Pirate Wolf Trilogy (57 page)

They never saw
the aftermath, of course. The quiet hour when her hands shook and
her bones shivered, when her chest felt so constricted she could
scarcely catch a breath and hold it.

She
raised the goblet to her lips and managed to hold it steady enough
to drink the rest of the rum. It was not enough—it was never enough
to erase the taste of blood and gunpowder—and she returned to her
desk in search of more. The bottle, when she tipped it, was empty.
Cursing, she went to the bookcase for another and her knee caught
the edge of the chair as she passed. She kicked it savagely out of
the way and when it did not instantly break apart, she lifted it by
the two hind legs and smashed it against the wall, splitting the
backrest from the seat and sending pieces of wood flying across the
cabin. In a fit of added temper, she scraped the
Santo
Domingo’s
manifests and
logbooks off her desk scattering papers into the air like
snow.

~~~

Varian had
managed to drift in and out of a fitful sleep through most of the
evening. He had come instantly awake when Juliet had first returned
to the cabin, but since she chose to work quietly at her desk, he
elected to remain quietly turned on his side away from her and
pretend he was still asleep.

It was
impossible to ignore a breaking chair, however, or a woman who
cursed like a London wharf rat.

“If you plan to
hurl more furniture, could you at least give me fair warning?”

Juliet gasped
and stared at the pale form on the bed. She stared for a full
minute without speaking, which gave Varian time to roll onto his
back without sending his head into another potentially fatal
spin.

“I... I thought
you were asleep,” she stammered.

“That should
give me comfort?”

“
Your
comfort,” she said with narrowed eyes, “is not my prime concern.
And I suppose I’ve disturbed
your
rest as well?” she asked, glaring at Beacom.

“Oh. Oh, no,
madam. No, not at all.”

“Good. Then you
won’t mind fetching me another bottle of rum, since my supply seems
to be sadly depleted.”

Beacom
scrambled to his feet. “Indeed, Captain. Where might I find
one?”

“In the galley.
Ask for Johnny Boy, he’ll show you where I keep my private
stores.”

“Th-the
galley?”

“One deck down,
in the stern.”

Beacom looked
to his master, who nodded imperceptibly and tipped his head toward
the door. When it closed behind him, Varian glanced wryly at the
shattered parts of chair that had flown all the way to land on the
floor beside his berth.

“Bravo,
Captain. Most women claim not to have the strength to lift a chair,
much less the ability to reduce it to kindling.”

“I warrant I
can meet my Maker happily now, knowing I am so set apart from the
more dainty creatures of your acquaintance.”

“
My dear
Captain Dante, you may believe you were set apart the instant I
first glimpsed you on board the
Santo Domingo
.”

“Even with my
shoulder drooping from fatigue?”

“Even so,
madam.” He almost smiled, relishing the knowledge that he had
obviously pricked her vanity with his earlier criticism.

“Rest assured,
you were set apart as well, sirrah.”

He arched a
dark brow. “Was I?”

“Indeed. I vow
I have never seen such a delicate shade of purple on a man
before.”

“Ahh. I thought
a kind word for my fighting prowess might be too much to
expect.”

“You got
yourself blown up; that hardly merits praise for your prowess.”

The light from
the lantern cast a yellowish glow over her shoulders drawing his
gaze downward. She had removed her heavy leather doublet and wore
only a voluminous white cambric shirt that was uncommonly
vulnerable to light and shadow. The shape of her breasts was
visible, as was the trimness of her waist.

For a rough-cut
sea urchin, she appeared to be rather provocatively
proportioned.

Thankfully she
moved out of the circle of light. With a grimace that suggested she
was human enough to have suffered some aches and pains after the
day’s activities, she lowered herself haltingly onto one knee and
began gathering the papers she had scattered on the floor.

