Pirate Wolf Trilogy (105 page)

"I am trying to decide if you are incredibly
brave... or incredibly stupid," he murmured. "And frankly, I am
leaning toward the latter."

"I... I don't understand."

Dante released the locket
and reached for the bottle of rum again. "You have left what I
assume to be the ease and comfort of reasonably substantial means
in order to sail to the edge of the world on a wild goose chase.
You have witnessed first-hand the pestilence a single man can bring
aboard a ship, but that is only one of many perils. Land on any
island and the insects will suck you dry within an hour. Dark,
thick-skinned Spaniards have had to move entire cities because of
infestations. There are cannibals who would think you a fine,
succulent feast for a midsummer day, and other natives who, while
they might not have a craving to chew on your flesh, would prize
that white skin of yours and peel it carefully from your body to
preserve the
juju
."

"Juju?"

"Magic."

She blanched a little but kept her chin high.
"I am well aware of the risks, Captain."

"Are you?"

She drew herself up straight, squaring her
shoulders. "I am neither as weak nor as helpless as you might
think. I've not had proper food or water for several days, but once
I get my strength back—"

"You will do what? Swab my decks? Climb the
rigging? Man one of the guns? This is a working ship, Mrs.
Chandler, and everyone on board does his share. I am not in the
habit of ferrying passengers out of charity."

"No, you appear to be more in the habit of
mocking them and frightening them half to death."

He stared a moment, then grinned. "It's a
family trait. And I've not mocked you, Madam. Just questioned your
sanity."

Her eyes were starting to glaze from the rum,
and she frowned as she attempted to keep them focussed on his face.
"I can pay my way, Sir. I'll not strain the tenets of your catholic
charity."

This time, he leaned back, his hip resting on
the corner of the massive oak desk, his arms crossing over his
chest. "Pay me how? With what?"

Her fingers trembled where they curled around
the locket.

“If you take me to New Providence, I—“

“I am not going to New Providence.”

“Granted, it may not have been your
intention, sir, but if you take me there—“

“New Providence is already two days behind
us. I have battle-weary men on board who would not appreciate me
turning the ship around in order to ferry a passenger well out of
our way, thus my intention is to keep going forward.”

Eva’s lip trembled and she had to bite it
hard to keep tears from flooding her eyes. How many times over the
past fortnight had she thought herself near death only to find
reprieve? She could not give up now. She could not! She was so
close, she could almost sense her father’s presence and nothing
else mattered, regardless of the cost.

She moistened her lips and tried one last
time to sway the ugly brute. “The Chandler name is well known in
the islands.”

“I have never heard it before and I’ve lived
in the Indies all of my life.”

“My… husband… will reward you handsomely if
you take me to him.”

“How can I take you to him when he is
lost?”

The color in her cheeks returned on a flush
of frustration. “Then I will pay you to help me find him.”

Dante’s good eye narrowed. “You are a lovely
woman, Madam, and under any other circumstances I might be sorely
tempted to accept your manner of payment. However…”

“Good God, sir, I am not offering you my
body!”

Dante frowned. “Then I confess I am confused.
What exactly are you offering by way of payment?”

“This,” she said, and held up the silver
locket.

"That—" he glanced at the locket and arched
an eyebrow— "would not buy you passage from this deck to the one
above."

"Perhaps not,” she agreed. “But what is
inside might."

Gabriel felt another tickle across the nape
of his neck, and the ghostly filament caused by well-honed
instincts warned him not to take the bait. What could the locket
possibly contain that a spoiled and pampered noblewoman would think
valuable enough to turn his head and strike him dead with awe? A
jewel? He had thousands. A dore of gold? He had barrels of the
refined little nuggets.

He drew a breath and stood to signal an end
to the conversation. “Unless it contains a map to El Dorado, the
lost city of gold, I suggest you tuck it away and save it for some
bandy-legged lout who might be impressed with big words and big
green eyes.”

