by Angel Payne
She swallowed, throat thudding and constricting. She blinked, eyes dry yet stinging.
“England’s flag is red, too,” she chastised herself. “Of course. Of course. You’re being silly. England’s flag is red too. Mast has to keep a few extra, aye? Or maybe this one is special. The sentimental ape.”
But even as the assurances tumbled past her lips, a black border of fringe came free from the fold. It fell between Golden’s fingers like the icicles congealing in her heart.
“No, damn it. No!”
She jerked at the cloth now, whipping the crimson banner out in full. She spread it wide with slashing sweeps of her arm and lunging shoves of her feet. When she was done, she held the lantern high over the carpet she’d laid.
She gurgled out a sob into the hand she slapped to her mouth. And then convulsed into it with a dry retch. Another.
With the fourth or fifth heave, she could no longer hold herself up. She fell to her knees above the blood-red field, dropping next to the figures that had been emblazoned to the middle of it: a death-white mask of a pirate skull, resting perfectly in the curve of a yellow crescent moon.
The flag that was embedded upon her memory forever.
The Moonstormer’s flag.
In the Athena’s hold.
Her wail was long and piercing as it surged from the deepest pit of her soul, and erupted through the gash in her heart.
Chapter Sixteen
The fury followed the pain, consuming her until nothing else existed or mattered. The remnants of the last love or joy she’d ever feel lay scattered upon their crimson deathbed as Golden rose and climbed from the hold. They could rot there for all she cared. She’d never miss them in New Providence.
The gangway was a few feet away now. She inched yet closer to the ramp that would take her down to the dock. A grim smile took over her lips as she studied the shoving, shouting throng of humanity there.
“Well, Moonstormer,” she murmured, “I will admit my gratitude to you for one thing.” She slid another few steps forward, smiling wider as two men on the quay erupted into a fist fight. “Thank you for bringing me to the one place on earth where I’ll find at least a hundred men willing to help me kill you.”
Before she finished the sentence, eight more ruffians jumped into the brawl and a cheering audience formed. Fortunately, the Athena’s crew weren’t immune to the excitement. Golden silently thanked the gods as she darted down the gangway without so much as a glance from their distracted gazes. She slipped deep into the crowd and never looked back.
The jam of humanity at the docks thinned as it dispersed into a city—of sorts. She beheld everything from hovels of mud to more permanent and even grandiose structures of wood, brick, or clay. Many signs along the way had New Providence painted out on them, replaced with Nassau, the more recent name after the Spanish took over again last year. At least six languages assaulted Golden’s ears as she moved along, adding to the chaos in her senses. Her head began to pound, and her stomach growled. As if by instinct, her mind’s eye brought up visions of long, gentle fingers soothing the pain in her brow. Her cheek warmed as she dreamed of pressing it to Mast’s broad chest, his heartbeat helping to shut out the confusion and aching…
“Stop it,” she ordered herself. The fantasies were simply that: hazy, conjured-up visions of a man who didn’t exist.
No. They were worse. They were lies.
She backed into an alcove to recollect herself. With each breath, she was relieved to feel the veil of anger and hate once again falling over her silly emotions. She rubbed her chest and vowed it would never get stabbed by the spear of romantic delusion again.
The alcove proved to be a good choice. From here, she had an excellent view of the rabble venturing down each avenue. After a quarter of an hour in scrupulous study of the throngs, she pulled her cloak tight again, and started down the road the most dangerous-looking brutes were taking.
Her stride was undaunted at first. Head held high and shoulders set, she was determined to find the dirtiest of the dirty. She needed the men with the most gunpowder on their fingers and the most notches in their cutlasses. She scrutinized each face she passed with the intensity of a breeder selecting a prize stallion. Her crew was going to be the fastest, the hardest—and the deadliest.
She’d only gotten halfway down the street when she slowed to an uncomfortable shuffle. The fresh knot in her stomach refused to be ignored. Every face she inspected had started staring back at her—and not with businesslike decorum. The stallions were hungry, only they were contemplating her for dinner.
