Pirate Wolf Trilogy (95 page)

Isabeau
heard the swish of another keel and saw the
Dove
coming up fast on their stern. She could see Simon
standing on the quarterdeck, his hands on his hips, his long black
hair streaming out in the wind. He signalled Lucifer his
intentions, then started to peel away in the direction of
the
Iron
Rose
, but not before he
gave Isabeau a very different kind of signal, one that put a flush
in her cheeks and a revitalized edge of defiance in her voice as
she turned to relay new orders to the helm.

~~~

Varian
was a step behind Juliet up the ladderway. He absorbed the scene on
the quarterdeck in one glance but was too late to stop her from
taking the wild leap across the path of the falconet. Everything
happened so damned fast, it was reduced to a blur of motion! She
was there one moment, in the air the next, slamming into Recalde,
knocking him hard into the rail. The gun exploded, but without
Recalde’s hand to steady it, the recoil swung the barrel sideways
so that it discharged its load of grapeshot in a wide spray. Some
went wild, whistling through the air so close to Varian’s head that
he felt his hair move. Most of it spattered like a hail of pebbles
into the back of the huge Goliath who was fending off the efforts
of half a dozen seamen with swords and cutlasses. He staggered with
the impact, driving himself forward onto the out thrust blades of
the
Rose’s
crewmen.
Even so, they had to skewered him several times until he finally
gave one last bellow of rage and crashed face down on the
deck.

Varian ran to
Juliet’s side. She wasn’t moving and when he grasped her shoulders
to lift her off Recalde, he could see the side of her face was
covered in blood. The Spaniard, meanwhile, struggled to his feet
and drew his sword from its sheath.

Varian’s rapier
blocked a slash intended to cut across Juliet’s throat. The blades
met and slid together, locking for as long as it took Varian to
leap to his feet and break Recalde’s hold. Their swords parted and
slashed together again, touching, clashing, striking in a series of
quick, lethal ripostes that drove the two men forward and back
across the width of quarterdeck.

If Juliet’s
prowess with a blade had startled him, Recalde’s skill was at least
expected, for the Spanish were without equal as swordsmen. It took
all of Varian’s considerable dexterity just to parry each stroke,
to keep from being driven into the binnacle or over the rail. Like
a shark scenting fresh blood, Recalde aimed for the torn shoulder,
the wounded thigh; he kept his strokes coming fast and clean, never
taking two steps where one was sufficient, rarely executing a
feint, preferring to wear his opponent down with cool, slashing
precision.

Gabriel,
meanwhile, had been cut down from the shrouds and helped to the
deck. His feet were still too swollen to support him but he crawled
on his knees to where Juliet lay slumped against the bulkhead. His
hands were stinging like the fires of Hades and he had regained
some movement, but they were clumsy and it was all he could do to
cradle her against his chest and probe beneath the blue bandana for
source of all the blood flowing down her face.

Varian made the
classic mistake of taking his eyes off Recalde for a split second.
He had seen Gabriel moving over by his sister, gathering her into
his arms, but she had seemed so limp, the need to know if half her
head had been blown away overcame Varian’s instincts to keep all of
his attention fixed on Recalde’s blade.

The glance cost
him dearly. He felt the steel punch into his rib and start to
plunge inward. He jerked back before the thrust could be completed,
but the blood began to pour from his side, soaking through his
doublet and leaking down onto his breeches. When he backed away,
Recalde pursued. When he stumbled over the body of the giant
Spaniard and nearly lost his balance, Recalde did not give him a
chance to regain his balance, but battered him into the corner with
a deadly offensive that sent him crashing down hard on one knee and
left his head and shoulders exposed.

Standing
over him, Recalde raised his rapier, the point angled down on a
slant that would carry it down through Varian’s spine for
the
coup de
grace
.

“It would seem,
after all, that you were the one who blinked first, señor.”

“Not this time,
he bloody well didn’t,” Juliet hissed.

