“So. Sir Francis is one of your heroes, is he? Chaste and untainted by his own fame?”
“He does not require a round of free ale for men to appreciate his deeds.”
Spit started to chuckle and covered it with a cough. Dante looked his way and nodded an affable enough greeting, although he kept staring, kept smiling, until McCutcheon cleared his throat with a nervous rattle and excused himself under the guise of checking the set of the topsails.
Beau stood her ground. It was one thing to effect an avoidance of the man; quite another to give the appearance of being frightened off.
De Tourville uncrossed his arms and walked over to the table where her charts were spread. He examined the topmost sheet with its rough scrawls and hasty figurings, then lifted it out of the way to study the more detailed, beautifully painted map beneath. Beau, like most ship’s navigators, was an accomplished artist, recording by means of sketches and paintings what a particular coastline or island might look like from the sea. With no other means of recording what they saw on their voyages, and verbal descriptions unreliable at best, these paintings and maps, often displayed in cartographers’ windows, were the only means some people had of envisioning the world beyond London’s city gates.
“Your work?” He touched a long, tapered finger to the painting and added, “It betrays the favor of a woman’s hand, but with an authority I would not have expected.”
“Why? Because I am a woman?”
He glanced up and grinned. “Because I would not have guessed there to be enough patience in you to sit overlong with a single-haired brush just to show the probable variance of shore currents.”
An odd look came over his face and before she had a chance to respond to his mockery, he stared back down, not at the painting so much as at the precisely rendered depiction of a swan in the lower corner. The first day, her father had referred to her as his little black swan, but the significance of the endearment came clear to him only now.
“You,” he said sharply, his eyes sparking with genuine astonishment. “You are the Black Swan?” He looked down again, cursing his own lack of perception, for he had seen some of the other charts in her cabin and not made the connection. It was some small consolation to know that few of the other sea hawks would have guessed the Black Swan to be a woman, for her charts and maps were highly sought after and graced the cabins of many famous ships. He had himself been outbid on a chart of the Azores, the shoals depicted with such an expert eye, he had looked closer to see if there were fish in the water.
He would be damned if he told her that, of course, but he allowed some grudging interest in her training.
“Where did you apprentice?”
“I didn’t. I used to copy maps from Father’s study. He had a copy of Theatrum Orbis—”
“—Terrarum” he finished for her. “Are you saying you learned how to do this from copying paintings out of a book? No one stood over your shoulder to guide your hand? No one taught you the techniques and methods?”
Beau’s cheeks were warming uncomfortably. “No. I had no time for such frippery.”
“Frippery,” he mused, and looked down again. “In that case, ’Tis a pity no one thought to salvage some of the master charts off the Virago. Many of them were works of art, painted by the hands of Mercator and Wagenaer. You could have made good use of such … frippery—not that I can see much room for improvement.”
Beau experienced another rush of discomfort. “As it happens…”
“Yes?”
The silver-blue eyes were penetratingly direct and they stalled the response in her throat long enough for her to suffer a distinct, warming flutter in the pit of her stomach.
“I—I did see them crushed beneath a pile of books on the floor, and I thought…”
The blue flecks danced with an odd light. “And you thought it would be a waste to leave them behind?”
“Well, it would have. And you did tell me I could take anything I wanted.”
“I did indeed. But I rather thought you had your sights set on the jewels.”
She squared her shoulders. “I have no need for jewels. The maps were more valuable to me, and I took them. I did not steal them, however. There was heavy damage to some and I was intending to repair them, and perhaps copy them, before giving them back to you.”
His attention, which had begun to stray rather disarmingly over her hair, the slender arch of her throat, the bloom of color in her cheeks, focused intently on her eyes again. “How very honorable of you … Beau. I, too, would have placed a higher value on the charts than I would on a cask of jewels, although it would be my pleasure to make you a gift of them anyway. Both the charts and the jewels.”
“I told you, I have no need for jewels.”
“Then I shall give them to your father, as payment for his hospitality.”
Standing so close, she was more aware than ever of his imposing height and of the shocking breadth of his shoulders. He wore the billowing white shirt, still unlaced and left carelessly open over the solid bronzed expanse of his chest. His hose were clean and made of wool woven to so fine a fit, they looked as if they had been painted on, and it did not require much strain to her imagination to remember how he had appeared naked and sprawled on her bed. The sight of his powerful physique had struck her with the chill of speechlessness then; his nearness was having the same effect now, and she took a precautionary step back, making it seem as casual as she could.
“Have you no one of your own who would appreciate such a gift? A wife? Children? Family?”
Dante regarded her warily for a moment, wondering if she was genuinely ignorant or just attempting to pry. There were times he did not think there was a soul alive in all of England or France who did not know about his personal life. About his wife. About the parade of lovers she had taken to amuse her while he was away at sea.
“I had an older brother,” he said at length. “But Giles died before he could have any heirs of his own to pass on the family name and fortune. It was an unfortunate turn of fate, for he was much better suited to assume the titles and responsibilites. As for a wife … I had one once, when I was young and stupid and too blinded by my own ignorance to see that all she wanted was the family titles and responsibilities. And perhaps a warm body in her bed now and then … though God forbid that warm body should necessarily be the same warm body each time. No, mam’selle, I am as you see me. Accountable to no one but myself and quite content to remain this way.”
