While Varian stripped, Beacom hastened to find clean stockings, breeches, and a white camlet shirt. Varian snatched each garment that was held out to him and made no attempt to do so much as button a cuff of the peasecod doublet on his own. He stood rigid while Beacom attended him. He sat and allowed his hair to be brushed smooth, and even tipped his chin up without complaint when Beacom approached somewhat hesitantly with the starched neck ruff. But when the valet searched for the ruby brooch to pin it down in front, it was nowhere to be found.
“Looking for this?”
Beacom gasped and whirled around, slamming himself against the bulkhead, but Varian merely turned to acknowledge the sound of the door swinging open and Simon Dante’s presence at the threshold. The tall, jet-haired privateer had to bend to duck below the lintel, as did his oldest son, Jonas, who did not come all the way into the room, but remained in the doorway, filling it with his big body.
Varian’s reflexes were quick enough to catch the object Dante tossed to him. Without looking down, he knew it was the egg-sized brooch that had been pinned to his collar the day before.
“It was found on the beach, not ten yards from the bodies of the captain and eight crewmen from the Dove.”
Varian manipulated the brooch inside his hand, grudgingly aware of the promise he had made Juliet last night.
“You wouldn’t happen to know how it came to be there, would you?” Dante’s voice was level, but his gaze was hard. Hard and cold, just like Juliet’s had been when she looked him in the eye and told him to go home.
Dante frowned, obviously unaccustomed to waiting for explanations once they were demanded. “If your memory needs refreshing, allow me to tell you what I know. Eight bodies were found on the beach late last night, including that of Anders Van Neuk. At first it appeared as though he had been stopped in the act of sodomizing one of his own men, and if that had been the case, it would have ended there, the devil take him and good riddance. Unfortunately it did not end there. Two of Anders’s men, bleeding from various wounds, were found hiding in the trees and, when questioned, told a somewhat different story.”
“They said they happened across you trying to climb on top of Juliet,” Jonas growled. “When they ran to help, you and your manservant fought them off with swords.”
The accusation was followed by a muted squawk and a dull thump as Beacom banged his head on a beam.
“Beacom was nowhere near the beach last night,” Varian said calmly. “He never left the ship.”
The Pirate Wolf glanced at Beacom and pursed his lips. “Frankly, I didn’t even give it consideration. Apparently Gabriel didn’t either, and by the time he had finished bloodying his knuckles, he had managed to wring an entirely different story from the men’s throats.”
Varian pushed to his feet. “In that case, you are free to believe the version that makes the most sense.”
“They said,” Jonas screwed his golden eyes down to disbelieving slits, “you came out of nowhere and put five of them on the sand without breaking stride. Said you looked like a great bloody bat with your cape flying out like wings.”
Varian stared a moment, then turned to finish dressing. He plucked his cloak off the wall peg and tossed it to Beacom, who, in turn, had to pry himself away from the bulkhead to carry it forward and drape it over his master’s left shoulder. He ran the ties under the arms to fasten it in place, then fetched Varian’s sword belt and buckled it around his waist.
“Going somewhere?” Dante asked casually.
“Your daughter has told me I am. To England, with all haste.”
“And … you are not happy with our decision to send you home?”
“I am neither happy nor unhappy at that particular decision. What does not please me, Captain Dante, is being set forth like a pawn and deemed dispensable once the opening gambit has been played.”
“If you have been given that impression, sir, it was not my intention.”
“Was it not?”
Simon shook his head. “No. It was not. In fact, it was not even my idea to send you home. Certainly not to insist we send you in one of our fastest ships with one of our best and most indispensable captains.”
“Then why … ?” The question escaped Varian’s lips before he could bite it back. The answer was there before him: it was Juliet, of course. It was her idea, much as she had attempted to shift some of the blame. He was, after all, her chattel, her prize, her responsibility, and he, like the Santo Domingo, could be disposed of any way she saw fit.
