Dead Man's Kiss

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Dead Man’s Kiss

  A Romancing the Pirate Novel

  Jennifer Bray-Weber

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or used in whole or in part by any means without written permission from the author at jenn@jbrayweber.com.

  All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, with or without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Bray-Weber

  All rights reserved.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The making of this book has been a long, often treacherous, voyage. The seas haven’t always been calm and, at times, the winds were barely a breath. But as the saying goes, smooth seas do not make a good sailor. I couldn’t have made this journey without the generous support and encouragement from my friends and fans.

  A toast to Stacey, Eliza, Judy, Will, and The Killion Group for their contributions.

  And, to my family, a heartfelt thank you for your continued championing and shipload of patience. The moon is a little closer because of you.

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgment

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  CHAPTER 1

  Matanzas, Cuba 1728

  “Stand down, Valeryn.”

  Henri’s stern command only fueled Valeryn Barone’s belligerent temper. Hell no would he stand down. And the crusty old sea cook could do nothing about it.

  Staring into the dark, fiery eyes of a bastard who said the right thing at the right time, Valeryn itched for a fine bloody fight. Craved it. After the morning he’d had, the heartbreaking news he’d delivered, he was beyond confrontational.

  He cracked his knuckles thinking of Magdalena, the pain sweeping across her features as he handed her the ring belonging to her murdered husband. She had collapsed into his arms sobbing, and he couldn’t keep his own emotions from bubbling over. Gabriel Kipp was a damn good seaman, pirate, and friend.

  Ever since leaving her house, Valeryn had been soaking in the finest rum this rat-infested port had to offer. Now he was ready to release his pent up aggression. Nose to nose with a local Spaniard who was clearly taller and less drunk, Valeryn smirked.

  “Valeryn,” Henri warned again.

  Conversations in the smoky tavern died. The wench sitting on a nearby jack’s lap stood and scooted away, the fellow cleared the table and followed behind. Dust swirled in the sinking western sunlight as the door opened and patrons smartly left.

  “Take ’im down, Diego!” A rotund bloke with an absurdly thin mustache encouraged the cur.

  Diego didn’t unlock his steady glare. Valeryn didn’t miss the flash of challenge in his muddy eyes. “Aye, take me down, Diego.”

  “I thought the captain of the infamous Rissa would have more control of himself.”

  So the blackguard knew him. Not surprising. He did have a nasty reputation. Everyone who sailed the pirate ship Rissa did.

  “Weren’t you the first mate of that woman? Capt’n Quint, is it?” the fat squab mocked. “Imagine that, a pullet orderin’ ya ’round.”

  The tip of Diego’s lip quivered up. “That he is, Bartholomew.”

  “I heard ya ran the ship aground on the shoals,” Bartholomew continued. “Ain’t much of a man or a capt’n, are ya, boy?”

  “Or a drunk, eh, Barone?”

  The sarcasm dripped sharp and acidic from Diego’s words. It was the flash in the pan Valeryn needed. He exploded, giving in to Diego’s taunts, with a well-placed fist into the bugger’s nose.

  Diego stumbled back. Valeryn struck him again, the white hot fury blinding him, feeling the need to bleed.

  The Spaniard charged and slammed him into a table. The wood scraped across the dirty floor and bit into Valeryn’s back. Pain shot through his ribs, once, twice, until he shouldered Diego’s strikes and rolled off the table, grabbing a mug as he righted himself. He tossed the mug’s swill into the arsehole’s face. A heady scent of rum mingled with sweat and tobacco. Diego sputtered, swiped his profile. Valeryn tightened his grip on the metal cup, smashing it into Diego’s jaw.

  Diego roared, planting his fist into Valeryn’s eye with so much force, Valeryn spun. He struggled to maintain his balance. But he failed and hit the floor on all fours. Before he could scramble up, Diego kicked him in his ribs. His breath seized in his lungs, unable to draw even the faintest of breath, he crumbled to the floorboards. Diego grabbed him up by his collar and pummeled Valeryn, rattling his brains. The smarting was fleeting as his rage flared. Like hell was he going to let the bastard best him.

  He came at Diego with the ferocity of a wild beast. Blow for blow, Valeryn traded with the miscreant. Blood stung his eyes, seeped into his mouth, the metallic tang coating his lips. Somewhere over the cheers crowding his ears, he heard Henri demanding he stop his nonsense.

  Why stop? The pain reminded him he was alive. Reminded him Kipp was not. That, alone, kept him going. No stopping until death.

  Valeryn couldn’t say when the pain ceased, when his own pants were all he heard over the drone of tavern noise, when he stopping seeing altogether. As his fuzzy mind stirred awake, he couldn’t remember much of anything.

  A beam of sunlight slanted across his face, puncturing him in the eyes. He groaned and that simple action seemed to split his head wide open. He pressed his palms to his temples, sure his brains oozed from the pounding cleft splintering his brow.

  Damn, he was thirsty. And he ached all over, from his face to his toes. It even hurt to breathe. He lay still on the cold, hard floor, refusing to move lest he spill the roiling contents of his stomach. How much had he drunk?

