“Untrue,” Beltran said firmly. “The Nephilim were evil, solitary, cursed beings, neither mortal nor angel, doomed to perish under Jehovah’s wrath. Both Zamiel and I have chosen mortal love and mortal life. Our children are mortal and Fae, like the women we’ve chosen to wed.”
Zamiel took issue with this, but Jayne barely heard the quarrel. Ever since she’d realized Catarina de Zamorra may well have encountered one of these fallen angels, since she’d learned of these half-angel offspring and their unusual attributes, an impossible suspicion had been growing.
A race of giants, warlike and lustful, who taught the arts of mathematics and astrology and mechanics to their mortal brethren.
Calyx’s words echoed through her brain.
“Haven’t they told you I’m a freak, the son of a madwoman and a monster? The same bad blood pumps through my veins...”
She did not believe Calyx was a freak. Yet he clearly sensed something that set him apart from others. Could it be possible Calyx himself was one of these forbidden beings—these abominations, as Beltran called them?
If she ventured even to hint at such a wild notion, Calyx would be nothing but suspicious. But if he could speak with them—the former Archangel and the former Dominion—might he not listen, despite his own natural skepticism?
What would such knowledge do to him? It could be the best thing for him, the healing truth that his mother had not been mad, that he himself was not a murderer’s son.
Or the knowledge could destroy him, confirming the worst of the dark doubts he harbored about his nature.
While these thoughts hurtled through her brain like meteors, an exasperated Linnet Norwood brokered peace between the two combatants, now bristling at each other across the cabin.
“See here,” Jayne said abruptly, rubbing her aching temples. “I have spoken of Lord Calyx, the captain of this galleon. This is his cabin, and sooner or later he will return. What are the three of you planning to do? About this war, and about Mordred?”
To her relief, the quarreling men hunkered down to business.
“If Mordred is indeed aboard this galleon,” Beltran said curtly, “our course is clear. We’ll fire the powder room, blow this ship sky-high, and have done with the wretch, once and for all.”
“Fire the Arcángel?” Jayne cried. Every particle of her being rose up against the notion. “You cannot!”
As three surprised faces turned toward her, she struggled to master the unruly emotions jostling in her breast.
“There are three hundred men aboard this ship—and one cat. Not all of them are monsters! Would you slaughter hundreds of innocents for the sake of one villain?”
Zamiel cocked his dark head. “Elizabeth Tudor would say they’re Spaniards, invading a foreign land for gold and glory. Do they not deserve their fate?”
“If we were all treated as we deserve, my lord Zamiel, this world would be a grim place indeed.” Jayne struggled to summon words they would heed. “Did not Christ Himself say, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone’?”
“True,” Beltran said slowly. His brow furrowed as he searched their faces. Jayne had the sudden sense this soul-searching was new to him, that once he would have condemned the Arcángel out of hand. “Yet He also warned that men who lived by the sword will die by it. Do they not deserve their fates, these fanatics and would-be butchers?”
“But Calyx is different!” Desperate to convince him, Jayne jumped to her feet. “He despises the fanatic’s faith that condemned his mother. He fights because he is paid to fight, his crew likewise. He does not deserve to rot at the bottom of the sea!”
Linnet Norwood was watching her with eyes like clear amber, soft with compassion, as though she sensed the fragile shoots unfurling in Jayne’s guarded heart. Dear God in Heaven, what must the woman think of her? Here she stood, pampered captive to a pirate, hotly defending her captor when she should be howling for vengeance.
Suddenly fearful of Linnet’s questions and the uncomfortable truths they would force her to confront, Jayne did some pacing of her own.
Beltran heaved a sigh. “Simple though it would be to fire this ship, I suppose we must find another way. My own wife swore an oath to Morrigan. The Faerie Queene may be furious with her estranged son, but she doesn’t want him dead. Only thwarted.”
Jayne took heart at this. “You came through the mirror with a plan, did you not? You could not have expected to step through the glass and fall over Mordred’s feet.”