“The captain of the Gale is taking on extra provisions and fresh water,” Dante was saying. “He should be ready to leave on the evening tide. All the papers and documents you will need to take with you are back on board the Avenger, so whenever you are ready—”
“I am ready now,” Varian said abruptly. “If you have no objections, I will accompany you to your ship, then leave from there for the Gale. I would be remiss,” he added, forcing a tense smile, “if I returned to England having never set foot on the infamous Avenger.”
“As you wish. Can your man manage the chest or shall I send someone—?”
“Oh, I can manage it sir!” Beacom was so ecstatic at the thought of actually going home that he could have flown up to the deck with the sea chest balanced on his head. “Yes indeed, I shall be right on your heels!”
Simon nodded once at Varian before he turned to leave. At the door, he paused and looked back. “If it is any consolation, the decision to send you back was made before we left Pigeon Cay. In light of everything that has happened since then, she might not be quite so adamant about it.”
“Nothing has happened to change her mind, Captain,” Varian said quietly. “That much I do know.”
Juliet was determined that a cut on her thigh would not keep her from going about her daily routine. As much as the fabric chafed, as much as her boots rubbed against the fresh wounds, she spent the better part of the day with Gabriel, having accompanied him out to the Valour. She did not ask about his bruised knuckles and he did not ask about the purple splotches on her jaw and cheek. They knew, just by glancing into each other’s eyes, what had happened, and it was more to Gabriel’s credit that he held his tongue, for he had clearly been surprised to see how close she had come to tears several times throughout the morning.
The Valour and the Tribute weighed anchor just past noon, leaving Juliet no choice but to return to the Iron Rose, and it was there, six hours later as dusk was settling again, that she stood on the quarterdeck and watched as the crew of the Gale began maneuvering the nimble ship through the congestion of ships in the harbor. Dozens of lamps and lanterns were hung from her rigging, casting a glittering reflection across the surface of the water as she moved toward the open sea-lanes. One by one those lamps were being extinguished, for once she was clear of the outer island, it would be safer to run dark toward the horizon.
Juliet lowered the spyglass. She had recognized Captain Brockman standing tall on the quarterdeck, his shock of gray hair making him easy to identify. She had not seen any other familiar figures invited to join him on deck to mark the departure. No one with broad shoulders, dark hair, or a dashing cavalier’s hat on his head.
It was just as well.
So far throughout this endless, insufferable day she had managed to keep her captain’s face intact. She had done that by keeping busy, by not thinking about him, by not once going below to her cabin where everything she looked at would undoubtedly remind her of him. The bed, the desk, the gallery, even the chair for pity’s sake, had all been used for other than what they had been intended and she was not sure she could look at them just yet without feeling the taint of his presence.
How she could have allowed herself to become so besotted, she had no idea. Not the how of it or the why or the when. She just knew that when she had seen him standing at the gangway this morning, prepared to disembark with her father, she had felt her heart crack open and the pieces slide down into her toes. She had wanted to shout that it was
a mistake, that she really didn’t want him to go, that what had seemed so logical and necessary a week ago left her feeling helpless and confused now.
From the outset, she had never been dishonest with herself or him as to what she had wanted. She had taken him to her bed because she had wanted his body, had craved the numbing release of a few well-wrought orgasms to help ease the restlessness and the tension that had been clouding her thinking. With that foolishness burned out of her system she had fully expected to be herself again, tough, strong, resilient.
But instead, she found herself distracted, unable to concentrate on the simplest of tasks. Something as second nature as calculating distances, speeds, and plotting the course they would take in the morning had turned into monumentally impossible equations that had Nathan Crisp frowning and chiding her for making basic errors. She had cut herself on the binnacle. She had nearly stumbled headfirst down a ladderway. She had stared blankly when Nathan had asked her questions for the second and third time.
It had also occurred to her more than once that this was the way her mother behaved when her father was overdue returning to Pigeon Cay, but if this was what love felt like, then perhaps it was for the best that Varian St. Clare was leaving.
