The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  Frowning again, he made a second slow search around the room. Was it possible he had dreamed the entire incident? Was it possible he had spent the night alone and only dreamed that Juliet Dante had been there beside him?

  No, he had not dreamed it. The lingering heaviness in his body belied any doubts he might have had, as did the redolent scent of sex on the bedsheets—the ones that were not scattered on the floor or tossed into a heap at the foot of the bed.

  He groaned and sank back down onto the bolsters. He’d had wine, but only two small glasses, not nearly enough to make him dizzy with lust. The hot soapy bath—the first in over two months—had made him decidedly light-headed, but instead of putting him to sleep, it had sent him prowling out onto the balcony like a tomcat. Seeing Juliet there, clad only in a cambric shirt, had completed his fall from grace. Had she not stunned him by initiating the seduction herself, he likely would have thrown her over his shoulder and ravished her anyway.

  Since he had already reached the conclusion that Juliet Dante was unlike any woman he had ever encountered before, the fact that she’d had him out of his clothes and damn near out of his skin quicker than he could blink an eye should not have surprised him, but it had. He had known too many women who were eager to make the conquest but then were paralyzed by propriety when it came to actually enjoying the deed. Juliet, on the other hand, made it quite clear she had no interest in making a conquest of any kind. She had simply wanted something and had taken it eagerly and aggressively.

  His blood stirring at the memory, Varian rolled onto his side. A single filament of auburn hair trailed across the pillow and he stared at it for several moments before plucking it up between his fingers. Long and shiny, he imagined it tangled in the rest of the silky mane, the curled ends teasing his flesh as she moved above him. It had been his enormous pleasure to let her straddle his hips and assume command of the ship, so to speak. A superb navigator, she had sailed them both into a maelstrom of bouncing bedsprings and juddering posts.

  Only afterward, swallowing past the hoarseness in his throat and listening to the sound of his heart thundering in his chest, had he thought to give thanks for the fact that her family slept in the other wing of the house.

  Yet as well as he had come to know her body, he was no closer to understanding what went on behind those pale gray blue eyes. She had wanted no part of him when they were not willfully engaged in acts of pleasure. She had wriggled to one side until they were not touching—difficult to do in a bed not much wider than the span of his arms—and only at the last, when neither of them could have raised a limb or exchanged a caress to save their lives, had she fit herself snugly into the warm curve of his body and drifted to sleep.

  Varian stared at the dancing pinpoints of sunlight on the ceiling. He had no idea what time it was, no idea when she had left or how she had managed to extricate herself from his arms without so much as jostling the bed. He did not even want to hazard a guess as to what her reaction would be when she saw him today. Would she be embarrassed? Angry? Would she resent him for having exposed the softer, more vulnerable side that she strove so hard to keep hidden beneath all that thick-skinned armor?

  Or worse … would she act as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened? As if it was her habit to take her hostages to bed and extract her pound of flesh before they were delivered to her family for their amusement.

  Varian sighed, raked his hands more vigorously through his hair, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  Never mind her, he thought sourly. What would his own reaction be when he saw her again? He had sold his soul to the devil and no doubt the devil would demand his due. He was the Duke of Harrow and he had all but forsworn his wild ways when he had agreed to the marriage with Lady Margery Wrothwell. The fact that he was not officially betrothed was small consolation, for it was understood by both parties that the engagement would be announced upon his return to England. Yet here he was, his body rife with lust for a woman he had known but three days. A woman who was more comfortable wielding a sword than a tapestry needle. A woman whose entire family held only scorn for the king, for England, for the strictures of a society that had dictated every facet of Varian St. Clare’s life for the past twenty-eight years.

