“Querido amigo,” she said fondly. “My dear friend. How kind you are to trouble yourself over my welfare. Truly, I have never felt better. Pray do not concern yourself. I am certain you have more than enough to occupy you.”
“Si.” The older man hesitated, a shadow of concern creasing his brow. “He treated you well last night?”
An unexpected image seared through her mind of Calyx de Zamorra, still clad in midnight doublet and hose, his engorged manhood jutting before him as he pinned her naked body against his door. Oddly breathless, feeling the heat sweep down her throat and her nipples harden against her bodice, she cleared her throat.
Seeing her expression, Diego spoke hastily.
“Don’t be offended, condesa. He has the reputation for a vigorous lover, si? And he’s in an odd mood this morning, no doubt of it.”
Somehow I do not doubt that at all.
She struggled to keep her tone casual.
“Tell me, where is the capitán?”
“Below deck in the cirjano’s cabin—the ship’s surgeon.” Diego hesitated. “There was a duel this morning. It began with a small incident involving the Duque de Nicanor who commands that useless tercio, and the capitán’s cat.”
Briefly diverted, Jayne stared at him.
“The captain has a cat?”
“He says the cat has him.” Diego smiled. “Anyway, our gato managed to trip the good Duque and sent him sprawling. Up comes Señor Nicanor with a sword in his hand and blood in his eye. The capitán’s page, young Iago, leaps between them in the beast’s defense, which probably saved Nicanor’s life. I don’t know what the man was thinking to tangle with that cat.”
Darkly he shook his head, clearly of the opinion the cat was naught to be trifled with. “Then the Duque turns his sword on Iago.”
Despite herself, Jayne found herself caught up in the story. Now she cried out in dismay.
“On a helpless child? How could any man be so heartless?”
“Cats and children are the kind of foe our good Duque prefers—and women, for that matter. Take a word of advice from your amigo here and steer clear of Naldo Luis de Nicanor, si?”
“Si, si,” she said impatiently. “But what happened to poor Iago?”
Looking suddenly embarrassed, the primero stroked his mustache. “Ah, the scamp escaped without a mark on him. A member of the crew intervened just in time.”
“But if they’re in the surgeon’s cabin...”
“Iago’s back at his post, the young rascal.” Diego waved a hand. “No, the casualty in the infirmary is Nicanor. He took a minor wound when the sailor disarmed him. Calyx is there with him, trying to smooth him down. No one wants trouble between the soldiers and the crew, on this ship or any other.”
Her mind flashed back to the mayhem on the San Martin that had lured Don Alonso away. Perhaps this divided command between tercios and sailors would prove a useful liability.
She must think on that later, when she wrote to Walsingham. For now, she’d gleaned the information she needed. Lord Calyx was occupied below, which meant she could find someplace above to work her mischief.
He should never have tried to keep her captive. To secure her freedom, his prized galleon would pay the price.
Chapter Eight
While the cirjano bathed and bandaged his wounded hand, the Duque de Nicanor lay in his bunk and sulked. Calyx would rather have been anywhere else, even cleaning the bilges—which, given the cheek-by-jowl accommodations of the three hundred men aboard, already reeked to set a grown man reeling.
Instead, he reined in his simmering impatience and tried not to scowl at the fashionable young don. One look at Naldo Luis de Nicanor when the tercio captain first strolled aboard, the sickly sweetness of opium wafting from his expensive garments, and Calyx had detested him on sight.
But if he intended to keep the peace between his crew of pirates and the hardened killers in his hold, maintaining good relations with their commander was essential.
This might be the Duque de Nicanor’s first military command, but his royal blood made the young duke one of Philip’s favorites.
So Calyx quelled his irritation while the Duque shuddered and sweated through the surgeon’s attentions.
“I tell you this, capitán!” the patient proclaimed, extending his good arm to point. “That malicious beast ambushed me—streaking out of nowhere, shrieking like a devil escaped from Hell itself. Dios mío! He nearly sent me overboard.”