If it was love, it was a foolish, witless thing, for she was under no illusions as to how ludicrous a thought it was that there could be any future between them. Their worlds were so different, there was no end to the reasons why neither could adapt to fit in the other. She lived by instinct and passion, he lived by rules and social dictums.
In a month, he would be back in England taking strolls along the Thames, recounting his adventures with a dangerous band of pirates to a rapt crowd of tittering females. He would be back in his own world, surrounded by beautiful women in gauzy dresses who displayed soft white flesh and perfumed cleavage. He would be reminded of his responsibilities as the Duke of Harrow and grudgingly or not, he would do his duty. He would take the bride his mother had selected for him, he would gaze into her eyes and pledge his troth, and then afterward, he would take her into his bed, into his arms …
She made a strangled sound in her throat and turned away from the rail. Nathan Crisp was directly behind her and raised an eyebrow in askance.
“If ye give the order, there is still time to hail Cap’n Brockman an’ have him heave to.”
“Why in heaven’s name would I want him to heave to?”
Nathan grimaced. “To save us all a deal of grief. Ye’ve been like a she-cat with turpentine up her arse all day, and I don’t see your mood improving any the farther away he goes. Give me the word and I’ll run up a signal. We’ll fetch him back on board so’s we can get on about the business ahead without needing to worry that you’ll have us firing on our own ships.”
“Sometimes,” she said slowly, “you overstep yourself, Mr. Crisp.”
“An’ sometimes,” he paused, moving so close she could smell the sincerity on his breath, “ye try so hard to prove ye don’t care about something, ye only end up twistin’ yerself in tighter knots. If ye want him back, we’ll fetch him. Simple as that an’ no one would fault ye for it. Not after what he did last night.”
“Last night?” she whispered.
His grimace deepened at the look of shock on her face. “Ye didn’t think it would stay a secret, did ye? Not with yer brother lickin’ the tar out of every man on board the Dove. Whole crew knows. Whole fleet, probably, and there isn’t a man on board wouldn’t shake the duke’s hand for savin’ them the trouble of blastin’ the Dutchman to hell where he belongs.” He stopped and glanced at the mouth of the harbor, where the Gale was putting on more sail, picking up more speed as she neared open water. “Ye don’t have but a minute to decide, lass.”
Juliet turned her head to follow the privateer’s progress. Most of her lights were doused now and as she sailed toward the darkness of the eastern sky, her huge mainsails were unfurled, shaking out full and pale against the fading light.
Juliet watched until the ship rounded the island and sped out of sight.
“We will be weighing anchor at first light,” she said quietly. “Have all made ready by then.”
Nathan stepped back. “Aye, Cap’n.”
She tipped her head and looked up. “Skies are clear, we should have fair weather ahead. If the wind holds we should be able to make the Devil’s Teeth in two days. By then, Mr. Crisp”—she met his eyes—“we will be far too busy to remember that we even had this conversation.”
“Aye, Captain,” he agreed after a moment. “No doubt we will.”
Chapter Twenty
The serpentine chain of islands known as the Devil’s Teeth were perfectly configured for an ambush. Dozens of small, uninhabited atolls and islets were strung out in an elongated crescent some fifty miles long flanking the eastern boundary of the Straits of Florida. Simon Dante had provided the other captains with detailed maps and charts of the cays, letting each decide where to position his ship where it might be put to best effect. Some preferred the hit-and-run method, lying in wait, concealed behind one of the islands until the galleons straggled into view. Then, like dogs culling sheep out of a herd, they would pounce on the slowest ship and engage it in battle.
The Spanish captains were notoriously without mercy, even to their own. If a ship floundered or managed to get separated from the pack, and if the capitán-general did not think it worth his while to jeopardize the safety of the other ships in the flota, the galleons would be sacrificed to the scavengers, tossed like a scrap of raw meat to a hungry pack of wolves.
They would not know exactly how hungry those wolves would be this time out, or that it would take more than a few paltry ships to appease their appetites. The privateers would be spread out the entire fifty-mile length of the cays, luring ships singly or by twos and threes into traps from which there would be little chance of escape.