  He had barely exchanged a dozen words with Simon Dante, yet he was more than halfway convinced he was here, as Juliet had so eloquently put it, on a fool’s errand. Dante had a fortress here, so why should he concern himself with the dictates of a king who waved his scepter from three thousand miles away? If anything, James Stuart should be asking himself why the Pirate Wolf continued to go to the trouble of sending the royal treasury ten percent of his privateering profits. Surely after all these years he needed no letters of marque granting him permission to trade. From what Varian had seen of the firepower anchored in the harbor below, the Dante clan posed a formidable threat to any foreign port or authority and it would behoove the king to do whatever was necessary to ensure the Wolf continued to fly England’s colors on his masthead.

  Varian stood and gingerly stretched to unknot the muscles in his arms and legs. Dazzling blue sky showed through the open trench doors, and the cool breezes that had played across their bodies through the night had been replaced by a moist heat. He cast around for his clothes, vaguely recalling he had torn them off with such haste he’d almost knocked over the bedside table. There was no immediate sign of his shirt or breeches, but his doublet was draped over the back of the chair and he stared at it grimly, not entirely eager to button himself into confining layers of padded velvet and leather. Moreover, the original owner of the garments had been neither as tall nor as broad across the shoulders as he, and in spite of the hasty adjustments Beacom had made, the sleeves were too short and the ruff of Spanish lace would not close. The wool stockings scratched and the pantaloons were stuffed so full of horsehair he felt like he had two gourds attached to his thighs.

  Fostering this small streak of rebellion, he walked naked to the door. He stood with his hands braced on either side of the frame, his eyes closed tight against the glare of sunlight as he let the full blaze of tropical heat bathe his skin. He recalled Juliet’s comment about all Englishmen being terrified of allowing sunlight to touch their flesh, and he had to admit, if only to himself, this was the first time he had greeted Mother Nature face to face. To that end, the sun’s rays felt marvelous on his chest and arms; even his nether parts seemed to respond amiably to the new experience.

  “I warrant it should take about ten minutes for your skin to turn red and start to blister.”

  Varian jerked his eyes open and brought his hands swooping down to cover his crotch.

  Juliet was sitting out on the balcony, her booted feet propped on the rail. She was dressed in an airy white shirt and black breeches; her hair was gathered at the nape and tied with a leather thong. There was a second chair and a small wooden table beside her, the latter holding a huge tray laid with bread, cheese, an inordinately large mound of sliced meat, and bowls of exotic fruits Varian was not readily able to identify.

  She followed his gaze. “I thought you might be hungry. And I wanted to thank you for last night.”

  Hairs that had not already risen at the sight of all this domestication riffled upright into spikes. “Thank me?”

  “For providing sanctuary. My brothers searched high and low, thinking to haul me out in my bedclothes and play one of their nefarious pranks—one, I am told, that involved paste and chicken feathers. They found the bundle of blankets I had left in my bed, but they did not find me, nor would they have thought to look in your room, so aye, I have you to thank for my reprieve.” Her eyes narrowed and a smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “What did you think I was thanking you for?”

  Varian had the grace to flush, and he did so in a magnificent flare of crimson that shaded everything, even the lobes of his ears.

  “Rather an arrogant assumption, was it not?” she said softly.

  Their eyes remained locked for one, two he
artbeats before Juliet broke first and looked away. “You really shouldn’t expose all that untouched skin to the sun too long. You wouldn’t want to look like me, would you?”

  She tipped her face up, letting the sun bathe a complexion that was already tanned to a golden hue.

  “I would happily oblige, Captain, but my clothes seemed to have disappeared.”

  “No they haven’t. I brought you new ones. You’ll find them at the foot of the bed. I did not think you should walk around the island dressed like a Spanish don. You might present too pretty a target.”

  Varian turned, but halted again. “May I ask what you’ve done with Beacom?”

  “You prefer his company over mine?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Get dressed, your grace. It is well past noon already and my father’s patience has its limits.”

  “Noon?” He glanced up at the sun with a start and realized it must be on its descent, not ascent. “Good God, why did no one wake me earlier?”

