Pirate Wolf Trilogy (58 page)

“Damnation!
Those are my Brescians!”

Juliet
followed his out-thrust finger. “Hardly, sir. Those are
my
Brescians.”

“Indeed they
are not, madam. They were hand made for me by Lazzarino Cominazzo
himself!”

“If memory
serves, I took them off a boucan-eater named Jorge Fillarento, and
if they resemble yours, then your gun maker must have made two
pair.”

“I need only
look at them to tell you upon the instant if they are mine or
not.”

“Look away,”
she challenged. “This instant or the next, it changes nothing.”

Provoked
beyond any concern for his nudity, Varian flung aside the blanket
and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The bruises on his hip
and shoulder made him suck air through his teeth as he stood, but
the pain was superseded by the angry strides that carried him
across the cabin. The case was not locked and he withdrew one of
the elegant
dueling
pistols from the rack. When he held it to the light the
glare bounced off the smooth surface of the gilt lockplate where,
instead of the intricately engraved Harrow crest, Varian was
startled to see three unfamiliar initials etched into the metal
with a flamboyant script.

“This is not
possible,” he murmured. He checked the inlay on the walnut barrel
and there indeed was the entwined couple, the woman’s neck and back
arched as if in the throes of an intense orgasm. “You have my
apologies, Captain, I was assured my guns were unique.”

Juliet, still
seated on the floor, found herself almost at eye level with the
earl’s groin. She had, of course, already seen all there was to see
when she had examined his wounds, but there was something to be
said for gravity and the way it altered the appearance of
appendages that were impressive at the outset. There was also a
good deal of muscled thigh to distract the eye. This close she
could see the indent of taut sinews at his hip, the soft furring of
light brown hairs that followed down his calves.

“Do all
Englishmen take such extraordinary measures to ensure the sun does
not creep beneath their collars? I vow I have never seen a body
half so pale as yours nor one that was smothered under so many
layers of clothing this close to the equator. The rash you bear
would benefit greatly from a day or two with nothing more confining
than air.”

Varian
was startled into looking down. The rash to which she referred was
indelicately located in the vicinity of his privy parts and under
his arms. Soap, as Beacom had discovered to his unmitigated horror,
did not mix with sea water, and since sea water was all that had
been permitted for laundering during the six week voyage, the ducal
linens had acquired an irritating salt residue. The aggravation had
worsened when the
Argus
had sailed
into tropical waters, for the infernal heat and sun offered no
relief, nor did the sight of the ships crew stripping down layer by
layer as the heat increased. Most of them worked barefoot, dressed
in airy canvas pinafores and loose-fitting galligaskins.

Bereft of such
heathenish options himself, Varian had remained in his stockings
and padded trunk hose, his fashionably quilted doublets,
shortcoats, and capes, itching without mercy in the silent
knowledge that he cut an imposing figure on the deck. The thought
of walking anywhere naked was almost as absurd as the picture he
presented now, standing bare as birth in front of a woman who was
inspecting his privates with a shamelessly arousing curiosity that
caused his flesh to jerk.

Since it was
neither the experience nor the pleasure of Varian St. Clare to have
any part of his body come under such close and uninvited scrutiny,
he thrust the pistol back onto its rack and started back to the
bed. Her smile broadened into a chuckle, then a laugh—a sound that
pricked more than just his vanity and caused him to stop cold in
his tracks. Without thinking ahead to any consequences, he turned
around, bent over and roughly pulled her up by her arms to stand
before him.

What the devil
he planned to do with her once they were eye to eye, he was not
given the chance to decide, for despite the quantity of rum she had
consumed, her reflexes were as fast and deadly as a cobra strike.
She had a knife drawn and the point thrust under his chin before he
had finished hauling her to her feet.

“You should be
advised,” she said, her voice as cold as the blade kissing his
throat, “there are few men who would dare touch me without a very
specific invitation to do so. Even fewer who have survived calling
me a liar.”

