At the door, he cast a sharp glance at the naked temptress asleep in his bed. Whatever she was about, he’d deal with her in due course. The tools hidden in her fan had only solidified the suspicions brewing in his mind.
No honest woman needed to pick the lock of a man’s private quarters. That was the tool of a thief or a spy. Either way, the lady was an accomplished liar. No doubt she’d been lying to him from the moment they met.
Damnation.
Whatever Jayne Boleyn had discovered aboard his ship, he had no intention of setting her free to use it.
Chapter Seven
The instant the door closed, Jayne flung back the bedclothes and rolled to her feet.
Too late, of course. The damage was already done. Why in the name of mercy had she allowed herself to sleep, and so deeply, in the arms of this Spanish pirate?
She’d surfaced from the clinging arms of Morpheus, an unaccustomed sense of languor and well-being pervading every limb—only to feel her contentment disintegrate and horror spiral through her as daylight poured like an inferno through the porthole to reveal the Scourge of the Spanish Main scowling at her contraband fan.
Panic fluttering like a frantic bird in her belly, she’d barely managed to feign sleep until he stalked out. Now she vaulted out of bed like an acrobat, bare feet hitting the floorboards as she scrambled for her gown.
Her garments lay in hopeless disarray—the torn smock, the gaping corset and bodice, all of it quite impossible to manage without a maid.
She stared down at her crumpled finery, the unaccustomed prick of tears stinging her eyes. Last night had been an unmitigated disaster. She’d done what she’d sworn never to do again—cast aside caution and good sense for one night of passion in a man’s arms.
And with a pirate, of all possible men! She hadn’t taken the most rudimentary measures to protect herself, either from conception or the French pox. For all she knew, every sailor aboard this ship was diseased.
“Don’t be such a ninny, Jayne. Think!”
Struggling to tamp down her surging fear, she cast about for something—anything—to cover herself before the accursed man returned. Her gaze fell on the open sea-chest and the discarded gown spilling from it. Swiftly she pounced on it, though the notion of wearing a castoff garment from one of Lord Calyx’s discarded lovers left a sour taste in her mouth.
Whoever she was, her predecessor in the captain’s bed had been no noblewoman. The gown was a simple kirtle of sky-blue broadcloth lined in rose holland. At least it was clean, though the process of struggling into it took longer than she wanted, with the need for haste drumming through her.
With the whalebone cage of her farthingale and taffeta petticoat to shape it, the stolen gown was not too poor a fit, though the square-cut bodice had clearly been fashioned for a slimmer girl. It clung shamelessly to her full breasts. She lacked even the token modesty of a silk partlet to tuck beneath.
Well, what did another scandal matter? Her reputation was already in tatters. The benefactress of the Armada could weather this storm.
Swiftly she wiggled into stockings and slippers as the galleon rocked beneath her, the ship eager to be off on another adventure. She sleeked back her tumbled hair and gathered enough scattered hairpins from the floor to coil it at her nape. A hasty glance in the captain’s mirror assured her she could pass in a pinch for a merchant’s wife. Her blue eyes were wide with trepidation but crackling with energy.
Beneath her, the floorboards gave a gentle lurch as the galleon dipped in the ocean swell. Overhead the commotion ceased, replaced by the slap of canvas, the thud of booted feet and the occasional bellowed command. Jayne was no sailor, but she knew the crew must be preparing to cast off.
Biting her lip, she hurried to the porthole to gauge the fleet’s status. Last night, the grim bulwark of the San Martin had loomed before her, with the crowded port of Lisbon beyond.
Now, beyond the clouded glass, the vast cobalt expanse of open sea filled her vision. In the distance, the dark line of the Portuguese coast was falling swiftly astern.
Jayne gaped like a simpleton. Clearly the gentle cant of the deck beneath her, which she’d mistaken in her ignorance for the bobbing of a ship at anchor, bespoke the ponderous majesty of a race-built galleon at sea.