  “I did try, but the only part of you that seemed interested in rising was not the part of you my father would care to see so early on in your acquaintance.”

  Varian’s jaw clamped shut and he retreated hastily into the bedroom. He found a plain shirt and buff breeches folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Both garments fit surprisingly well, as did the tall knee boots that were made of such soft leather, they molded to his feet like slippers. The shirt laced up the front and he was tying the last knot in place as he walked back out onto the balcony again.

  Juliet was not in the chair.

  He glanced down either side of the wide veranda, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “I guessed you and my father would be about the same size. I see I was right.”

  He whirled around. She was leaning against the wall, her arms folded over her chest, one foot crossed over the other and balanced on the toe of her boot. Something flickered in her eyes a moment as they swept the length of his body again, but it was gone before he could put a finger to it.

  “The cheese is excellent,” she said, indicating the tray. “We appropriated it from a Dutch merchantman not long ago. The mutton we grew ourselves and the ale is passable.”

  “I am not overly hungry,” he lied. “And if your father is waiting—?”

  She gave her shoulders a little shrug. “Alas, you seem to have missed him. He has gone down to the harbor. You can just see him … there … through the trees.”

  Varian followed the thrust of her chin and saw Simon Dante, mounted on a huge bay stallion, cantering down the road away from the house.

  “You have not gone with him? I would have thought you had a hundred things to do today.”

  “More like a thousand,” she agreed grimly. “But I have already been to the ship and … and Mr. Crisp seemed to think I was only getting in the way. My mother reads Spanish far better than I, so she is locked away in the study with the manifests we took from the Santo Domingo. My brothers, having been thwarted of one pleasure, are amusing themselves by counting the barrels of pearls and coin being off-loaded from the galleon. Lieutenant Beck is being entertained by Geoffrey Pitt, while the rest of the English crew is being introduced to hot baths, good food, and sweet rum. As for your man Beacom, I sent him down to the warehouses with Johnny Boy to search through some of our vast inventory of velvets and lace to see if he could restore your wardrobe. That would appear to leave only you at odds, sirrah, and me to think of some way to amuse you for a few hours.”

  It was becoming all too commonplace of late to feel his skin tightening and his blood pulsing through his veins, and Varian did not know what to make of it. The rush was stronger now that he had experienced firsthand what his mind had only imagined until last night, but before he could dare question the sparkle in the crystalline eyes, she offered up a short laugh.

  “Come. If you’re not interested in eating, we can take a walk. I have something to show you.”

  She turned and headed for the stairs at the far end of the veranda, the blade of her sword reflecting flashes of sunlight. Varian cast a grudging, hungry glance at the tray and snatched up a wedge of cheese and a crust of bread before he followed.

  There was a stone path at the bottom; one direction led around to the front of the house, and the other led through a garden and a small orchard of lime trees. They took the latter, with Juliet striding into the lead and Varian pressed to keep an even three steps behind. Her pace belied any notion they were out for a stroll and after five minutes, when the path turned to dirt and began taking a steep upward slant, he could feel the muscles in his thighs protesting.

  The trail meandered and turned sharply to circumvent the occasional outcropping of rock, but for the most part it went straight up. Ferns grew over the path and brushed their arms and shoulders. The vegetation was lush and fragrant, heavy with moisture, and after a few hundred yards Varian began to stare at Juliet Dante’s shapely backside, wondering if or when she ever tired. She seemed to possess boundless energy and did not look the least winded or dragging, not even when they broke clear of the treetops and had to follow some tangled, rock-strewn goat path to reach the top of the ridge.

  “There is an easier way around the point,” she said with vulgar cheerfulness. “But I thought you might appreciate the view from up here.”

  Throughout the climb, he had deliberately resisted the urge to look behind him. He was not particularly enamored of heights and knew that as steep as the path had been on the climb up, it would seem twice as precipitous looking straight down.