“Nor did we,” Beltran snorted. “Our plan was to engage la Feé in France, incite them to turn against him. Both Elizabeth and Morrigan are offering terms they believe la Feé would welcome. We thought Mordred would go there for aid. But it seems he went to the Hagas—la Feé’s ancient enemies—instead.”
“But this is perfect!” Jayne exclaimed. “How better to interest la Feé in England’s troubles? Would they not be even more likely to heed you?”
“If we could reach them,” he grunted. “We’re stranded in the middle of the ocean. For all our planning, that was one obstacle we failed to anticipate.”
“But Lord Calyx has promised to put me ashore! We can surely contrive to smuggle you off as well. You need only wait until the weather clears.”
Beltran strode to the porthole and scowled into the driving rain. “That could take days.”
“Somehow I doubt it.” Jayne lowered her gaze demurely. “The question is, how shall we conceal you in the meantime?”
Chapter Fourteen
The rain had slowed to an occasional gust by the time Calyx returned to his cabin, grimly aware he’d been putting off the matter of Jayne Boleyn. She was a saboteur and a liar who’d been sharing his bed for days, and she was very good at her work. Despite his suspicions, he’d given her free rein to wreak havoc.
Por Dios, he’d even been on the edge of confiding his hidden motive for joining this Armada, his plan when they reached the English coast. Thank Christ he hadn’t been fool enough to do that.
He’d nearly made the mistake of trusting her.
And he never made the same mistake twice.
A red tide of fury burned through his gut. Her treachery simmered like heartburn in his chest. Dark resolve knotted his shoulders and clenched his jaw as he strode toward his cabin.
When he realized Iago was not at his post, fresh anger flared. He’d given the chico strict instructions to ensure the little traitor stayed put. If he opened the door to find her gone, he’d turn this entire galleon on its ear. He’d search until he found his alluring saboteur and wring her pretty neck.
The door—unlocked—opened easily in his hand. Calyx cursed again.
In the dim glow of his storm lantern, a tangle of sleeping bodies lay among piled furs. There was Iago, the little monkey, curled up like a cat, face pillowed on his hand. Across his feet reposed the panther-like bulk of Behemoth, idly washing a sable paw the size of a sailing oar.
Beside them, Jayne Boleyn slept peacefully as an infant. The flush of sleep stained her creamy skin. Her slender limbs spilled from the billowing fabric of his shirt.
Relief washed over him.
Marooned on the threshold of his own cabin, Calyx felt like an intruder, which only added fuel to the flames.
He took in this tender tableau, fists clenched helplessly at his sides, grimly aware of the poignant sting of regret. If Jayne had been another sort of woman, if he’d been another sort of man, he could have come home every night to such a cozy scene.
But he was a pirate, destined to live out his days alone—a freak and a misfit. And Jayne Boleyn was a damn liar. She’d make any man’s life a living hell.
Curtly he said, “Iago.”
His page stretched comfortably and opened one eye. When he glimpsed his captain’s scowling form towering over him, the boy gasped and leaped to his feet.
“Capitán! I can explain—”
“I’ll deal with you later,” he clipped out. “For now, you’re dismissed. And take this galley c
at with you.”
Caution infused the boy’s thin face as he glanced toward Behemoth. The creature tensed, tail lashing, eyes flaming like cinders in his sooty face. A baritone growl rumbled ominously from his throat.
“Never mind,” Calyx said hastily. “Leave him and go.”
“I’m sorry I fell asleep, capitán! I don’t know what happened—”
“Iago.” Each word chopped down like an executioner’s axe. “Just. Go.”
With a miserable glance at his bedmate, now stirring from her own guilty sleep, Iago stammered a wretched apology and fled. Calyx quashed a pang of guilt over his peremptory treatment. Clearly he’d been too soft with the boy, this orphan he’d rescued from the stews, if he felt free to sleep on duty and abandon his post at will. His laxness had done the chico no favors.
Iago slammed the door behind him.
From the bed, Jayne struggled into a sitting position and blinked at him reproachfully.
