“Do be careful, Iago,” she murmured. “In a moment, he’ll be on your back.”
The boy shot a glance at the militant cat and edged cautiously away.
Moving stiffly, Jayne slid to her feet, smoothing rumpled skirts around her. “Tell me, what is happening aboard the Arcángel?”
“Diego says we’re returning to Dover,” he said unhappily.
“Without Calyx?” A surge of angry protest bubbled up. “Has Diego given up on him? Never fear, Iago. I shall put a swift end to this! Where is he?”
“At the helm, condesa.” When she started toward the door, the boy sprang forward and touched her arm. “The Lord High Admiral—your cousin, si?—when the capitán did not return, he placed the Arcángel at your brother’s command. They say he brings information for El Jefe, the spymaster.”
Walsingham. Jayne closed her eyes and tried to think. If Cousin Howard had placed the galleon at her brother’s command, she would be hard pressed to sway him from his duty.
Still, she refused to abandon Calyx to his fate.
Her eyes flew open. “What of Lord Beltran? Did he return from his fireship?”
“Si! Si!” The boy nodded vigorously. “Returned and left again on a fast zabra. Señora Linnet, she told him the capitán did not return. She sent him back out to comb the waters and shoreline near Calais. Don Beltran swore not to return without him.”
Thank God for Linnet Norwood.
Jayne gripped Iago’s hand and squeezed. If anyone could navigate waters swarming with the charred and bloody remnants of two navies, not to mention the privateers and scavengers who flocked like vultures in a battle’s wake, it would be the Queen’s Enforcer.
She too would return there. If her brother had taken command, she could deal with him. Just let her tidy herself and—
A flurry of muffled voices rang out above. Footfalls echoed against the deck overhead. Somewhere the ship’s bell sounded, though it seemed early for the changing of the watch. As she considered the likely cause of this minor commotion, her flagging spirits suffered another blow.
“What is happening, Iago?” she asked softly.
“It’s why I came to wake you, condesa.” His brown eyes were liquid with sympathy. “We’re making port in Dover.”
“Dover?”
Her meager strength drained away. Jayne subsided limply to the bed. While she slept the day away, the Arcángel had sailed across the Channel.
Well, she must simply arrange passage back to Calais, although that would take time Calyx did not have. Even if Diego could come about at once, under the best circumstances they would regain the French port well past nightfall. Then naught could be done to search until morning.
If Calyx lay injured and helpless on some isolated stretch of shore, by that time he could well be dead.
Abruptly, the exhaustion and strain of weeks overwhelmed her. Jayne covered her face with her hands and wept.
Chapter Twenty-Two
October 1588
South of England
The stone cottage on the emerald coast of Devon was snugly built, its trim green shutters and well-joined walls tight and trim when the first autumn storm blew in from the sea. God knew, the place was nothing grand, naught to compare with the opulent villa near Fontainebleau where she’d endured the long years of her exile.
But it was more largesse than Jayne had ever expected from her royal cousin, a belated recognition of her contribution to the war effort that drove Spain from England’s Protestant shores.
She’d asked for a home near the sea, with a deep-water port where Diego could anchor when the Arcángel returned from plying the waters between Calais and the North Sea in search of their missing captain.
They would search until she called them off, Jayne knew. No doubt it was time. Two months and more after the pride of Spain went down in disgrace, surely it was time to admit that Calyx de Zamorra would never return from his bold sortie.
Still, she could not bring herself to do it. She could not accept that all hope was lost, that the world had lost the intrepid adventurer who’d sailed its seas, the inventive tinkerer, the gifted astrologer, the passionate scholar, the charismatic pirate who returned laughing from voyages that swallowed lesser ships and lesser men.
An aching hole existed in place of her beating heart. She would never love again.
The storm broke during the night. Jayne arose from tossing, restless slumber to a world washed clean. The verdant shores glowed a vibrant green, blazing against the sparkling expanse of cobalt sea. Gazing through the mullioned glass from the window seat in her low-beamed chamber, she decided ’twas a fine day to send off a fresh round of petitions.