“Are you not even interested to see—?”

“No, I am not. The only thing that interests
me now is making up for the time we lost sinking your ship.”

Eva closed her fist around the locket again.
Tears she had been determined not to spill splashed over her lashes
and ran down her cheeks but even as she turned to hide them from
his mocking gaze, Dante was striding behind his desk, his attention
already redirected to his charts.

He took up a quill and started scratching
notes in his logbook and when he deigned to glance up again, the
rum had done its work and the chit was fast asleep, her hand still
clutched around the locket.

CHAPTER SIX

Curled up in the chair, Eva dozed on and off
for the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening. Dante
spent most of the time sorting through the small mountain of
letters and documents found on board the galleon when it was
captured. The ship’s manifests were in Spanish, which had been
written clearly and precisely by clerks who knew a hundred people
would be checking their work. These, Dante could read with ease.
But when he came to the logbook and the large canvas sack full of
personal letters, they were written in tightly slanted script,
embellished with great swooping flourishes and grandiose
pretensions. He set them aside with a grimace, intending to leave
them to last.

By eight bells, his one good eye was bleary
and his head was aching. Young Eduardo had left a tray of food
outside the door, knocking once to let his captain know it was
there before scrambling quickly back down the companionway lest the
air itself was poisonous with contagion.

Gabriel kept feeling his cheeks and forehead
for signs of fever; he examined the skin between the bruises on his
chest and arms for spots or a rash, but so far he was showing no
signs of plague or pox. Stubs delivered hourly reports on their
progress as well as on the mood of the crew. None were happy about
having their captain quarantined, but there was no talk of
mutiny... yet.

As a precaution, Gabriel kept two loaded
pistols on the desk. As loyal as he knew his men to be in battle,
fear of dying with gaping eyes and bloody flux could test the
limits of the strongest men. He was none too sure what his own
reaction would be if his skin began to turn red and blister. The
fact the girl had survived was encouraging, but he also knew that
some diseased creatures, most notably rats, could live for weeks
before they went belly-up and stiff-legged.

"Bah!"

Eva stirred at the expulsion of sound and
blinked her eyes open. It took a long moment for her to recognize
her surroundings and remember where she was. A further squirming
struggle with the tangled blankets saw her sitting upright and
straightening cramped muscles.

"My apologies," Gabriel said. "I did not mean
to waken you."

She looked around. "I don’t think I meant to
fall asleep."

“After two cups of rum, I would have been
more surprised if you hadn’t.”

Eva noted the darkness beyond the gallery
windows. “How long—?”

“It’s gone past eight bells, so… twelve
hours, give or take.”

Her eyes widened. “And… are you… all
right?”

He held out his arms and pushed his
shirtsleeves up to his elbows. "No spots, no pustules, no rashes.
No wine either," he added, indicating his empty goblet. "Since it
is right beside you, would you mind?"

His eyes cut to the left and she followed his
glance to the ornate sideboard against the wall, where several
thick green glass bottles were housed in a wire-fronted case. She
uncurled her legs and stood, dragging her cloak of blankets with
her as she fetched a bottle and carried it to the desk. There she
spied the platter of mostly untouched food and her belly gave an
unladylike grumble.

"Go ahead," he said. "Help yourself."

Her belly growled again as she filled a solid
gold plate with slices of yellow cheese, biscuits, and a slab of
cold meat. She carried it back to her chair and devoured everything
to the last morsel, even wetting her finger to pick up the few
scattered crumbs that escaped. The cheese was pungent, the meat was
heavily spiced with cloves and pepper, and the biscuits had been
fried in pork fat but it was possibly the most delicious meal she
had ever eaten.

Dante glanced at her periodically from under
the dark sweep of his lashes.

"You look as though you have a thousand
questions, Captain," she said.

"A thousand and one, in truth."

"In that case, may I ask you one first?"

"Of course."