Varian
tilted his chin higher in response to the dagger’s steely
inducement to do so. He released her arms and spread his hands
slowly outward. “Forgive my impertinence. The guns are identical to
mine; it was an instinctive reaction and I have already apologized
for the infraction—something
I
rarely do, and hardly ever to someone who is too full of
rum to respect it.”

“Is that so?”
she murmured, her eyes narrowing.

“
Just so,
madam. As for repercussions—” he clenched his jaw and lowered his
chin, defying the pressure of the knife, feeling the sharp jab as
the tip pierced his skin. “Considering the course our conversation
has taken thus far, I find the greater concern lies in wondering if
there would be consequences for
refusing
an invitation.”

Juliet stared
for a long moment. The sheer insolence of his presumptions—that she
would invite him to touch her in any kind of intimate manner—nearly
drove the blade deeper of its own volition. Instead, she traced the
point of the dagger down his throat to his breastbone, down through
the swirls of dark hair to the hard, flat plane of his belly. When
the cool steel scrolled lower and rested across the base of his
manhood, she angled it so that the weight of his flesh lay across
the flat surface of the blade like a plated offering.

He did not even
flinch.

“You show more
courage than I would have credited you with, my lord,” she said
quietly.

“And you more
bravado, Captain. Especially with the advantage of a knife in your
hand.”

Juliet expelled
a disbelieving breath. She rid herself of the weapon, tossing it
with an expert flick of her wrist, sending it across the cabin and
biting into the wood beside the door. At the same time she raised a
booted foot and brought it smashing down on Varian’s bare
instep.

Before he could
react to either action, she grabbed his arm and gave his wrist a
savage twist, bending his thumb back so far the joint popped. The
pain flared up his arm, doubling him over at the waist; a further
twist and he was crumpling down onto his knees before her.

Juliet leaned
over and pressed her lips into the waves of silky hair that covered
his ear. “I have no knife now, my lord. Are my words still full of
rum and bravado?”

He bared his
teeth, girding himself against the agony as he reached around with
his free hand and hooked his arm around the back of her right leg.
He wrenched it forward, feeling the tension break and throw her off
balance. A second tug brought her crashing down onto the floor
beneath him, hard enough that she was forced to release her grip on
his wrist and thumb.

Barely had he
gasped enough breath to form an oath when another whip-like twist
brought her rearing up onto her elbows. Her legs snapped together
like pincers and clamped tightly around his throat, squeezing off
his windpipe, trapping whatever air he had managed to suck into his
lungs. He tried clawing at her thighs to loosen them but it was
like trying to pry two iron bars apart. He attempted to roll, to
wrest himself free that way, but she countered his efforts with a
savage wrench in the opposite direction, one that locked him even
tighter in her grip.

The blood
started to swell behind his eyeballs. Large black splotches began
spreading across his vision and his chest began to burn, his
muscles to scream for air. He uncurled his hands from around her
thighs but before he could slam them on the planking to indicate
his surrender, a brusque knock rattled against the cabin door.

At the sound of
Juliet’s snarled curse, it was flung open by a skinny lad of no
more than twelve or thirteen balancing a large wooden tray in one
hand, a thick crockery bottle in the other.

He hesitated a
moment on the threshold, but if he thought it odd to see his
captain lying on the floor with a naked man being choked between
her thighs, the expression on his face did not betray it.

“That funny
little man came lookin’ fer rum an’ Mr. Crisp thought ye might want
summit to eat with it,” he said. “Should I just put the victuals
‘ere on the table?”

“Aye. Thank you
Johnny Boy,” she said on a panted breath. “Take a bite of cheese
for your trouble.”

“Aye, Cap’n.
Thankee Cap’n. Mr. Crisp also said to tell ye we’ve had to shorten
the mains’l again, cuz the... the “great ‘eaving sow” has dropped
off another point.” As he said this, he cheerfully plucked a knife
from his belt and helped himself to a huge wedge of yellow cheese
from the wheel on the platter. He took a bite and tucked the rest
inside his shirt. “‘Ee also says to tell ye the wind ‘as shifted
an’ the sea has picked up a chop. We’ll likely be in a hard blow
afore mornin’.”

