Deciding it was too big an audience, Dante removed himself and Lucifer, along with Beau, Pitt, and McCutcheon to the massive great cabin of the San Pedro, inviting Moncada and two of his officers to join them there and vent any complaints he might have.
For an hour the incensed captain-general vented.
Dante de Tourville, sitting in the shambles of the great cabin, propped his long legs on the grandly carved oak desk and steepled his hands together under his chin. He listened to Moncada’s shrill denuciations, barely interrupting except to signal Spit to pour more wine. Spit had found several jewel-encrusted goblets in the debris that littered the cabin, and a tall flagon of Madeira wine, which he both served and drank enthusiastically at each crook of Dante’s long, tapered finger.
Pitt, who as usual had managed to set aside his motion sickness during the heat of battle, lounged against a wall of the cabin, his arms folded across his chest as much to help keep his stomach in place as to try to appear casual. Beau, on the other hand, appeared to be vastly amused watching Dante deflect the flecks of spittle and acid vitriol that flew from Moncada’s lips. She knew her father would not have handled the situation half so well, for Jonas Spence was man of flamboyant blasphemies and great courage, but he was no diplomat. He was quite happy to take what he wanted at the end of a sword, but close him into a room with too many words and he grew impatient with his own shortcomings.
Lucifer hung back in the shadows of the doorway, his eyes fixed on the three Spaniards, the coal-black centers burning like brands. Every now and then he would caress the silver hilts of his scimitars, earning stares and nervous twitches from the two hidalgos.
Their leader, the fifth Marquis of Moncada, was a rotund strut of a man with a face like a boil of dough stretched too thin over spidery red veins. He had small, dark eyes set so close together, they seemed to touch at the bridge, and he had made a feeble attempt to hide a weak chin under an abram beard trimmed to a perfect point. He spoke in faultless, unbroken English, a deliberate counterpoint to Dante’s initial address delivered in equally flawless Castilian.
The two other officers were, by contrast, tall and lean, handsome men with short, curly hair and liquid brown eyes that flicked nervously from face to face.
“Blatant piracy!” Moncada was screaming. “And at a time when you English should be doing everything in your power to convince my king and country you are not ruled by thieves and bloodthirsty heretics.”
“Bloodthirsty,” Dante mused, speaking more out of boredom than a need to defend anyone’s habits. “An interesting turn of phrase coming from a people who advocate the use of torture and mutilation in the name of their faith.”
“The devil can be a difficult entity to eradicate, and his stain must be scorched off the face of the earth, as must all heretics who worship him! Like you, señor,” he added, lashing the air with an accusing finger. “¡Picarón!”
“Me?” A pirate, señor? I am but a humble merchant trying to go about my lawful trade.”
Moncada snarled and leaned forward, slamming his fist on the desk. “You attacked my ship without cause!”
Lucifer bared his filed teeth and started forward with a growl, but Dante stopped him, then spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “If you will recall, señor, you fired the first shot. We were only defending ourselves.”
“Defending? Defending?”
“Aye, and now we intend only to take a fair measure of compensation for our trouble and for the damage your guns have wrought on our ship. We sail these waters with no intent to commit acts of war. You can see for yourself, we travel with women”—he waved a hand airily in Beau’s direction—“and old men.”
Spit McCutcheon gave a toothless smile on cue. It was enough to send another flush of red fury spreading down Moncada’s face and throat, and another spray of venom across the desk.
“You do not fight like simple merchants! Nor do you look like a simple merchant, señor. You give your name as Jonas Spence and you may believe that I will remember it. I will remember your name, your face, your ship, and I will pray hourly for the pleasure of crossing your path again one day!”
“The pleasure will be all mine,” Dante assured him. “For now, however, you may please us all by giving my quartermaster a copy of your cargo manifests so that he might be saved the trouble of having to search the entire ship plank by plank.”
