Willie, with a wad of tobacco wedged under his bottom lip, stepped forward, an ambassador to the men as he often was. He spat into the metal cup he held in his calloused hand. “Capt’n. The lads...” The helmsman scratched at his sandy blond hair, uncomfortable with the coming reprimand as a friend might be. “They feel ya not fit ta be skipper. Pardon me fer sayin’ so, but ya acted selfish. Puttin’ us all at risk ’stead of leadin’ right and proper.”
Valeryn was not surprised. But hearing Willie say it stung. He nudged his anger aside. “We’re men of opportunity and vice,” he answered. “The devil be beside us and when we drink deep, he is in us. This is our way. I may make no apologies, but I take to mind my responsibility as your captain. Without exception, your willingness to maintain the title you bestowed upon me is yours alone.”
He paused. Aye, they were culpable for having him as their leader. He shook off the urge to place all the blame on them, again.
“Ain’t no other Rissa capt’n would’ve been so maudlin ta get arrested.”
The anger boiled to the surface. He would never compare to those before him. Ever. And he had never claimed to. Damn it! He hadn’t wanted this. He knew he’d fail. But admitting that to them was an act of weakness. And that he couldn’t stomach.
Valeryn gnashed his teeth. Though Willie was on the main deck below, the helmsman took a step back.
“I am not Fox, Tyburn, Drake, or Quint. I am Barone! Each of you would do well to remember that!”
The threat went unsaid. If the men knew anything of Valeryn, they knew him to be calculating and ruthless. ’Twould take a small push and hardly a reason for him to turn vicious. If dead men could tell tales, they would agree.
“In two month’s time, Rissa will sail again. Be certain of it. I will complete this arrangement and we will be free men as we were meant to be. Free to be the scourge and saviors of the Caribbean again.”
Some men offered crooked smiles and respectful nods, their loyalty with Valeryn still intact. Others wore pinched brows and unconvinced frowns. He had no idea how to get back into the reluctant crew’s good graces, nor was he sure he wanted to.
“Upon my return,” he continued with a fresh slice of ire, “cast me out should that be your will. Vote for who you find worthy to replace me. Until then, I am still your captain. I expect allegiance and obedience.” He swung out a cross arm. “What say you?”
Willie looked around him for a verdict. He spat a mouthful of brown saliva into his mug and nodded. “’Tis fair. If not for you, then for Rissa.”
’Twas a harsh truth coming from a friend.
CHAPTER 3
Valeryn packed up a few of his personal items and slung the knapsack over his shoulder, along with his baldric of pistols. He patted his cutlass hanging from his hip, a companion he was never without, and grabbed up his long rifle.
He crossed the cabin threshold and turned for one last look of the captain’s quarters—the room belonging to the king of the Caribbean. Heavy black curtains were pulled back from the bed which butted against a small bank of windows. ’Twas a grand place to be suspended between the sea and night sky, to look down at the tuck and swirl of the ocean as he fell asleep. He scanned the room—the silver candelabra atop the worn table riddled with knife grooves, the maps, cups, and books secured to shelves, the prized swords displayed on the wall, the painting of a naked woman. They all meant something, but not to him. They belonged to the captains before him. Rulers. He never felt much like a king, or a captain. In truth, he hadn’t held the title long enough to prove either way. He had no greatness to call his own. Had only been the first mate of those who did. Glory by approximation.
Valeryn closed the door and headed topside.
“Blazes, boy,” Henri said. “Ya goin’ to war?”
“I’ve got my friends...” He tapped Henri’s chest with the barrel of his long-arm. The metal clanked against the flask of rum hidden under the little man’s vest. “...You got yours.” Valeryn tapped again, this time on the left pocket. And he had no doubt, Henri was armed with more flasks hidden in his trousers.
Henri ruffled, just as Jack came scrambling up.
“Here’s your Madeira, Henri,” the cabin boy said, holding out a wineskin, “just like you wanted.”
“Madeira?” Valeryn raised his eyebrows. “You been sneaking in my stock, Henri?”
“Tut, boy!” Henri snatched the skin from the grinning boy, ignoring Valeryn.
