Dante chuckled and drained his rum before retrieving his breeches. Bella was determined not to look, but it was impossible to ignore the way his muscles flexed across his shoulders and arms. Her lips tingled and her tongue pressed against her teeth remembering the taste of his skin and the heated friction of him moving purposefully between her thighs.
She cared not a whit about his scars. She had seen plenty on Gutter Lane. Men without limbs, or with only half a face; men who had fought in the king's army who ended up broken and begging for their next meal. And their women… most of whom ended up in rags offering to lift their skirts for a penny.
Bella was determined not to ever find herself that poor or desperate again. She had run away once and managed to better herself. But six years later here she was in a pirate's bed sailing for God only knew where to do God only knew what. Dante had said there would be ships sailing for England that would carry her home after her grand adventure… but where was home? Not London. Not while Peter Dimcock was alive. Furthermore, home suggested family, but her brother was the only relative she had left and Liam would not hesitate to pull the trigger the next time he saw her.
So where did that leave her?
In a pirate's bed sailing for God only knew where to do God only knew what.
She glanced at Dante and gave her head a little shake. She was under no illusions of seeking any future there. He was rough and dangerous and exciting, but that was as far as that thought took her. Did he not brag about having women in every port? To him she could only ever be another passing fancy that he would pass along after the voyage was over. She had no doubt he would make good on his promise to send her back to England a wealthy woman, but he would still be eager to send her back.
And was that such a terrible thing? Heavens no. She had ventured into a dangerous liaison tonight, but that was all it was. Sheer animal attraction, nothing more, and with a definite goal in mind. A monetary goal. One that would ensure she would never have to pick another pocket or feign pleasure in the arms of a withered old guardian again.
She shivered inwardly and took another sip of the rum, savoring the heat as it slid into her belly.
"I need to go topside," Dante said, pulling on his leather doublet. "I smell a storm in the air."
Bella smelled nothing but expended sweat and sex. She finished the dram of rum and stood. "I should go back to my own cabin."
Dante paused at the door. "Suit yourself, but you are welcome to bide here and enjoy my bed as long as you like. If you get bored," he added, almost as an afterthought, "you could hunt around the cabin and see if I have left any more jeweled brooches lying about."
This last was said with a wide grin and Bella was tempted to throw the empty cup at him. After the door closed behind him, she dragged the quilt around with her and gathered up the rest of her clothes.
The effort drained the last of her strength and she sat on the edge of the berth again, fully intending to dress and leave. But thoughts of facing Molly sent her tipping over sideways and burying a muffled curse in the mattress ticking.
Intentionally or not, wisely or not, she had done what needed to be done to guarantee their comfort and safety. There were at least four or five more weeks worth of nights and days on board a ship full of rough men who, while accepting their presence now, might well give in to their own primitive urgings as the days passed. Without Dante as a protector goodness only knew what trouble she and Molly might find themselves in.
As for Jonas Dante, despite his arrogance and brawn, he was still just a man. Bella had not been so distracted that she had not been aware of the tremors in his body. She had heard the broken little shivers in his voice, suggesting he had discovered just as much pleasure in her arms as she had in his.
Bella rolled onto her back and flung the quilt aside. He was correct about another thing: His big berth was far more comfortable than the wooden coffin in her tiny little cabin.
Naked, she studied the shadows overhead and debated… should she leave, or should she stay? What would be gained and what would be lost as a result of either decision?
~~
Fifteen feet above Bella on the quarterdeck, Dante was none too pleased with himself either. He had never had any intentions of touching the girl. Ever.
Perhaps in the beginning… at the ball, on the terrace, with the moonlight playing in her hair, he'd had thoughts of doing more than just taking out his charcoal sticks to sketch her. But then the night had exploded and ended up in gunfire. Bringing her on board the Tribute had been a spur of the moment decision; he'd had no thought to keep her past the dawn. None whatsoever.
More complications with the excise men, then she'd had the gall to take a fever, which prevented her from being sent ashore at Truro.
