The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  The statement had been met with a general rumble of agreement around the dinner table. Also partaking of the exquisite wine and artfully prepared platters of food were three dark-haired, doe-eyed beauties—one of whom was the governor’s wife, the other two his daughters. The latter were seventeen and fifteen respectively and because neither was permitted to set foot outside her cabin without the protective shadow of her duenna, these dinners in the company of so many handsome officers rendered them both flushed and breathless by the end of the evening.

  “Is it true, señor capitán?” the elder daughter had asked, her intrigued whisper inviting Recalde to look up from his soup. “Is she so ugly she could be mistaken for a man?”

  “We were but briefly in her company, señorita Lucia.”

  “Oh come now, Don Cristóbal,” Aquayo boomed. “Surely you cannot forget a chest like an iron barrel, a face brutish enough to frighten the devil himself. Had I a daughter like that, I would lock her away in a cellar from shame.”

  Recalde’s gaze hardened. “I did not say I have forgotten her face, señor capitán-general. In truth, it is burned permanently on my mind and shall remain there until I see her standing before me again. In chains, of course. With a rope around her neck.”

  “With the reward you offered the Dutchman for her capture, I am certain your vision will be realized soon.”

  “I harbor the same vision of her father,” said the captain of the Contadora. “You speak of the devil, Don Diego; then surely this man is his spawn. He appears out of nowhere and rains hell down upon our ships. He prays upon the weak and strong alike, as if he fears nothing, not our guns, not our numbers, not our might.”

  “He is a man,” Recalde said coldly. “Cut him and he bleeds. Shoot him and he dies.”

  “The problem, Don Cristóbal,” said another officer, “is getting close enough to either cut him or shoot him. There is not a man in this room who can even boast of having seen this Simon Dante face to face.”

  Recalde held his silence. It had been his fondest hope, before they departed from Havana, to have one last chance to avenge himself upon the Dantes. Father, daughter, it made little difference. It would have been a fine way to begin the new enterprise against England, with a victory against her most prolific sea hawk.

  The loss of the Santo Domingo while under his command was an insult that would not go unanswered, regardless of how long it took. To that end, he almost considered it an inconvenience rather than a pleasure to be returning to Spain. A thousand things could happen between now and when the war with England was successfully resolved. La Rosa could be caught by another captain. She could be killed attacking another ship. She could fall overboard and drown and Recalde might never have the pleasure of seeing her pay for her crimes.

  The conversation at that point had drifted, naturally, into debates over the upcoming enterprise against England and no one seemed to notice he was not participating. No one except Lucia, who had been looking at him all evening as if he were a succulent morsel of some rare, exotic sweetmeat.

  Knowing she was watching, he let his gaze slip boldly down her neck and into the valley of her cleavage. At seventeen her breasts were small and shapeless but through the wiles of modern fashion, they had been pushed up and squeezed together to crown impressively over the bodice. She had a fine olive complexion with large fawning eyes and while she chattered incessantly about her upcoming wedding to the son of one of the richest families in all of Spain, Recalde thought of other ways to put that mouth to good use.

  His gaze shifted deliberately to the younger sister, who was seated farther along the table. She kept her eyes downcast most of the time but Recalde had caught the plumping effects of an impatient sigh heaved whenever her sister would steer the conversation back to herself.

  Thankfully, the ladies retired early and at the first opportunity Recalde begged his leave of the governor and the captain, using his wounds as an excuse to retire early from the table.

  It was not entirely a lie. When the shots had torn off the lobes of his ears, the pain had been excruciating. The bitch had been standing close enough when she fired that he still bore scorch marks from the powder burns furrowed into his cheeks. A fraction of an inch higher on either side and he would have lost his hearing. As it was, he suffered headaches and still had a constant ringing in the left side, an annoyance that affected his ability to distinguish between the sound of the breeze rushing through the trees onshore and the soft whisper of a silk skirt approaching across the deck.

