Pirate Wolf Trilogy (28 page)

As for
the rest of her body …
dainty, delicate
, and
virginal
were hardly the words she would use to describe how she
felt. Despite the fact that Dante had spent an inordinate amount of
time massaging each muscle, each square inch of skin, with his
scented oil, she was aching and tender in places that brought a
blaze of hot color to her cheeks just thinking about
them.

And where was
he, anyway?

He had
not been in the cabin when she had groaned herself out of bed at
dawn. He had not been on the fore-deck with Spence or on the main
deck to greet Pitt and his delicate little duchess, although she
imagined the
pretense
of
his being the captain of the
Egret
had ended the moment the ladeboard planks had been
withdrawn from the
San Pedro.

“Good
morning.”

Beau jumped an
inch or so out of her skin and whirled around. He was standing
behind her, dressed in a clean white shirt and tight black hose,
looking as fresh and roguish as if he had slept another three-day
stretch. He had shaved and bound the waves of his hair back with a
leather thong. The ends of each strand glistened with water,
suggesting he had just emerged from the sea.

“Good morning,”
she said, and hastened back to her charts.

“To everyone’s
good fortune it looks like we will be under way several hours ahead
of schedule.”

It was more of
an observation than a question and she barely gave it a glance by
way of acknowledgment.

“Pitt and his
princess are on board, I see. Rather a lovely little thing, is she
not? Like a rosebud with dew on the petals, so fresh, she fairly
begs for a man’s protection. Poor Pitt. He’ll likely be stammering
like a schoolboy before the week’s out.”

Beau
slapped down her charcoal stick and straightened. “Was there
something specific you wanted, Captain? I have readings to take and
a course to plot. If you are so taken by her
freshness
, why don’t you go below and enjoy a
closer look?”

If either her
rebuke or her mood surprised him, he gave no sign. In fact, the
only response he offered was through his eyes, and what Beau saw
there made her catch her breath and hold it. He was subtly telling
her what she knew already, that she looked thoroughly and utterly
debauched, that she could lace her doublet twice as tight and he
would still know what lay beneath, that she could scrub her skin
raw with lye soap and he would still be able to detect the scent of
camphor and musk. That she could pepper her every word with
brimstone and cordite and he would still be able to hear the echo
of her begging gasps.

“No,” he said
quietly. “There is nothing specific I want. Not at the moment,
anyway.”

“Then
please”—she released her pent-up breath in a soft gust—“leave me to
my work.”

The smoky,
silvery eyes narrowed. “It’s a small ship, Isabeau. You won’t be
able to hide behind your work forever.”

“I can
try.”

He held her
gaze a moment longer, then gave a small bow. The roguish smile was
still playing about his lips as he turned and descended the
ladderway. Beau watched him, she could not help herself. He moved
like a big, graceful cat, a sleek panther with the air of lazy
indifference that came from being well fed and content. And why
should he not look so satisfied? He had spent the night doing
exactly as he pleased with her and, true to his warning, had not
stopped again to ask her permission … for anything.

No specific
needs at the moment? Did that mean he expected something at a later
time? Tonight, perhaps? Did he expect her to go to him again for a
lusty repeat of what had happened last night?

Beau’s
skin shivered at the thought but she resolutely pushed the notion,
even the possibility, as far to the back of her mind as she could.
She had weakened once, but that was all. That was the end. She
could blame her lapse on the excitement of their victory over
the
San
Pedro
, the amount of
wine she had consumed, her exhaustion, her inability to fight her
own curiosity any longer … or the itch, as her father had so
artfully put it.

All these
things could explain a single lapse, but to do it again? To go
willing and sober into his arms would put more than just the
swagger of satisfaction in his gait. It would put her at his mercy,
reduce her once more to a mere female in his eyes … and in the eyes
of every other man on board the
Egret.

She looked
slowly around the deck, but could see no one staring at her or
pointing and murmuring behind raised hands. But they would. If they
knew she had succumbed to the Comte de Tourville’s sexual prowess,
she would lose all of the hard-won credibility she had gained over
the years. One clumsy tumble from a capstan was all it took for
years of finely balanced work in the rigging to be forgotten.

She could not
let that happen. She would not.

It took
nearly four hours before the
San Pedro de Marcos
was reduced to a speck on the horizon. During that
time a goodly portion of the
Egret’s
crew were sent to their berths to catch up on some
much-needed sleep, while those who seemed to thrive on nerve alone
continued to work on repairs. Most of the spare canvas had gone
into the yards, leaving the damaged, torn, and scorched sheets to
be patched and reinforced. Men sat on overturned barrels much as at
a quilting bee, stitching and cutting, swapping versions of their
own involvement in the battle. Damaged ropes and cables were
spliced, the guns were reamed and their carriages greased. Spit
McCutcheon had thriftily retrieved most of their spent shot from
the wreckage of the Spaniard’s deck, plus helping himself to powder
and fuses from the galleon’s stores so they would not be lacking in
firepower should they attract the eye of any cruising
vultures.

Cook was in his
glory. He now had rations to spare and spent most of the day
happily at work over his cauldrons. Two large pigs were slaughtered
and the meat set to roast over a long metal trough filled with
scraps of wood and broken timbers. At various times during the day
men gathered to stare, their mouths watering, their palms sweating,
their bellies rumbling in a chorus of expectation. At mealtime
every man’s pannikin was filled to the brim. Chins and hands
dripped with grease, and the jeers that had been challenging Cook’s
slowness all day long were replaced by the sound of chewing,
drinking, and belching in robust contentment.

Spence called
for a barrel of ale and ordered twice the normal measure for each
tar. With his head still bandaged and the bottom of his hose
knotted over empty air, he sat in the midst of his crew, drinking,
eating, cheering, as heartily as the others each time a fresh
platter of carved meat was passed from the trough.