Letters to Elizabeth, to Walsingham, to Kin Carey and Linnet Norwood—for the Countess of Glencross had taken rooms at court while she awaited Zamiel’s return. Jayne had inundated every court connection she could reach with a relentless barrage of petitions.
Ryder would be ten years old at Candlemas. By all accounts, Dudley had cared for him generously and kindly. But he could not hope to keep her boy forever.
Aye, she would post another round of letters today. The morning had dawned so fine she saw no point in taxing her modest household with the chore. She would walk down to the harbor and post the letters herself.
Jayne strode down the rugged path that skirted the crumbling cliff. A crisp wind, tangy with sea brine, whipped the sting of color into her pale cheeks. For this foray into the public eye, she’d donned a smart riding habit of black broadcloth and coiled her hair under a French hood with a jaunty plume.
Although the village had welcomed Jayne and her modest income, her notorious past was still bruited about in inns and taprooms. She had no wish to fan the flames of gossip.
As she circled a rocky promontory, the harbor opened before her. Several fishing sloops and a merchant’s hulk bobbed against the weathered docks—beside a race-built galleon flying English colors. The gilded figurehead of an archangel blazed on the bow.
Hope unfurled in her battered heart. Vainly she fought to contain it.
Once before, Diego had returned, confounded by an utter lack of news about the fate of his absent captain. Mainly, he’d brought word of the Armada’s hellish crawl around the Scottish coast. What began as an organized retreat had swiftly deteriorated into a rout, with war-damaged vessels falling behind and foundering. One by one, the limping ships drove aground on the inhospitable shores of the Orkneys and the Hebrides. A flurry of severe storms had worsened the situation aboard the battered vessels.
She wondered if the newly minted Angel of Hurricanes was enjoying his exertions.
In her scant acquaintance with the former Dominion, Zamiel had struck her as a man capable of wringing enjoyment from nearly any situation.
No doubt Diego brought further news of the poor Spanish stragglers. If luck was with them, they would slip between hostile Scotland and the barbaric Irish isle and sail south at a brisk clip for Spain. Their fleet was too ravaged, their supplies and ordnance too depleted, and the season too advanced for Don Alonso—if he still lived—to venture another sortie against England this year.
Elizabeth must be wearing out her knees in gratitude to a benevolent God. Perhaps she would prove more amenable now to Jayne, more inclined toward mercy.
Struggling to tamp down the stubborn hope that flickered in her belly, Jayne hurried around the bend—
Only to collide with a hard, larger-than-life body striding along at a rapid pace. Too close to avoid, the figure barreled straight into her.
Seeing stars, Jayne staggered back. She would have fallen if not for the swift hands that steadied her. Blinking to clear her vision, she rubbed her aching forehead.
“Madre de Dios!” The achingly familiar voice snapped her upright. “Jayne?”
At that moment, the quixotic sun emerged from a scudding cloud and drenched the rocky shore in dazzling light. Limned against the glittering blue-and-silver brilliance of the sea below, Calyx de Zamorra stood braced in a seaman’s r
ough garments and scuffed boots, saber and cutlass belted at his hips. Sunlight glowed in his tousled hair. Golden sparks flared like angel fire in his mocha-dark eyes.
She feared her mind had given way at last. God in Heaven knew, she dreamed of Calyx nightly and fantasized about him daily—
He grinned down at her, white teeth flashing against tanned skin. Slowly, the reality of his presence seeped through her stunned brain.
“Calyx?” she whispered. A trembling hand rose to her throat. “Body of God! Is it truly you?”
An instant later, the breath was crushed out of her as he dragged her against his chest, strong arms closing around her as though he would never let go. The familiar fragrance of cypress and ambergris surrounded her, as real as the rough fustian of his battered doublet against her face.
At last, Jayne allowed herself to believe. Gasping, she gripped the cheap cloth of his doublet in both hands and clung to him. An impossible joy spiraled through her and sparkled in her blood.
She was sobbing, she realized, when his big hands cradled her head. But they were tears of the purest happiness she’d ever known. For once, she made no effort to contain them, but heaved with convulsive sobs that vented months of sustained grief and gnawing anxiety in violent paroxysms of release. He did naught to prevent her, but merely held her until the storm passed.
