The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  Sheer size should have given Jonas the advantage of strength, but it became shockingly evident that Juliet was far superior in skill. Her ripostes were delivered in a blur, her attacks measured out in precise quadrants. Her balancing arm rarely left the narrow indent of her waist long enough to flutter the wing of her cape nor was her hat ever in jeopardy of being dislodged. Every attempt her brother made to break into a charge or overpower a thrust by brute strength was met with an adroit twist or an acrobatic leap that put her somehow behind him, above him, beside him, prodding his rump with the tip of her blade. When he whirled around, she laughed, offering deliberate openings and slashing them shut again with a swiftness that left her opponent lunging ineffectually at vacant space.

  Varian’s instincts rose to the surface, stinging with manly indignation each time he saw Jonas miss a failed opportunity, or stagger back in a clumsy retreat.

  The torment ended soon enough as Jonas was herded toward the open gangway. With the offending codpiece hanging by a strip of cloth at the crux of his thighs, the coup de grace was delivered and he was propelled, howling and cursing, through the rail and out over open water.

  A great roar went around the deck, and Juliet—barely winded—spun on the balls of her feet and brought the tip of her blade to a glittering rest beneath the chin of Gabriel Dante. He responded with a casual shrug, raising his hands to show he held no weapon.

  “In no mood for a swim tonight?”

  “The water is a little chilly for my taste,” he said, sighing. “And this is a new feather in my cap, dammit. I’ll not squander it on a brother’s conceit.”

  “I’d not squander it either,” she said, examining the plume with interest. “Though I may pluck it for my own if I am not accorded a properly respectful greeting.”

  Gabriel lowered his hands, presented an elegant leg, and swept forward in a bow that bent him gracefully in half. It also put him in the perfect position to reach out and circle his arms around his sister’s upper thighs as he was rising. With a maniacal shout of glee, he flung her over his shoulder and used his forward momentum to carry them both toward the side of the ship. A step away from tumbling her over the rail and into the drink, he was halted by the sight of two new arrivals standing in the gangway.

  The more formidable of the scowling faces belonged to Simon Dante de Tourville, who stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrow raised in askance. Less threatening but no less daunting was the frowning visage of Isabeau Dante, whose head was shaking over the antics of their three adult siblings.

  “Put me down, you sodding son of Beelzebub,” Juliet cried. “Put me down or so help me I’ll skin your ballocks with my teeth and—”

  Gabriel grinned and swung around so that Juliet could see what had caused his momentary burst of brotherly mercy.

  Raising her head, she shoved aside the curtain of hair that had tumbled over her face. “Oh. Good evening, Father. Mother. Welcome aboard.”

  Chapter Nine

  “You sail in here a week overdue dragging a bloody great galleon on your heels and that is all you have to say: ‘Welcome aboard’?”

  Juliet squirmed just enough to loosen Gabriel’s grip and slip off his shoulder. She snatched her hat off the deck and resheathed her sword, then offered up a wide smile. “Welcome aboard, Father, Mother; I am very happy to see you both.”

  “We have been worried, young miss,” Isabeau said, “and a sharp tongue will earn you no favors here. Where have you been? How in God’s name did you come to be in possession of a damned warship?”

  “It’s a very long story, Mother, and—”

  “We have time,” Simon said, interrupting her in a voice that was as smooth as silk yet sharp as a razor. It was a voice she knew better than to defy but it brought a smile to her lips anyway.

  Folding her arms across her chest in a fair imitation of the man glowering down at her, Juliet relayed with brusque efficiency the details of incident involving the demise of the Argus and the attack on the Santo Domingo.

  “We took advantage of the Spaniard’s distraction long enough to come up on her blind side, board her, and take command,” she said, finishing the tale in a silence so complete one would have thought the crew was hearing it for the first time.

  “You boarded her?” Isabeau Dante’s amber eyes narrowed. “An armed Spanish galleon three times the size of the Iron Rose and you simply sallied forth and boarded her?”

