Pirate Wolf Trilogy (52 page)

Lieutenant Beck
brought himself to attention. “In that case, Captain, I shall put
the news to the men and we can begin to make ourselves useful at
once.”

She smiled.
“See that you have that cut on your forehead tended first or you’ll
bleed to death and be no use to me at all.”

Beck
flashed a grin, the first she had seen since he had departed
the
Argus
. It took
ten years off the lieutenant’s face and made his disfigurement all
the more unfortunate.

When he was
gone, she turned to Crisp and forestalled any objections that might
be forming on his tongue.

“When we come
within sight of the Cay, we will invite Mr. Beck and his crewmen to
go belowdecks.”

“A full crew’s
share?”

“
They
deserve it. They played as big a part in bringing the
Santo Domingo
to her knees as we did. And you
saw the holds, Nathan. We can afford a little catholic
charity.”

He offered up a
grunt. “I still say ye should just heave this lot overboard. It
would save us all a deal of trouble.”

Juliet followed
his gaze to the huddled groups of Spaniards. Captain Aquayo and his
officers had been spared the indignity of being tethered together,
but they were under heavy guard in the stern. Most of the light was
fading from the sky, but Juliet had no trouble locating the one
pair of piercing black eyes that had not stopped staring in her
direction since she and Nathan had climbed to the tall forecastle
deck.

Juliet’s
shots had blown away the bottom halves of the
maestre’s
ears, the lead balls cutting so close to
his face they had left red scorch marks on his cheeks. The right
lobe had been severed cleanly, the left had hung by a shred of
flesh until his angry, groping fingers had found it and torn it
off. His head was swathed in strips of blood-stained linen now that
left little more than his eyes free to vow revenge.

“Might also
have been for the best if ye’d just shot the bastard clean through
instead o’ toyin’ with his affections,” Crisp noted dryly.

“Ah, but this
way he’ll remember me each time he looks in the mirror.”

“I’ve a feelin’
he’ll remember ye anyway, lass. With or without the ear
bobbin’.”

CHAPTER
THREE

Varian St.
Clare groaned the groan of a dying man and forced himself to roll
his head toward the source of light that glowed red through his
eyelids. His mouth was coated with a sour fur, his tongue was so
swollen it felt like it might burst. His head was pounding, his
ears were ringing incessantly and whoever it was who had the nerve
to be talking and laughing nearby would be shot the instant he
could lay a hand to a pistol.

He groped in
the vicinity of his waist, finding nothing but skin. He ran his
fingers over the ridge of his hipbone and dragged them across the
hard surface of his belly, skimming upward as he felt more flesh,
hair, and a thumping heartbeat beneath his breastbone.

He was alive,
though he was still not certain if that was cause for
celebration.

He was also
stark naked, covered by a thin, scratchy blanket. No sooner had he
determined this, then more battered senses came into play, making
him aware of a burning sensation on the side of his left buttock.
That, combined with the pungent smell of brimstone made him brace
himself before he dared open one dark blue eye.

Half expecting
to find himself surrounded by sulphurous flames, attended by a
hoard of leering, grinning demons, he peered through the merest
slit of his lashes.

He was
not in hell, nor was he on board the
Argus
. He had been in Captain Macleod’s great cabin on many
occasions and this, with its huge brass wheel suspended from the
ceiling, was not the smallest part familiar.

He opened his
eyes wider and his search for explanations ranged farther afield.
Most of the cabin was in heavy shadow, for although there was a
lantern suspended from every spoke of the brass wheel, only one was
lit casting its soot up to smudge a ceiling already thick with
lampblack. There was no way of telling if it was day or night;
heavy sheets of canvas had been hung over the bank of gallery
windows that spanned the rear wall of the cabin.

A glint of
metal drew his eye to the leaded cross pieces on a wire-fronted
bookcase, then to another beside it lined with shelves that held an
impressive array of pistols and powder flasks. The two cases
appeared to be the only extravagance in a room fitted with an
enormous desk, a chair, and a small washing stand nailed to the
floorboards. The bed he was lying on was little more than a shelf
set into the bulkhead. The mattress was barely wide enough to
accommodate his shoulders and so thin he might as well have been
stretched out flat on a board.