Recalde whirled
around. Juliet was behind him, swaying on her feet. He saw her
sword slash out like a dart of silver-blue light, the tip seeking
the gap beneath his arm where the armor met his sleeve. At the same
time, Varian retrieved the knife that was sheathed between his
shoulder blades, while Gabriel found he had enough dexterity in his
finger to wrap it around the trigger of a pistol he grabbed off one
of his crewmen.

Recalde’s
body shuddered with the three strikes as the dagger pierced his
belly, the shot tore through his neck, and Juliet’s blade pushed
clear through his chest. He staggered back and came up sharp
against a broken section of the rail. The wood gave with a
loud
cra-a-a-ck
and
he fell backward over the deck, dead before he splashed into the
churning water below.

For
several moments, no one moved. There was still fighting going on in
the waist of the ship, but the Spaniards were beginning to throw
down their arms. The men from the crew of the
Iron Rose
and the
Valor
were cheering, watching the
Tribute
, the
Avenger
, and
the
Dove
lead their
small fleet against the three warships, cutting off their retreat,
crowding in with all guns blazing.

Juliet’s knees
wavered and Varian was by her side in a stride to support her.
There was a deep gash on her temple where she had sliced it on the
edge of Recalde’s helmet, but as bad as it looked, she was smiling.
She threw one arm around Varian, another around Gabriel who
tolerated her sisterly affection despite the squeezing pressure on
his wounds.

Varian was
hardly better off. There was a hole in his side, a slash in his
arm, a stab in his thigh, and someone would have to stitch his head
again. For a man who had arrived in the Caribbean with one small
scar from a childhood mishap, he was charting quite a few new lines
and welts.

Gabriel eased
himself out of Juliet’s arms and hobbled to the rail to look down
over the ruins of the gun deck.

“My ship!” He
cried softly. “Look what you’ve done to my ship!”

But
Juliet did not respond to his battered grin when he turned around.
Her arms were around Varian’s neck and their mouths were firmly
locked together. Clutched in her right hand was her sword, in her
left the crushed folds of the Spanish flag that had, until a moment
ago, flown on the
Valor’s
masthead.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE

On board
the
Iron
Rose
, Simon Dante walked
from one side of the great cabin to the other. His steps were slow
and measured, and when he reached the far side, he turned and paced
back. His hands were clasped behind his back and his head was
bowed. Now and then he looked over at the berth where Nog Kelly was
in the process of knotting the last stitch in his daughter’s
temple.

“Skull might be
cracked,” Nog declared solemnly. “At the least, she’ll be hearing
bells and walkin’ into walls for the next few days—longer if she
tries to get up to do more than piss in the pot. Her shoulder will
hurt like a bastard too—she’s lucky its only black an’ blue an’
swole up an’ it isn’t broke—but if she’s not planning on throwing
herself at any more Spaniards wearin’ steel breastplates, it’ll
heal up fast enough. Other than that... few cuts, few scrapes.”

“She will have
plenty of time to heal back at Pigeon Cay,” Simon Dante said
evenly. He saw Juliet’s eyes swim open and narrowed his own in a
warning. “There will be no arguments, either. Nathan has a hole in
his shoulder, half your crew is licking wounds, Gabriel’s ship is
at the bottom of the ocean and between the pair of you, we couldn’t
manage one captain with enough common sense to know when to run and
when to fight. Which brings me to the other addle-witted female in
this family.”

He turned the
full power of his glare on Isabeau, who was sitting on the corner
of Juliet’s desk winding a clean strip of bandaging around a wound
on her stump.

“That I, of all
people, should have been cursed with two women who—”

“Love you
dearly,” Beau said sweetly, “and tolerate your bouts of ill temper
with enduring patience.”

“
My
ill
temper?
Your
patience!
Madam! You took my ship into battle! You risked your life, the
lives of my crew, the wellbeing of my vessel—”

“To go to the
rescue of your daughter and son... ”

“To go to
the... ?” He stopped and clamped his lips shut. “I should send you
back to Pigeon Cay as well.”

She smiled.
“You could try.”

