“Your restraint is to your credit,” she murmured. “I have always felt we share a duty to protect our precious children. ’tis unfortunate, is it not, that many seem not to share this view? They treat children as slaves to be abused or political capital to be leveraged.”
As they squeezed past the overturned bulk of the longboat lashed to the deck, his blond head swiveled toward her. As he searched her features, her heart skipped. She wondered suddenly what was in her face.
“You’re very right about that,” he said quietly. “Have you children of your own?”
Caught off guard, she floundered. An image formed in her mind: her precious boy at the age of three, all black curls and ruddy cheeks and somber blue eyes. Her throat swelled and ached as she felt again his trusting arms clinging to her neck. She’d struggled to control her own tears as she relinquished her darling to the stern-faced escort Elizabeth Tudor had dispatched to bring him to England.
To her horror, her eyes filled with tears now. She found herself standing stock-still, gripping the longboat for reassurance, staring speechless into Calyx’s warm gaze.
Blinking rapidly, she turned her face away.
“I have a son in England,” she said hoarsely. “The Queen’s favorite, Lord Robert Dudley, is his guardian. I have not seen him in years.”
He had no business at all towering over her, placing his powerful body like a bulwark between her and the commotion around them. No business peering down at her with furrowed brow, as though he struggled to understand her pain.
“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said at last, placing one big hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently. “That must be difficult for you.”
The steady reassurance of his touch seeped through her, offering a comfort that alarmed her more thoroughly than anything else he could have done. She found herself oddly tempted to lean into him. If she tilted her head slightly, she could lay her cheek against the callused strength of his hand.
Her body must be reacting because he was familiar, her only protection against the casual violence of the cutthroats who surrounded them. She must not allow a few hours of blind pleasure and pulse-pounding passion to blind her to reality.
Calyx de Zamorra was a ruthless pirate, commissioned to lead the massed might of the greatest enemy England had ever faced past her flimsy defenses. This was not a man she could trust.
Jayne swallowed hard and stepped back, letting his hand fall from her shoulder.
“Thank you for your sympathy, capitán,” she said lightly. “In truth, a child would be an impossible burden, entirely unsuited to a courtier’s life. I prefer a life of freedom and adventure—an impulse I am certain you can understand.”
“Indeed.” His face shuttered. “Let’s get below. Soon the watch will change. It will be chaos up here.”
For no reason she could fathom, her heart contracted as he turned away. Stiffening her spine, she followed his broad back.
Around her, men scaled masts and rigging, unfurling sails, knotting ropes, cleaning cannons and a hundred other mysterious duties she couldn’t begin to fathom. One and all, they paused to nod respectfully or salute their captain as he strode past. He hailed them in return and issued commands with calm authority. In combat, she thought, these men would willingly die for him.
Their curious gazes lingered on her with more speculation than she liked, given her recent encounter with the lustful Martinez. But in Calyx’s presence, no man offered a hint of offense.
She was the captain’s mistress, after all. The thought of what he might demand in exchange for his protection, if she were still aboard at bedtime, flooded her body with sinful heat.
They were nearing the officers’ cabins when she glimpsed a solitary figure braced in the fighting castle—stark robes streaming like ribbons of ink in the storm-lashed wind, crucifix swinging against a broad chest, gilded hair gleaming against glowering skies, sword strapped to his back like a proclamation. To her heightened senses, the air seemed to bend around him.
Across the distance, the powerful aura of magickal energy called to her. Like to like, Faerie to Faerie.
An unpleasant chill slithered down her spine. Mordred, Prince of Camelot and King of the Spanish Fae, was aboard the Arcángel.
And he appeared to be staring straight at her.
Somehow she managed to keep moving, to pretend she’d noticed nothing and felt nothing.
Calyx halted, head lifting as though he’d heard something out of place. She slipped up beside him, her senses prickling. Unerringly his gaze rose to the fighting deck.
If she required any further evidence that the capitán of the Arcángel possessed his own magick, she’d just found it. He’d sensed her magick, and clearly he sensed Mordred’s.