  “You find our company boring, señor capitán? The conversation dull, perhaps?”

  He was at the rail, listening to the water slap against a hundred hulls, when the dainty figure stepped up beside him. It was the governor’s youngest daughter, Marisol, the gauzy ends of her lace shawl fluttering gently in the night breezes.

  He looked past her shoulder but the stanchly bulked figure of her ever present duenna was nowhere to be seen.

  “I can promise you, señorita, it was not the fault of the company,” he said, bowing gallantly. “If anything, I feel it is my own presence that must insult the beauty of such tender eyes as yours.”

  “You refer to your wounds, capitán? But I do not find them offensive in the least. Indeed, with your hair arranged so carefully, they are hardly visible at all. I have some knowledge of healing herbs, taught at the Convent of the Holy Sisters in Madrid, and if your wounds pain you, I might be of some small assistance.”

  Recalde stepped back as she stepped forward, a hand rising instinctively to protect his damaged ears from her curiosity. He did not need this now. He did not need a coddling, mewling novitiate keening over his wounded vanity.

  “There is a chill in the air, señorita. You might be wise to return below.”

  “Nonsense. It is so warm the dampness wets my skin like dew.” She slipped her shawl off her shoulders and, ignoring his suggestion, placed her hands on the rail and gazed out across the harbor. “How beautiful,” she whispered. “How entirely, wondrously beautiful. I think I have never seen so many ships gathered in one place. They glitter and twinkle just like the stars, of which I have never seen so many as there are here in the New World.” She looked up and her face fell, for it had rained all day and the sky was still thick with clouds.

  The entire ocean beyond the harbor was black, not a point of light to be seen anywhere. It was like staring into a great black void, and the awe was reflected in Marisol’s voice.

  “It is so beautiful, yet so terrifying at the same time. I find myself looking at the many endless, boundless leagues of water and thinking we are so small, so insignificant. A few lengths of wood held together by nails and pitch, afloat by God’s grace, at the complete mercy of the wind and weather. Does it not frighten you, capitán, to know your life may be spent on such a whim? That a storm could strike or a leak could erupt and we would sink to the bottom without a trace?”

  “You worry yourself needlessly, señorita. This ship is as sound as a fortress. And we will not be alone on the ocean-sea. We will be in the company of a hundred other galleons, an armada that will stretch from one edge of the horizon to the other until we arrive safely home.”

  “Home.” She sighed wistfully. “Alas, I was so happy, so thrilled when Papá told us we were coming to the New World. I was so thankful just to be free of the convent, I thought I would die of excitement before we ever reached Vera Cruz.” She paused and glanced at him sidelong. “Do you think that a shameful thing to say? That I was glad to be away from the prayer stools and the smell of incense?”

  “I see little shame in telling the truth.”

  She smiled and moved her hand an inch closer to his on the rail. “Then I shall shock you by saying it was nothing at all what I expected. The villa was magnificent and we wanted for nothing, but Papá would not let either Lucia or myself outside the gates. In two years, I was permitted to drive into the city of Vera Cruz only once, and then with so many guards in our escort, it was impossible to see through
the wall of horses. Lucia was terrified the whole time of being waylaid and raped, and so Mamá punished me for her fears.”

  “Then that is a true shame, for Vera Cruz is an elegant, beautiful city.”

  “Yes, I know.” She sent another smile, another sly glance in his direction. “I said Papá only permitted us to leave the villa once. I did not say I only left it the one time. The gardener’s son was very much in love with me and took me often through the rear gates. He showed me things that would keep Mamá in a swoon for a month if she knew.”

  Recalde returned the smile. “If she knew you were up here on deck with me now, without your duenna, she would do much more than swoon.”

  “Would she indeed? Are you a dangerous man, capitán? Have you a reputation for taking advantage of unchaperoned virgins?”

  The girl was flirting with him. She was pretty enough to make the game interesting, but she was also spoiled and rebellious and obviously thought herself an exotically daring vixen to have snuck outside the villa walls with the gardener’s son.

