lobes of his ears,
the pain had been excruciating. The bitch had been standing close
enough when she fired that he still bore scorch marks from the
powder burns furrowed into his cheeks. A fraction of an inch higher
on either side and he would have lost his hearing; as it was, he
suffered headaches and still had a constant ringing in the left
side, an annoyance that affected his ability to distinguish between
the sound of the breeze rushing through the trees on shore and the
soft whisper of a silk skirt approaching across the deck.

“You find our
company boring, señor capitán? The conversation dull, perhaps?”

He was at the
rail, listening to the water slap against a hundred hulls when the
dainty figure stepped up beside him. It was the governor’s youngest
daughter, Marisol, the gauzy ends of her lace shawl fluttering
gently in the night breezes.