  “Hell no, Cap’n Beau,” came an anonymous voice from somewhere in the crowd. “We peppered her good, first. Swept the decks clear o’ all them tin-breasted wogs an’ grappled to her tighter ’n a whore’s fist. Then the cap’n tells us ‘up an’ over’ and up we goes an’ over to the last man. We’d do it again, too, if’n she asked us.”

  A murmur of general assent rippled across the deck, but it only whitened the lines around Isabeau’s mouth. She was certainly no stranger to the risks of engaging any ship in battle—the empty sleeve that hung at her side was proof of that. She also knew her daughter all too well and could be fairly certain that whatever account Juliet or any of her loyal crew gave of the action, it would not be one-tenth as terrifying and perilous as the reality had been.

  Simon Dante was also searching the faces of the crew, stalling here and there when one of them was too slow to erase a cocky grin. He tipped his head and peered up at the masts, noting the fresh timbers that braced the broken foremast, the newly spliced lines of rigging, the repaired sheets of sail.

  “We were also caught in a storm yesterday,” Juliet added. “We took some small damage there, too.”

  The crystalline blue eyes settled upon his daughter.

  “You were aware, were you not,” he said slowly, “of the identity of the Santo Domingo before you decided to interfere? You knew her complements and firepower? You knew that no one in full possession of their wits would consider challenging her on their own, regardless of how distracted the galleon was with a kill.”

  Juliet’s reply was as calm as the steadiness of her gaze. “I took offense that the Argus had surrendered yet the Spaniard did not withdraw her guns. She was, in fact, preparing to hull the Englishman, to sink her and leave no witnesses behind.”

  “And because of this indignation, you threw yourself, your crew, and your ship in the path of completely unwarranted peril?”

  “No. I tried to imagine what you would have done in a similar situation.”

  Simon Dante narrowed his eyes. A full count of ten passed before he responded, “Yes, but I am generally thought to be a madman and I had higher hopes for my children.”

  “If that was the case, my love,” Isabeau muttered under her breath, “you need only look at Jonas and Gabriel to know how miserably you failed before Juliet ever set foot on a deck.”

  The black brows crushed together and the great pirate lord glared down at his wife. The silence stretched for another fistful of heartbeats before the sound of a chuckle began to rumble up his throat. It turned into full-bore laughter as he threw his head back and half cursed, half praised his fortune in finding himself with such a family as this.

  His broad shoulders were still shaking as he plucked Juliet’s newly reseated hat off her head again and tossed it in the air, a signal for the pent-up cheering in a hundred throats to erupt and erupt again until the ship was engulfed in a clamorous roar. Meanwhile Juliet was swept into the circle of her father’s arms, lifted, and spun until she was dizzy and laughing too hard herself to even beg to be set down. It was the cue for two hefty seamen to roll a big barrel of rum onto the deck, to knock out the bung and fill the eager cups and pannikins that were shoved under the golden stream.

  Elbowed to the side and all but forgotten in the celebrations, Varian St. Clare stood with Beacom by the rail.

  “What do you think of this then, Beacom? I expect the word unique will find its definition strained to the bounds by all the members of the Dante family.”

  “I think they are all quite mad, your grace. Quite unequivo
cally mad and the sooner we are free of these wretched corsairs, the safer our throats will be at night.”

  “If you intend to insult us, sir, you might at least use the correct term.”

  Every last drop of blood drained from Beacom’s face as he slowly swiveled his head and saw Simon Dante standing beside him.

  “Corsairs are Saracens and ply their trade in the Mediterranean,” explained the Pirate Wolf casually. “Here in the Caribbee, you might find boucan-eaters and pirates, filibusters and freebooters, but never the other. We brethren are very territorial, you know.”

  Beacom’s mouth trembled, then began to flap like a beached fish. No sounds came from his throat and after a moment, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he slowly crumpled into a heap on the deck.

  Dante looked down, then pursed his lips. “Does he do that often?”

  “Fairly regularly,” Varian sighed.

  “And he belongs to you?”