She went on as bravely as she could. She kept her chin aloft, though now she fixed her gaze straight ahead, not looking anywhere but at the end of the road.
Until pain exploded up her right ankle. As she fell, her shin hit the coconut-sized boulder, too. Her breath left her lungs in a stunned gasp as she plummeted into the road.
The dirt smelled horrid and tasted worse. Golden spat out the heavy brown stuff while slowly pushing herself up. Examining her leg only made her grimace again. Blood oozed from her shin and a painful bruise already throbbed on her ankle.
The pain mixed with her embarrassment and frustration, rising perilously close to the breaking point of her composure. “Damn,” she muttered, swiping at her face and gown. “Damn, damn, damn!”
“Come now, querida. It is only a little dirt.”
She jerked up her head up at the exotic but friendly male voice. A hand met her gaze. It was the color of sun-worn bricks, with a collection of nicks and scars, but it was clean and outstretched, openly offering to help her.
Golden hesitated a moment before telling her wariness to take a rest. What was her other option? Tell the gentleman she was right as rain, then continue alone down this alley of miscreants who looked ready to dice her like Christmas lamb?
Tentatively, she lifted her fingers and allowed herself to be helped up. Her stare also ascended, stopping at the man’s face. It was of the same dark-copper color as his hands, only embellished by a black, well-trimmed beard and mustache. His flat eyes and bulbous nose seemed out of place in comparison, but the majestic feather in his tricorn and the violet satin ribbon holding back his gray-flecked hair imparted an air of wealth and dignity to him.
“Th-thank you,” she said. “That boulder came from nowhere.”
The stranger chuckled. “Indeed it did. But perhaps its purpose was noble. Maybe it only rolls out to warn young beauties away from the streets at this hour so close to nightfall.”
Golden attempted to glare at him, but found herself returning his smile, instead.
“I am called Roche,” he offered in his accented baritone. “Roche Braziliano.”
“I am called many things, but my name is Golden, and you may call me that.”
Braziliano swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply. “I am much honored to be at your service, Señorita Golden.” He raised more slowly, his eyes lingering over her in a manner Golden found strangely disconcerting. “And perhaps,” he drawled on, “my reward will be to discover some of those other identities of yours…”
He kissed her hand in the same languorous way he rolled his r’s. Golden guessed the accent had been South American once; now his inflections were laced with an exotic blend of other cultures. He was a misfit of sorts, wasn’t he? Just like her.
“Well, Mr. Braziliano—”
“Roche.”
“Roche.” She laughed with him at her unsuccessful attempt to mimic his accent. “I thank you again for your trouble, sir. But I must be going now.”
“Ah, I see. A lady with a mission.”
Golden stopped. She cocked her stare up into his assured copper face. “How did you know?”
Braziliano gave her another velvety chuckle as he stepped close to her. Very close. One scarred hand came up and brushed a tendril of hair from her face. Again, Golden chastised herself for the inexplicable chill she had from the contact.
“Because eyes like yours, quer
ida, should be twinkling with joy, not pain.”
Self-incrimination or no, Golden obeyed her instincts and quietly stepped back. The Brazilian’s words, along with their silken tone, reminded her of all the stupid moments that had lined her trail here. Believing Mast when he’d comforted her in Papa’s study. All the hours on the Athena in which he’d so patiently opened up the world of a brigantine to her, then the bright and burning joy of his impatience as he’d kissed her on the floor of his cabin. At last, the sparkling moments of their joining last night…
The hours she’d spent spreading her thighs for her parents’ murderer.
“Hurt, Master Braziliano, is just the start of it.”
Her voice was thick with anger, and she welcomed it. The need for vengeance drove such a relentless beat through her blood that she bit into her lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Who is he, querida?”