When she could manage, she drew a trembling breath and lifted her head.
“God be praised,” she whispered, gazing into his beloved face. He smiled down at her, eyes glowing molten with the celestial heritage that made him unique, his sensual mouth curved in a smile so tender she could easily imagine he loved her.
“Calyx.” She lifted unsteady fingers to touch the smooth plane of his cheek. “Where in God’s name have you been? What could possibly have happened to you?”
“The damn fuses went off too soon.” His mouth acquired a grim tilt. “I was blown clean off the Hope Hawkins and landed in the drink. Fortunately I managed to lash myself to a floating spar before I lost consciousness. I awoke in the hold of the Trinidad Valencera.”
Alarm spiraled through her and knotted her belly.
“Dear God in Heaven! That was Mordred’s ship.”
“No longer.” Calyx frowned. “He vanished after the fireships, I was told.”
“Vanished?” She stared blankly.
“Si.” His mouth flattened. “No one seems to know how or where. In truth, none of the Spaniards much care, given the trials that have befallen them in the northern seas. But I’ll warrant your Faerie Queene had something to do with it.”
“Do you think so?” Jayne thought about that. “Lord Beltran did say Morrigan never wanted him hurt in the first place—only thwarted. Still, who’s to say she had any part in it? Perhaps, with defeat looming and his plans in ruin, he merely fled?”
“Perhaps.” He looked grim. “In that case, I doubt his mother has heard the last of him.”
If Morrigan had him, Jayne wished her much joy with him. She could scarcely imagine England had seen the back of him. But without the Armada to transport the Prince of Camelot and his Faerie army to England’s shores, that plan had been overthrown. If Mordred still roamed the mortal plane, vengeful and brooding over the wreck of his plans, he would need time to conceive and execute any new scheme.
For a Faerie whose span of years numbered in the thousands, a mortal lifetime passed in a breath. No doubt Elizabeth Tudor counted herself well rid of him.
Here and now, a miracle had occurred. Calyx stood before her, whole and hale. Unable still to believe her good fortune, she ran her hands over his broad chest and shoulders, compulsively searching for hidden injury. Muscle bunched and rippled beneath her palms, a silent assurance he’d escaped unscathed.
Abashed by her own possessiveness, the shameless way she touched him, Jayne blushed and stepped back.
“If you were aboard a Spanish vessel, I suppose it explains why Lord Beltran was unable to locate you,” she murmured. “Lady Linnet writes that he returned to court most distraught.”
One could scarcely imagine the formidable Lord Beltran Nemesto as distraught. She supposed he must seem less impregnable to his wife, the absent Rhiannon. Perhaps he even unbent enough occasionally to dangle his infant son on his knee.
Calyx’s mouth twitched as though he’d followed her thought.
“But how did you escape?” she wondered.
“It wasn’t easy,” he grunted. “When I woke and realized where I was, I thought it wise to pretend to be someone else. I said I was a shipwrecked marinero from the Rata Encoranada, lost during the fighting. Fortunately, the capitán didn’t know me. I hid among his crew for days—until the ship ran aground in a hurricane.”
No doubt that had been Zamiel, flexing his newfound muscles. Unwilling to interrupt this tale she’d waited so long to hear, Jayne held her silence.
“In the chaos, I slipped away and took to my heels,” he resumed. “Finding the Arcángel a few days later, as I made my way south along the coast, was a sheer stroke of luck.”
“Your famous luck again.” She could never hear enough of his voice, she decided, his delicious voice rolling the liquid syllables of Spain. “Perhaps your father—your true father—was watching out for you.”
“You are my luck, belleza.” His eyes darkened with intent. “If you hadn’t convinced your brother to send the Arcángel after me, no doubt I’d have fallen into less friendly hands, like many of my compadres. Shipwrecks are scattered like driftwood up and down the Scottish coast. But you never gave up believing in me, did you?”
“Nay, I never did,” she whispered. “I shall never give up on you, Calyx.”