Juliet swore.
She unclamped her legs from Varian’s throat and sprang to her feet,
leaving him splayed like a starfish on the floor behind her,
gasping for air.

“
How far
astern is the
Santo Domingo
?”

“We couldn’t
‘it her with a double charged long gun blowin’ a light load.”

The boy’s
standard of measurement indicated a mile, perhaps more. Too great a
separation if a squall was blowing up.

“Tell Mr. Crisp
I’m on my way.”

With his cheek
puffed out over the chunk of cheese, Johnny Boy asked if there was
anything else the captain needed.

“A hammock for
his lordship,” Juliet said. “He’ll be sleeping elsewhere from now
on.”

The lad paused
in his chewing and cocked an eyebrow. “Where’ll I put ‘im?”

“Empty one of
the sail lockers, it should be private enough.”

The boy looked
at Varian, looked at Juliet, then chuckled. “Aye, Cap’n. A locker
it is.”

The muted thump
that marked the boy’s departure brought Varian rolling over in his
misery. From his position, lying prone on the floor, he was able to
turn his head enough to see through the curtain of his hair. The
lad was missing a leg. His right knee was bound to a padded cradle
that sat atop a wooden peg. In itself, the sight was not uncommon,
for seamen were often without any kind of medical treatment save
the knife and saw. What caught Varian’s eye was the carving on the
stump and cradle. The former was whittled and polished to resemble
the body of a serpent; the latter was an open mouth complete with
glittering glass eyes and sharp teeth.

The duke
groaned and closed his eyes again. His thumb was dislocated, his
hand was burning like coals in a forge, his throat was only just
beginning to respond to his efforts to swallow.

Juliet
retrieved her dagger from the wall and crouched down on her
haunches beside St. Clare. She could not see his face. Dark puffs
of hair were being drafted in and blown out in the vicinity of his
lips and, using the tip of the blade, she edged aside the curtain
of gleaming locks and waited for one of the midnight blue eyes to
roll up and look at her.

“Perhaps next
time, sirrah, you will show more caution when you throw out your
challenges.” She glanced down at the hand he held cradled against
his chest and clucked her tongue once in sympathy. “I’ll wager that
hurts a devil. Shall I pop the thumb back in for you, or can you
manage it yourself?”

Through
the white grate of his teeth, he released a hiss of air to coincide
with the sharp twist and shove he gave his thumb. The bone clicked
back into the socket with a sickening
thwock
and though a shiver went up his arm, he did not take his
eyes away from her face.

“Like you,
madam,” his voice rasped with fury, “I would prefer if you did not
touch me again without a specific invitation to do so.”

She let the
hair drop back over his face and sent her gaze sweeping down his
back to the tautness of his buttocks. “Depending on how one
interpreted that milord, it could be mistaken for another
challenge.”

He drew and
expelled a breath before he answered. “Never believe for a moment
that it is, for I would sooner invite the attentions of a
toothless, three-bellied hag.”

Juliet grinned.
“Faith, if that is where your preferences for female companionship
lie, I shall endeavor to keep any lusty thoughts I might be tempted
to have to myself.”

“Do so and I
shall expire in a state of eternal gratitude.”

“Not too soon,
I hope. You have put the thought into my head that you might be
worth a ransom after all. Your intended bride, for instance. What
would she pay to have you back safe and sound and...” she glanced
along the muscled length of his body a second time “...unsullied by
the depravities of a rapine pirate wench?”

His hair had
fallen over his face again but she could see the glitter of his
eyes through the silky strands.

“Or perhaps,”
she said, leaning closer to whisper seductively in his ear, “I
should endeavor to win you over with my charm?”

“Since the
necessary tools are entirely lacking,” he spat, “the risk is
negligible.”

Juliet braced
her hands on her knees and pushed to her feet.

“Savor that
feeling of righteous piety, milord, for you have yet to meet my
father. You think me quick to take offense? Lift your nose too high
in his company and he will slice it off without a thought.”