The Iron Rose

by Marsha Canham

  The Valour’s wounds had been too grave to repair, and after removing everything of value, her ports had been opened to let in the sea. Jonas, who had met and joined forces with three privateers who were late reaching the rendezvous at New Providence, had sent them chasing after the pair of galleons that had initially been caught in the ambush, with the result that there were now five Spanish ships—six, including the hulk of the Santo Domingo—surrendered to the Dantes and anchored in the lee of the two islets. One was given to the privateers who had arrived with Jonas, the spoils to be divided among their crews; another was given to the two ships who had accompanied the Christiana back to port, drawn by the thunder of the guns. Both ships would remain at the ambuscade, as would any crewman from the Valour or Iron Rose still hungry to fight, while the injured would be sent back to Pigeon Cay on the Rose.

  Of the three remaining prize ships, one would be taken over by Gabriel until a more suitable replacement for the Valour could be acquired. The Santo Domingo was useless except as a decoy, and to that end, Simon Dante planned to fill her with barrels of powder and send her forth to meet the next wave of Spanish warships. The vanguard had been in such a hurry to flee north, they had dispatched but one pinnace to carry a warning back to the rest of the fleet to be on the alert for ambushes. The Christiana, skimming the waves like a low-flying bird, had intercepted the courier and sunk her before the alarm could be delivered; thus there was an excellent chance of more galleons sailing blithely to their doom on the morrow.

  In truth, the day’s work had been more successful than even Simon would have imagined. The damage to the Avenger was not severe enough to send her home yet and the carpenters would work through the night to effect repairs. To have gained five and lost only one ship—the Valour—was remarkable, and if the rest of the adventurers were half as lucky, the flota would be reduced by half before it neared the northern exit of the Straits. There, it was Dante’s further intention to form a blockade line of privateers, whose very presence, after harassing the flota every league of the way, would surely send any remaining ships scrambling back to Havana.

  For the time being, however, it was taking all of his strength and concentration just to keep a stern eye trained on the recalcitrant members of his household, for if a tenth of the pride he was feeling ever burst free, he doubted he would ever gain control again.

  To aid in that effort, he focused on Varian St. Clare, the only occupant of the cabin who had not already begun to chatter like a clutch of boastful gulls and the only one who might still be intimidated by the silvery glare. The duke was finally allowing Nog to attend his wounds, though he had not moved from the side of the berth, and he had not let his hand stray farther from Juliet’s than a breath would take it. With the smallest flicker of pain that had crossed her face, his fingers had been there, curling around hers. Even more remarkable, her fingers curled back.

  Catching a fleeting glimpse of himself standing in much the same position twenty-five years ago, the legendary Pirate Wolf smiled and shook his head. “You should have fled when you had the chance, your grace.”

  Varian looked over at him. After a moment, he smiled back. “Have you ever regretted that you did not?”

  Simon glanced at Beau, who was laughing at something Jonas and Gabriel had said. “No. Not for one single blessed moment.”

  “Then that is good enough for me.”

  Two hours later the Iron Rose weighed anchor and slipped away just as the dawn was rising in pink streaks across the horizon. Nathan plotted a course that would take them well to the east before turning south and heading for home. They were accompanied by three pinnaces that would run far enough ahead to give fair warning of any other traffic on the sea-lanes.

  Varian left Juliet asleep on the berth and went to stand at the gallery door, watching as the two islands grew smaller and smaller off their stern. His side was aching and his arm was throbbing. If he closed his eyes he could isolate and identify every cut and scrape he had earned over the past twenty-four hours. For a certainty, he was not entirely unhappy to be returning to Pigeon Cay. On the other hand, it had been an exhilarating twenty-four hours and he had to wonder again if it eventually became blasé to men like Simon Dante, who lived every day as an adventure.

  The smell of gunpowder and burned canvas still permeated the air inside the cabin, and after a glance back at Juliet, he stepped out onto the narrow balcony. The wind blew his hair and the foam leaped high off the curl of the ship’s wake, sparkling like handfuls of diamonds where it fell back into the sea.

  A pair of dolphins swam alongside, their bodies sleek and gleaming beneath the blue water; now and then they crossed behind the wake, leaping over the waves and diving below again in gray streaks.