She blinked, transparent about the surprise he continued to wield. Braziliano used the moment to creep close to her again. His query was soft and understanding, brushing the back of her neck as he shifted there. This time Golden didn’t wonder how this complete stranger had known exactly what to ask. It just seemed enough that he did.
She turned then slowly worked her eyes up into his face. She wanted to trust somebody again so badly.
“Would you believe me if I said the Moonstormer?”
The bland expanse of his brown eyes widened. He stroked his beard with a hand encased in an expensive leather glove. “The Moonstormer. Really, now?”
She shook her head. “Right. Of course you don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.” She pivoted from him. “Good day, Mr. Braz—”
“Santo Dios.” He grabbed her and twirled her back, laughing like he’d merely pulled her up for a dance. “You are a fiery one, my little Golden.” He cupped her chin and raised her face up. “Now stop that frowning. This is just an impressive accusation you make, you know. Many, many have come to this town to claim their victory over El Moonstormer. Many others have come claiming to be him, so—”
“I have proof.”
Braziliano sobered. He lowered his hands and stepped back. He began to pace a small circle while appearing to casually take in the air with her—but the fast dartings of his eyes told her otherwise.
He slid up to her again, appearing to simply pay flattery to her eyes. “The evening shadows grow long,” he murmured. “And there are too many eyes and ears that hide in them. I suggest we continue this in my salon. It is but a short distance up the road.”
Golden’s smile faded.
“Your…salon?”
Mercy. Standing in the middle of the lane with the cocksure foreigner was nerve-testing enough. The idea of following him inside one of these hovels, behind closed doors, set needles of apprehension along the back of her neck.
But what other choice did she have? Where else would she go? Who else did she have to trust, especially as the night shadows were, just as the man said, growing before her eyes?
Her apprehensions were surely ridiculous. She wasn’t a bumbling innocent, no matter what Mast believed. And why did she even consider his opinion or thoughts? He’d lied to her about everything he was since the moment they’d met. He’d duped her. Then fucked her. Then still continued to lie to her.
She had a better compass for picking men of honor now, thank you very much. And in the warmth of Roche Braziliano’s face, she saw a man who really wanted to help her. Who respected her. Mast Stafford’s “respect” for her still lay on the deck in a hidden hold on board his traitor’s brig: a crumpled, dirty lie.
“Your salon it is, señor.”
The Brazilian smiled his approval at her perfectly rolled r.
Roche’s salon was a very pleasant surprise. Despite her limited experience in New Providence, Golden could see the structure was one of the most grand of the town. Ten shining brass lanterns hung in a row from the front eaves, showing off the gleam of the whitewashed front portico. The main building itself was made of rough-hewn stucco but a real stained-glass window was set into the solid oak front door. Golden couldn’t help touching the colored glass as they entered.
“Go ahead, querida.” Roche’s indulgent smile had returned. “I brought it from France. Mui bonito, sí?” Golden nodded.
“You must be hungry, as well,” he added while guiding her into a lovely courtyard.
As if on cue, her stomach grumbled again. She laughed. “A little.”
“Come, then. We will continue our talk in the dining room.”
The Brazilian ushered her into a small, but luxurious room off the rear end of the main foyer. A carved dining table sat beneath a shimmering labyrinth of a chandelier. Roche seated Golden in an impressive chair at one end of it, then sat himself in one of the matching chairs to her left. A serious native appeared in servant’s attire to take Roche’s hat and Golden’s cloak, then vanished after a few hushed instructions from his master.
“Now.” Roche returned his attention to her with a serene nod. “About this proof of yours.”
Golden pulled her gaze away from the crystal wonderland above her head. She leaned forward eagerly. “All you need is sitting in the harbor right now,” she replied. “But it will be gone on the morning’s tide, so we must act—”
“Whoa. Alta, amiga; slow down.” Braziliano caught her widely-gesturing hand and lowered it calmly to the table. “One thing at a time. In the harbor, you say?”