It was not difficult to understand how the staid, socially regimented life of a nobleman could stifle a man like Simon Dante, although it was somewhat more difficult to imagine a woman tossing him out of her bed for another.
The abruptness of the thought startled Beau and she reddened slightly. “So … you are content living the life of a pirate?”
Dante gave his shoulders a careless shrug. “I am content living a life that is my own, being accountable to no one. I sincerely tried being the Comte de Tourville for a while but it gave me very little pleasure. Even now, I have a flock of gray-cloaked bankers and managers who chase after me constantly with crates of documents, letters, and ledgers to approve or disapprove—it drives the account-keepers apoplectic when I am away at sea for any great length of time. But for the most part they are all dry, cold men who do not understand the soul of an adventurer, and I think they are quite content to serve me from a distance.
“It was much the same for my wife. She managed to spend my money well enough, and act the part of regal chatelaine to an excess of praise, but for all her charm and beauty—and I will admit she was an exquisite creature— she had no soul whatsoever.”
“Surely you must have felt affection for her at one time?”
More than a hint of cynicism crept into the thin smile that curved his lips. “Why would you suppose that? Marriages, especially those for whom the proper bloodlines are considered paramount to all else, are never based on affection, ma pauvre innocente. They are based on greed and
power and ambition. God save the man who expects love, passion, and loyalty.”
He sounded bitter enough to refute his own words and Beau suspected he must have loved his wife very much indeed. So much so, he had not yet recovered from her betrayal and used his anger against her as a weapon against others. Or a shield. He was, in fact, proving to have many shields and cloaks. He had the demeanor of an aristocrat when he wanted to call on it, the character of a pirate when he needed to use it, and a body that emanated a dangerous combination of elegance and savagery—a combination that sent warning chills up and down her spine even as he tilted his head to one side, trying to read her thoughts.
“And you, mam’selle? Have you no regrets for a path not taken? What brings you to this point, this place in time? Why are you not swathed in satins and silks, sipping chocolate from tiny porcelain cups, and discussing the newest court scandal?”
Beau grimaced. “Court scandals have never interested me. And one can hardly climb rigging and set sails in a skirt and farthingale.”
His eyes gleamed with shared amusement and he let his gaze drift downward, seeming to measure every curve and indentation of her body, lingering so long in places, Beau could have sworn it was his hands, not his eyes, causing her skin to react so alarmingly.
“No,” he mused. “I suppose one could not. But my question had to do with why you were here climbing rigging and setting sails in the first place, You have no brothers, no sisters? No … husband, or expectations thereof?”
“It is doubtful a husband would be content to sit at home by the hearth fire while I sailed away to sea.”
“That would depend a great deal on the husband, would it not? Have you given any stout-hearted lads a fair chance?”
“I have no use or need for a husband,” she insisted. “Therefore no use or need to give any of them a chance.”
“Them? So there have been candidates willing to attempt a breach in that formidable armor you wear?”
Beau looked down at her hands. She had no idea how the conversation had turned to such things and even less idea why she was tolerating any of it. Or him, for that matter, and she turned her attention back to her charts.
“There is only my father and myself … and the Egret,” she said crisply. “And we are quite happy to keep it that way. Now, if you don’t mind, Captain, I have work to do. You will have to excuse me.”
“We seem to making good speed,” he observed, ignoring her request.
“You sound surprised.”
He brought his gaze back from the horizon and weighed the depth of pride tightening her features against his own dislike of making apologies to anyone, deserving or not.
“Forgive me if I have misjudged the character of your ship,” he said. “It was, perhaps, a judgment made in haste.”
The tiger eyes were waiting expectantly, but he only nodded at the astrolabe and added, “You have taken your noon reading? I would be more than pleased to assist.”
“Spit has already done so, but … thank you anyway.”
“He seems like an efficient fellow, despite his rather brusque habit of speaking precisely what is on his mind.”
“You find honesty disconcerting?”
“Not in the least. Just unusual in that there appear to be a large percentage of forthright-speaking members among your crew.”
“My father is rarely so arrogant as to assume he has absolute knowledge of all things,” she said, choosing her words with the same care he had shown. “Most times, he encourages his crew to say what is on their minds, thus avoiding sullenness and dissent.”
“An admirable policy. Does it hold true in battle?”
She looked him straight in the eye. “I said most times, Captain. In battle there is no discussion, no room for arrogance or dissent. The men follow Spence’s orders without question or hesitation or they know they have earned themselves a dozen or so lashes of the cat.”
The muscles in Dante’s jaw clenched noticeably. He knew the taunt was deliberate and his eyes gleamed at her boldness. “In my case,” he said quietly, “it was not my arrogance that won me my stripes, but my misfortune in serving on a ship whose captain was too cowardly to give any orders at all, and surrendered, without firing a single shot, to a Spanish raider. Those of us who survived the trials of the auto-da-fé—a warm little gathering hosted by members of the Holy Inquisition—were then sentenced to serve out the rest of our lives chained to the oars of a galleass.”