Panic bubbled through her. Thoughts tumbled through her brain. She simply could not comprehend why Lord Calyx would give orders to cast off, knowing full well she was still aboard. Even if the rest of his squadron had launched, a development clearly indicated by the orderly procession of swelling sails and bright-painted hulls filling the ocean before her, the Arcángel could have delayed long enough to set her ashore, for mercy’s sake!
Surely it wasn’t too late. The Arcángel had a longboat. Someone could row her ashore, or flag down a passing vessel to collect her. This close to a major port, the seas would be teeming with traffic.
Abandoning her brocade gown on the captain’s floor—a prize for whatever woman replaced her in his bed, she thought tartly—Jayne flung the door open and hurried through the darkened companionway. She emerged on the sunlit brilliance of the quarterdeck.
For a moment she stood blinded by the blaze of sunlight streaming over well-scrubbed decks and glittering in a million facets on the turquoise sea. As always, when she emerged from enclosed space into open air, her weather magick stirred and set her skin tingling.
Despite her desperate dilemma—overlooked somehow and marooned on this pirate ship in the midst of the Spanish Armada—a burst of vigor surged through her.
When her eyes adjusted to the brilliant light, she drank in her surroundings. Directly before her belled the canvas sails of the mainmast, a steel-banded timber that soared like a giant over the bustling decks. A brisk salt breeze hummed through the web of slanting hempen stays and shrouds that somehow held the whole miraculous construct aloft. Men swung like monkeys from the rigging and swarmed barefoot along the masts, responding to a torrent of bellowed commands from some uniformed officer. The breeze stung her face and tore ribbons of hair from her hasty coif.
Studding the gunwales on either side, the ominous muzzles of cannons and swivel-guns stood bracketed to the wood, a mute reminder that the Arcángel was a fighting ship. Jayne shivered violently.
Somehow she had to get off this ship.
As she hurried through the crowded confines of the quarterdeck, her blue-gowned figure unavoidably drew attention. The chorus of catcalls and whistles rising from the bare-chested crewmen brought swift heat flooding to her cheeks.
The last thing on earth she wanted was another encounter with their captain. But under the circumstances, the sooner she found him the better.
She’d nearly reached the main deck ladder when a swarthy satyr, clad only in a ragged pair of Venetian breeches, swung from the rigging to land before her. One look at the leer spread across the man’s coarse, bearded features, and Jayne knew she was in trouble.
“Hey, muchacha, we didn’t know there were pretty girls like you still aboard. Where you going so fast, chica?”
Her stomach sank to her shoes, but Jayne rallied gamely. She knew better than to show fear at such a moment.
“To find your captain, my good man,” she said crisply, projecting an air of authority she did not feel. “Stand aside and let me pass.”
“Why you look for el capitán, hey? I got what you looking for right here.”
When the brute fumbled at his breeches, her belly curdled in disgust. She couldn’t believe the man meant to assault her in broad daylight, not with dozens of his fellows within hailing distance. Yet she found herself longing passionately for her stiletto fan, which Calyx had taken when he left.
She was far from defenseless, she told herself stoutly. As a last resort, there was always the magick, though she must be exceedingly careful about revealing herself, here in the very heart of the Inquisition. It would do her little good to deter this would-be rapist only to be taken up for a witch.
Swallowing down the acri
d taste of fear, she met her assailant’s gaze and raised her brows coolly.
“Do you know who I am, señor? I am the Comtesse de Boulaine, aboard with King Philip’s encouragement as the personal guest of Lord Calyx. If you’d care to explain your actions to your captain, by all means proceed. He’s sworn to protect my welfare, but I’m certain he is a forgiving sort.”
To her profound relief, the sailor stilled, breeches loose around his hips. He cast a guarded glance around them, at the sea of witnesses peering down from the rigging to offer their own lewd commentary.
Sensing his hesitation, Jayne felt a cautious flicker of satisfaction. Lord Calyx might be a rebel himself, but he was also said to run a very tight ship. Lax discipline was never a failing of any crew under Calyx de Zamorra’s command.