Swiftly she calculated the risks of speaking and decided to take the plunge. How else could she ferret out the role of the Hagas—the Spanish Fae—in this Armada?
“I see you have a priest aboard,” she said casually. “Is he your chaplain?”
“Hardly.” Calyx snorted. “That’s Mordred, our fighting priest.”
“Fighting priest?” Probing, she arched her brows. “That sounds like a contradiction in terms.”
The corner of his mouth curved up. That smile affected her strangely, making her restless heart stumble.
“He’s certainly that, though I barely know the man. He boarded yesterday and keeps to himself.” His big shoulders lifted. “He’s a Blade of God—a monastic order of fighting clergy who support the Inquisition. It’s their job to interrogate and punish witches and heretics. Philip calls them God’s enforcers.”
“Your Enterprise must be their favorite cause,” she said dryly.
Mordred, Prince of Camelot, had certainly chosen a bold disguise. He pretended to be his own enemy, a ruthless crusader whose sacred duty was to ferret out unbelievers and burn them at the stake. The disguise placed Mordred above the law, his loyalties above suspicion. Spain’s fervent Catholics would view him with awe and terror—and spring to obey his every command.
She could scarcely comprehend a Faerie royal so powerful he could wear a Christian symbol around his neck without falling into agonized convulsions. Even for a half-Fae like Mordred, with mortal King Arthur for a father, the degree of self-command and fortitude he must possess was frightening.
The full force of his strange magick was bent upon England’s destruction. Though why he cared for England, when he stood to inherit the crown of Camelot, she could not fathom.
You play a deep game, Mordred of Camelot—you and your Spanish Hagas. I would do Elizabeth a great service if I could decipher your plan.
The focused intensity of his regard prickled her skin like a rash. Surely the King of the Spanish Fae would know the storm just past had reeked with Faerie magick.
Calyx frowned up at the Blade of God, brow furrowed as though he too sensed something amiss.
“He who lives by the sword,” he murmured, “shall die by it. No man knows that better than I.”
As she studied the capitán of the Arcángel, limned in the odd radiance of that stormy light, the strange certainty stole through her that he too was more than he appeared. The light glimmered on the silver key, blazoned with Hebrew sigils, against his corded neck.
As she struggled to decode the enigma of him, his jaw knotted and he swung toward her.
“My Enterprise,” he said curtly. “A moment ago, that was what you called it.”
Startled by the sudden tension bristling though him, she tilted her head.
“Isn’t it? You are Philip’s bloodhound on this holy crusade, are you not? Sworn to lead this Armada through Neptune’s perils to England’s heretic shores.”
His amber eyes darkened with secrets.
“I’m a pirate,” he said after a moment, as though he’d considered saying something else. “Don’t make the mistake of believing my heart burns with Catholic zeal.”
Startled, she stammered, “But—you are one of Philip’s senior officers—”
“Like any rogue, my services are for sale to the highest bidder,” he said brusquely. “Unfortunately for England, the highest bidder is always Spain.”
Surprise fluttered in her stomach. Had the formidable Lord Calyx, the Scourge of the Spanish Main, just tipped his hand? Was this confidence a trap to trick her—or an invitation to negotiate?
Caution whispered through her. She had no authority to negotiate or promise anything for England. Francis Walsingham might trust her intelligence, but her royal cousin despised her.
As for the man beside her, no matter what transpired between them in his bed, this was not a man she could trust.
“Poor England,” she said lightly, turning away from that probing gaze. “One could feel sorry for Cousin Elizabeth. Almost.”
Across the width of the galleon, Mordred of Camelot was still watching her.
Chapter Nine
Jayne paced through the opulent clutter of the captain’s cabin like a caged lion, bristling with agitation and leashed violence. She’d retreated here at his insistence, but she’d never intended to remain.
Unfortunately, the moment she’d stepped inside, Calyx had grinned unapologetically and said, “Sorry.”
Then he’d backed out and locked her in. And she’d been trapped here for hours.