  Varian heard a bump behind him and turned just as Juliet slipped out onto the gallery. She was holding her head and swaying slightly with the motion of the ship and he was by her side in half a step, his arms around her waist, a frown creasing his brow.

  “You were given specific orders to remain abed, Captain.”

  “You weren’t there,” she whispered. “I opened my eyes and you weren’t there.”

  He gathered her gently into his arms and felt her press her face into the curve of his shoulder. “I’m here now. And will be for as long as you want me to stay.”

  She tipped her face up, slowly, as if it weighed twice as much as usual. Her eyes were glazed, the centers dilated from the steeped decoction Nog Kelly had forced her to drink. But she was smiling. “I think I would like both of you to stay.”

  “Both?”

  “Indeed. There are two of you. There is two of everything, in fact, and I was hoping I found the right door to walk through on the second try.”

  She tried to raise her hand and touch his cheek, but the pain from the bruises across her shoulder and chest made her reconsider. And then something else caught her attention and she looked past the canted hull of the ship toward the eastern sky where the sun was hot and bright and promising a clear day ahead.

  “I see two of them,” she whispered softly.

  Varian glanced down and saw the dolphins gliding side by side through the water. He was about to remark that her vision was improving, when he realized she was not staring down into the water at all. He followed her gaze and felt his blood surge in his veins as he remembered.

  “As I recall, that was one of your stipulations, was it not? That you would have to rise on a morning and see two suns in the sky before you would consider marrying me?”

  She tipped her head and looked up at him with a slightly accusing frown as if he had somehow managed to arrange the phenomenon. Then her eyes settled on his mouth, on the smile that was widening as she watched.

  “You will see no tightness there at all this time, madam. Just the sheer, unadulterated pleasure of seeing you have to honor your word. And thank God for that, since I have already spoken to your father.”

  “You have?”

  “I have,” he said and lifted her hand, pressing it to his lips. “He thinks I would show more sense marrying into a nest of hornets, but I told him I have already been well stung. And before you ask, no. I would never expect you to live in England. Moreover, it has taken me these past few weeks to realize I would be happier here, sailing with you to the edge of the world.”

  “You want to slay dragons with me?”

  “Every last one, my love. Every last one.”

  Read on for an excerpt from Marsha Canham’s new medieval romance coming out in Winter 2004. Filled with thrilling adventure and heart-pounding passion, Marsha’s books have been called “Bloody marvelous!” by Virginia Henley (author of Ravished), and reviewers have dubbed her the “queen of romantic adventure” (Romantic Times).

  A split second before the arrow struck, the girl’s instinct sent her ducking back into the shadow of the cottage door.

  The shot had come from one of the half dozen long-bowmen who stood at the edge of the clearing. With lethal calm, their eyes stalked fr
esh victims, and as soon as one was found, they nocked their arrows, drew the strings taut, and fired. Behind them, laughing and shouting encouragement, were four mounted knights, their gray wool gambesons devoid of any distinguishing crest or blazon. The sleepy English village, innocent and unaware only moments before, was under attack by men who did not want their identity known—and for good reason. An ambush on unarmed villagers broke every law, defiled every precept of the knighthood’s code of honor.

  The first flight of arrowheads had been wrapped in pitch-soaked rags and set alight before being dispatched. The mists at dawn had been thick enough to conceal the raiders’ approach, but the wind now passed through the clearing like an errant hand, sweeping the fog away. That same wind fanned the sparks, sending flames leaping across the roofs, and within seconds, columns of coiling black smoke rose from the cluster of mud-and-wattle cottages.

  The three swaybacked asses in the village were too old, too workworn to even bleat an alarm as the flames licked across the thatch and ran down the walls. They were also dead after the second flight of arrows, as was the solitary milk cow and the brace of fat hogs.

  As the roofs burst into flame above them, the men ran out of the cottages in a panic, snatching up pitchforks and scythes as if the handmade tools could afford any protection against the bowmens’ three-foot-long shafts of barbed ash. They were followed by their women, who pushed and dragged children, urging them to run for the perceived safety of the woods. Goats and chickens added to the confusion, for most were too insignificant a target for the archers—seasoned marksmen who drew their bows with unrelenting accuracy and felled the husbands, fathers, sons first. The killers were also patient. They tracked a man as he ran behind the wall of a burning hovel, then waited for the heat and smoke to drive him out into the open again. The women fared no better. Several were sprawled on the ground, arrows jutting from their backs.