  “He is my manservant, yes.”

  Up to that moment, Varian had been content to merely observe and study his quarry. To be sure, the man known as the Pirata Lobo was awe-inspiring in a ruthless, wolflike way, boasting the powerfully muscled arms and shoulders of a man half his age. It was also plain to see where Juliet Dante had inherited her ability to cut a man to the bone with a single glance, for Simon Dante’s eyes were so penetrating they felt like needles stabbing all the way to the back of the skull.

  Hair as black as ink showed but a few silvery threads. It hung well below his shoulders in gleaming waves, with a dozen tiny braids woven at the temples to hold it back from his forehead. The wink of a thick gold loop in his ear did nothing to lessen the impression that he was a man poised on the very fine line that stretched between privateer and pirate. His wife presented no less a striking figure with her dark auburn hair and tigress eyes. The fact that she was missing an arm had come as somewhat of a surprise to Varian, but it was plain to see she had not allowed the loss to cripple her. Such an injury suffered by a member of the English nobility—and by virtue of her marriage to Simon Dante, Isabeau was a comtesse—would have meant permanent exile behind closed doors.

  One of Simon Dante’s black eyebrows assumed a decided upward slant. “My daughter tells me you are an envoy from the king. How is the sanctimonious Scottish bastard? Juliet mentioned he sent a crate of Bibles in the hopes of saving our souls, but they were lost with your ship.”

  Varian shot a glance in Juliet’s direction. She was standing a few feet away, her mouth trembling with amusement. Seeing the two of them together, father and daughter, Varian could see that she had inherited more than just the unusual silvery blue color of his eyes.

  “His Majesty sends his compliments.”

  “I am sure he does.”

  The duke waited, but since it appeared no one else was going to step forth and make introductions, he did so himself. “Varian St. Clare, your servant, sir.”

  He was midway through a courteous bow when Juliet hooked her arm around her father’s elbow.

  “He is being modest, Father,” she said. “He is a duke. A genuine member of the House of Lords—unless my education was lacking—sent by the king to stamp his noble foot and demand you cease molesting the Spanish trade routes.”

  Simon offered up a crooked grin. “I suppose we should not be too surprised. It has been what, four? five? months since the last envoy sought to convert us from our corrupt ways?” He paused and took note of the bruises on Varian’s face, the row of knotted threads that followed his hairline. “I trust you’ve not been overly harsh on the poor fellow.”

  “Faith, no, Father. I have been the soul of hospitality. I have fed him and clothed him, even invited him to share my bed.”

  Dante’s gaze flicked between the two of them and Varian gasped with shock. “I assure you, Comte, nothing improper occurred at any time! It was simply—”

  The Pirate Wolf held up his hand. “Please. I have not been addressed as the Comte de Tourville for a good many years. And if you had attempted something improper, I expect it would be more than your head she would have cracked open. Ahh, here is young Johnny Boy with refills. You will join me in a cup of rum to toast the safe return of our Iron Rose?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Simon Dante extended his cup. Johnny Boy scooped a wooden ladle into the bucket he was carrying and filled it, then splashed some in an extra cup which he offered to Varian. Simon touched his cup to his daughter’s, then waited expectantly for the Englishman to do likewise.

  Varian obliged with a solemn “To the unquestionable valor of the Iron Rose, to the courage of her captain and crew.”

  “Well said.” Dante nodded with approval and emptied his cup.

  “As for what brings me here, Captain Dante—”

  The Pirate Wolf held up his hand a second time. “Any business you have that may or may not interest me can be discussed at a more appropriate time.”

  “Captain, it is both pressing and urgent. Any further delays could result in serious consequences to you and your brethren here in the Caribbean.”

  Dante glanced at Juliet, who only shrugged. “He has not deigned to tell me.”

  “Then the matter cannot be as urgent and pressing as you imply.”

  “His Majesty and the first minister were quite insistent that I convey his edict at the first opportunity.”

