Since then, the viceroy of Nueva España had insisted on having the best, most vicious and tyrannical officers posted at Nombre de Dios. They were placed in charge of the misfits and miscreants culled from garrisons elsewhere along the Main, the more brutal and bloodthirsty the better.
As the capitán del navío, Recalde would have been in charge of the attack on the Argus. Aquayo was little more than a figurehead, a nobleman who had been rewarded with a prestigious command as a show of favor by the Spanish king, but Recalde had chosen his profession and he obviously excelled in his work if he had been in command at Nombre de Dios.
Nathan might have been right. It might have been better had she been as cold-blooded as her brother Jonas, who would have placed the two shots right through Recalde’s eyes without troubling to wait for any justification.
Sighing, rubbing her temple with a weary hand, Juliet removed her bandana and used it to swab the dampness on the back of her neck. The air in the cabin was stifling. She frowned at the blackened tarps, then at the shadowy outline in her berth. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound since she had returned to the cabin.
She filled her goblet with the last of the rumbustion in the bottle and glanced over at the second body. Beacom was stretched out on the floor like a corpse, his hands folded over his chest, the heels of his shoes touching together, the toes pointing straight up.
“Damned Englishmen,” she muttered.
Taking the goblet with her, she pulled aside the section of tarp that covered the narrow door to the gallery, and opened it. Almost instantly, she could feel the heat being sucked out of the cabin and she opened it wider, listening to the sound of the wake curling out behind her ship. The clouds were thicker, completely blanketing the sky, and the wind had picked up considerably, tugging peevishly at the loose threads of her hair. The darkness made it more difficult to see the Santo Domingo riding off their stern, but she was there, a dark shape against a smothered sky.
For the fleetest of moments, Juliet allowed her mind to reconstruct the picture of the Spanish warship closing on the crippled Argus, the monstrous cannon belching smoke and flame in such a continuous barrage the two ships had become engulfed in the sulfurous yellow clouds. Crisp had thought she was mad to take the Iron Rose in, but she had been flung back five years in her mind, imagining it to be similar to the predicament her mother had found herself in: a galleon bearing down, the valiant Black Swan in shambles, her decks on fire, her crew struggling to prevent the inevitable.
Fate, in the form of a hideous boil on the bottom of her foot, had kept Juliet at home on Pigeon Cay; otherwise she would have been on board the Swan during that doomed voyage. She knew … she knew there was little she could have done to affect the outcome one way or another, yet it still weighed heavily on her mind and conscience that she had not been at her normal place on the Swan’s quarterdeck. Instead, she had been lying on a beach studying astral charts while her father kept a terrible vigil by his wife’s side.
Juliet closed her eyes and concentrated on steadying her hands.
Yes indeed, she had proved herself the equal of any man in the years that followed. Her crew deemed her fearless and looked to her to bring them victory and glory despite impossible odds, despite the clawing doubts that gripped her every time she gave the command that sent the gunners to their posts. They thought her iron-willed and ironclad, afraid of nothing, never hesitating to answer a challenge with her sword or her ship.
They never saw the aftermath, of course. The quiet hour when her hands shook and her bones shivered, when her chest felt so constricted she could scarcely catch a breath and hold it.
She raised the goblet to her lips and managed to hold it steady enough to drink the rest of the rum. It was not enough—it was never enough to erase the taste of blood and gunpowder—and she returned to her desk in search of more. The bottle, when she tipped it, was empty. Cursing, she went to the bookcase for another and her knee caught the edge of the chair as she passed. She kicked it savagely out of the way and when it did not instantly break apart, she lifted it by the two hind legs and smashed it against the wall, splitting the backrest from the seat and sending pieces of wood flying across the cabin. In a fit of added temper, she scraped the Santo Domingo’s manifests and logbooks off her desk, scattering papers into the air like snow.
Varian had managed to drift in and out of a fitful sleep through most of the evening. He had come instantly awake when Juliet had first returned to the cabin, but since she chose to work quietly at her desk, he elected to remain quietly turned on his side away from her and pretend he was still asleep.
It was impossible to ignore a breaking chair, however, or a woman who cursed like a London wharf rat.
“If you plan to hurl more furniture, could you at least give me fair warning?”
Juliet gasped and stared at the pale form on the bed. She stared for a full minute without speaking, which gave Varian time to roll onto his back without sending his head into another potentially fatal spin.
“I … I thought you were asleep,” she stammered.
“That should give me comfort?”
“Your comfort,” she said with narrowed eyes, “is not my prime concern. And I suppose I’ve disturbed your rest as well?” she asked, glaring at Beacom.
“Oh. Oh, no, madam. No, not at all.”
“Good. Then you won’t mind fetching me another bottle of rum, since my supply seems to be sadly depleted.”
Beacom scrambled to his feet. “Indeed, Captain. Where might I find one?”
“In the galley. Ask for Johnny Boy, he’ll show you where I keep my private stores.”
“Th-the galley?”
“One deck down, in the stern.”
