The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  “Let whoever finds them think he died buggering one of his own men,” she spat.

  After scuffing any telltale tracks she had made in the sand, she led the way back toward the lighted end of the harbor, saying very little until they drew near the long row of beached longboats.

  “I would appreciate it if you did not mention this to my father. I think he was counting on the bastard’s support.”

  “What about the men who escaped? Will they not tell a different tale from the one down on the beach?”

  Juliet offered up a crooked smile. “I will be surprised if the Dove is still in the harbor come morning. If it is, then a new bastard will have already assumed command, one who will not care how he came by his captaincy, only that he was saved the trouble of taking it himself. Murder is a natural means of attrition in this line of business.” She tossed her hat into the first jolly-boat they came to and shoved the keel into the water.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the Rose.”

  “I’ll come with you,” he said, following her into the surf.

  “No! I mean … no, I would rather you didn’t. Besides, you might be needed here.”

  He tucked a finger under her chin, tipping her face up to his. She tried to flinch back but he caught her by the shoulders and made her look at him.

  “Will you not allow me even one small illusion, madam? That you might need me just a little more tonight?”

  She looked into his eyes without answering, without moving. His thumb caressed her chin for a moment, sensing another rejection in the tremor he felt there, but when his hand started to drop, she caught it, stopping him before he could turn away.

  “Actually … I might need your help. Just a little.”

  She swayed and started to slump forward. Varian caught her under the arms and when he lifted her, he felt where her breeches were soaked along her thigh.

  “The bastard cut me,” she whispered again. The words, muffled against his throat, trailed away as her body went limp and her head fell back over his arm.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I don’t faint. I have never fainted in my life.”

  “All right. We will say that you lost so much blood it was a wonder you lived to draw another breath.”

  Juliet’s eyes narrowed. “We will say nothing at all, sirrah. And look you here”—she pointed to the cut on her thigh, which although far from being a scratch, had certainly not been life-threatening—“half an inch deeper and it would have pierced the main vein.”

  Varian obeyed and looked. The cut was as long as his hand and had bled profusely, but the edges were sealing without the need of stitches. There was a smaller slash farther down her leg and two deeper ones near her ankle, where the Dutchman’s knife had taken several stabs at catching the bottom of her breeches. He suspected the latter would cause the most discomfort when she tried to put her boots on.

  Varian had spent the night simply holding her, for once they were back on board and he helped strip away the bloody breeches, her bravura finally failed her and she began shaking like a leaf.

  The sight had struck him like a physical blow. She was always so sure of herself, so much in control, in command of her emotions, that the sight of something so utterly female, so impossibly human, made him want to slay dragons for her for the rest of his life.

  He had bathed the blood from her thigh, tucked her into a clean new shirt, and sat on the chair cradling her in his arms all night.

  She sighed and nestled her head against his shoulder. “I just heard the watch bell and the sky is growing lighter. Johnny Boy will be knocking on the door soon to bring me my biscuits and cheese, while your man Beacom will be wringing his hands, convinced we have slit your throat and buried you in a sand dune.”

  “Beacom is learning to adapt quite well to my long absences.”

  She sat forward and stared into his eyes a moment before she kissed him. There was nothing provocative or seductive about it. It was just a kiss, a coming together of lips and breaths, the touching of flesh to flesh; nevertheless the contact produced a ripple of pleasure through both of them.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “For what?”

  “For last night. For being on the beach, for bringing me back to the ship and tending my wounds.”

  “Believe me,” he murmured, “it was my very great pleasure to rescue you. And of no lesser consequence to discover you are human after all.”

  “You had reason to doubt it?”

  “Reason? Do you have any idea what wealthy young noblewomen your age are doing at the moment in England?”

  “I can only guess,” she said, venting an elaborate sigh. “Embroidering monograms on linens? Anguishing over which frock to wear for dinner? Which of the Bard’s plays to attend?”

  “For a certainty they are not planning how to attack a Spanish fleet. And had they been assaulted by a brute like Van Neuk, chances are they would have remained in shock the rest of their lives. Good God, Juliet. You are the captain of a fighting ship. You wear breeches and boots and sing sea chanteys with pirates until the sun comes up. You sleep an hour a night, if that. You wield a sword like a demon fairy and you have a shipful of sailors hanging off your every word and command. Look, for pity’s sake, what you have made of me in less than a fortnight. You have me carrying false papers, bearing false witness, committing acts of treason and sedition, not to mention corrupting poor Lieutenant Beck into following suit. You have me sleeping on wooden floors and enjoying it as if it were a feather bed! In truth, if there were any more women like you in these Caribbean Isles, I would worry for the safety of all mortal men who trespass here.”

  Her face tightened a moment before she wriggled off his lap. She searched around the clutter of papers on the desk a moment to locate tinder and flint, then lit a candle.

  Varian stood to stretch his legs, wincing as he straightened the knuckles down his spine. He flexed his arms and raked his fingers through his hair, then wandered out onto the gallery.