“I’m told you stepped on his tail.” Propped against the surgeon’s table, Calyx checked the nearby hourglass and chafed. A thousand duties demanded his attention—not least the beautiful enigma he’d left naked in his bunk.
“Surely you are not defending that fiendish creature?” Nicanor lowered his arm to stare. “I want to see that cat drowned in a basket.”
“It would take a barrel, I’m afraid.” Calyx rubbed his jaw to cover the sedulous grin twitching at his mouth. “The thing is, Behemoth is an essential member of this crew. He controls the rodent population singlehandedly—or should I say, with a single paw?”
“Capitán, this is no laughing matter.” The Duque scowled. “What of your own primero, who raised his blade to me and inflicted this heinous injury on his commanding officer? That is treason, señor, and you know it! I want to see him swinging from the yardarm.”
Calyx rose to his full height. He was the tallest man aboard, and his head brushed the rafters. Using his size to ruthless advantage, he loomed over the younger man.
“Allow me to remind you that I am Diego Domingo’s commanding officer.” Calyx spoke with ominous softness. His grizzled surgeon, who’d sailed with him for years and knew his moods, slanted him a cautious glance and edged away. “Be assured I intend to look into the matter and will administer whatever discipline I see fit. For now—”
Without warning, the deck shifted beneath his feet. He adjusted his stance mechanically, attuned to the sea’s moods as he was to his own body. He’d left sunny skies and calm seas above, but this shift signaled foul weather.
Excusing himself abruptly, he ducked into the companionway and strode toward the deck, angling his broad shoulders to squeeze through the narrow passage. When he emerged into the open air, a sharp wind lashed his face and plastered his shirt to his body.
In disbelief, he flung back his head to take in the roiling mass of storm clouds. The ocean heaved around him. Angry whitecaps slapped the hull, scattering the formidable galleons of his squadron like dice across a gaming table. Already his crew had sprung to action, reefing in sail, swarming over shrouds and stays, the choreographed symphony of response to rough weather. Diego, like any good primero, had matters well in hand.
But this sudden squall roused all his instincts to prickling alert. He recalled last night’s unpredictable gust, the way Jayne Boleyn’s porcelain skin seemed to glow—
Call it caution or madness, but alarm hammered through him. He pushed into the mass of soldiers milling uselessly on deck and bellowed, “Get below, the lot of you! And keep out of the way.”
A few ungentle shoves on his part got them moving, like nervous sheep, toward the hatches. As the decks cleared, he glimpsed Diego on the forecastle, calmly shouting orders to the boatswain.
“Diego!” he called up. “Where’s my new mistress?”
From his vantage, Diego shaded his eyes and searched.
“Ah, I see her, capitán! She’s forward in the bowsprit, and that bow’s heaving like a whore with three patrons. You want me to go out and fetch her?”
Calyx was already striding toward the bow, a steady stream of curses flowing from his lips. Why couldn’t she stay safe in his cabin, like any other woman?
Of course, he knew perfectly well she was like no other woman. His instincts were clamoring, though he could scarcely give words to his foreboding.
Circling the foremast, he ducked beneath the straining sails. Directly before him, the high narrow bow rose and fell over churning seas.
At its very pinnacle, behind the gilded figurehead of fiery Michael the Archangel, a woman clung. The gale lashed sky-blue skirts like sails around her trim form. Her sable mane streamed like black flames. Erect and fearless, she stood braced in her perch, head flung back to gaze into the stormy heavens.
He clenched his fists and cursed. The rising seas were hellishly unpredictable, and Jayne Boleyn didn’t strike him as a woman accustomed to a ship’s deck. One rogue wave could send her tumbling into the deadly deep.
They said women were bad luck on a sailing ship. Had he forfeited his famous luck when he gave orders to sail, knowing she was still aboard?
“Madre de Dios!” A sailor’s superstitious dread gripped him.
In the gloom, her form was limbed in silver light. No matter how impossible it seemed, that uncanny glow emanated from her.
