Lords of the Kingdom

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “The Scots are the enemies of the English. Why can I not be Welsh?”

  Antónia rolled her eyes. “Fine, ye can be Welsh.”

  Sweeney grinned like a child just offered a sweet he’d been begging for. “I’ve a cousin who married a Welsh wench. All I have to do is perfect a whiny tone. How is this? We’re looooossttt.”

  Antónia blew out a long exaggerated breath. “Heaven help ye if he doesn’t try to burn our ship to make ye shut your mouth.”

  Sweeney laughed, a genuine sound that had Antónia’s heart warming. She didn’t want him to be mad at her. Didn’t want him to be frustrated with her either. She needed him on her side for many reasons. To have her back, but also, she needed an ally when she did return to Ireland, because though she’d have a prize her grandmother had long been searching for, she’d also have to explain why she’d violated a direct order to return to Ireland after delivering the gift to the queen.

  Antónia descended to her quarters to prepare for the impending heist. She braided her hair, changed into leather breeches and then wrapped linen tightly around her chest, binding her breasts. She pulled on a black linen shirt that wouldn’t be see-through when wet—a mistake she’d made in the past—and then strapped her weapons in place on her arms and ankles. Last but not least, she tied a small bag to her waist, big enough to hold the ring and any spare coins lying around Captain Graves’ chamber. Aye, she wasn’t hurting for coin, but the more she could offend Graves, the better.

  Antónia paused a minute, blowing out a deep, calming breath.

  She was ready. And she was terrified.

  So much had already gone wrong, she prayed nothing else did.

  In and out. That was it. Easy and clean.

  Chapter Four

  “Just how many bloody galleons are going to interrupt our journey?” Titus growled.

  Grenville grunted, knowing it best not to respond.

  “What should have only taken a few damned hours is lasting all day.” Titus slammed his hand down on the rail, approaching the merchant vessel that was sailing at a swift clip in their direction. “This is bloody familiar.” He grumbled the last and then bit down ferociously on the apple he’d been eating.

  He was duty bound to at least issue a greeting to the ship as it sailed for England. The Lionheart should have already landed at Calais. The crew should have disembarked. He should have been sipping an ale and eating a meat pie at the port tavern he enjoyed, whilst deciding which wench to pleasure for the evening. Dammit if the business with Lady Antónia hadn’t delayed them, and then he’d waited until the irksome pirates were out of sight on their way back to Ireland before continuing on his way toward France, circling more eastward in the second attempt to keep the pirates from following if they dared.

  And every blasted minute he was reminded of Antónia’s kiss. A sudden salty gust, a mist on the air, even the taste of the bloody apple. He flung it out to sea. Hell and damnation, but he wanted to kiss her again.

  “Raise the sails and steer us starboard,” Titus ordered. “Ready the guns in case our luck strikes once more and we are facing pirates.”

  The closer they got, the more suspicious Titus became. The ship looked very familiar. A lot like the Lady Hook. But he could see the name on the bow was Little Dove. The men on the ship were large, but they were dressed plainly. Still…

  “Remain cautious,” Titus told his crew.

  They pulled alongside the other ship, tossing grappling hooks to tie the ships together. A large man doffed his cap.

  “Ho, there!” he called in an accent Titus couldn’t place. Returning his cap to his head in just a way that lay shadow over his dirty face, the bloke said, “Would ye be willin’ to ’elp us out, Cap’n?”

  Titus, hands on his hip, finger tapping his sword hilt, replied, “Where are you headed?”

  “We’re a bit lost m’afraid. Supposed to be at Cape Comorin in t’weeks.”

  “You’re a long way from India,” Titus drawled. “Where did you come from?”

  “South Wales.” The man stiffened slightly when he said it.

  Odd. But he just didn’t strike Titus as a man from Wales. “Must be going in circles,” Titus drawled out.

  “Aye. Could ye point us in the right way?”

  “Mhmm.” Titus pointed southward. “You should have stayed in the Atlantic sailing south around the African continent to the Indian Ocean. You swung upward here and you’re in the English Channel.”