He didn’t mind. He’d known for some time Henri had been skimming the stores. Valeryn had always taken to replacing what was gone. Drink was the mannikin’s lifeblood. In their occupation, a vice was what kept a man sane. Besides, Henri rarely got too drunk. But when he did...what a show. He smirked at the thought of the last time Henri was rum-blossomed drunk. He wooed and danced the evening away with a dirty mop. The old man was an entertaining bastard. Unlike Valeryn, who was just a bastard, hell-bent on destruction.
Jack threw his arms around the curmudgeon for a quick hug. “Fair winds, Henri.”
Before Henri could swat the boy away, or pretend the hug annoyed him, Jack scurried off.
Willie joined them by the boarding plank. “Cocklyn, Big John, Benito, and Dawson are waitin’ for ya on the docks,” he said. “They volunteered to go.”
Valeryn was befuddled. Why would they do such a thing? “I don’t—”
“A capt’n needs a few mates he can trust.” ’Twas as if Valeryn had asked the question aloud.
“You’ll be sailin’ with Spaniards, the bloody wretched wastrels.”
“Benito is a Spaniard,” Valeryn reminded him.
“Nay. He’s brethren,” Willie said.
“’Tisn’t necessary. The trip will be arduous and dull. The men deserve rest. This is my mess, my burden.”
“Why the hell am I goin’, then?” groused Henri.
“You’re the fool who got yourself arrested.”
“’Cause of yer sorry arse.”
“And I thank you. Next time, let me hang myself.”
“On my honor.” Henri grinned a snarled and toothless smile.
Valeryn chuckled and pat his shoulder.
“The lads anticipated you’d tell ’em to stay. That’s why they already signed up on the Amalia. With Montoya’s permission, course.” Willie nodded. “They’re goin’, all right.”
“I’m goin’, too.”
Sam stepped out of the shadow of the quarterdeck. Or maybe he was the shadow. The gargantuan black man towered over them. Sam hardly ever spoke, but when he did, his deep voice resonated, commanding attention even from the devil.
Valeryn, a tall man himself, looked up into his dark eyes crowned with determination. ’Twould be difficult to persuade him to stay. “Nay. I need you here, protecting Rissa.”
“T’ere are enough men for t’at.”
“But few love her more than you, Henri, and Willie, mate.”
“No truer word,” Willie declared. “She be me home.”
Sam pointed a thick finger between Valeryn and Henri. “I ain’t lettin’ ya go wit’out me. ’Tis too dangerous, capt’nin’ a ship full o’ Spaniards.”
“We’re just sailin’ to an arch’pelago, Sam,” Henri said, “so some poppet can draw a few pictures.”
“But Henri—”
“Put a stopper in it, ya gorilla.” Henri stepped up to Sam causing him to look directly down at the ancient tar. “I can take care of meself.”
“You will stay,” Valeryn said. “That’s an order.”
Sam growled at him.
Completely undaunted, he continued. “You are in charge. That, too, is an order.”
Sam’s taut frown loosened, replaced by bewilderment.
“See here,” Valeryn continued. “I need you to act in my stead. The men, they fear and respect you. They will listen to you.”
Henri patted his arm and stepped aside to rejoin Valeryn. “If’n they don’t, ya could snap ’em like brittle twigs.”
Sam conceded in
a nod.
“Alcalde Montoya has made it clear Rissa is not to leave port. If she does, he has ordered her destroyed and no quarter given to the crew.” Valeryn placed a hand on Sam’s rock solid shoulder. “Keep her in pristine condition. For on our return, nothing will stop us from leaving Matanzas. Nothing. We’ve fortunes to seek.”
The closest thing to a smile tipped Sam’s mouth. “Aye, Capt’n.”
“Come along, Henri. Let’s go regain our freedom.” Unfortunately, there was a petulant petticoat holding the key.
The lass had occupied his mind much since first laying eyes upon her. Long, dark locks flowed down her spine to the narrow of her back. In the natural light streaming in from the windows, glossy streaks of auburn glimmered through her coffee-colored hair. Large almond-shaped, almost feline eyes, impressed curiosity and wisdom alike. Her sweet pink lips hid a sharp tongue—one he knew would rally and annoy him, if the way she spoke to her uncle were any indication. She waltzed into the alcalde’s room with grace in her step and propriety in her petite carriage. Upon sight of her in the doorway, she was an angel of beauty and innocence. Yet she quickly proved herself another breed. And blazes, her body! Her curves were enough. But her large breasts straining against her pale green dress could bring a man to his knees. Even Henri had said as they left Montoya’s he’d give up a month’s ration of rum to climb her mountains. Christ, Valeryn would give up his left ballock.