  Night was receding as if some giant hand were drawing back the blankets. A thin band along the eastern horizon was pink and gold and pewter gray, the colors changing almost moment to moment as the sun rose higher. There were still torches and bonfires visible on the crescent of the shoreline. The breeze was cool, but laden with the threat of tropical heat, and it brought the smell of woodsmoke, of cookfires, of sand and salt and fish over the harbor. Most of the ships riding at anchor had huge lamps burning on their upper decks and Varian could see the silhouettes of tiny figures in the various stages of changing watches.

  There were so many men, yet they entrusted their fates to so few. Did they ever question the decisions of their captains? Were they ever apprised of the incredible odds standing against them before they embarked on a venture such as the one they were about to undertake?

  In theory the main thrust of the plan Simon Dante had fomented with the various captains sounded straightforward enough. Each privateer should try to capture at least one enemy ship. Thirty-seven privateers would reduce the size of the fleet by almost half—an impressive postulation until one remembered there would be Spanish warships in the convoy that had anywhere from forty to sixty guns in their batteries. Some of the smaller privateers mounted but ten or twelve and would have to band together if they were to present any kind of a threat.

  The Argus had mounted ten guns, most of which had been silenced after the first Spanish broadside.

  Varian’s thoughts were dragged unwittingly back to the heat of battle, to the noise, the fires, the cannon blasting, the men fighting like demons with no apparent order or purpose other than to kill the enemy. It had all seemed like so much lethal chaos, yet he must admit—if only to himself—that it had been thrilling. Exhilarating, even. As if he had bared his breast to the devil and come away unscathed.

  But that was not quite true either, for he had become very scathed indeed. He had allowed himself to be seduced by a sea witch, one who
encouraged him to relish the sensation of hot sun on his skin, the sweat of hard labor on his brow. He had killed those men last night without hesitation, the lust for blood almost as potent as the lust he was feeling now to spread his hands wide and catch the wind.

  “How long before the fleet sails, do you suppose?”

  Juliet joined him on the gallery. She had pulled a pair of breeches on, careful of the fresh wound on her upper thigh, and was in the process of tucking the back of her shirt into the gaping waist. “It could be a week, it could be three weeks. We will know more when Jonas and Gabriel return from Havana.”

  Varian sensed the unease in her voice and knew it was there with good reason. The Hell Twins had volunteered to take their ships as close as they dared to the great Spanish port in order to scout the harbor, the war galleons, the state of readiness of the fleet.

  “Fortuna favet fatuis,” he murmured.

  “Fortune favors fools,” she translated. “You think it a foolish enterprise?”

  “I honestly do not know what I think, other than it is probably quite mad to assume we can do more than annoy the Spaniards.”

  “True enough, but then it is also true that we can be very annoying.”

  Her eyes shone in the pearly dawn light. Her skin looked satiny and luxurious and his hand could not resist the temptation to reach out and brush a lock of hair back from her cheek. His fingers trailed down her throat and onto the swell of her breast, where he found the nipple through the cambric and rolled it beneath his thumb until it was firm and taut. He saw the dark centers of her eyes dilate and sent his hand roving lower, sliding between the unbuttoned edges of her breeches to curve into the soft cluster of hairs. A single finger, then two explored the folds and contours. She grew tense as his fingers probed deeper, undoubtedly remembering the Dutchman’s brutish manhandling, but Varian was so gentle, his intentions so sincere, she eventually had to lean against his arm and take her pleasure, moving into the sleek rhythm with a soft sigh.

  When her body finished melting over his hand, he smiled and brought her into his arms, kissing away the wetness that shimmered along her lashes.

  “And you think me a madwoman?” she whispered against his chest. “Do you suppose we could attract any more attention by standing on deck naked?”

  Varian glanced over his shoulder. The Avenger was anchored a hundred yards off their starboard bow, thankfully not visible from where they stood. There were ships off their stern, but the light was not strong enough to have won any curious stares.

  “If you are concerned about your reputation, Captain, we could move back inside,” he murmured.

  “A pox on my reputation,” she said, laughing haltingly. “Sweet Christ, but I am going to miss you.”

  “I am not going anywhere just yet, madam. You’ll not be rid of me so easily.”

  When she recouped her senses enough to look up, he saw the same tightness he had seen on her face not five minutes ago. He was not so misguided to assume he was beginning to know a tenth of her expressions or what secrets they kept hidden, yet this one bore an unmistakable shadow of foreboding, one that was clear enough to trigger an alarm at the back of his neck.

  The feeling grew when she averted her eyes and pushed out of his arms, backing up almost to the gallery door.

  “Do you recall meeting Captain Robert Brockman yesterday? A tall, gray-haired Englishman with a patch over one eye?”

  Varian nodded and she needed to take a deep breath before she continued. “His ship, the Gale, is one of the fastest in the harbor; she has made the crossing to England in under forty days. One of the reasons his ship is so fast is because it carries only eight heavy guns and … and because of that same reason, he has agreed that his services might be put to better use in making a run for England. Father believes the king should at least be made aware of what is happening here. If we do manage by some miracle to delay or scatter the fleet, it might give the admiralty back in London enough time to put ships to sea and intercept the rest of the flota before it reaches Spain. Since you have made such a big to-do about how much the king and his council trust you, he thought, naturally, that you should be the one to carry the warning home.”