“Aye. On the Athena.”
“Mast Stafford’s brig?” Astonishment lowered his eyebrows.
“You know him?”
Golden returned a similar expression. Well, of course he does, you ninny. Every rake and outlaw in New Providence probably did. At one time or another, they’d probably all plunked down their ale stein next to him, never fathoming they were drinking to the health of the Moonstormer.
“I marvel more that you know him, Mistress Golden. Mast Stafford and I have rarely crossed paths in the past, but I know how he feels about the señoritas aboard his precious ship.”
“You’re not mistaken on that account, Master Braziliano. But I swear by all the saints and the sea spirits, I’ve seen what’s in that hold with my own eyes.”
“And it will tell me Mast Stafford is the Moonstormer?”
“Aye.”
“You are very assured of yourself.”
Golden locked her gaze directly into his. “A person doesn’t forget certain things in their life, sir. Even after twelve years, they remember those things on sight.”
Braziliano brushed a finger along his beard. “Twelve years? Hmmm. That was a long time ago. I barely remember where I was—”
“Well, I can tell you where I was.” She gripped the lion’s heads on either side of her chair. “I was clinging to a piece of driftwood in the Caribbean Sea—a piece of the same ship I watched burn and sink with close to a hundred people still aboard, including my parents.”
Silence. Golden didn’t lower her gaze. Braziliano didn’t lower his. He kept stroking his beard with his graceful copper finger.
Finally, she stated into the stillness, “I want him dead, Master Braziliano.”
“I know.”
“Will you help me?”
The Brazilian didn’t reply. He only reached out and uncurled her fingers from one of the poor lion heads, before pressing her hand between his own. “Did you know,” he murmured, “you are a very beautiful woman when you are angry?”
She tried to pull her hand away. Braziliano held on tighter and kissed her knuckles. Her blood sluiced like ice water before she gave him a cobra’s hiss from her locked teeth.
He chuckled again. “Relax, querida. Of course I will help you.”
The rush of triumph was nearly painful in her chest. “Thank you,” Golden whispered.
“Mi placer.” He curled an elegant smile. Golden let herself release one in return.
That was when his grasp c
hanged. Significantly.
With the slick ease of the snake she’d just unfurled on him, he stroked his rough sienna hand higher up her arm. His thumb and forefinger kneaded her skin. They pinched painfully when Golden jerked in protest. “Just a little formality, señorita…there is the small subject of payment to be discussed.”
Golden exerted full strength to pull herself free this time. The force caught Braziliano off guard, making it possible for her to slingshot to her feet. “You needn’t be concerned about that, sir. My father is a leading dignitary in the West Indies, royally sanctioned by King George himself. He will make this honorable act well worth your while.”
“He will, will he?” The man let his snicker become a full-bodied laugh, rocking his head back. Just as forcefully, Braziliano shoved to his feet and stalked around the table toward her. “He’ll dub me a ‘knight of the realm,’ eh?”
“Aye. Of course. After His Majesty hears of your bravery against the Moonstormer—”
“Knighthood isn’t what I have in mind, querida.”
The man’s voice transformed to a feral growl. His teeth and eyes were agleam with the same predatory mien. “At least not from that cobarde on England’s throne. Now come here.”
He lunged. Golden jumped back with a shriek. She grabbed a poker from the fireplace and swung it with a snarl.
“Ooohh! Such a little tigre, my Golden. But I like that. My blood likes it.” He flashed a wicked grin as he cupped the bulge in his velvet breeches. “And my verga fucking loves it.”
“I’ll use this,” she threatened.
Braziliano’s leer only widened. The next second, Golden knew why. Arms seemed to grow out of the air behind her. They closed around her waist and her neck. The poker was whipped out of her hand. Shutters were slammed over the room’s windows, plunging her into murky darkness. And all that remained in the light with her was the man who’d lured her here, strutting closer with lust in his eyes and that awful smirk on his lips.