  He stumbled over a crust of rock and used it as an excuse to catch his breath. Sweat crawled through his hair and down his neck, soaking his shirt to his back in great wet patches. Insects—who had blessedly remained behind under the shade of the trees—had stung his neck and arms in a dozen places. He spared a scowl upward at the boiling yellow glare of the sun, but when Juliet turned to glance over her shoulder, he smiled and waved her on.

  “Just stubbed a toe.”

  “It is not much farther. I could carry you, if you like.”

  Her laughter drew another scowl, but when he looked up again, she had disappeared behind a gnarl of rock, leaving him alone and drowning in his own sweat on the goat path.

  Biting off a soundless oath, he scrambled up the last few feet and saw her standing on the crest of the volcanic ridge. A quick and justifiably breathless glance around in all directions told him they had also reached the highest peak on the island. The endless shimmering blue of the ocean surrounded them in a vast blue circle, the surface gleaming pewter where the sun glanced off the waves. Varying shades of aqua, cobalt, and turquoise ringed the island, the shadings and striations created by the sandbars and reefs. The four outlying atolls looked like barren cones of rock, tossed there by some giant’s hand to be beaten by the surf, while far below they could hear the thunder of the waves smashing against the cliffs of Pigeon Cay.

  Turning a slow, full circle, Varian could also see down into the bowl of the volcanic crater, the green of the pastures, the swaying tops of the palm trees that looked like green-haired men listening raptly to some unheard chorus. He guessed the island was ten, twelve miles long at its widest point and rose perhaps a thousand feet above the sea. The roof of the big house was hidden from their vantage point, but the harbor looked like the inner surface of a seashell, deep blue in the center rising to a pearly gray along the beach.

  This was Dante’s kingdom. The secret lair of the Pirate Wolf, and although Varian had found many veiled references to such a mythical place in the ledgers and documents he had studied before embarking on his voyage, he never dreamed it actually existed.

  “Tell me, your grace, when you are at home in your English castle, can you walk outside your door and see a sight such as this?”

  She had her face turned into the sun, and tendrils of her hair were streaming back like rich dark sheaths of silk. She had her arms stretched wide to catch the wind, and
her shirt was molded against her chest, outlining the perfect shape of her breasts, the tantalizing peaks of her nipples.

  “I confess I cannot,” he admitted softly. “But then, should one not fear that to see such beauty every day might render it less spectacular?”

  “When I was young, I climbed up here every day and always found something new that I had not seen before. The color of the water, the pattern of a bird gliding on the air currents, the passage of a cloud … it was never the same as the day before.”

  “Have you no desire whatsoever to see what lies beyond the scope of the horizon?”

  “ ‘Beyond this place, there be dragons,’ ” she quoted softly. “It was the warning written on all sea charts by the ancient mariners, who believed the world was flat. Father has sailed over that edge, and I will too some day. He says there are islands far on the other side of the world that are as different from these as the sun and moon, with volcanos that spew molten rock into the night like crimson fountains, and where spices are so plentiful you can smell them a week’s sail away.”

  When he said nothing—and good God, what could he say when it was taking all his strength not to reach out and pull her into his arms—she turned and looked directly into his eyes.

  “Tell me about your England. Is it always cold and wet, as I have heard?”

  “We … endure more than our fair share of rain and fog, true enough. But when the sun does shine, the land is almost greener than you can bear.”

  “Not in the cities, surely.”

  “No,” he smiled. “Not in the cities. Nor can I think of a one that smells of anything closely resembling a spice. But a great country cannot survive without thriving cities, and in order to thrive they must house the people who keep the factories and shops full.”

  “I do not think I could survive in a city. I detest walls and crowded places.”

  “You would like Harrowgate. It is well out in the country, surrounded by miles of green, rolling hills. There are sections of the house that are three centuries old, with rooms so large you have to shout to be heard from one end to the other. As children, my brothers and I were only allowed in certain areas lest we become lost and get dragged away in chains by the ghosts.”