Slow realization seeped through his stunned brain. Somehow Jayne Boleyn had summoned this storm, called it like a woman hailing a pet dog. She’d plunged his entire ship into peril.
Now Calyx needed to contain her somehow, this wildcat he’d grasped by the tail.
He needed to stop her, before she killed them all.
* * *
The magick surged through Jayne like the rising tide, dark and powerful and fathoms deep. It was the magick of the ocean beneath her feet, a power so vast and untamed she could only siphon a few thin, writhing tendrils of its leviathan might. She set the winds howling around the galleon, lashing the white-tipped waves until the sea churned, piling ambient moisture into the massed and laden clouds.
Her skin tingled and the blood sang in her veins. The familiar euphoria of Faerie magick nearly made her float above the plunging deck.
But the wind and waves were wrong for a truly great storm. She could only work with the hand she was dealt, only heighten conditions the natural weather was already inclined to create. She was not a god, and her power was far from infinite.
Yet she could summon a local squall to dismay the Arcángel. A downed mast, fouled rigging, a torn mainsail, a fire in the galley. Any of these calamities would be sufficient to delay the galleon and summon help from the squadron.
Once they made contact with the San Martin, she would attach herself to Don Alonso, who valued his King’s goodwill too much to risk offending her. She’d be ashore by nightfall.
If sufficient charge built in the massed clouds, she could even summon lightning—though that was a greater risk. For she could never direct where it struck. It would likely strike the mainmast, the galleon’s highest point. If she were lucky, the Arcángel would be out of action for days while its capitán commissioned a new mast.
How lucky do I feel? With the magick sparkling through her soul, she would dare anything—
Hard hands closed around her shoulders and spun her around. Her fragile hold on the magick shattered. The shining power spilled harmlessly from her body to the ocean below.
Slowly her vision cleared. Set against the churning backdrop of iron-gray clouds, Calyx de Zamorra’s billowing shirt and pale hair blazed white. His strong features were knotted with fury, and his mocha-dark eyes were black with rage.
“Sangre de Cristo!” he shouted over the howling winds. “What in the Seven Heavens do you think you’re doing?”
Jayne moistened her dry lips and struggled to collect her scattered wits. Her former lover was clearly furious.
Faced with her silence, he shook her like a hunting mastiff. “Do you want to sink this ship? Do you intend to send every soul aboard—including yours—to a watery grave?”
Somehow, impossible though it seemed, he knew. Fleetingly Jayne wondered what sort of metaphysical power Calyx himself possessed, if he could sense her magick. Seeing the dark fires that raged in his eyes, she wondered with a pang of dread if she’d made a terrible mistake.
When he shook her again, her brittle control snapped.
“I intend to get off this ship, capitán! If I cannot leave with your blessing, then by God I shall leave without it.” She twisted free of his bruising grip. “You should have let me go.”
His jaw clenched. “I have no intention of letting you go, querida, now or ever.”
Her heart beat wildly.
“Not until you tell me the truth about this storm—and about this.” From a pouch in his belt, he produced her scarlet fan and jabbed it toward her in blunt accusation.
Jayne blinked and looked away, struggling with a sensation remarkably akin to disappointment. So he’d kept her to interrogate her, like any Spaniard. Had she fancied he meant to woo her?
Beneath her, the bow dipped and surged. Without her magick, the storm would soon blow itself out, with no apparent damage to the galleon. Her gambit had failed. Worse, she’d just revealed herself to this renegade Spaniard.
Her shoulders slumped, but she stiffened her spine and faced him down.
“I have nothing to tell you,” she said flatly. “Whatever you suspect, no one will believe you. I am still the benefactress of this fleet. Unless you wish to explain yourself to your King, señor, I would advise you to release me.”
The bow plunged beneath her and she staggered, flailing desperately for the rail. If she lost her balance and tumbled into the sea, she was a dead woman. And the intelligence that could save England died with her.
Cursing, Calyx caught her, one muscled arm closing around her waist. She stumbled against the hard-muscled plane of his body, palms making contact with his broad chest. Through the crisp linen shirt, his heat seared her palms. She swung back her head to meet his burning gaze.