Moncada glared at McCutcheon. “Rot in hell, señor. And you may trouble yourself until that hell freezes, for we will none of us lift a finger to assist you in this profane act of thievery.”
Spit scratched at his jaw and curled his lips at the corners. “Well, now, I’m pricked to have to disappoint ye, but I won’t be rottin’ anywheres just yet. I already seen me a storeroom bulgin’ with bales o’ spices; another filled with wood crates heavy as a whore’s arse an’ stamped with the mint seal o’ the governor o’ Mexico. Onliest thing profane is our holds might not be big enough to carry it all away. We’ll surely try, o’ course, Cap’n,” he added, winking at Dante. “We’ll surely try.”
Dante crooked his head to indicate McCutcheon could go and begin an inventory of the treasure, then turned back to address Moncada.
“We will also want a list of your passengers, Señor Marquis. Unless I am mistaken, you have a rather important guest on board.”
Moncada waved a hand dismissively. “I have many sons of nobles on board, and they are all important guests.”
Dante exchanged a significant glance with Geoffrey Pitt, who reached inside the front closure of his doublet and withdrew a long, gold silk pennant.
Moncada’s ferret eyes widened a moment before glistening in Dante’s direction. “You would dare violate the sanctity of a member of the King’s court?”
“In case you had not noticed, I would dare a great deal. And unless you would care to have your own sanctity violated”—he slowly withdrew one of the brass inlaid wheel-lock pistols from his belt and set it down on the desk in front of him—“it would be in your best interest if you voluntarily produced him.”
“It is an affront to His Most Catholic Majesty, Defender of the Faith, Suppressor of Heresy, by the Grace of God King of Spain—”
Dante sighed, anticipating all sixty-five of the King’s titles were about to sprout forth. He picked up the pistol, cocked the spanner key, and squeezed the serpentine trigger. The powder in the pan ignited, causing an almost simultaneous explosion as the lead ball was discharged and shot past the captain-general’s shoulder, tearing a harmless stripe through the rich velvet sleeve of his doublet. The two Spanish officers recoiled from the sound of the exploding shot; the fifth Marquis of Moncada screamed, clutched his shoulder, and promptly fainted.
Dante, waiting until the puff of smoke cleared, swung his long legs off the corner of the desk and leaned forward to peer at the unconscious Spaniard. He cocked an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at Pitt and Beau.
“Damn my soul, but my aim must be off today. I was actually trying for the lamp behind him.”
The two hidalgos turned and gaped at the lamp, easily eight feet to the left of where the captain-general had been standing.
“Gentlemen”—Dante drew their owlish attention back to where he was removing the second pistol from his belt— “would either of you care to assist us in this matter or would you prefer I practice my marksmanship again?”
For a long moment neither of them moved. Only when Dante thumbed the spanner key did one of the officers stiffen and look straight into the silvered eyes for the first time. “His Majesty’s niece, Doña Maria Antonia Piacenza, Duchess of Navarre, travels aboard the San Pedro de Marcos under the protection of God and the King of Spain. To even attempt to desecrate this holy coverture would be a sacrilege against the Heavenly Father and all of mankind.”
“We have no desire to desecrate anyone,” Dante assured him blandly. “In fact, I am most anxious for you to escort a couple of my men to her quarters now so that they may guarantee her personal safety.” He glanc
ed at Pitt and Lucifer. “Gentlemen?”
Pitt nodded and Lucifer stepped out of the shadows, his scimitars glinting in the dull wash of light.
The Spaniard hesitated, but since his captain-general was still prone on the floor, he had no choice but to lead the two Englishmen out of the cabin.
When they were gone, Dante aimed the barrel of the pistol at the second officer. “We can both save ourselves a great deal of time and energy if you will show me where the captain-general keeps his logs and manifests.”
The young man’s face glistened with sweat, but to his credit he remained rigidly silent. Dante sighed and caressed the brass trigger with his forefinger. It was Beau who reached forward and touched Dante’s arm, murmuring a cautious “Wait.”