  “I can assure you, señorita, your reputation is perfectly safe with me.”

  She pursed her lips and feigned a moue of disappointment. “And here I was hoping you were different from the others.”

  “Different? How so?”

  “The other officers, they look at me like I am the governor’s daughter. They prance and simper and speak of nothing but the weather. Whereas you, capitán, look at me as if you could see beneath my bodice and, if provoked, would rip it open and take what you wanted without troubling to ask.”

  “And if I did? What would you do?”

  “I might scream.” She moved closer and traced a fingertip along one of the prominent veins on the back of his hand. “Or I might tell you that I have not been a virgin for a very long time and that I would give you what you want more than willingly.” She looked up into his face, her own arranged in an expression the gardener’s boy must have found seductive. “Do you know where my cabin is, capitán?”

  “I know.”

  “My duenna snores like trumpet blasts and I have never been able to tolerate her in the same room with me at night. If you were to scratch on my door later, you would find me quite alone.”

  Recalde’s gaze flicked briefly into the shadows and he smiled. “If I were to scratch on your father’s door right now and tell him of our conversation, I’m sure you would not be alone much longer.”

  The girl stiffened. She withdrew her hand from his, curling the fingers into a fist that trembled with the childish urge to reach up and scratch the arrogant face to ribbons. With a swirl of wide skirts, she was gone, her anger and humiliation making her run back along the deck.

  Almost before the sound of her footsteps had faded, another figure detached itself from a niche in the bulkhead behind them, her dark eyes blazing with anger.

  “So. You would have my little sister kneeling at your feet as well, señor?”

  “I did not ask for her company. She followed me out here on her own initiative.”

  “Really.” Lucia’s eyes narrowed. “Had I not been standing here, would you still have sent her away?”

  Recalde smiled and took several measured steps toward her, crowding her back into the darkness of the niche. He resumed where they had left off before the interruption, scooping her breasts free of her bodice and hiking her skirts above her waist. As she had the three previous nights when they had “accidentally” met on deck, she welcomed him with a grasping eagerness, whimpering when he impaled her on his flesh and rammed her repeatedly into the hard planking. In a trice her flirtatious whimpers turned into voracious snuffles of pleasure and he was forced to clamp a hand over her mouth, wary of the watchmen posted on the deck overhead.

  His own release was swift, accomplished with a piquant savagery by imagining it was Juliet Dante clutching at him in fear, oozing his revenge from every orifice of her body. When he finished, he simply pushed himself away, leaving the girl quivering where she stood against the bulkhead.

  “Por Dios,” she whispered, her skirts sliding slowly down to cover her bare legs. “My little sister would be dead if you did such a thing to her. I myself wonder if I can survive six weeks at sea. Por Dios Misericordiso,” she laughed softly. “I wonder if I can even walk back to my cabin.”

  Recalde started to tuck himself back into his breeches. “If you are displeased, I’m sure there are others on board who would be happy to show you more deference, señorita.”

  “You jest, capitán.” She smiled and gingerly reseated breasts that had been suckled and bitten red back into her bodice. “The oaf I go home to marry is fat and balding—much like your Capitán Aquayo—and the thought of even letting him touch me is sickening. He is rich and has the king’s ear, and so I must marry him but you, my handsome capitán, you will give me the memories I need to see me through the horror.”

  “I am flattered to have won your consideration,” he murmured dryly.

  “Oh yes, you have won it,” she agreed, reaching out to stop him before he had fastened his breeches all the way. “As you shall win it every day and night for however long it takes to cross this vast ocean-sea. Not only that, but I shall see that you crave me just as much as I crave you so that when we return to Seville you will not easily forget me.”

  Recalde had more than half forgotten her already. He was staring out over the rail, his gaze fixed on a point far out where the sea met the sky. He narrowed his eyes and backtracked to search the blackness more carefully. There was nothing visible to the naked eye, yet for a moment he thought he had seen something. Even then, it was not so much that he had seen something; it was more like he had sensed something, had felt a presence lurking out there, crouched low on the eastern horizon.