“What did you want in my cabin last night?” he said, low and intent. “Aside from me.”
“I did not want you at all!”
The denial rose to her lips by instinct, the powerful impulse to lie and prevaricate that had always saved her skin. But, pressed against the dangerous strength of his giant body, staring at the mouth that had brought her to the pinnacle of such exquisite pleasure, she found the words of denial drying on her tongue.
“I did not—that is—I—”
“Take a friendly word of advice, from one adventurer to another.” His lids lowered as his dark eyes dropped to her lips. “When it comes to passion, you’re a terrible liar, Jayne. I told you I could accept anything from you except deception.”
Searingly aware of the hard bulge of his codpiece like a hot coal against her belly, she swept her tongue across her lower lip. A spark flared in his hooded gaze. The warm spice of cypress and ambergris and the lingering scent of her own passion rose from his skin, an intoxicating perfume that made her head spin.
She cleared her throat and spoke, dizzy with the dangerous currents swirling between them.
“In that case, capitán, you must accustom yourself to disappointment. I have lied to men since I was five-and-ten. I am highly unlikely to alter my habits to suit your preference.”
The light of challenge flashed in his eyes. His voice deepened to a baritone rumble that made her shiver.
“Say whatever you like. Your body can’t lie to me. I intend to get to the bottom of you and your presence on this ship—one way or the other.”
The sensual promise in his tone set her tingling. Every iota of her spirit rose to meet his challenge.
“You are welcome to try, capitán,” she said softly, taunting him.
Riptides of sensual tension eddied between them, no less turbulent that the raging seas around them.
Deliberately, he put distance between them. As she struggled to quiet her racing heart, he pulled her none too gently toward shelter.
“The heavens are going to open up,” he said gruffly. “And this galleon is teeming with men I don’t command. I want you in my cabin where it’s dry and safe.”
For her, the captain’s cabin—which housed the captain’s bed—was the most dangerous place she could possibly be.
“Are you in the habit of starving your guests, señor?” she asked coolly. “I have not eaten a morsel since I came aboard. I would prefer to seek the
galley instead.”
“I’ll have Iago bring you a late breakfast.” As he chivvied her through the darkened companionway, he shot her a keen look. “Don’t try your wiles on my page, belleza. The young rascal’s suffered enough for one day.”
She wished he wouldn’t address her so familiarly with these lover’s endearments. Every time he called her darling or beauty in his smoky Spanish voice, swallows swooped through her belly.
“So I have heard,” she managed. “How is the poor lad? I hope you are not planning to punish him for defending a helpless animal.”
“Helpless?” Calyx snorted. “That cat rules this entire ship. The Duque de Nicanor barely survived his first encounter with Behemoth’s reign of terror. The tyrant also has the run of my cabin, since I don’t fancy finding rodents in my bed. If you see a coal-black cat the size of a Shetlands pony skulking about, best steer a wide berth.”
Unsettled though she was, a surprised bubble of laughter rose to her lips. “He sounds a fearsome beast indeed. Behemoth, is it?”
“Si. For the Angel of the Deep. According to angel lore, he also presides over gluttony, which is certainly fitting.”
He steered her past the noisy clatter of the galley, where the strong scent of boiled beef made her stomach rumble. They emerged into the bustle of the gun deck.
To her dismay, the clouds had already begun to break apart. Shafts of watery sunlight played across the deck.
The conditions for a proper storm were simply absent. Moreover, Jayne had done her level best for days to delay their launch. Her magickal reserves were drained.
Well, she must simply find another way of getting off this ship.
“As for my page,” Calyx resumed, ushering her past ominous ranks of artillery, “there are plenty of captains who’d apply the whip for the stunt he pulled. But no one on this ship’s going to lay a finger on the lad. I run a tight ship, but I don’t hold with beating children.”
A dark note lurked beneath his casual words. Slanting him a sharp glance, she found his brows drawn together and a brooding cast to his features.
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