Her cheeks flushed a soft crimson and she
shifted on the chair. "Where might one go to... relieve
oneself?"

"Ah." He turned and pointed to a narrow door
located beside the canopied bed. "Through there, but have a care.
There was some battle damage."

She stood and walked, a brighter shade of red
than before, to the door he had indicated. When she opened it, she
discovered a narrow closet set into the curved hull of the ship.
There was a carved oak bench inside with a hole in the middle,
through which she could look straight down twenty feet to the
surface of the ocean rushing past beneath. At some point during the
recent battle, a shot had struck the hull and crushed one side of
the bench, blowing the seat askew.

The space was cramped and she had to
temporarily discard the thick wool blanket. A reassuring glance, as
she closed the door behind her, told her Dante had not moved from
the desk. She wriggled the moleskin breeches down enough to aim her
bottom over the hole and tried not to think of falling through.
When she was finished, and just as she was standing, the ship took
a sudden pitch forward and her hip was driven against a sharp
splinter of the shattered wood. The raw edge scraped along her
skin, scratching deeply into the flesh and causing her to gasp
sharply with the pain.

With tears in her eyes and her lip firmly
clamped between her teeth, she hastily dressed again. Returning to
the cabin, she retraced her steps to the chair without meeting
Dante's eyes.

His, however, were keen enough to notice the
fresh dots of blood on the thigh of her breeches.

"What have you done?"

Startled, she looked at him. "I beg your
pardon?"

"To your leg," he said, pointing.

"Oh. It... it's nothing. I scraped it on a
bit of broken wood."

"Best let me have a look," he said, rising to
his feet.

"That won't be necessary, Captain. But thank
you."

He sank back down onto his chair and
shrugged. "Suit yourself. Simple cuts can fester and turn poisonous
here in the tropics. It would be a shame to have to cut your leg
off."

Eva arched an eyebrow wryly. "I'm sure it
will not come to that, Captain Dante. However, I do have another
question, if you don't mind."

"Ask away, Mrs. Chandler."

"My father has owned a shipping company for
many years; since I was a little girl, in fact. I used to love to
visit his office and sit behind his big desk and watch all the
ships out in the harbor. Sometimes the captains would come in and
give me bits of candy or strange fruits they had brought from
Persia or Morocco or the Indies. And sometimes they would tell me
stories of their adventures against the Spanish and Dutch. Thus, I
grew up surrounded by tales of privateers and adventurers... and
pirate wolves." She paused and her eyes met his. "You would not
happen to be any relation to... Simon Dante, would you?"

Dante leaned back in his chair and crossed
his arms over his chest. "I might be, yes. He is my father."

"Oh."

Gabriel tilted his head. "Oh?"

"And Isabeau Dante...?"

"My mother."

"Juliet...?"

"Sister."

Her eyes popped even wider.

"I have a brother as well. Jonas is a
blustery, vain fellow, and would likely break a jug over someone's
head if he knew his name had not merited a squeak of
recognition."

She sighed heavily. "I only wish my father's
name had done so."

"And who might your father be? What is his
company?"

"My father is William Chandler and his
company is Chandler-Ross shipping."

Gabriel frowned. "Hold up
there. William Chandler is your
father
? I thought you said he was
your husband?"

Eva bit her lower lip and cursed inwardly,
having realized her mistake the moment she blurted it. "Yes. I mean
no, you were not mistaken for I did say that, but yes, he is my
father not my husband. When you first asked me, I... I panicked. I
thought if I said he was my husband it might... well... it
might..."

"Save you from being ravished by me or by the
lusty brutes who crew my ship?"

"Something like that," she admitted, adding a
mumbled, "yes."

He tipped his head and
laughed. "My dear
Mistress
Chandler, a wedded surname, out here in the
middle of the vast nowhere, means about as much as a fly speck on a
sandy beach. If I or any of my men truly wanted to ravish you, I
can promise you the existence of a husband would offer little
protection."

"I... I was frightened."