The sailor’s hot gaze went to her breasts, half-bared and thrusting boldly above the neckline of her purloined gown. An ugly scowl twisted his thick features.
“I see what you giving el capitán. You think he won’t give you to the rest of us when he’s through?”
A fresh stab of misgiving nearly shattered her hard-won poise. She might have spent a night in the captain’s bed, but in truth, she barely knew the man. He was a pirate, after all, with a reputation for ruthlessness. He’d found her in his cabin uninvited, and now he knew how she’d gotten there. For all she knew, he planned to interrogate her and pitch her overboard.
Or he could indeed give her to his crew as the spoils of war, the first of many luckless Englishwomen to tumble into their keeping. A lifetime of experience had given her no reason to trust the honor of men.
Yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe he would abandon her to so cruel a fate. No matter what his reputation on the high seas, he’d done nothing to show himself a monster. Certainly he’d been as attentive a lover as any woman could wish...
Jayne was fighting down a hot blush when another strange Spaniard strode into the fray.
“Here now, Martinez, why do you trouble this lovely lady?”
The newcomer was a wiry, suntanned figure with a gray-streaked mustache, rapier belted over breeches of good quality and a clean lawn shirt. Among the half-naked oafs grinning from the rigging, his attire and easy authority proclaimed him an officer of some sort. Jayne greeted his appearance warily.
The sailor named Martinez scowled and spat, but she noted he was careful to aim the foul gobbet away from both the officer and herself. “What she expect then, primero, showing herself off to the men like that?”
“No doubt she expected common courtesy. I could have told her that was a mistake, with this crew.” The newcomer shot her an ironic look. “Cut the lady a little line, Martinez. She’s just become the capitán’s new mistress.”
In this officer’s easy presence, she’d begun to relax her guard. Now her fledgling sense of comfort vanished as his words struck home. Her breath rushed out with a whoosh, leaving her aghast and gaping.
A storm of protest rose to her lips. But the allegation was so unexpected, so preposterous, she could only stammer in surprise.
The capitán’s new mistress.
Body of God, was that what they all thought?
While she struggled to summon a firm rebuttal, Martinez paled under his swarthy tan.
“El capitán’s mistress?” He gaped. “Eh, Diego, I didn’t know! Perdone, señora...”
“Think nothing of it,” she said faintly. At the moment, disputing her new status seemed counterproductive.
Martinez wasted no time scurrying back to whatever rat hole had spawned him, leaving Jayne suddenly alone with the officer named Diego. He surveyed her, mouth twisting wryly beneath his mustache.
To this well-spoken fellow, at least, she had best address his misapprehension. Moistening her lips, she tucked a wind-whipped curl behind her ear.
“I believe—”
“Forgive me, señora.” He made a leg and swooped into a flamboyant bow. “I fear I have you at a disadvantage. I know who you are—”
“But I’m not—” she began desperately.
His eyes danced. “You’re Lady Jayne Boleyn, benefactress of the Great Enterprise. Our honored guest aboard the Arcángel. Some would even call you our patron saint, but that would be disrespectful to the Holy Mother, si?”
She blinked rapidly and wondered what in Heaven was going on. If they’d known she was still aboard, why on earth had they sailed?
“As for me,” he went on smoothly, “I’m Diego Ignacio Domingo, the capitán’s primero. Second in command of the Arcángel—or at least her sailing crew. Someone else is responsible for our sorry cargo of louse-ridden soldiers, the pride of the Spanish army, most of them currently too seasick to be useful for fighting or anything else.”
Jayne regained her wits and dipped into a curtsey, which was not strictly necessary for a man of his rank, but cultivating him now could prove useful later. She made a conventional response while her mind raced, cataloging this useful intelligence about the cumbersome divided command.
Frantic though she was to escape this floating fortress, she might as well learn whatever she could during her brief time aboard.
She summoned a charming smile.
“I must confess, señor, I am utterly bewildered. I meant to be ashore well before this galleon sailed, but somehow I—fear I have overslept.”