“It would not kill you to be less of a tyrant,” she murmured. “He is very young to stand such a watch. When they brought my supper tray, I found him asleep in the companionway. I simply had him carried inside.”
The fact that he knew she was right, that a child like Iago had no place aboard a pirate ship, only made him more wrathful.
“You should be more concerned with your own fate, Lady Jayne.”
A wary look invaded her features, as if she’d only now sensed the black rage burning in his heart. Her gaze flickered toward the inky night that pressed against the porthole. In the distance, the dim lantern of a galley bobbed above uneasy seas.
“As you see,” he said curtly, “your storm has abated.”
“My storm?” she said softly.
“Don’t bother lying to me, Jayne, though I realize deception comes natural as breathing to you. I know you’ve been trifling with the weather since the night you boarded. I’ve studied the magickal arts, remember? There’s an obscure strain of Faerie magick, if one believes in the Fair Folk. Weather magick.”
The flash of alarm that surfaced in her turquoise eyes gave him all the confirmation he needed.
“So it’s true,” he said flatly. “I heard your Queen’s astrologer, Dr. John Dee, give a lecture once in Padua. He claimed the Fae were more than folklore. He said they dwell in a realm called the Summer Lands, ruled by a Faerie Queene, a shadow kingdom that drifts like a memory beside mortal England, hidden behind a magickal Veil.”
Gravely she gazed up at him. A crease appeared in the smooth skin between her black brows. He couldn’t begin to imagine what she was thinking.
But that had always been their problem, hadn’t it?
“I will tell you no lies, Calyx, since you ask for honesty.” Her tongue traced her parted lips. “I am mortal, of course, but the Boleyns have a few drops of Faerie blood. I lack the powerful gifts of a pure Fae, lack any formal training. My magick only came upon me after—after Dudley took my maidenhead. ’tis sex-linked, apparently.
“I can sometimes...influence the elements, but only to do more swiftly or dramatically what they are inclined to do anyway. I merely...lean into the weather. Sometimes, when I’m startled, I might summon wind or lightning without meaning to—as I did the night we met.”
Steadily she watched him. “You comprehend, of course, that I have just placed my life in your hands.”
He absorbed that admission, low and hard, like a blow to the belly. They were alone at sea, surrounded by a whole bloody Armada of fanatical Catholics who would howl for her blood. He held her life cradled in the palm of his hand—just as she held his beating heart in hers.
The knowledge made him furious. He ought to have followed his own rules, enjoyed her succulent little body and kept her firmly at arms’ length. Instead he’d poured his secrets into her open ears—his mother’s torment, his father’s brutality, his bad blood and all the rest. She’d pretended to listen, pretended to sympathize—then repaid his trust by sabotaging his ship.
Faced with his silence, she drew her knees to her chest. Her wide eyes shadowed with fear, a reaction that twisted his gut.
“Si, your life is in my hands now.” His voice scraped, rough as shattered timber, in his throat. “Fortunately for you, I don’t want it. And I don’t want you.”
Something in her face fractured. She turned aside, concealing her reaction.
“You wanted me last night,” she said huskily, “and the night before. My body still aches with how much you wanted me.”
He hardened his heart against this show of vulnerability.
“You were one more woman who spent a few nights in my bed,” he said harshly. “Just as I was one of many in yours.”
Some part of him hoped she’d deny it.
Her arms tightened around her knees.
“In that case, I gather I am no longer your mistress.”
“You stopped being my mistress the moment you sabotaged my ship.”
He hurled the words like a weapon, privately surprised to realize how furious he still was.
She was a talented liar, no doubt of it. As the ugly accusation filled the air, her aquamarine eyes widened and her lush mouth parted, as though he’d stunned her into silence. A long moment passed.
“What are you speaking of?” she said slowly. “Yesterday’s storm was none of my doing. When I am confined, I can do naught with the weather.”
A fresh tide of rage rolled through him. “Still you prevaricate! Thanks to your act of vandalism, my water casks are holed, my cargo knee-deep in drinking water, and half the men aboard are thirsty tonight.”