In vain Jayne protested, implored, negotiated and reasoned through the wood. At last she pounded on the door and shouted until her throat felt raw and her voice went hoarse. With every minute that ticked past, the refuge of safe harbor receded behind her. Every hour, the Armada swept closer to England’s hapless shores.
When the page Iago arrived with the promised tray, she stormed past—only to discover Diego Domingo guarding the door. With a rueful smile, he ushered her back to captivity.
At last, Jayne lost her countenance. The primero left her sputtering curses and uttering dire threats against his captain that had him brimming with suppressed laughter.
As the hours wore past, she marked time by the captain’s mechanical clock—a remarkable device whose hidden door swung open to disgorge a stern-faced angel with a flaming sword.
“Very clever, capitán,” she murmured, forced to admire the delicate mechanism. “Did you make it yourself, I wonder?”
It would serve him right if I hurl it at his arrogant head.
The clear morning light ripened to afternoon, then dwindled to a gold-and-purple twilight. When darkness fell, she lit a glass-walled lantern and took stock of her circumstances.
She could no longer deny the unpalatable truth. She was the Spaniard’s prisoner, trapped aboard the very galleon that would herald England’s doom.
Even if Jayne did nothing, surely Elizabeth could rely upon her seadogs—adventurers like Sir Walter Raleigh, the notorious pirate Sir Francis Drake, and the Lord High Admiral Charles Howard, who was Jayne’s distant cousin—to intercept the Armada and save the day.
But Spain’s bloated squadrons outweighed and outgunned the nimble defense of England’s modest fleet.
If Raleigh and Drake worked miracles, the Arcángel could be driven onto the rocks, burned to the waterline or sunk. Wretched though her life had been since her exile, Jayne had no wish to end it. Who would protect Ryder from the Queen’s machinations if his mother perished at sea?
Too, for some unfathomable reason, she felt strangely distressed by the notion of the proud Arcángel and her bold, brilliant, domineering capitán rotting on the ocean floor.
Sighing, Jayne prowled the confines of his cabin. By now, she knew every inch of the place by heart. She studied the vivid scenes of vengeful angels, punishing angels, merciful angels and angels in battle that blazed from his walls, the clutter of tribal masks and exotic trinkets that bespoke his far-flung travels. She leafed through the small library of well-thumbed volumes in a dozen languages that crowded his shelves: Greek, Hebrew, Italian—even a Koran inscribed in the strangely beautiful dots and dashes of infidel script.
If Calyx de Zamorra could truly read all of them, the man must be a prodigy.
Apparently the captain’s eclectic interests ranged from Bible lore and mathematics to the sciences and the occult. The almanac bursting with planetary tables lay open on his desk, beside a marvelous bronze armillary that could be wound like a clock. When she turned its tiny key, heavenly bodies revolved around the sun’s central orb.
Nearby lay a mechanical mouse on wheels that looked suspiciously like a cat’s toy, an assortment of tiny gears spread around it.
As for last night’s intriguing sea of papers, that treasure trove was nowhere to be found. Beneath his bunk lay a brassbound chest she eyed greedily as the likely repository of the missing documents. But, deprived of her lock pick, the sturdy padlock defeated her efforts.
As for the bed, piled high with lush furs, reeking of ambergris and sex, she gave a wide berth to that couch of sin.
Filled with simmering restlessness, Jayne paused before the tall mirror, a cloudy oval of glass in a silver frame. The glass must be ancient, as she could barely find herself—black curls tumbled around an anxious face—floating in its depths. By some trick of the light, the dancing flame of her lantern seemed to be moving, as though it traveled on its own accord behind the glass.
The changeable twilight transformed her features, curls shifting from black to russet, eyes glowing topaz like twin candles. Her lips parted, as though she would speak...
Oddly disconcerted, Jayne spun away from the unsettling image. Feeling foolish, she caught up her discarded gown of crimson damask and tossed it over the glass. Though she knew it for pure fancy, the pressure of watchful eyes seemed to ease.