“You were a galley slave?” she asked, startled.
“For nearly seven months. Lashings were part of the daily routine, whether we were sullen or not.”
“I’m … sorry. I did not mean to pry.”
“Yes you did. You just didn’t do it very well. In future, if you want to ask me something, just ask.”
He turned and was about to leave the deck when Beau blurted, “Very well: How did you escape?”
He stopped and took a moment to reset the rigid line of his jaw. When he glanced back, it looked, at first, as if he were going to take off her head instead of answering, but then he saw the cool defiance in her eyes and had cause to remind himself again that she was not a woman easily subjugated by authority. A challenge given was a challenge accepted, however minor.
“As it happened, the captain-general of the galleass was cruel and incompetent and not very well liked by his officers. One of the younger ones, on board for his first voyage, dared to challenge the harshness of some of the punishments we received and, for his trouble, spent a week chained to the oar beside me.”
“You befriended him?”
“Hell, no. He was weak and foolish; when he wasn’t weeping like a child, he was praying incessantly for our salvation. I hated the bastard as much at the end of the week as I had at the beginning and probably more so because I knew, for all his bawling and keening, he would get to see sunlight again, whereas all I could expect was death and rats—with death being preferable. I must have conveyed my wishes in some way, for they began to use me to demonstrate the proper method of applying the lash to cause the most pain. The same foolish young officer crept below one night, hoping to convert me to the One True Faith while there was still time to save my soul. The man beside me was able to hook an arm around his throat and choke him, and we used his crucifix to break the lock on our chains. A dozen or so of us managed to fight our way up on deck and jump over the side. Luckily we were passing close enough to an island to swim for it, but because I was in pretty bad shape, Lucifer had to haul me on his back most of the way.”
“Lucifer?”
“Aye.” A black eyebrow arched sardonically. “He is really a very likable fellow, once you get to know him.”
“Lucifer? Likable? He spends most of his days terrorizing everyone on board.”
“He is leery of strangers, leery of their motives. He had a family, a wife and three sons, all of whom died beside him, slaving in the mines of Mexico.”
Beau chewed her lip. “And Mister Pitt? He seems another odd sort to be sailing the high seas—especially since he does not appear to enjoy the sea all that much.”
Dante offered a wry grin. “You should see him in heavy weather.”
“I have. You slept like a babe through it; he turned as green as grass and hung over the rail for two days.”
“Ahh, yes, but put a gun in his hands, the bigger the better, and he has no equal on this earth. He designed those demis, cast the bronze himself, and trained my crews to give me three shots per minute, rough seas or smooth.” He grinned suddenly. “But if you think Pitt and Lucifer are odd, it is a pity you never met our helmsman, Ivory Brighton. He lost his eye to a misfired musket and replaced it with a ball carved from an elephant tusk. He also had two thumbs on his left hand and a nose so long and hooked, he could scratch the tip with his bottom teeth.”
Beau almost smiled. “Admirable qualities. I’m sure I will regret not making his acquaintance until the day I die.”
“I know he would regret not making yours, for I�
�m sure he would have thought it impossible for a woman to hold a ship this size on a steady course, let alone throw her into a heated pursuit.”
“Much like his captain?”
“Much like his captain,” Dante admitted, his silver eyes gleaming.
Beau felt her skin warming again and drew a shallow breath. “My mother used to tell me the only things truly impossible are the things you are too afraid to try.”
“Was she the one who encouraged you to come to sea?”
“She did nothing to discourage me, although she did insist I go to school and learn how to deport myself like a lady.”
While Dante struggled to hold his laughter in check, Beau planted her hands on her hips and glared at him.
“You find the notion amusing?”
“Not amusing; perhaps just … difficult to envision at this precise moment.”
“It did not seem to put too much strain on your imagination when you laid me flat on your desk, or when you kissed me the other morning.”
The gray eyes narrowed; then, with a disconcerting abruptness, he threw back his head and laughed. It was a deep, lusty sound and made several of the crew on the deck below turn and stare.
“Ah, mam’selle, you are indeed refreshing.” He shook his head and raked a hand through the glossy black mane of his hair. “Your suspicions are etched on your face as precisely as the currents on your magnificently painted maps. May I set your mind at ease somewhat by saying my interests in any of our conversations, past and yet to come, are completely without any motive other than that of trying to get to know your crew and ship a little better. I have absolutely no interest in prying your legs apart if, alors, you were willing or not. While I will confess you inspire a certain amount of curiosity—which I have already admitted— I doubt very much your preference for boots and doublet over silk underpinnings and satin skirts would be enough to drive me to extremes of wild, irrepressible lust. As it happens, I still prefer my women soft, seductive, and eager to do more with their mouths than scowl all the time.”
Beau’s flush grew hot enough to become painful. “I am relieved to hear it, Captain. Does this mean I will not be excessively plagued with your company in the days and weeks to come?”
Across a Moonlit Sea Page 11