  When Varian did not say anything, when he simply continued to stare at her, Juliet appealed to his sense of logic. “It isn’t as if anyone actually expected you to fight alongside the rest of us.” She held up a hand, warning him to silence. “And before you splutter protests, reminding me of your years in the infantry will win you no favors either. Little toy soldiers dressed in red, who march in fine straight lines and oblige their enemy by presenting bright, steady targets, are no match for cannon fired from three hundred yards away. You said yourself you were well out of your depths here. You admitted that on a battlefield with artillery and cavalry, you would gladly fight battles and win wars, but at sea, all the rules change. And you were right. You have tasted battle on board a ship, sir; you should know, therefore, that there are no rules but those of survival. Your own personal survival,” she added with emphasis. “For in most instances, there is very little time to worry about the man next to you. There is no room for error. No room for distraction either.”

  “Is that why you are sending me away? Because I have become a distraction?”

  Juliet sighed. “There is no point in arguing with me. The decision was made before we left Pigeon Cay.”

  “Really. And when were you going to tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  A muscle shivered in his cheek. “And is that to be the end of it? I have no say in the matter?”

  “In all honesty,” she said evenly, “you never did. You’re a duke, for heaven’s sake, a member of the British nobility and the king’s official representative in the Indies. It behooves us all to keep you alive, to keep you breathing long enough to return in your official capacity and explain why we have disobeyed the crown’s orders and attacked the flota.”

  “I am not that easy to kill; I would have thought I proved that much at least last night.”

  She colored slightly. “Last night was a display by a master of the sword against louts who hide in corners and slit throats in the shadows.”

  His gaze strayed to the faintly purplish bruise on her temple. “You were not so dismissive when it was your throat being threatened.”

  “Nor am I so easily swayed by a warm body and a smooth tongue. Are you under the impression, your grace, that because we have bedded, it gives you leave to challenge me at every turn?”

  “If I have learned nothing else these past two weeks, Captain, I have learned that you maintain two very different personalities, one that I am free to challenge, and one that I am not.”

  “Precisely so. And in this instance, you are not.”

  “You excel at dueling with words as well as steel, Juliet, but is it because you are afraid of making friends, of growing too close to anyone, or of letting anyone get too close to you?”

  “I am not afraid of making friends, sir. I am afraid of losing them. As for growing close … I am not too addled by the wetness on my thighs to see that it was a huge, unfathomable mistake to have ever touched you. I should have sent you running back to your room that first night on Pigeon Cay. At least then you would not be suffering any illusions of who and what I am. You would still be anxious to return to your England and your unsuspecting betrothed, who has undoubtedly embroidered your monogram on a thousand pillowslips in your absence. Go home to her, Varian. Go home to your sixty-five bedrooms, your bootboys, and your rolling green fields. That is where you belong.”

  “What if I disagree?”

  She looked startled for a moment, but in the next, her jaw was firm, her shoulders squared. “Frankly, at this point, it doesn’t matter if you agree or not. You are going home, sir. The Gale sails tonight, on the evening tide, and you will be on it.”

  Before they had departed from Pigeon Cay, Nathan Crisp had grudgingly given up his quarters for the duke’s use. It was a ten foot by ten foot cabin
located forward on the lower deck containing a narrow berth and a stool that had three mismatched legs. Beacom had been installed in the tiny locker adjacent to the cabin, furnished with little more than a hammock strung between two beams. The bulkheads were thin, built out of half-inch planking, and so it was that the valet yelped and was spilled out of his hammock when the door was slammed and he could hear angry pacing inside the quartermaster’s cabin.

  He dressed quickly, smoothed his hands over his hair to flatten the spikes, then hastened out of his cubbyhole to knock lightly on his master’s door.

  It was jerked open so violently, the small wooden box Beacom carried was nearly startled out of his hands. A glimpse at the midnight eyes was more than enough to warn the manservant that his master was in a black mood; he did not need to hear the curse that sent Varian back to pacing the breadth of the cabin.

  Beacom cleared his throat.

  “Good morning, your grace. I trust you slept well. Will you be requiring a shave?”

  Varian turned away from staring out the eight-inch porthole and glared at him a moment, as if trying to remember who he was and why he was there. “A tempting thought, Beacom, but do I look like I want to sit down and have someone press a razor against my throat?”

  “Ah … no. No, in truth you do not, your grace. Perhaps some victuals? Or ale?”

  “Perhaps you should just stand out of the way and let me think.”

  Beacom stepped prudently to one side and was about to set the shaving box down when he noticed the lid of the sea chest was open, the contents tumbled out of their orderly folds.

  “Were you looking for something in particular, your grace?”

  “What?” He followed Beacom’s gaze to the chest. “A clean shirt. Breeches. Stockings. I am the king’s envoy, dammit. I should at least look the part.”

  Beacom’s eyebrows inched upward. He noticed, for the first time, that Varian’s current shirt and breeches bore what looked suspiciously like spatters of blood amid the saltwater stains, the creases, the scuffs of dirt. “Indeed, your grace. So you should.”