Ingrained
manners sent Varian’s hand to lift a corner of his blanket but a
glimpse of hair and flesh stopped him. “Understand, Captain, that I
would hasten to offer my assistance, but I still find myself at a
slight disadvantage.”

She waved his
apology aside and put the first handful of papers on the table. For
the second, she had to stretch farther afield and as she leaned
forward, she tottered slightly and shot out a hand to keep from
toppling over. In the end, she succumbed to the steadiness of the
hard timbers and slumped down, propping her back against the desk.
She noticed her goblet, which had been swept away with the rest of
the detritus, and picked it up, tipping it with a sigh to show it
was still empty.

“My compliments
on your fortitude as well, Captain,” Varian murmured with a small
grin. “I had occasion to sample your rumbustion earlier and it
nearly took my knees out from beneath me.”

She kept one
leg bent but stretched the other out flat. “I am not sure I trust
your compliments, my lord. You tend to speak them out the side of
your mouth.”

“Mockery was
not my intent, I promise you. And if I seemed an ingrate earlier, I
apologize again, for I am not accustomed to waking up in a strange
bed, bereft of clothes, and bathed in camphor oil.”

“Really? I
would have thought it a common occurrence for a man of your ilk.
That is to say, all save bathing in camphor oil.”

“Oil has its
merits—if the fragrance is sweet and does not singe the hairs out
of one’s nostrils. And what, pray tell, qualifies as ‘a man of my
ilk’?”

“A pompous,
over-indulged nobleman with misplaced pretensions of
greatness.”

“
And you
say that you do not trust
my
compliments, madam?”

“You took that
as a compliment?” Her laugh was soft and husky. “In that case, I
need say no more.”

She
leaned her head against the desk and closed her eyes. It gave
Varian a further opportunity to study her face in the lantern
light. Without the distraction of the blue bandana, he could see
she had a delicate, heart-shaped hairline that framed her features
in fine auburn wisps. Her complexion, considering the mere hint of
a freckle was attacked with mercury washes and rice powder, was
dark enough to have scandalized every matron within a hundred mile
radius of the royal court. Tanned by the constant exposure to the
sea and sun, the warm bronze
coloring
suited Juliet Dante’s ferriferous nature well
enough though, and once again he found himself wondering what she
would look like with her hair spun in curls and her body clad in
fine, clinging silk.

He frowned and
set his thoughts on less dangerous ground, searching for some topic
that might not be seen as a challenge of wits. “You mentioned
earlier that you have two brothers?”

“You have a
remarkable memory.”

“No
husband?”

She turned her
head slightly to peer at him. “What the devil would I want with a
husband?”

“Companionship?
Comfort?”

“I have all the
companionship and comfort I need. And when I want more than that,
it is readily available.”

“Ah.”

“Ah.” She
mimicked the disapproving sound perfectly, then laughed again. “I
have always found it puzzling that men believe it perfectly
acceptable to take their pleasure where they may without guilt or
recriminations, but when women do the same, they are branded whores
and trulls.”

Varian opened
his mouth... then closed it with an audible snapping of his
jaw.

She smiled and
leaned back against the desk. “I see I have shocked you again.
Shall we return to more politic ground? You mentioned earlier that
you thought no one would pay your ransom. Have you no family pining
for you at home? No wife? No mewling children to carry on the
succession of Harrows? No more brothers to take your place if you
blow yourself up again?”

“No wife as
yet,” he said easily. “I suppose my mother would grieve a moment
for my passing, but the moment would pass quickly enough and she
would be more concerned with safeguarding her own stipend as
dowager. As for brothers, there were only the two. One drowned
after riding his horse into a flooded river, the other was killed
last year.”

Truth be told,
she wasn’t really interested in knowing the petty details of Varian
St. Clare’s life, but a note of obvious bitterness had crept into
his voice that made her turn and look at him again.

“Most people
would have said: 'he died last year'. You said he was killed?”

“He fought a
stupid, senseless duel over a point of honor that could have been
resolved if the two parties had just come together and talked
through the misunderstanding.”