Beacom looked to his master, who nodded imperceptibly and tipped his head toward the door. When it closed behind him, Varian glanced wryly at the shattered parts of chair that had flown all the way to the floor beside his berth.
“Bravo, Captain. Most women claim not to have the strength to lift a chair, much less the ability to reduce it to kindling.”
“I warrant I can meet my Maker happily now, knowing I am so set apart from the more dainty creatures of your acquaintance.”
“My dear Captain Dante, you may believe you were set apart the instant I first glimpsed you on board the Santo Domingo.”
“Even with my shoulder drooping from fatigue?”
“Even so, madam.” He almost smiled, relishing the knowledge that he had obviously pricked her vanity with his earlier criticism.
“Rest assured, you were set apart as well, sirrah.”
He arched a dark brow. “Was I?”
“Indeed. I vow I have never seen such a delicate shade of violet on a man before.”
“Ahh. I thought a kind word for my fighting prowess might be too much to expect.”
“You got yourself blown up; that hardly merits praise for your prowess.”
The light from the lantern cast a yellowish glow over her shoulders, drawing his gaze downward. She had removed her heavy leather doublet and wore only a voluminous white cambric shirt that was uncommonly vulnerable to light and shadow. The shape of her breasts was visible, as was the trimness of her waist.
For a rough-cut sea urchin, she appeared to be rather provocatively proportioned.
Thankfully she moved out of the circle of light. With a grimace that suggested she was human enough to have suffered some aches and pains after the day’s activities, she lowered herself haltingly onto one knee and began gathering the papers she had scattered on the floor.
Ingrained manners sent Varian’s hand to lift a corner of his blanket but a glimpse of hair and flesh stopped him. “Understand, Captain, that I would hasten to offer my assistance, but I still find myself at a slight disadvantage.”
She waved his apology aside and put the first handful of papers on the table. For the second, she had to stretch farther afield and as she leaned forward, she tottered slightly and shot out a hand to keep from toppling over
. In the end, she succumbed to the steadiness of the hard timbers and slumped down, propping her back against the desk. She noticed her goblet, which had been swept away with the rest of the detritus, and picked it up, tipping it with a sigh to show it was still empty.
“My compliments on your fortitude as well, Captain,” Varian murmured with a small grin. “I had occasion to sample your rumbustion earlier and it took my knees out from beneath me.”
She kept one leg bent but stretched the other out flat. “I am not sure I trust your compliments, my lord. You tend to speak them out the side of your mouth.”
“Mockery was not my intent, I promise you. And if I seemed an ingrate earlier, I apologize again, for I am not accustomed to waking up in a strange bed, bereft of clothes, and bathed in camphor oil.”
“Really? I would have thought it a common occurrence for a man of your ilk. That is to say, all save bathing in camphor oil.”
“Oil has its merits—if the fragrance is sweet and does not singe the hairs out of one’s nostrils. And what, pray tell, qualifies as ‘a man of my ilk’?”
“A pompous, overindulged nobleman with misplaced pretentions of greatness.”
“And you say that you do not trust my compliments, madam?”
“You took that as a compliment?” Her laugh was soft and husky. “In that case, I need say no more.”
She leaned her head against the desk and closed her eyes. It gave Varian a further opportunity to study her face in the lantern light. Without the distraction of the blue bandana, he could see she had a delicate, heart-shaped hairline that framed her features in fine auburn wisps. Her complexion, considering that most Englishwomen attacked the mere hint of a freckle with mercuric salts and rice powder, was dark enough to have scandalized every matron within a hundred-mile radius of the royal court. Tanned by the constant exposure to the sea and sun, the warm bronze coloring suited Juliet Dante’s ferriferous nature well enough though, and once again he found himself wondering what she would look like with her hair spun in curls and her body clad in fine, clinging silk.
He frowned and set his thoughts on less dangerous ground, searching for some topic that might not be seen as a challenge of wits. “You mentioned earlier that you have two brothers?”
“You have a remarkable memory.”
“No husband?”
She turned her head slightly to peer at him. “What the devil would I want with a husband?”
“Companionship? Comfort?”
“I have all the companionship and comfort I need. And when I want more than that, it is readily available.”
“Ah.”
“Ah.” She mimicked the disapproving sound perfectly, then laughed again. “I have always found it puzzling that men believe it perfectly acceptable to take their pleasure where they may without guilt or recriminations, but when women do the same, they are branded whores and trulls.”
Varian opened his mouth … then closed it with an audible snapping of his jaw.
She smiled and leaned back against the desk. “I see I have shocked you again. Shall we return to more politic ground? You mentioned earlier that you thought no one would pay your ransom. Have you no family pining for you at home? No wife? No mewling children to carry on the succession of Harrows? No more brothers to take your place if you blow yourself up again?”
“No wife as yet,” he said easily. “I expect my mother would grieve a moment for my passing, but the moment would pass quickly enough and she would be more concerned with safeguarding her own stipend as dowager. As for brothers, there were only the two. One drowned after riding his horse into a flooded river, the other was killed last year.”