  His hand fell instinctively to his waist, but he was dressed for formal dining, and the belt he normally wore that housed his brass eye scope was back in his cabin. It was probably nothing. There were a dozen pataches patrolling the approaches to the harbor, not to mention lookouts on every high point of the coastline. Only a madman would sail this close to Havana the eve before the armada was due to sail.

  He gasped and looked down, jerked back to the present by the feel of an angry hand insinuating itself beneath his clothes and clutching around his flesh. He was about to swat it away, swat her away, when a startled grunt marked the realization that it was not her hand at all that was demanding his full attention.

  Gabriel Dante lowered his spyglass. The wide stretch of coastline a league away showed few lights on either side of the dazzling expanse of bright glitter that identified the port of Havana. He and Jonas had not been able to bring their ships too close during daylight hours, but with the rain and heavy ceiling of cloud shielding them, they had thought to take advantage of the opportunity before breaking north.

  Both ships ran dark. No fires, no lights, not even a pipe was allowed. The smallest pinprick of red could carry for miles on such a humid, heavy night. They had even gone so far as to change their regular canvas sheets to those stained with indigo dye, a practice that had successfully allowed them to get within five hundred yards of an enemy in the past. Tonight even Jonas was exercising caution, for there were pataches and pinnaces patrolling back and forth along the straits and approaches, some of them running just as dark as they were and equally difficult to see.

  They had both been astounded to see the crowded conditions in port, and they had not needed to see the larger warships maneuvering toward the mouth of the harbor to know that the flota would begin making the massive exodus any day now. Having noted this significant repositioning of the warships, Jonas was taking the Tribute in as close as he dared to see if he could get a count of exactly how many of the heavily armed galleons would leave with the first flush. After that, it would be time to lay on canvas and beetle back to the cays with all haste.

  Gabriel rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. He raised the glass and took another sweep of the shoreline, but the four pataches he had alread
y identified were presenting obvious silhouettes against the lights of the harbor, and were not giving the hairs on his neck a reason to stand on end. As a precaution, he walked to the larboard side and swept the horizon behind them. He did not see anything on the first sweep, not even on the second. But on the third he picked up a pale silhouette cutting swiftly in from the west and heading straight for the Tribute. It was another ship, larger than a patache, with at least three masts and high towers fore and aft.

  A galleon. Running dark.

  Gabriel aimed the glass at the Tribute. Knowing his brother was watching his back, Jonas would likely have most of the sharpest eyes on board searching forward. As if that fear needed confirmation, Gabriel saw no visible change in speed or direction from his brother’s ship. He was moving necessarily slow, with only his indigo topgallant and topsail mounted on the foremast, steerage tops on the main and mizzen. He would have to shake out the sails on all three masts soon if he wanted to build up enough speed to maneuver away from the galleon before the Spaniard drew within effective range of his guns.

  “Fuck me,” Gabriel muttered aloud.

  “Might not have to,” his helmsman said dryly. “Pleasure might be all theirs,” he added, pointing to two more ghostly specters closing fast on their own flank.

  Gabriel swung his glass around and sure enough, the Tribute was not the only vessel in trouble. A pair of bloodhounds, coming from seeming thin air, had taken the scent of the Valour. They must have found him the same way he had found the pataches, by pinpointing his silhouette against the bright lights of the harbor. It was a stupid, careless, and potentially dangerous error in judgment to have come in so close, and they would be lucky to find the speed to outrun them before all hell broke loose.

  “All hands up top,” he ordered calmly. “Open the ports and clear the decks for action. On my signal …” He stopped and glanced swiftly at the Tribute, still apparently oblivious to the danger looming in the darkness. Jonas wouldn’t be able to see any signal shy of a gunshot or a flare, and if they were going to do that …