“Your cargo...?” She blinked rapidly. “God’s Eyes! But that was not—”
“Not one more word, Jayne. I’m warning you.” His voice was a subterranean growl. What he really wanted was to bellow. “I told you I could tolerate anything from you but deception. You’ve been lying to me since the moment you climbed aboard this ship.”
“Calyx.” She smoothed a trembling hand over her sleek spill of raven hair. “I cannot deny I have been—less than forthcoming. How could I reveal to you—a Spanish officer—that I possess abilities your Inquisitors would condemn as vile witchcraft? But I swear to you, I would never—”
“Just tell me why you did it.” He’d sworn not to ask her, told himself her motives were irrelevant. He would shortly be quit of her. Yet the question tore from his throat of its own accord.
“I’d already agreed to put you ashore, si? Was it a random act of spite, condesa? Or do you have compatriots on every galleon in this fleet, planning acts of mayhem on all of them?”
“For mercy’s sake, you know that is untrue!” she cried, stung to an emotional response at last. Unless this, too, was a pretense. “You know perfectly well I never meant to be aboard when you sailed at all! I summoned one storm that first day, of course I did. But I—as I grew to know you and Diego and young Iago and others, I—”
“You what?” he fired back savagely. “Are you going to claim you fell in love with me?”
The words he’d never meant to speak fell like a hammer. She stared at him, immobilized, face white and stark as she knelt in his flowing shirt and precious little else. A strange sense of urgency simmered in his blood and swelled in his chest, as though somehow he expected her to admit it.
In their stolen interludes as the sea rocked them to sleep, they’d said everything to each other except that. He’d never told a woman he loved her, not since his long-ago inamorata at the Spanish court had thrown his boyish devotion back in his face.
He was a butcher and a pirate, the Scourge of the Spanish Main. He was a freak, the son of a murderer and a madwoman. He wasn’t capable of love.
As for her—his mistress, his captive, his saboteur, his bane—he thought she might have been capable of it once. When she grieved for the mother who died too soon, for the father and brother who failed her, for the lover who abandoned her to face a Queen’s wrath, her entire soul had ached with lost love.
But the violated virgin of f
ifteen was a different woman entirely from this sophisticated siren who shared his bed one night and sabotaged his ship the next.
Are you going to claim you fell in love with me?
They both knew how she must respond to the words he’d flung at her, practically daring her to veer from their little script. Now she would laugh lightly and deflect him with a cutting jest. Then the world would begin turning again.
Still she gazed at him, lips parted, eyes changeable as the sea after a storm. A pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat.
She moistened her lips. “I...”
“Si, condesa?” His voice was silken with savage expectation, heart tripping oddly in his chest.
“I...” Biting her lip, she glanced down and shook her head. “My feelings are unimportant. Believe what you will about me and my calumny, but the saboteur you are seeking is Naldo Luis de Nicanor.”
Whatever he’d been expecting her to say, the last thing he’d expected was Nicanor’s name. For a heartbeat, he didn’t give a damn about Nicanor or this bloody-minded act of sabotage. He wanted to turn back the mechanical clock ticking away on his desk. He wanted her to finish what she’d started to say.
But that was madness. His sole purpose was to condemn her and have done with it.
“Odd you should mention Nicanor,” he said pointedly, “since he’s leveled the finger at you. You must have known he spotted you slinking away from the hold. You already knew my relations with him are not cordial. Perhaps you thought I’d be eager to believe this senseless act was his doing? That a grandee of the Spanish army would sabotage his own mission?”
She scrambled to her feet—a wicked distraction, since his shirt barely skimmed her supple thighs.
“He holds a grudge against you, Calyx! No doubt he wants off your ship. He is a small-minded, spiteful weasel of a man who would gladly have thrown in a little rape at knifepoint if your Behemoth had not prevented him.”
The word rape slashed through him like a blade to the belly. His world turned sideways. Dark memories crowded his head: the atrocities he’d witnessed all across the Mediterranean, chained to an oar in the stinking hold of his galley. Wrathful though he was, no woman deserved that horror.
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