Even Clarence
the cat had no need to resort to skulduggery. He sat by Cook’s
heels, his tail snaking back and forth across the planking, his
face upturned and his eyes bright, waiting patiently to catch the
thick, meaty scraps that fell his way.

Beau
deliberately chose to take a seat with the common seamen. Spence
arched an eyebrow in her direction, indicating an empty place
reserved beside him, but she only shrugged and smiled and raised
her cup in a silent salute. Dante sat on the other side of Spence
and Lucifer sat cross-legged on the deck beside him. It made for
one of many uncomfortable moments during the meal when Beau looked
over to find the Cimaroon’s eyes fixed upon her. She recalled,
later, that he usually slept across Dante’s door at night, and if
so, had likely heard more than snoring coming from inside the cabin
last evening.

Pitt had made a
brief appearance carrying two fine porcelain dinner plates, but his
tawny head disappeared quickly belowdecks again as soon as they
were filled. The duchess was still in shock and too sick at heart
to leave her cabin, thus Pitt had assigned himself her personal
guard and messenger.

Eventually, a
long and mighty belch from Spence marked the end of the revelry.
Fresh watches were sent up into the tops with orders to report so
much as a farting bird on the horizon. The coals in the trough were
doused in a billowing cloud of steam and the residuals spaded
carefully overboard. By habit the men contributed their bones and
scraps back into a soup pot, knowing full well that one day’s
excess could mean another day’s lack.

They
finished out the first full day under sail without incident. The
wind picked up in late afternoon and the seas roughened, but Beau
was happy with the way the
Egret
responded. She took the galleon through a few tacking
maneuvers to test her seams—one of which brought Geoffrey Pitt
stumbling up onto the deck again, pale as ash and taut around the
mouth—and was satisfied the ship could handle herself with courage
and spirit if need be. When the blue of the sky began to leech into
pinks and grays, Beau took a fix from the first star that appeared
and gave orders to the new helmsman who arrived to take the watch.
She rolled her charts under her arm but instead of venturing
anywhere near the cabins in the stern, she found an empty hammock
in the darkest corner of the crew’s quarters, curled herself into a
blissful ball, and slept.

Sometime during
the night two large shadows made their way through and around the
maze of hanging, swaying cocoons. Billy Cuthbert led the way, his
hand cupped around the weak flame of a taper, and when he found the
one that held Beau, he stood aside and let Simon Dante pass in
front. The Frenchman lifted her carefully into his arms and the two
men retraced their steps, parting company with a whispered thanks
on the starlit deck.

Dante made his
way alone into the stern cabin and deposited his sleeping bundle on
her own bed. His hand may have lingered a moment longer than was
necessary on the chestnut lock of hair that had curled forward on
her cheek, but whatever thoughts or cravings that may have passed
through his mind were dismissed before they could take hold. He
pulled a blanket up to her chin, doused the guttering candle, and
closed the door quietly behind him as he left.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

The
Egret
made good
time on her journey north. She managed to avoid notice most of the
time; sails were spotted twice on the horizon, too far to do more
than identify one suit as belonging to a Frenchman, the other
English. Neither paid the
Egret
more attention than it took to read her silhouette and
dismiss her as being of little importance.

Spence was
fully mobile again. Thomas Moone carved him a new limb, though not
as elaborate as the last with its shaped calf and solid foot. A
stout peg was the best he could do, he declared, until they reached
England and found a good, solid piece of Norfolk pine.

Carrying
forty extra crewmen, the quarters on board were cramped and free
space extremely limited. Privacy, normally only a word thrown out
in jest at the best of times, was nonexistent. The men ate, slept,
and tended to their bodily functions in groups, sometimes crowds,
and if not for the weight of the gold and treasure in the
Egret’s
holds, tempers would likely
have flared along with the squalls that blew with seasonal
frequency. One in particular, striking on the tenth day of April,
had strong enough teeth to rip the mainsail and send a yard
slamming into the back of a sailor’s skull, splitting it open like
a melon.

On clear days
the men still gathered on the gundeck and swapped stories. Once in
a while Spence would join them, but conspicuous by his absence was
Dante de Tourville. He spent most of the daylight hours poring over
the salvaged letters and documents from the Spanish ship, searching
for the key to the King’s code. They were all translated to the
best of his abilities but if there was a key, he could not find it.
Spit McCutcheon’s limited knowledge of Spanish proved to be just
that. He knew how to ask a whore the price of a tup and how to
barter for food and ale, but the refined Castilian spoken and
written by the King and his governors left the quartermaster
scratching his spiky gray stubble and scowling over the plague of
the nobility.

Lucifer’s rib,
with or without the chicken foot, appeared to heal with miraculous
speed. He was the only one who commanded a wide private space at
least once each day while he practiced with his twin scimitars. The
men would fan well back or swarm like ants into the shrouds and
rigging, hanging by hooked arms and legs while they watched the
enormous black man move gracefully around his cleared circle of
deck, blades flashing and slashing at invisible foes.

After a few
days of watching, one brave lad ventured into the circle, his new
Spanish cutlass glinting dully in the sunlight. Lucifer’s eyes
narrowed warily for as long as it took the man to wipe the sweat
off his palms and challenge the Cimaroon to a friendly match. The
men who had put their mate up to it called out their wagers, and
soon it looked as if there might be a new afternoon diversion. The
unfortunate challenger had no hope of putting his blade anywhere
near Lucifer and the Cimaroon became so frustrated himself at the
boy’s ineptness, he started giving him instructions. From then on,
at various times of the day, Lucifer’s gleaming ebony body could be
seen leading a dozen or so men at a time through the intricate
steps and arm movements that made him seem so invincible.