Truth be told, she wasn’t really interested in knowing the petty details of Varian St. Clare’s life, but a note of obvious bitterness that had crept into his voice made her turn and look at him again.
“Most people would have said he died last year. You said he was killed?”
“He fought a stupid, senseless duel over a point of honor that could have been resolved if the two parties had just come together and talked through the misunderstanding.”
“You condone talk over action, do you?”
“I advocate logic over madness. They argued over a woman.”
Juliet’s mouth curved at the corner. “Faith, and so you have become soured against all women for all time? You have departed England with a burr under your skin and have chosen exile over the possibility of ever again being tempted by some demonic young shrew in perfumed silk?”
His dark eyes narrowed slightly at the mockery, but his smile was easy enough. “Quite the opposite, in fact. I agreed to become betrothed shortly before I departed.”
“How does one ‘agree’ to become betrothed? I would think you either were or were not committed to the deed.”
Varian answered with a grim curl on his lip. “You think Beacom can be incessant and interminable? You should have to endure an evening with the Dowager Duchess of Harrow. Seven years worth of evenings, in fact, ever since I enjoyed my twenty-first birthday. It was one of the reasons why I remained in the military. It gave me an excuse to avoid her matchmaking efforts.”
“But you have finally succumbed?”
“After my brother died last year, I was left with little choice. I was informed in no uncertain terms that I needed an heir and being in the same room with dear mater was like standing naked in front of a line of artillery cannon and holding up a painted target, only in this case, the ammunition consisted of young women of suitable age, fortune, and social standing.”
“You let your mother choose your intended bride?”
“It is not an uncommon practice for marriages to be arranged to suit the needs of both parties.”
“Ah, so your betrothed—rather, your about-to-be-betrothed—is rich?”
Varian frowned. “In a family as old as mine, there are certain social considerations and requirements that eliminate the luxury of deciding by sight and smell alone.”
“I am sure there are. Do you love her?”
“I hardly think that is any of your business.”
“Yet it is a simple question. Do you love the woman you are going to marry?”
“She comes of good stock with a fine lineage.”
“And is in possession of all her teeth? Great good God, you sound as if you choose your wives like you choose your breeding stock.”
“Pray, madam, bang the other side of my head with a mallet before you tell me you believe in love.”
She stared into the shadows a moment, debating how to answer, for one did not grow up in the company of Simon and Isabeau Dante without believing in more than simple convenience. After all their years together, they could barely keep their hands to themselves and their lusty thoughts out of their eyes when they gazed upon each other.
Juliet smiled. “I want the man I marry to be uncomfortable every time I look at him. I want him unable to move when I come into the room, afraid to do so lest the air shatter and fall to pieces around him.”
“An easy fear to understand,” he said, glancing pointedly at the splinters from the broken chair.
“And if he is the right man, I will not care if he is a beggar or a king.”
“But better a king, judging by the sparkle I see in your hand.”
She looked down at the empty goblet she was holding. A tilt of her hand set the jewels that were crusted around the rim reflecting fractured points of colored light across the wall.
“The rewards of a hard day’s work,” she countered evenly. “In this case a small token from the private stores of Don Alonzo Perez, former captain of the San Ambrosio. We took her off the coast of Hispaniola last winter. She was wormy and not worth the effort to repair or refit, but we sold her cargo for twenty thousand escudos. I kept the goblet, just as I keep some small token from every ship we capture.”
Another casual flick of her hand indicated the wire-fronted case behind the chart table that held an array of extremely fine looking weapons. They w
ere long snouted wheel-locks for the most part, some of French design featuring inlays of mother-of-pearl, but most favored the Italian style with heavy gilt ornamentation. One pair in particular caught his eye, an unusual combination of match- and wheel-lock mechanisms with both ignitions controlled by a single trigger. The alliance of the two firing systems was reflected in the decoration on the walnut stock where a naked couple were depicted in the act of merging. He knew this detail, even though he could not see it at this distance, because the guns were his, and the last time he had seen them, they had been on his person on the deck of the Argus.
“Damnation! Those are my Brescians!”
Juliet followed his outthrust finger. “Hardly, sir. Those are my Brescians.”
“Indeed they are not, madam. They were handmade for me by Lazzarino Cominazzo himself!”
“If memory serves, I took them off a boucan-eater named Jorges Fillarento, and if they resemble yours, then your gunmaker must have made two pair.”
“I need only look at them to tell you upon the instant if they are mine or not.”
“Look away,” she challenged. “This instant or the next, it changes nothing.”
Provoked beyond any concern for his nudity, Varian flung aside the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The bruises on his hip and shoulder made him suck air through his teeth as he stood, but the pain was superseded by the angry strides that carried him across the cabin. The case was not locked and he withdrew one of the elegant dueling pistols from the rack. When he held it to the light the glare bounced off the smooth surface of the gilt lockplate, where, instead of the intricately engraved Harrow crest, Varian was startled to see three unfamiliar initials etched into the metal with a flamboyant script.
The Iron Rose Page 7