She unhinged the leaded glass porthole and swung it wide. An invigorating breath of briny air blew into the close confines of her cell. She inhaled deeply. Beneath the violet heavens, the sea was thick with the sinister masts and turrets of the Spanish fleet. Golden lanterns bobbed among the rigging. Bursts of laughter and song floated across the water, snatches of the liquid tongue of Spain.
Pushing back the host of troubles jostling for prominence in her weary brain, she let the stillness of the star-strewn heavens seep through her.
Though she’d been raised in the well-worn comfort of a country estate, the sea had always meant freedom and adventure. She could not weave her weather magick from any enclosed place. Yet her magickal connection to the elements sustained her, and the vast power of the ocean compelled her.
Rather like the Spanish pirate who sailed his stolen galleon so boldly through the deep.
The thought snuck past the careful control she’d maintained over her turbulent emotions all day—since she awoke in Calyx’s bed. Her susceptibility to his seduction unsettled her, when she routinely rebuffed similar overtures from far more powerful men. Her own body had betrayed her. It could never be allowed to happen again.
Her strength and wits were her only allies. If they failed her, she was doomed.
She was still kneeling before the porthole, her body tingling with magick, her soul yearning for freedom, when the door opened.
“You look like the Lady of Shalott,” his familiar voice rumbled—sounding amused, damn the man. “Some mythical creature from Arthurian legend, pining for love from your tower.”
The heat of battle climbed in her cheeks.
“I’m flesh and blood, capitán,” she said coolly, “not some ethereal creature from a Faerie tale. I boarded this vessel as a guest at your King’s invitation. By what right do you hold me captive?”
His powerful frame filled the doorway, lamplight gilding his billowing shirt and cropped silver-blond hair, glinting on the saber and cutlass strapped to his supple hips. He angled sideways to squeeze through the lintel, a loaded tray in his arms. Immediately the cluttered cabin felt smaller, as though the room shrank around his commanding presence.
“I could say you’re my honored guest.” His booted foot nudged the door closed. “That we sailed with you aboard by accident. That I intend to put you off at the first convenient po
rt.”
Across the width of the cabin, his dark eyes gleamed. “But that would be a lie. And deception, condesa, is the one sin I will not abide.”
A warning prickled along her nerves. As he advanced, she circled away, unwilling to be trapped between the porthole and the dangerous promise of his bed. As he lowered the tray to the desk, the rich aroma of fowl mingled with the yeasty smell of fresh-baked bread. Her mouth watered.
Firmly she kept her mind on her business.
“So you admit to holding me against my will—a citizen of a foreign power and your King’s staunch ally? I am attempting to imagine, Lord Calyx, why in God’s name you would consider this act prudent.”
Uncovering the array of dishes, releasing clouds of fragrant steam that made her belly rumble, he slanted her a keen glance.
“I deemed it prudent when I discovered the lock pick so cleverly concealed in your charming fan. I deemed it prudent to get to the bottom of your presence in my cabin and on this ship. After today’s freakish weather, I now deem it prudent to determine precisely who and what you are.”
He propped one hip against his desk and folded his arms across his broad chest. “I hope you like this cabin. Because you won’t be setting your pretty foot outside it until I understand precisely what mischief you intended to accomplish aboard my ship.”
Well, I asked for an answer. Somehow, she’d harbored the foolish fancy that he’d detained her to prolong their amorous dalliance.
Suddenly she was far too conscious of his bed, the piled furs exuding the musk of shared passion. She was too conscious of his muscled shoulders, the strong clean lines of his brutal beauty, the idle threat of his callused fingers drumming an impatient tattoo.
She knew intimately what mayhem those fingers could wreak. For him, she’d cast aside a decade of caution and restraint. She’d fallen to pieces under the sinful magick of those hands and his wicked tongue.
Suddenly the air between them was taut and thrumming.
Jayne cleared her throat, the tiny sound magnified in the fraught silence.
“Tell me, capitán, do I detect the heavenly aroma of capon in shallots and wine sauce? And were you planning to offer me the dish, or merely to let me smell it until I break down and tell you everything?”
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