“You condone
talk over action, do you?”

“I advocate
logic over madness. They argued over a woman.”

Juliet’s mouth
curved at the corner. “Faith, and so you have become soured against
all women for all time? You have departed England with a burr under
your skin and have chosen exile over the possibility of ever being
tempted by some demonic young shrew in perfumed silk?”

His dark eyes
narrowed slightly at the mockery, but his smile was easy enough.
“Quite the opposite, in fact. I agreed to become betrothed shortly
before I departed.”

“How does one
“agree” to become betrothed? I would think you either were or were
not committed to the deed.”

Varian answered
with a grim curl on his lip. “You think Beacom can be incessant and
interminable? You should have to endure an evening with the Dowager
Duchess of Harrow. Seven years worth of evenings, in fact, ever
since I enjoyed my twenty-first birthday. It was one of the reasons
why I remained in the military. It gave me an excuse to avoid her
matchmaking efforts.”

“But you have
finally succumbed?”

“After my
brother died, I was left with little choice. I was informed in no
uncertain terms that I needed an heir and being in the same room
with dear mater was like standing naked in front of a line of
artillery cannon and holding up a painted target, only in this
case, the ammunition consisted of young women of suitable age,
fortune, and social standing.”

“You let your
mother choose your intended bride?”

“It is not an
uncommon practise for marriages to be arranged to suit the needs of
both parties.”

“Ah, so your
betrothed—rather, your about-to-be-betrothed—is rich?”

Varian frowned.
“In a family as old as mine, there are certain social
considerations and requirements that eliminate the luxury of
deciding by sight and smell alone.”

“I am sure
there are. Do you love her?”

“I hardly think
that is any of your business.”

“Yet it is a
simple question. Do you love the woman you are going to marry?”

“She comes of
good stock with a fine lineage.”

“And is in
possession of all her teeth? Great good God, you sound as if you
choose your wives like you choose your breeding stock.”

“Pray, madam,
bang the other side of my head with a mallet before you tell me you
believe in love.”

She stared into
the shadows a moment, debating how to answer, for one did not grown
up in the company of Simon and Isabeau Dante without believing in
more than simple convenience. After all their years together, they
could barely keep their hands to themselves and their lusty
thoughts out of their eyes when they gazed upon each other.

Juliet smiled.
“I want the man I marry to be uncomfortable every time I look at
him. I want him unable to move when I come into the room, afraid to
do so lest the air shatter and fall to pieces around him.”

“An easy fear
to understand,” he said, glancing pointedly at the splinters from
the broken chair.

“And if he is
the right man, I will not care if he is a beggar or a king.”

“But better a
king, judging by the sparkle I see in your hand.”

She looked down
at the empty goblet she was holding. A tilt of her hand set the
jewels that were crusted around the rim reflecting fractured points
of colored light across the wall.

“
The
rewards of a hard day’s work,” she countered evenly. “In this case
a small token from the private stores of Don Alonzo Perez,
former
capitán
of
the
San
Ambrosio
. We took her
off the coast of Hispaniola last winter. She was wormy and not
worth the effort to repair or refit, but we sold her cargo for
twenty thousand escudos. I kept the goblet, just as I keep some
small token from every ship we capture.”

Another
casual flick of her hand indicated the wire fronted case behind the
chart table that held an array of extremely fine looking weapons.
They were long snouted wheel-locks for the most part, some of
French design featuring inlays of mother-of-pearl, but most favored
the Italian style with heavy gilt ornamentation. One pair in
particular caught his eye, an unusual combination of match-and
wheel-lock mechanisms with both ignitions controlled by a single
trigger. The alliance of the two firing systems was reflected in
the decoration on the walnut stock where a naked couple were also
depicted in the act of merging. He knew this detail, even though he
could not see it at this distance, because the guns were his, and
the last time he had seen them, they had been on his person on the
deck of the
Argus
.