  He felt slowly around his waist. Where the hell was his pistol? A bullet between his deadlights in the brain would be far better than suffering the after-effects of being the seas over drunk.

  Prying his eyes open again, he recognized the wood beam ceiling. This wasn’t his cabin. Shit. Not again.

  He rolled toward the iron bars of the jail cell, shards of pain slicing through his chest. Would they finally hang him?

  Vague memories of the previous night flashed through his mind with the unbearable pounding of his heart. The fight with the ruffler Diego had been broken up and he was hauled away.

  His mouth was too dry to keep any amount of concentration. He’d have to figure out how he was going to get out of this mess later. But maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t try.

  Damn, he was thirsty.

  “Ya gone and done it now, boy.”

  Valeryn cut his gaze to Henri sitting on the other side of the cell, leaning forward on his cane. His red bows tied into his wiry beard drooped and his disheveled green vest was missing a button. The lines around his scowl scored deep into the
folds of his disapproving jowls.

  “Piss off, Henri.”

  “Bone-rot ya, Valeryn! D’ya even know what ya’ve done?”

  He thought of the crooked nose he gave Diego. ’Twas a mighty good fight. His fist ached from the black and ghoulish green bruising across his knuckles. He chuckled but stopped abrupt from the stabbing ache.

  Valeryn sat up, resting his arms upon his knees. He willed the room to stop spinning and struggled against his revolting body, breathing deep to keep from vomiting. A new pain stabbed at his left side. “Son of a...”

  “Got yerself a couple broken ribs,” Henri said. “Serves ya right, too.”

  Valeryn gingerly inspected the bandage wrapped around his middle. “If that’s all that’s broken, I’d say I’m doing good.”

  “Ain’t what I’m talkin’ ’bout, boy,” Henri groused. “They’ve taken Rissa.”

  His ship? What the devil? “What are you prattling about?”

  “Ya got us arrested for the riot ya caused at El Cuervo Negro. Sam and the watch crew were on the ship when the gaurda costa seized her. Imagine Willie and the rest of ’em are lyin’ low. Probably get themselves killed for tryin’ to rescue us.”

  Valeryn dropped his head between his knees. Christ. He had wanted to get his arse beat, wanted to cause trouble. But never would he have wanted his men to suffer for him. The implication of what he’d done sank in.

  He was reckless, wasn’t that what Joelle had said time and again? Wasn’t that what he always admitted? This was her fault. He sometimes resented her, his erstwhile captain and lover. Resented her for leaving him, for forcing him to take responsibility of Rissa, for believing in him enough that the whole damned crew believed in him, too. This was the crew’s fault. He was a fake. He was no captain. They knew this. And now the men would face execution because of him. Damn Joelle for coaxing him into taking the authority. He could have left, should have left, found another crew to sign articles with. But he didn’t.

  He expelled a heavy sigh. This was all his fault.

  “Gonna hang, we are,” Henri grumbled. “And I’m gonna be dry.” He pulled out a beat-up flask from his inside vest pocket, jiggled it, and threw the empty flagon across the cell.

  Valeryn flinched at the metal clanking on the floor and the reverberating echo piercing his ears. “Tut!” he snapped. “I cannot think with you blabbering and making noise.”

  “Ya don’t think at all,” Henri retorted. “’Cause if ya did, we wouldn’t be gallow’s meat. You need ta stop makin’ excuses fer yerself and start mannin’ yer station. If'n we ever get outta here...”

  The point taken, Valeryn growled. “Best you save the rest of your clack lest I rip out your tongue, old man.”

  Henri stared long and hard at him, his upper lip twitching with disgust. Valeryn didn’t blame him. He was disgusted with himself.

  He had no idea how he could make things right. If he could. The cell bars were deep in the yellowing stone. The slit of the window high up, no way out.

  If he were a religious man, he’d pray for an escape. Not many with the likes of him were religious. Besides, Valeryn believed God created mankind for His amusement. Watching pitiful souls scurry around in their pathetic lives. Like kicking an anthill and delighting in the chaos of the insignificant bugs.

  No matter how dubious, they’d get out alive, Valeryn had to devise a plan. Right after the pounding in his head subsided.

  He leaned back on the stony wall and closed his eyes. Nothing to do but will his drunken aftermath away and wait for opportunity to present itself.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Thank Heavens. Much more of listening to Henri fuss about needing his ration of rum and Valeryn would hang himself.

  They were boused up by the alcalde. The jailer’s men shackled them and encouraged them along with their firelocks.

  Ushered out into the bright afternoon, they crossed the street to a stately stone manor. The tall cupola gleamed bright against the blue sky damn near blinding Valeryn. It took considerable effort to climb the stairs, each step up strained on his abdominal muscles which hurt his ribs. He pressed his eyes shut against the smarting. They entered through the thick black door trimmed with scrolled wrought iron. Their dusty boots and Henri’s cane clapped on the burnished orange tile floor. Fine wood furnishings with delicate filigreed carvings lined every wall and filled each room they passed. Patterned fabrics in hues of red decorated seating at long tables. Iron bars covered windows, opened to let in the sunlight and breezes coming off the harbor.