Moreover, he
was not alone in this strange and spartan cabin.

Beacom was
seated on a narrow bench at the end of the bed, his head drooped
forward so far his chin touched his chest. Bowed over the desk were
two men, one of whom was studying a map and scratching notations on
the border while the other man watched, nodding occasionally to
himself as if mentally comparing the jotted computations with those
he had apparently made himself. He was short and burly with a face
like a terrier chewing a mouthful of wasps. The one doing the
jottings was taller, leaner, and wore a faded blue bandana over a
single long auburn braid that hung halfway down his back.

A memory
stabbed through the pain in his skull and took Varian back into the
heat of battle where he recalled seeing the same lad with the blue
bandana cornered against the rail by three Spaniards. The boy had
been holding his own, wielding a sword like a brilliant young
master, and Varian had only felt the need to intercede when an
arquebusier thought to take unfair advantage.

He
remembered that much. He also remembered leaping back on board
the
Argus
in time to
be blown to hell and gone when the deck had exploded beneath his
feet. After that... nothing but flashes and glimpses. Something
about a dagger. The ship going down. The boy again.

There had been
something odd about the way he spoke, too. Something about the way
he looked... ?

Varian’s
experienced eye travelled along the lad’s slender form and hovered
over the rounded curve of the hip, the tightly molded doeskin
breeches, the crux of the thighs where there was neither a bulge
nor a codpiece allowing ready access to one.

His gaze shot
back up to the face beneath the blue bandana and confirmed a rather
shocking suspicion: it was a female. Her head was tipped forward in
concentration and the light was directly above her, casting most of
her face in shadow, but there was no doubting his instincts. The
boy was female—the same female in the same tight breeches and
leather jerkin he had seen fighting on the deck of the galleon!

If there was
the smallest doubt that this was the same person, it was dispelled
at the sight of the elegant Toledo sword she still wore strapped
about her waist, the tip of which bumped against the heel of her
boot when she took a step around the desk. It was as splendid a
weapon as his own blade, which had been made by a master craftsman
and presented to him as a token of appreciation by King James
himself.

Varian willed
himself to take another long, slow look around the cabin. This
time, when he turned his head further in an attempt to see what lay
in the shadows behind him, such a violent stab of pain shot through
his skull he could not stop a sharp gasp from breaking through his
lips.

“Oh! Faith and
happy day!” Beacom’s shadow cut across the lantern light, blocking
both it and the couple standing at the desk. “My lord, his grace
the duke, is coming to himself again!”

Varian
attempted to speak but his throat refused to emit more than a dry
croak.

“Captain!”
Beacom clasped his hands in an appeal directed across the room.
“Might I trouble you for a dram of wine? I expect his grace is
sorely in need.”

“It’s there on
the sideboard.” The burly man waved a hand. “Help yerself.”

“I thank you,
sir. You are too desperately kind.”

A grunt
acknowledged the compliment before he returned to his charts.

A moment later
Varian felt a few drops of sweet red wine trickle through his lips.
He let it fill his mouth and run down his throat and what he did
not sputter out on a ragged cough, he swallowed with avid
appreciation. When the cup was empty he lapped the air insistently
for more, but Beacom was cautioned against it.

“Unless you
want him puking it all up again,” said a feminine voice. “Wait a
few minutes. If he manages to keep that down, he can have another.
He has taken a stout knock on the head and if the skull is cracked
or the brain is swollen, you will only be wasting my good
Malaga.”

“My skull is
fine,” Varian rasped. “Where the devil am I? Where is Captain
Macleod?”

“
Captain
Macleod is dead, your grace,” Beacom explained quickly. “The
Argus
, I’m
afraid, is lost. Gone. Sunk beneath the sea.”

“Sunk, you
say?” Varian frowned and struggled to squeeze out more
memories.