This voyage would be a challenge in many ways.
The Amalia gleamed in the early morning sun. She wasn’t a large vessel and not well armed, but as Valeryn neared he knew the ship was sturdy. ’Twas well-kept and made of strong wood, and probably not more than a couple of years old.
They met up with Cocklyn, Big John, Benito and Dawson. The men each patted his back in a brotherly hug and Valeryn winced, pain shooting from his ribs.
As he boarded with his men, the crew slowed at their duties, wary expressions on the swarthy faces.
Pirates claimed no country and were blind to birthright, skin color, and religion, so long as the bloke’s allegiance was vowed to the brethren. Valeryn had a few Spaniards on his crew, such as Benito. But Spaniards as a whole were as much a worthless enemy as the British Royal Navy. By the way the crew pushed in around Valeryn and his men, they felt the same way about the newcomers. The ship may be in excellent condition, but the ragtag and bobtail crew were not. Did Montoya scrape the bilge for the lads?
Aye, a challenging voyage indeed.
“Best ya say somethin’, son.” Henri tapped his cane on the deck indicating his urgency.
A mere greeting and demands of following orders would not be effective here. Valeryn had to approach the precarious arrangement carefully, but with authority.
He stepped to the center of the main deck. “Any of you lads speak English?” Four, maybe five, fellows raised their hands. Shit. This just kept getting better and better.
“Benito.” He waved the cove over. “Translate.”
“Aye, sir.” Benito faced the crowd.
“Good morrow, friends. We have been brought together by the wishes of the alcalde mayor. You, a pittance for your work, our lives for ours. Worthy enough, eh?”
Benito repeated his words and many nodded in understanding.
“I will show you all respect and expect the same in return. I am your captain for this journey. My word is law. Cross me, and you will face the harshest of punishment...by my hand. But I am a democratic man and I will treat you as fairly as I would my own brothers. Should you have a grievance, come to me. I will listen with an open mind. Together we will make this a successful voyage.”
The constrained tension lessened a degree. ’Twas a start. Mayhap Valeryn would see little or no trouble from the crew. ’Twould be agreeable, this time, anyway.
One by one, elbows jabbed and heads rippled toward the starboard. Three people boarded the ship. With a man before her and her maid behind, Catalina Montoya walked across the boarding plank. Her blue dress, the color of the midday sky, swished with the sway of her hips. Her hair had been plaited with ringlets flipping at the end. She held a bag in the crook of her arm and reached out to take the proffered hand of the man.
The lad had to be Montoya's son, and not more than twenty in age, if that. The resemblance was apparent—same dark, deep-set eyes, same small flattened nose, same chin. Not an altogether unattractive man. But more notable was his grossly deformed left hand bent inward at the wrist, gnarled fingers curling at odd angles.
“Capitán Barone.”
Catalina extended her hand for Valeryn to take, which he did, only slightly bowing and not kissing her knuckles as she might have expected. It was as much a restraint to not look at her cleavage as it was to rattle her with social disregard.
Blazes. She was beautiful. What he could do to her given a bit of privacy. He inwardly groaned. Nay. Not if he were to keep from wearing a hempen halter.
“Allow me to introduce mi primo, Fraco Montoya.”
The man bowed his head in greeting, but did not take the formalities further. Fine by Valeryn.
“And this is my maid, Nalda.”
’Twas hard to imagine anyone having jowls that scowled deeper than Henri's. But this older woman did just that. She mumbled something in Spanish. He didn't need to understand the language to know the graying termagant did not approve of the company they were to keep for the next eight weeks. The feeling was mutual, to be sure.
Valeryn welcomed them all and ordered the men to set sail within the half glass. He had Benito go gather an English speaking fellow to show everyone to the sleeping quarters. The sooner they got under way, the sooner they could return and he'd be free—skippering Rissa or not.