  “English Channel.” The merchant captain doffed his cap and scratched his head, looking at his men, an overly exaggerated, perplexed expression on his face.

  Titus didn’t know whether to consider this entertaining or if he just wanted to knock the man into the water and tell him to have a pleasant day. “Have you never sailed to India before now?”

  “Aye, plenty o’ times.” He shifted a little, putting his cap back in place.

  “Then how did you end up here?” Titus worked hard to keep his voice sounding genuine, not giving away his awareness of their ruse, whatever that ruse may be.

  “Well… ’Tis a long story, Cap’n. Ye, see, I ate a bad pottage. Tore my guts up something fierce.”

  Titus listened as the man went into great detail regarding his stomach ailment. The men aboard his ship stiff as they listened, biting their lips in their attempts not to laugh. Even his own crew was suppressing laughter, a few covering their mouths with their hands and pretending to cough.

  The water lapped at the sides of their ships and overhead the clouds that had been nonexistent started to crowd the blue sky. They needed to get moving, else it would begin to storm before they reached Calais. They’d not be able to dock if the winds were blowing fierce and he wasn’t in the mood to anchor in the Channel to ride it out. But the bloke continued on and on about the bad pottage and how he wished every ship came with a privy like the one back in his manor home in South Wales.

  Titus finally cleared his throat, interrupting. “Well, I thank you for sharing such a… detailed story with us, though it wasn’t necessary. Sounds like you need a better cook.”

  “Truth be told, he was well into the pot, too.”

  Titus grunted. “What cargo do you carry?” Duty required him to inspect. The queen would expect him to check all merchants sailing, and he should review their itinerary, to be sure they were on the up and up. If they were exporting, she’d want a portion of the profits, and she’d like to know what it was. If they were importing, she’d want to charge a tariff. From what Titus had gleaned over the years, the Welsh weren’t much for exporting. They were a country of drovers, cattlemen. What could they want with India? If they were importing, Her Majesty would want to see the goods were taxed.

  The Welsh captain’s mouth dropped open long enough for Titus to garner he was left unprepared to answer. Bloody hell. He didn’t want to go aboard the Little Dove. He wanted to be on his bloody way!

  Titus blew out an annoyed breath, prepared to tell the man he was coming aboard, when the merchant opened his mouth.

  “Cheese, Cap’n. We are bringing cheese.”

  “Cheese?” Titus raised an incredulous brow.

  “Aye. The owner of this here ship, Master… Cáis, his daughter is an excellent cheese maker, and he was hoping to get a leg up on the cheese market in India.”

  “The cheese market.”

  “Aye. Cheese to the Indian people.”

  Damnation. The bastard was lying. Titus glanced at Grenville whose eyes had widened, and lips pursed. Grenville was thinking the same thing. The merchant was lying through his teeth.

  Titus gave a curt nod to his first mate, who then whispered to one of the men.

  Returning his attention to the fake Welshman, he said, “I regrettably inform you, and your master, that there will be no Welsh cheese sold in India as they do not consume western cheese, but instead, a cheese called paneer. Any good merchant would know this about their intended clientele.” Titus waved his hand and his men lifted the board to be
placed between the two ships so he could debark. “I will also need to examine your cargo and itinerary by order of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth.”

  The merchant captain sneered, though it was brief, confirming Titus’ conclusions. Pirates? Likely.

  The man waved his hand and gave off a smooth laugh that Titus suspected worked well with ladies. The intended effect was sadly lost on him.

  “That won’t be necessary, Captain Graves. I did not get my point across completely. Master Cáis does not intend to sell his cheese to the Indian people, but the English who reside there.”

  The hairs on the back of Titus’ neck rose. He’d not told this man his name, which meant the merchant captain had information he wouldn’t normally be privy to. That could only mean one thing—the Little Dove was a pirate ship. And the lengthy waylaying their captain had maintained was only a diversion. But from what?

  Titus remained calm, not letting the man know he was on to him. “All the same, I’ll need to board.”