  Amie remained crouched in the doorway of the smithy’s cottage, her eyes watering from the smoke, her nose burning from the waves of heat that were sucking the air out of her lungs, her back aid shoulders being scorched through the threadbare cloth. Her choices were to break for the forest or be enveloped by the roaring flames overhead. The trees were fifty paces away, but there was nothing between them and the cottage save for a miserly vegetable patch scratched into the earth.

  Clenching her teeth around a half-sobbed prayer, she darted through the door and ran as fast as she could to the feeble protection afforded by a low mound of hay. Over the sound of her heart pounding in her chest, she heard the telltale whoosht and thunk of an arrow furrowing into the earth a few inches from her foot, but she was already running again, weaving this way and that in an attempt to elude the archer’s aim. She was slight of build and wiry. The only softness on her body was in the vicinity of her breasts, which were pressed almost flat inside a frock that was two sizes too small. Her hair was braided and hung in a long brown tail down her back; the hem of her skirt was pulled up between her legs and tucked into her belt so that from a distance, it was possible to mistake her for a lad in an ill-fitted jerkin.

  She heard a shout, followed by two more sharp thunks as arrows kicked up clods of dirt close on her heels. She felt the spray of pebbles against her bared calves but did not once look away from the bed of ferns that grew in the shadow of the trees. The ferns were thick and green, high as her waist, covering the ground like a canopy, and she knew if she could just make it that far, she might have a chance. …

  She heard another whoosht and dove for the undergrowth. Something punched her in the back of the shoulder and helped propel her forward, but she barely skidded to her knees on the spongy loam before she was on her feet again, scrambling deeper into the sea of ferns. She ran one way for a dozen paces, then veered sharply to the left for a dozen more. She kept running, changing direction every few wild moments, trying to ignore the shouts and screams that filled the clearing behind her. The wind was a blessing now, keeping the tops of the ferns swaying and dipping in constant motion, helping to conceal the direction of her flight.

  Another sound brought her briefly to a halt. She risked a glance behind her and confirmed the dreaded thud of horses’ hooves scything through the saplings and underbrush. One of the knights had left the scene of slaughter and was pursuing her—with almost lazy confidence—into the greenwood. Even at a hundred paces, he was huge, his destrier enormous as it trampled a wide swath through the ferns. The knight had his visor lowered, and there was not much to see between the iron grating that covered his eyes, but while she doubted his face would be familiar to her, she knew why he had come. He and others like him had been hunting her for over a month, and now the villagers were paying the price for sheltering her.

  Smothering a sob, she ducked again and lunged deeper into the woods. The main vein of the creek that ran past the village was somewhere close by, but she had spent most of the past seven days in a fever and was not familiar with all the paths and turns. She was running blind, disoriented by all the green, the shadows, the new and excruciating pain in her shoulder that was forcing her to hold her arm in a hard curl against her chest.

  Without warning, the saplings thinned and the ground took a sheer plunge downward. She had found the creek, but it was at the bottom of a steep embankment. Driven by another brief glance behind her, she grabbed an exposed root and started to ease herself over the edge. The lip of earth crumbled under her weight and she slipped, only managing to break her fall by clutching at a second root. The action jerked her injured arm, and she felt the iron arrowhead grind against bone. Barely able to bite back a scream, she let go and dropped straight down, landing on a bed of decades-old decayed leaves. The momentum of her fall sent her rolling onto the shaft of the arrow and she heard the ashwood snap, but not before the iron tip was pushed all the way through the flesh of her shoulder, tearing through the coarsely woven wool in front.

  Nearly blinded by the pain, she dragged herself under the tangle of roots that overhung the bank. She made a last, feeble attempt to rake some of the decayed leaves over her legs to conceal them, but a chill unlike anything she had ever felt before slithered across the base of her neck and began to spiral down through her belly, numbing her all the way to the tips of her toes.

  He was there. He was above her on the embankment, and his laughter came to her softly over the creak of saddle leather as he guided his horse down to the lower bank. A moment later, the jangle of his spurs told her he was dismounting, and through her own sobs and pleas, she heard the sinister whisper of a sword being drawn from its sheath.

  The Iron Rose

  © 2003 Marsha Canham

  ISBN: 0451208153

  SIGNET

  Ed♥n