She had seen the smallest flicker of movement in the Spaniard’s liquid brown eyes and she followed it now to the pair of cabinets behind her. Being set against a solid wall they had, for the most part, avoided sustaining the damage suffered by the rest of the cabin. The squatter of the two cabinets held the goblets and bottles Spit had availed himself of; the taller and more ornately carved had wide arched doors that, when she swung them open, unfolded to present a religious triptych, the central panel depicting a two-foot-tall rendering of Christ on the cross. A small compartment beneath held gold reliquaries that contained holy artifacts; an altar below that was covered with a cloth woven of fine linen, exquisitely embroidered along the edges and hem with gold silk thread.
Beau was about to dismiss the find and close the arched doors again when her foot scuffed the hem of the altar cloth, scraping on wood beneath. She parted the edges of linen and turned slightly to throw a grin over her shoulder at Simon Dante. Hidden by the cloth were two more doors, both securely locked.
Dante returned her grin and addressed the Spaniard again. “I don’t suppose you know where the keys are kept?”
“Keys,” Beau scoffed, and dropped down on one knee. She produced her stiletto and worked the tip in the lock, rewarded a few seconds later by the sound of the catch springing free.
“Have you any other talents I should know about?” Dante asked, lifting his eyebrow.
She met the silver-blue eyes briefly before she turned and opened the two unresisting doors. The chair creaked as Dante leaned forward to look over her shoulder, and she heard him swear in a soft, deep voice.
Inside the cabinet were the leather-bound logs and manifests, a large gold and jewel-encrusted box stamped with the marquis’s family crest, and, not the least of all, multiple stacks of beribboned documents and letters, all bearing official seals meant only to be broken by the hands of King Philip of Spain.
“Voilà, mam’selle,” he murmured. “Le vrai trésor.”
Beau started to turn, to remind him that Jonas Spence would likely not be talking French, but the chastisement died on her lips when she saw that the Marquis of Moncada had pulled himself to his feet and had already retrieved one of two small pistols he had concealed beneath his breastplate. He had the gun raised and cocked, the barrel aimed at Dante’s broad back, and it was instinct rather than any sensible thought that made Beau fling herself forward, knocking Dante to one side just as the powder exploded in the firing pan. The shot barely missed its primary target, streaking past Dante’s ear close enough to startle his gold earring before it struck Beau’s temple and sent her crashing back against the open cabinet door.
Chapter 12
Geoffrey Pitt did not hear the first shot, nor the second. He and Lucifer had descended through five of the six levels of cabins contained in the massive after-castle of the galleon. Each level boasted cabins as lavish and ornate as suited the wealthy young hidalgos whose privilege it was to serve aboard the San Pedro. With few exceptions most of those on the upper three tiers were in ruin, for the gilded stern rails and glittering array of gallery windows had been hotly contested by the Egret’s gunners. Panes from the stained glass lights lay in shards on the floor; the contents of bookcases, shelves, cabinets, and chests were strewn as far as the corridors. Furniture was broken, curtains and tapestries blown off the walls and windows. Here and there, fresh stains on the planking indicated someone had been unfortunate enough to have been standing in the way of flying glass.
Shattered though it all was, the opulence was staggering. Furnishings were upholstered in embroidered brocades. Thick wool carpets covered the floors, and scores of solid silver sconces and candelabra provided the light in the companionways and on the tables. On one level a massive dining table stretched from one side of the ship to the other, laid in fine white linen and, to judge by the debris scattered beneath it, set with solid gold plate in anticipation of a meal. On another, situated low enough in the hull to have avoided heavy damage, the cabins were decorated by an obviously feminine hand; furnishings were delicate and frilled with satin ruffs, the bed was an ornate four poster draped in tiers of fine netting that made it seem to be suspended in a frothy white cloud.