  “By all means.” The shadows on the merchant/pirate’s face disappeared for a moment as he lifted his head, showing Titus the familiar visage. “We are more than happy to provide you with an itinerary as well.”

  Titus nodded curtly, the tingles along his spine growing hot. The pirate before him was none other than the second mate to Lady Antónia Burke, the very wench who’d just attacked his ship the hour before. Whatever sort of manifesto they claimed to have would be nonexistent.

  “A moment, good sir.” Titus turned to Grenville and whispered, “Quietly call the men to arms. Ready the cannons. I’ve a feeling this will not go over well.”

  “Captain, I urge you not to go aboard,” Grenville said. “This doesn’t feel right.”

  “We are at the advantage. I know this is the Lady Hook in disguise. They do not suspect I know this yet. We have the upper hand.”

  The water was cold, and though Antónia had eased her way into it, it was still a shock. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering and made her way slowly so as not to cause too much of a sound toward The Lionheart. Above, she could hear voices as the men spoke. The water lapped at the sides of the ships, bouncing her a little more wildly than she would have liked.

  She reached the side of The Lionheart and gazed up. The queen’s men, Graves included, all appeared to have their attention on Sweeney and her crew. None would be looking down; at least she prayed that was the case. Studying the stern of Graves’ ship, she took hold of rigging that dragged in the water. Slick with algae, at first she couldn’t get a decent grip, but then she managed to find a spot that she could hold firmly. Slowly, she eased her way out of the water, thighs tight around the hemp, arms stretching high and pulling her weight from the sea. A slight breeze blew, freezing her wet clothes to her skin.

  The higher she climbed, the harder she gripped. The rigging cut into her water-soaked skin, stinging. She was sure to have splinters when she was through, but Antónia pushed past the pain. As she climbed, she kept her breaths even, and an eye on the sailors above. The last thing she needed was a slug in her brain as she made this daring attempt. Sweeney would forever damn her soul and she’d be putting her men at risk.

  A porthole above looked to be open and she paused on the rope just below to listen. There did not appear to be any sound from within. One hand on the rigging, she grabbed hold of the porthole and drew herself close enough to peer inside, muscles burning.

  Holy Mary… The opulence matched her own cabin. A sizable bed, with real linens and a blanket. A desk, cabinetry, shelves, table and chairs, a thick woven rug. This had to be Captain Graves’ cabin! What luck!

  Was Fate trying to send her some kind of message?

  Nay, Antónia didn’t believe in such things.

  ’Twas The Lucius Ring calling to her.

  Antónia climbed the rigging a little higher, her arms screaming for relief, and hoisted herself through the porthole feet first. Thank goodness she’d bound her breasts, as the fit was a bit snug on her hips and would have certainly caught at her chest.

  Lucky for her, there was a chair just beneath the porthole, and she pressed her feet to it precariously as she pulled the rest of herself through. Antónia paused, listening, half convincing herself she could hear breathing.

  Convinced she was alone, she stepped down from the chair and walked immediately to the captain’s desk, her boots making squishing noises and leaving wet prints as a map to every place she walked. Now, where would the ring be hiding? She pulled out and rifled through each drawer. Maps, journals, quill and ink. Coins—which she pocketed—a dagger, some string, a sewing kit. A bottle of liquor—which she took a swig from.

  Hmm. Actually quite good, but there was no room for her to take it.

  And there was no ring.

  “If I were the British captain…” she murmured, but then paused, swearing she could hear breathing once more.

  And then she felt it. Breathing, on her leg. A hot, sticky lick.

  Antónia leapt back, yanking out her dagger, prepared to stab whoever had dared to lick her, and came face-to-face with a large hound of black, white and brown coloring. His tongue hung from the side of his mouth and he studied her with a cocked head and kind eyes.

  “Ye’re not a very good guard dog are ye?” Antónia asked, scratching the mutt behind his ears.

  He licked her hand. Nay, not a good guard dog at all.