He
muttered a curse and aimed his stare at the next victim. The cabin
on board the
Iron Rose
was
crowded. Gabriel and Jonas stood in one corner slouched against the
wall, the former almost unrecognizable beneath a swollen, closed
eye, multiple bruises, and lips that looked like two slabs of raw
meat. Jonas, who had shadowed the convoy all the way from Havana
looking for some opportunity to cut in and regain his brother’s
ship, had a gash down his cheek, another on his arm, and a grin a
mile wide splitting the red fuzz of his beard. He had his good arm
draped around Gabriel’s shoulder and every now and then, ruffled
his brother’s hair as if he still could not believe the Hell Twins
were together again and both alive.

“You find
something amusing?” Simon asked.

“Aye, Father, I
do,” Jonas boomed. “A brother who smells like a vat of pickled
herring, for one thing. For another, a sister who has ballocks the
size of Gibraltar, inherited from a mother who can out-sail and
out-shoot any bloody papist on the water. Add to that three fat
galleons loaded to the gunwales with treasure, and I’d say we have
a fair bit to put a smile on our faces. Oh, and did I mention a
father smart enough to find the wife to give him the sons and
daughters of whom I speak?”

Dante glared at
him a moment, then looked at Geoffrey Pitt. “Am I mad, or are
they?”

Pitt shrugged.
“A little of both.”

The silvery
eyes narrowed. “I knew I could count on you, my oldest and wisest
friend, for a definitive answer.”

“Come and sit
here,” Isabeau said, patting an empty corner of the desk. “Let Nog
have at you with his needle and thread.”

“See to the
duke first. By the look of it he has more leaks.”

Varian had been
standing quietly by the berth, his wounded arm cradled across his
midsection. He had shed his doublet when Juliet had insisted she
would not allow anyone to touch her until Nog checked his ribs. But
the bleeding had stopped and the pain was manageable, and one look
from the midnight eyes had sent the carpenter back to Juliet’s
bedside. She was stitched now and so was Gabriel. Nathan’s shoulder
had been cauterized and together with Spit McCutcheon, they were
organizing the prisoners and assigning crews to sail the prize
ships back to Pigeon Cay.

The
Valor’s
wounds
had been too grave to repair and, after removing everything of
value, her ports had been opened to let in the sea. Jonas, who had
met and joined forces with three privateers who were late reaching
the rendezvous at New Providence, had sent them chasing after the
pair of galleons that had initially been caught in the ambush with
the result that there were now five Spanish ships—six, including
the hulk of the
Santo Domingo
—surrendered to the Dantes and anchored in the lee of the
two islets. One was given to the privateers who had arrived with
Jonas, the spoils to be divided amongst their crews; another was
given to the two ships who had accompanied the
Christiana
back to port, drawn by the thunder of the
guns. Both ships would remain at the ambuscade, as would any
crewman from the
Valor
or
Iron Rose
still hungry to fight, while
the injured would be sent back to Pigeon Cay on the
Rose
.

Of the
three remaining prize ships, one would be taken over by Gabriel
until a more suitable replacement for the
Valor
could be acquired. The
Santo Domingo
was useless except as a decoy, and to that
end, Simon Dante planned to fill her with barrels of powder and
send her forth to meet the next wave of Spanish warships. The
vanguard had been in such a hurry to flee north, they had
dispatched but one pinnace to carry a warning back to the rest of
the fleet to be on the alert for ambushes. The
Christiana
, skimming the waves like a low-flying
bird, had intercepted the courier and sunk her before the alarm
could be delivered, thus there was an excellent chance of more
galleons sailing blithely to their doom on the morrow.

In truth,
the day’s work had been more successful than even Simon would have
imagined. The damage to the
Avenger
was not severe enough to send her home yet and the
carpenters would work through the night to affect repairs. To have
gained five and lost only one ship—the
Valor
—was remarkable, and if the rest of the
adventurers were half as lucky, the flota would be reduced by half
before it neared the northern exit of the Florida Straits. There,
it was Dante’s further intention to form a blockade line of
privateers, whose very presence, after harassing the flota every
league of the way up the straits, would surely send any remaining
ships scrambling back to Havana.