Geoffrey Pitt, observing all this as he followed in the wake of the Spanish officer, approached the last cabin on the tier and stepped around a door that had been knocked off its hinges. The quarters had been transformed into a salon as elaborate and comfortable as any in a grand palace. He had to duck his head to clear the lintel, and when he straightened he saw the four occupants of the salon huddled together against the far wall.
The Spaniard stopped short as well. His eyes jumped from one pale, shocked face to the next, their accusing stares, combined with his own mortification over the purpose of his visit, causing him to blanche the color of ashes.
One of the women was clearly the matron. She was older and stouter than the rest, with a face as harsh as a winter wind and a forthright bosom that protruded like the prow of a ship. She boasted a comely moustache for a woman and in moments of high tension—like this one—it glistened with dewy droplets of sweat. Two others were dressed similarily in modestly high-necked bodices and skirts that were rich enough to suit their exalted stations as companions to the King’s niece. The fourth member of the group was situated protectively to the rear, her wide, startlingly blue eyes focused on the men who stood in the doorway.
Pitt, the son of a common foundry worker, had not an ounce of aristocratic blood—however diluted through past generations of droit du seigneur—flowing through his veins. His adventures and close friendship with Dante de Tourville had almost allowed him to forget his past as an ironmonger’s son who always stank of metal filings and sweat, and he had worked hard to adopt the manners of his betters. He had learned to read and write, to use his wit and quick intelligence to talk, charm, bluff his way out of almost any situation.
But there were times nothing could keep him from feeling like a coal-blackened urchin born alongside the barrel of a cannon—and this was one of them.
Doña Maria Antonia Piacenza was simply the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. She was as petite and fragile as the first buds of spring. Her hair was dark, not quite black, not quite brown; her face was heart shaped and pale as cream, the skin so delicate and smooth as to be all but translucent. Her eyes were like pieces of the sky, large and wide and solemn, and started a sliding sensation in his chest and belly that had nothing to do with the motion of the ship.
The blue of her eyes was perfectly matched in her gown, cut with a low, square neckline that showed just a hint of the rose-dust silk chemise beneath. Already exquisitely tiny, her waist was further reduced to nothing by the sweepingly deep V of the bodice where it met the exaggerated flare of the farthingale. From her shoulders descended a conch, a sheer, gauzelike veil of such fine material, it was all but invisible. Nervousness had made her gather the edges of the floor-length veil around her shoulders and hold them like a shield over the tender young half moons of her breasts. Her hands shook so badly, the tremors caused the transparent fabric to shimmer and quake.
The Spaniard seem to find his tongue and bowed stiffly, offering his most abject apologies for disturbing them in so brusque a fashion. The English do
gs, he added in rapidly whispered Spanish, had already shot the most revered Don Alonzo de Moncada and he was certain they would have no scruples shooting any or all of them, despite assurances given that no harm would befall the royal ward.
“Why has he come here?” the younger of the two maids snarled. “What does he want?”
The second one, with her brown eyes glittering speculatively, took a long, slow perusal of Pitt’s broad shoulders and lean waist. She was as petite as the duchess, with a face that could have launched a thousand ships—in the opposite direction. Her shrewish, harpy features became even more pinched as she stared boldly at the bulge of Pitt’s codpiece and whispered something in the duchess’s ear.
Whatever the confidence, it made Doña Maria turn as pale as her veil. The first maid, whose eyes and mouth grew rounded and wet, stared at her more wordly-wise companion in horror.
“It is true, you innocent turd,” the latter whispered haughtily. “It is what these English dogs do and what they expect you to do to them in return.”
Having overheard the waiting-woman’s crude observation, the bulwark-breasted duenna flared her nostrils and flew across the room, her wide skirts belling behind her, and planted herself in front of Pitt.
“How dare you vilify the air with your presence here! Who are you to threaten the welfare of Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza, Duchess of Navarre?”
“My name is Geoffrey Pitt. Our ship is the Egret, her master is Captain Jonas Spence. I assure you we pose no threat to anyone’s welfare.”
Across a Moonlit Sea Page 15