The Iron Rose was bound for a pair of atolls midway down the chain marked on the Dante charts as Spaniard’s Cay and Frenchman’s Cay, names that denoted ships of those particular nationalities that had been waylaid on previous hunts. Looking innocent enough from the deeper water of the Straits, the islands sat where the sea bottom rose sharply in ridges and terraces, and where the currents that fed off the Gulf Stream drove many an unwary ship onto shallower banks that were often no more than two fathoms below the surface. Once there, a canny vessel waiting on the other side of the bank could pound away at the trapped ship until the white flag of surrender was run up the mast.
With that goal in mind, it was Simon’s intention to use the Dove as bait—a more practical solution than blowing it out of the water as Juliet had originally craved to do. He proposed setting the Dutchman and the Avenger in plain view when the flota came in sight, both seeming to appear damaged and floundering in the water. There were few Spanish captains who did not know the Avenger’s silhouette on sight, fewer still whose arrogance would not provoke them to throw caution to the wind if there was a chance they could be the one to bring the infamous Pirata Lobo to ground.
Meanwhile the Santo Domingo would be stripped of her guns and mortars. They would be deployed along the beaches of the two small islands that flanked the narrow passage through the atolls. It was only wide enough for one ship at a time and once the galleons were committed to chasing the Avenger through, they would be caught in a deadly cross fire from the two batteries on shore. The Iron Rose and the Christiana would both be waiting out of sight behind the islands, while the Santo Domingo could be used to block the retreat. They would also be taking an additional hundred men on board, the volunteers coming in lots of five from any ship who could spare them. The extras would be needed to man the batteries on shore once the guns were in place.
The Avenger had led the fleet of privateers out of New Providence, setting a brisk pace north, skirting any islands that might have Spanish ships patrolling their waters. Following close on Dante’s stern, flanked by the Iron Rose and the Christiana, was the newly appropriated Dove, whose crew had
been given the choice of either submitting to their new captain—Isabeau Dante—or being sold to the Portuguese to work the cane fields. It made for an impressive sight to see nearly forty ships sailing out of port, all flying the Union Jack on their mastheads. Only once before had Simon Dante seen such a sight, and that had been on the eve he had sailed out of Portsmouth with Francis Drake to defend England against the threat of another Spanish fleet.
True to her prediction, Juliet was kept so busy during the daylight hours that she rarely gave a thought to Varian St. Clare. It was more difficult after dark, when she ran out of excuses to retire to her cabin, but there, too, after the third night, she could almost fall asleep without having to fight the urge to run her own hand down between her thighs.
Before they reached Frenchman’s Cay, two of the captains broke away to set up their own ambush near the tip of the chain of islands. Captain David Smith had his own score to settle with the Spaniards and, together with Captain Peter Wilbury, had bid to take up the first position. The combined guns from the five ships in their group would announce the arrival of the plate fleet as it entered the Straits. Dante’s guns would in turn give warning to the next ambuscade and so on all the way up the fifty-mile span of the Devil’s Teeth.
Juliet dropped anchor midafternoon in the shallow water less than a half mile off the tiny island. The Santo Domingo lay alongside the Rose while the Avenger, the Christiana, and the Dove took up a position behind Spaniard’s Cay. Simon Dante, Pitt, and Juliet rowed ashore with their quartermasters and chief gunners to walk the length of the beach. They surveyed the slope of the dunes with an eye to digging the gun emplacements, checking to see if the channel between the two cays was as they remembered. They were pleased to see a thick line of trees less than fifty feet from both beaches.
Out of the fifty-two cannon the galleon had originally mounted, four had already been removed to replace guns on board the Iron Rose. Thirty culverins, twelve demi-culverins, and six eighty-pound mortars would be broken down and transferred ashore, divided equally between the two islands. There was a good deal of backbreaking work ahead, but there, too, they had the crew of the Dove to supplement the labor force as well as the extra hundred men who would eventually man the batteries.
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