Fresh warmth stung her cheeks at this veiled admission that she’d shared the captain’s bed. Still, the scandalous truth formed the perfect cover for her presence. What other English agent was half so well placed?
Diego Domingo made a gesture of rueful acknowledgement.
“When Cupid’s arrow strikes, condesa, what else can we do? As I’m certain you realize, you’re an exceedingly beautiful woman. And our capitán, he is very much a man.”
“Yes,” she murmured, her face on fire. “The thing is, I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience you, but I must beg the loan of your crew to pilot the longboat.”
“The longboat?” He tilted his head. “Whatever for?”
“Well, I—I am certain I should be more capable,” she floundered, “but surely you can perceive I would be hopeless at rowing the craft myself. I know naught of the sea, and I cannot swim.”
“But of course you can’t manage the boat yourself!” he exclaimed in genteel amazement. “Those rough oars would wreak havoc on your lovely hands.”
She managed a polite smile, increasingly difficult to do as her agitation mounted. With every moment she spent stating the obvious to this charming primero, the brisk wind pushed them farther from shore. England could not afford a moment’s delay. She would lose a full day if she did not soon manage to escape this infernal boat.
“Possibly,” she ventured, “I might even manage with a single man. I can spell him at the oars. How difficult can it be?”
“My dear lady, you misunderstand me. I fear the sight of such gracious beauty has clouded my wits.” His teeth flashed in an apologetic smile. “What I’m trying with my poor sailor’s mind to grasp is why you wish to use the longboat at all? With these obliging winds, a ship under sail will quickly outpace any oared vessel. You wouldn’t wish to be left behind, si?”
“Left behind?”
Abruptly, comprehension snapped her wandering wits into place.
Clearly Calyx de Zamorra had told his lieutenant she was aboard voluntarily—as his mistress. Why he had not shared whatever suspicions must now be teeming in his fertile brain, she could scarcely imagine. Perhaps he preferred first to inform his commanding officer, the hapless Don Alonso aboard the San Martin. Or perhaps—the alarming suspicion reared its head—perhaps he intended first to interrogate her, learn all her secrets, then dispose of her at his leisure.
Either way, she was little more than his prisoner.
A jolt of fear spurted through her, turning her blood to ice. She whirled and hurried to the gunwale. No more than an English mile away, the verdant shores of Portugal beckoned. But the open expanse of blue-green water between her and fr
eedom was dark with the Armada’s might.
This close to home, the fleet had not yet formed the deadly horned crescent that struck terror in the hearts of Spain’s maritime rivals. Instead, clustered loosely by squadron, ships crept like cockroaches across the sparkling waves.
Near at hand, the Arcángel’s squadron was dominated by the hulking, steep-sided galleons. Fighting castles and towers loomed above their broad decks—structures designed to rain death on the lesser ships they encountered. Bright hulls painted in crimson, green and blue floated beneath sails blazing with crosses, flaming swords, suffering saints and arrow-pierced martyrs, all the emblems of holy war.
Beyond the galleons floated squadrons of lesser vessels, scout ships darting nimbly among the potbellied hulks that supplied the vast fleet. She glimpsed a flotilla of narrow Mediterranean warships propelled by mighty banks of oars, already falling behind their sister ships in the brisk wind.
By habit, she assessed the scattered fleet, counting, memorizing names and dispositions. But the effort was no more than an exercise to hold the bubbling rise of panic at bay.
She had to escape this galleon and its sharp-eyed master. Fired by desperation, a mad scheme took shape.
“Condesa?” Diego Domingo’s worried face appeared at her shoulder. “Are you well? Never tell me you are seasick! What a cruel trick of fate that would be for the capitán’s mistress.”
Though the label still made her blush, the notion that he thought her seasick made her smile. Give her the right wind and the right currents, and she could summon a storm that would have every seaman aboard casting up his biscuit.
The first thing to do was lull this old sea dog into complacency. For her plan to work, she must escape his vigilance.
She trained the full force of her charm on Diego Domingo and showed him the glittering smile that had brought the King of France to his knees.
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