  “An edict, is it?” He glanced down as if to see if Varian was, indeed, stamping his foot. “You have kept the faith this long, St. Clare, another day or two will hardly affect the way the sun rises and sets. Furthermore, you are in another hemisphere, sir, where things move a good deal slower than they do between chambers at Whitehall. Take your ease. Enjoy our beautiful tropical air. As my daughter’s guest, you are welcome to come ashore under her protection, but do not bandy the king’s name around and expect the walls to quiver in awe. We are a long way from court, and the whims of a lisping peacemonger carry little weight here.” He set his cup aside and draped an arm around Juliet’s waist. “Now then, daughter, you doubtless have stories to tell and a fair amount of bragging to set the ears of your brothers ringing. Shall we save them until we are ashore where we can toast each one without fear of drowning on the way to our beds? Oh, and before I forget … Mr. Kelly!”

  The carpenter turned too quickly to answer the summons and banged his head on the lower edge of a spar. His eyes crossed a moment before he was able to shake them clear. “Aye, Cap’n?”

  “You’re not forgetting the reason the Iron Rose was sent out on sea trials in the first place?”

  Nog scratched the stubble on his chin a moment before the recollection sparked in his eyes. “No, sar! Worked a charm, it did. We tried her at six, eight, and twelve knots and she turned without spillin’ the soup out o’ the pot. Rode the storm like a damned princess, too.”

  Dante nodded and elaborated for Varian’s sake. “Now that is urgent and pressing business. A new rudder design that increases speed, improves steerage in bad weather, and provides greater stability in a turn. How soon can you rig the other ships, Nog?”

  The carpenter tugged his forelock. “Cap’n Juliet has me strippin’ down the Spaniard, but once she’s done … it’ll take a fortnight at least to do all three ships … unless ye want ’em belly up at the same time. Then it could be done in a week or less.”

  “I’ll give it some thought. In the meantime”—he gave Juliet’s shoulder a squeeze—“it looks like we’ll have something else to celebrate tonight. You’ve done well. Next thing we know, you will be designing entire ships and giving Mr. Pitt a reason to look over his shoulder.”

  “Mr. Pitt did not come aboard?” she asked, suddenly noting the lack.

  “He was detained elsewhere, I’m afraid. Another boy, delivered yesterday.”

  Juliet’s face lit up with a wide smile. “Faith, but is that eight or nine?”

  “Nine boys, four girls. I will have to start sending him out to sea more often. He obviously has too much time on his hands. But e
nough of this. Tonight, we celebrate the capture of the biggest prize”—he raised his voice so that it boomed from stem to stern—“taken by the boldest crew in the Caribbee!”

  The ship’s company broke out in another raucous chorus of cheers and stomping feet. It was high praise indeed coming from the Pirate Wolf, and many shed unabashed tears of pride. The cheering followed Simon Dante to the gangway, where he was met by Isabeau, Gabriel, and the sopping wet Jonas. After cautioning Juliet good-naturedly not to linger on board too long, the four descended to a waiting longboat and were rowed back to shore to prepare the house for a great feast.

  As the oars dipped into the water and carried them farther from the Iron Rose, Isabeau leaned into her husband’s shoulder and released a tremulous sigh.

  “Dear God, Simon. What have we done, you and I?”

  He could barely hear her whisper above the rush of the water moving beneath the keel.

  “What do you mean, love?”

  “We both encouraged her to take this path, though I admit the fault lies more with me than you. You wanted to send her to France for her schooling, for a chance to become a proper lady. I was the one who urged you to let her choose for herself.”

  Dante pressed his lips into the crush of his wife’s hair. “Next to you, my lovely cygne noir, Juliet is the most proper lady I know. She has heart, she has courage, she has honor … and she has fear. More fear than these two rapscallions, I warrant,” he added, tilting his head in the direction of their two sons sitting in the bow of the longboat. “And that is what will keep her safe.”

  “A good man wouldn’t hurt either,” Gabriel said over his shoulder. “If one could be found addled enough to take her.”

  “Eh?” Jonas swiveled around. “What are you talking about?”