Jayne gazed up at him, knowing everything she felt for him must be blazoned across her face. She was past hiding how she felt for him. He closed in, his solid height and breadth backing her against the cliff.
“Mi tesoro,” he said huskily. One hand cupped her chin in his sword-toughened fist. She quivered beneath his touch. “While I sailed my fireship into the mouth of Hell—and later, all those long weary weeks as we straggled up the coast and I waited for my moment to escape, I cursed myself for the words I’d never found the courage to tell you.”
Her heart fluttered with fragile hope. With his return, God had given her everything she’d dared to pray for. She had never allowed herself to ask for more.
His dark gaze searched her face. “Querida, amore—te amo.”
My treasure, my darling, my love. I love you.
The words blazed through her brain like a coronation trumpet, like the Word of God falling from Heaven to nourish her parched and starving soul. She’d dreamed for so long of hearing those words, knowing he belonged to her as completely as she belonged to him. Yet she’d never dared believe she would actually hear them.
As she stared mutely up at him, stunned and trembling, a furrow appeared between his brows.
“I know a reformed pirate is hardly the right sort of husband for a proper English lady. I’ve lost my Castilian estates and title. I have a battered galleon and a mongrel crew and nothing else. But I’ll turn honest for a living, Jayne. I’ll turn the Arcángel into a respectable merchantman. I won’t ask you to marry a lawless pirate.”
“Husband?” Her unsteady lips could barely shape the word. “Marry?”
“I know you never dreamed of another marriage,” he said grimly, “after the one you survived with Boulaine. But I’d see you rid of the traitor’s name your Queen bestowed so cruelly. We’d both be Knyvetts, with my mother’s kin to welcome us. Elizabeth Tudor has promised me a knighthood for the night of the fireships.”
Aye, her royal cousin could be merciful when it pleased her—the more so when a virile, dashing hero like Calyx stood to benefit.
“Sir Calyx Knyvett?” Jayne murmured. “I feel as though I’m dreaming.”
“I assure you, Sir Calyx Knyvett is flesh and blood.” Tenderly he cupped her cheek, his thumb sweeping away a tear that spilled from one brimming eye. “I want to kno
w whether you’ll consent to be Lady Jayne Knyvett. Because I’m warning you now, I won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer. I’m a hellish stubborn sailor when thwarted, querida.”
He means it, she realized, with a dawning sense of wonder. He actually loved her. He wanted to marry her, with nothing in the world to gain from it. An incredulous laugh bubbled from her throat.
His eyes narrowed.
“Are you laughing at my proposal, Lady Jayne? Because I’m not budging from this spot until you accept.”
“Calyx!” Now laughter spilled out like water from a fountain, fed by the sparkling rise of happiness. “You already know my heart, for that is one secret I have singularly failed to keep. My dearest love, if you are certain—if this is truly your desire—”
“What I desire,” he growled, stepping forward, “is you in my arms, my bed and my life. I cast our stars, Jayne. I assure you, our match will be a happy one.”
Joy spiraling through her, she slid her arms around his neck. “Of that, I have not the slightest doubt. Our wedding night alone shall be pure magick.”
His kiss thrilled her to her fingertips, sent eddies of delight swirling through every limb, until she saw stars and planets of her own whirling through the glittering heavens behind her closed lids. When at last, reluctantly, they broke the kiss, she was dizzy and breathless with possibility.
Recollection surfaced slowly of her unfinished business. Indeed, God had not yet granted all her prayers. She squared her shoulders and touched the pouch of letters at her belt.
“I know you came straight from the harbor, Calyx,” she began, “but will you mind terribly if we return there together? I wish to post these letters without delay.”
To her surprise, he hesitated, glancing up the path toward the cottage. “What is the subject?”
“Petitions for the Queen.” Her jaw firmed. “If she will not grant me custody of my son by Christmas, I intend to go to court myself, although she has yet to invite me. In fact, I am looking into hiring a barrister.”
“Ah.” Comprehension cleared his face. “Querida, I’ll take your letters myself if you wish. There is no need to post them now. Is that your little cottage yonder, atop the cliff? Diego pointed it out for me.”
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