  They were marched into a room occupied by a grand desk, an even larger unlit iron chandelier hung overhead.

  “Capitán Barone. Señor Jeanfreau. Please, have a seat.” The man sitting behind the desk, a portly fellow made of rolls and wrinkles, motioned to the straight back chairs before him.

  Another man, one Valeryn recognized, sat on the bench in front of the window, hardly cutting a glance in their direction.

  Henri hopped up into the chair and made himself comfortable. Valeryn scanned the room for dangers as he slowly eased himself down.

  “My name is Alvaro Montoya, the alcalde mayor of Cuba. I believe you know Señor Ochoa.”

  Aye, Valeryn knew the ruthless entrepreneur. The intrepid, wealthy, and often ferocious merchant was mostly a friend to the pirate brethren, commissioning them from time to time to be rid of his rivals or business associates of their goods. Valeryn didn’t trust him. He had no reason not to. The brethren had not once failed him and their commissions had been well compensated.

  But with shifty, calculating eyes and mute tongue, Valeryn’s gut implied it was only a matter of time before that changed.

  Valeryn acknowledged Ochoa. The merchant took a deep drag off his long-stemmed clay pipe and blew the smoke out the window before nodding.

  Montoya stood, a feat that from his heavy breathing took an incredible amount of exertion for the rotund fellow, and shuffled to a side table. “Tea. ’Tis the only thing the British have done right,” he said. Metal clinked against metal as he poured the brew from a silver teapot into a matching cup. “May I offer you some?”

  “Obliged,” Valeryn said. He was so damned thirsty, he’d drink bilge water.

  “Señor Jeanfreau?”

  “Do ya hosp’tality extend to that there rum?” Henri pointed a gnarled, stubby finger to the collection of amber bottles beside the tea setting.

  Amused, Montoya granted the request. “Ciertamente, señor.”

  Henri smacked his lips. Poor dog was salivating.

  Montoya handed Valeryn and Henri their drinks. Henri threw his back before Valeryn even had a grip on his cup. Montoya’s bushy black eyebrows, a striking contrast to his white and gray hair, shot up.

  “Ah... Mighty fine. Mighty fine,” Henri sighed in delight.

  Valeryn grinned and drank his own cup of goodness. The tea was rich, but mocked his thirst. And he was willing to bet Montoya knew this. He kept them on the brink perhaps to make them more agreeable. To what, Valeryn wanted to know.

  “Do forgive my bluntness, Alcalde, but why are we here?” Valeryn had no patience for pleasantries and political de factos. Montoya wanted something. Otherwise he and Henri would be dancing the hempen jig.

  Montoya tilted his head down in respect of the question. “You are wanted by the Spanish government, as well as the vile British and pompous French, for acts of piracy.”

  Valeryn shrugged. He was wanted the world over. And someday he would fall. But, not today. Not if he could help it.

  “Whatever your crime,” Montoya continued, “’tis no concern of mine. Not until your offense is on my island.”

  “I’ve no intention of doing so,” Valeryn said. “In fact, my business on Cuba is done. Or ’twas, as I was to set sail this morn.”

  “’Tis a shame, then, your ill-fortune.”

  “Aye and with deep regret.” The sour note in his tone matched that fermenting in his mouth.

  “Perhaps your luck will change, n
o?”

  “’Twould be welcome,” Valeryn admitted. But a turn to favorable luck for a devil’s rogue such as himself came at a steep price.

  “Your involvement in eliminating Havana’s tyrannical déspota, Machete, last year is commendable and greatly appreciated among Cuba’s people. And Ochoa has spoken highly of your brotherhood.” Montoya, using the arms of his chair, lowered back into his overly-cushioned seat with a huff. “For these reasons, I have a proposition for you, Capitán.”

  “And I am committed to regard this meeting with the utmost highest attention.” As if Valeryn had any other choice.

  “Sí. Ochoa suggested, pending your warranted hanging, you would be willing to help me with a problem I am having.”

  He glanced at Ochoa whose gaze remained fixated out the window toward the harbor. Valeryn may not be good at problem-solving, but he was excellent at getting rid of things, especially people and vessels. “I’m listening.”

  “I need an escort.”

  “To where?”

  “To Los Roques, off the coast of Venezuela.”

  “Why would the deputy governor of Cuba need to go to an uninhabited archipelago?”

  “Not me, Capitán,” Montoya said. “For my niece.”

  Ochoa snorted.

  Henri groaned. “Blazes.”

  “I don’t understand,” Valeryn said. “Speak plain, Alcalde.”

  “Mi sobrina, my niece, has a desire to draw the plants and animals of Los Roques.” He waved his dismissive hands. “Frivolous inclinations. But the lass is quite persistent.”

  Another snort from Ochoa. Montoya nodded, frowning. This could not be good.

  “A woman?” Henri sputtered. “They’re bad luck!”

  Montoya continued unconcerned. “I cannot spare a single ship of mine, you see,” he said full of insincere remorse. “Not with the Royal Navy plaguing my coast.”