“
We were
attacked by a vile Spanish warship,” Beacom recounted. “You were
injured when the powder magazine on board the
Argus
exploded. You knocked your head on a beam as you
flew through the air and, ah—” he leaned closer and lowered his
voice to a whisper— “your shoulder and left buttock were severely
bruised. Right to the very bone, I dare say. The captain applied
some dreadful concoction of camphor oil and turpentine, claiming it
would numb the flesh and help it heal faster.”

“Nothing is
numb, dammit,” Varian hissed through his teeth. “And you have yet
to tell me where we are and who the devil that woman is that she
should dare tell me I can or cannot have more wine.”

The auburn head
came up under the lantern light, causing the bandanna to glow a
pale, luminous blue against the darker shadows. “You are presently
on board my ship, sir, in my bed, and as captain, I can tell you
any damned thing I wish to tell you.”

“Captain?”

“Captain.”

“
Your
ship?”

“
My
ship,” she nodded. “The
Iron Rose
.”

Varian closed
his eyes and tried to concentrate. He thought it highly
preposterous—and unlikely—for a woman to be captain of any ship,
much less one that had defied the might of a Spanish galleon.

“If the
accommodations fail to meet with your approval,” she murmured
dryly, bringing his eyes open again, “Mr. Crisp, here, can always
sling a hammock in a sail locker for you and your servant.”

Since the
pounding in his head did not allow an appreciation for either humor
or sarcasm at the moment, Varian decided to savor the lingering
taste of the wine—which he recognized as being a damned fine
vintage and nothing at all like the sour claret the captain of
the
Argus
had
enjoyed by the barrel full. “You say this is your
cabin?”

“It is.”

“Then I shall
assume it is the best the ship has to offer and accept it
graciously.”

The girl lifted
her head and her eyebrow at the same time. She set the stick of
charcoal she had been writing with on the desk and stared at
Beacom, who instantly wilted against the wall.

“Your man
informs us you are a duke.”

“The twelfth
Duke of Harrow to be precise. Varian St. Clare at your service,
mistress... ?”

“Captain,” she
said, correcting him. “Captain Dante... to be precise. The twelfth
duke, you say?”

“We tend to
live short lives,” he snapped. “Dante?” Though he whispered the
name, it set off such a violent hammering in his head that he had
to set his teeth against a shiver. “Do you pretend to tell me the
infamous rogue known as the Pirate Wolf is a mere woman?”

The question
and his manner of asking it brought her out from behind the desk
this time and Beacom’s eyes rounded almost out of their sockets.
His face engaged in a flurry of contortions, most of them intended
to warn Varian, by means of elaborate movements of the mouth and
eyebrows, not to test the patience of the woman who was now slowly
crossing the room and approaching the side of the bed. When she
threw a scowl in his direction, the frantic pantomime ceased and he
looked up at the ceiling, but when she looked away again, he laced
his fingers together in a desperate plea for his master to hold his
tongue.

“I pretend
nothing, my lord. My name is Juliet Dante and the rogue to whom you
refer so capriciously is my father, Simon Dante.”

“
Your
father
?”

“So he told
me,” she said evenly, “and I have no reason to disbelieve him.”

“Well of course
that was not what I meant.” Varian raised a hand to massage his
temple. “It was merely a response to the astonishing notion of a
woman such as yourself captaining a fighting ship.”

“You English do
appear to be having a difficult time grasping the notion,” she
agreed wryly. “But I am curious to know what you mean by ‘a woman
such as myself’. Just what kind of woman might that be?”

He stopped
rubbing his brow and stared at her a moment. It was her eyes that
warned him—eyes that sent the fine hairs across the back of his
neck standing on end. Aside from the extraordinary silver-blue
color, they were bold and direct, inviting him to expand on the
insulting platitude only if he had absolutely no desire to see
another sunrise. They were situated above a nose that looked as if
it had been broken at some time, for it tipped ever so slightly to
one side. The face itself, although wanting a good scrub, was a
surprising blend of characteristics, from the large, expressive
eyes to the firm chin, neither of which suggested she was someone
to be trifled with.