  Deciding the dog wouldn’t give her away, she moved to a wardrobe, and tugged it open. The captain’s clothes hung on hooks within, a pair of shiny riding boots were on the bottom, and a wooden box with filigreed corners sat right beside them.

  Antónia bent to open the decorated chest when the hound barked and scratched at the door.

  She jerked her gaze toward the hound and waved her arm, as if that would make him quiet. “Shh!”

  But the hound only stared at her, barking and scratching again.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” With the mutt making all that racket, anyone could come down to see if there was a problem, or to simply let him out. She needed to make him be quiet—and she wasn’t about to hit him over the head with her blunderbuss, or stab him through the heart. A hound like this, a kind one, he was worth more than most men in her book.

  She’d just let him out herself.

  Antónia hurried to the door, opened it, and shooed the hound out, then locked the door behind him.

  She returned to the filigreed chest, sliding her fingers over the shiny wood. But when she tried to pry open the lid, it was locked. Had she seen a key in the desk? She didn’t recall. And she didn’t have time to think on it either.

  Why hadn’t she thought to bring her lock pick?

  No matter, she rummaged through the captain’s clothes, finding a belt. She used the pin in the buckle and picked the chest’s lock in under a minute. Picking locks had been a fun pastime for her and Sweeney when they were growing up. They’d often snooped through the contents of a score when Granuaille had collected the tolls from passing ships, and they’d picked a door or two—sometimes seeing things that made them giggle. And one time resulted in their first kiss…

  Oy, but she didn’t have time to be thinking about stuff like that. Childish antics and awkward moments she’d rather not repeat.

  But the thought of kisses only reminded her of the one she’d shared with Captain Graves. She opened the chest with that image in her mind and was quickly awestruck by the sight of the ring she’d been searching for, for so long, shining bright from the velvet depths. The stone was ruby red, and seemed to glow, odd since not a candle was lit and the cabin was a little gloomy.

  What had the legend stated? That love was within sight if the ruby was red?

  She pulled it out of the chest and slid it onto her left ring finger, feeling the power of it tingle through her skin. The coloring did not change.

  The question was, did she believe in signs?

  Not truly, no more so than she believed in Fate.

  Even still… It
was glowing, blood red. Was The Lucius Ring telling her she was in love?

  Could she believe?

  If she didn’t, why had she risked her life and that of her crew to fetch this bobble? It was not simply because Granuaille would have loved to own it. No, there was the true reason. She wanted to find love—to find the one.

  Antónia may have been a pirate, a hellion to most, but that didn’t mean she didn’t seek happiness. A family.

  She tugged at the ring, but it wouldn’t budge. Her knuckles must have swollen after she put it on. She stuck her finger in her mouth and tugged at the ring with her teeth—but still it wouldn’t move. Almost as though the ring had chosen her…

  Chapter Five

  Just before his men raised the board allowing him to pass between the two ships, Titus heard his dog, Storm, bark. The sound was far off at first, as though he barked from the cabin where Titus had left him, but then it drew closer. The deep undertones of his massive hound rumbled the deck and Titus whistled for his men to stop what they were doing.

  Storm had been locked in his cabin for a reason. A wonderful rescue dog, particularly in a storm—which was where he gained his moniker—the hound also liked to regulate the crew a bit too much and had been in a particular mood this morning, nipping one of the swabbies who’d been mending a sail.

  With behavior like that, Titus was of half a mind to keep Storm at home, but he’d never crossed a hound with better skill at sea, and so, Storm was kept locked up when he misbehaved.

  Except there came his large white and brown head, tongue wagging in the breeze as he bounded across the deck. Who would have let him out? Not any of his crew. They’d not dare go against Titus.

  “Ballocks,” Titus growled.

  There was only one explanation that made any sense—and yet made no sense at all. While the large pirate had treated Titus and his crew to a most disturbing story of his bowels, someone, or many, had boarded his ship in secret. They were in his cabin. And since he knew the Little Dove to truly be the Lady Hook he could guess at who it was and what she was looking for.