“As you move about the ship, do stay out of the crew's way. ’Twould be shameful should an accident happen because of a girl's carelessness.”
“Your concern for my behalf is commendable.” Her voice carried a sharp edge meant to prove she could hold her own.
“Fair warning, lass. Sailing is dangerous. I won't have a wee pigeon or her escorts be a distraction. He paused and deliberately looked to her bosom to make his point.
Valeryn turned to Fraco before she had a chance to rebut. “On a ship under my command, all men have duties. You will be no different.” He gestured to Fraco's gimp hand. “Even with your limitations.”
“I am to look after mi prima.”
“I understand that to be Nalda’s position. And something Nalda can do quite well, I would gather.”
The maid’s constant evil eye roved between Valeryn and Henri. Henri, all the while hunched over his cane, returned his own untrusting, squinting glower. The battle of evil eyes almost made him laugh.
“Your uncle said you have special skills. What might that entail that would excuse you from labor?”
Fraco stood as a regal man might when challenged—stiff and proper. But there was slack in his refinement. His smile was as groomed as his thick, brown hair cut short to his scalp. “I am not feeling obliged to say.”
An arsehole. Perfect. His headache returned, stabbing just behind his deadlights.
Valeryn glanced to Catalina. Her sympathetic eyes all too quickly shifted to unreadable. She’d not tell.
“Very well. You will assist the bo’sun with the rigging.”
“I am to be my prima’s acompañante.” He stood firm with his conceited attitude.
“Are you saying you are incapable?”
Insulted, Fraco threw his head back as if he just taken a hit to the chin. “I can do anything any of these miscreants can do.”
“Do not try my patience, lad.” He had little of it. But getting angry before his new, unproven crew might be seen as a damaging flaw. They might find allegiance to one of their own. “You are not a passenger. You will help the bo’sun.”
“My father—”
“I don’t care who your father is or how this arrangement came about.” His harsh voice drew the attention of several hands.
“Big J
ohn.” Valeryn summoned the robust fellow—a master gunner on the Rissa. “Mr. Montoya will be helping with the ropes today. Find the bo’sun to have him paired up.”
“Capitán Barone,” Catalina said. “If I may make a suggestion, sir.”
Blazes, all he wanted to do was sit, take the pressure off his aching ribs. “You may. Though I must say beforehand that though this journey is on your behalf, you do not, nor will you have, any authority here.”
“Of course.” She smiled, but something told him it was for his benefit. “I only wish to arrange to dine with you this evening. We both need to be aware of what each expects from the other, no?”
Smart lass, wasting not with minced words. “So be it. We will dine.”
Big John returned with a small but stocky man, introducing him as Yago. By his leathery skin and calloused, stubby fingers, Yago was a seasoned bo’sun. Good. One not likely to tolerate idleness. Better.
“I am a man who understands the need to protect family. Especially one so fair.” He took a moment to appreciate the lass’s assets. She hardly batted an eyelash at his candor. “Mr. Montoya, you will assist the bo’sun. But you may also be Miss Montoya’s escort at dinnertime, if it pleases her.”
Nearly imperceptible by everyone, the girl tensed. But Valeryn noticed. He saw it in the squaring of her shoulders.
“Certainly.” Her smile was as fake as Valeryn’s sincerity. The chit did not want her cousin present? Interesting.
“Right. Until then, Miss Montoya.” He excused himself, allowing Luis, the frightfully thin, young English-speaking Spaniard Benito had enlisted, to see them to their cabins and get settled. Henri, the Rissa boys, and Fraco were to share a room that was much like an officers’ quarters, large enough for six hammocks. The women’s room housed one bed and a small desk. Valeryn’s cabin, the captain’s quarters, was far from his cabin on Rissa. But it did have the essentials—bed, table, shelves of books, maps, and navigational equipment, and a mirror hanging on the wall above a wash basin.
He dropped his bag on the table and peeled out of the weapons strapped to his body. He gazed at himself in the mirror. His reflection startled him. Black eyes, gashes, knot on his cheekbone, split lip. He dragged his hands down his sore face. It had been one helluva fight. But at what cost?
Dead Man's Kiss Page 3