At every turn his good intentions had been stymied by circumstances out of his control.
And now he had bedded her!
No doubt she would lay the blame squarely on his shoulders and take none upon her own. Nor did he disbelieve for a moment that she had used those big violet eyes, those ripe lips, that lush, smooth body peeping out from the vee of her shirt to good effect. Lady Nimblefingers, indeed. Indifferent to a fault. Coy, seductive, flapping those eyelashes with almost convincing innocence.
By God, there was nothing innocent or indifferent about that body or the fact that she knew well how to use it to her best advantage.
In truth, he had no regrets over how he had spent the last few hours, but if she was hoping to use her wiles to put a ball and chain around his neck and drag him down into the depths of affection, she was sadly mistaken.
There were not enough violet-eyed vixens in the world to make him change his ways. None at all.
His brother Gabriel was the romantic lover. Jonas was the callous brute who loved them and left them well-worn and happy to have been schooled in the ways of pleasure. He had enjoyed having Lady Nimblefingers in his bed earlier, he would enjoy having her company again, but not if she assumed there was or would be anything more to come of it than a few healthy romps in the bedsheets. He had no time or tolerance for scheming women. If she did not like his terms, she could spend the rest of the voyage in her own cabin!
Brilliant white bursts flickered across the dark horizon, confirming the swift approach of a storm. A particularly long, jagged bolt of lightning split through the clouds and stayed etched against the sky a few moments before dissolving into a million pinpoint sparks. Seconds later the rolling growl of thunder shook the air and vibrated clear through the ribs of the ship.
A fat drop of rain blew into Dante's eye and he tipped his head up, sniffing the metallic scent of the air like a bloodhound. The sails overhead were as hard as marble, straining with the wind, pushing the Tribute through the waves at better than ten knots.
As more heavy drops started to spatter the deck the crewmen who preferred to sling their hammocks on the open deck were grumbling as they ran to move their gear below. Gun crews tied oiled cloths over the touch-holes on the cannon to keep the rain out, then double-checked the ropes and chocks to make sure the wheels on the carriages were secure and the heavy guns would not break loose if the deck began to roll too violently. Wind rattled the cleats and deadeyes, it caught the sails and made them boom like cannon.
As if someone pulled a cord, the heavens opened and the rain started to pelt down in solid sheets. The wind blew up like a tempest, snatching away a shirt someone had left behind. The shirt filled with air and flew up into the sails like a ghostly spectre before another gust caught it and sent it twisting and writhing away into the darkness. The huge lamp in the bow went dark as debris hit one of the pressed shell sides and shattered it.
Dante shouted for the crew to trim the sails. He helped the helmsman tie himself to the whipstaff. At present, there was no danger of being blown overboard, but neither was there any reason to take a chance. Storms in the Atlantic blew up with the swiftness of a breath from hell and turned savage in the blink of an eye. Dante and Hobson Grundy would tak
e shifts at the helm if the weather took an evil turn, but for now, Jonas cast a final glance around the rain-swept deck then descended to the maindeck and ducked into the shelter of the hatchway.
On the brief walk back to his cabin, his boots shedding water with every step, Dante wondered if the girl would still be in his bed, and if so, what would she be expecting from him now? Soft touches and poetry?
Not likely.
So confident was he that he would find Bella curled up on his berth that he flung the cabin door open and stood on the threshold, a defiant glare already in place.
The night lamp had gone out. It was another bolt of blue-white lightning streaking across the sky outside the gallery windows that revealed the empty berth, the empty chair, the empty stillness of the cabin.
The ship reared and took a sudden plunge from one wave to the next and Dante was sent stumbling forward into his own cabin. Cups and plates and the remnants of dinner that had not been cleared away earlier crashed to the floor. For the first time in more years than he could recall, Jonas was so distracted by the empty berth that he lost his footing and landed heavily on his arse.
Chapter Thirteen
The storm lasted three days. Long after it blew itself out, the seas remained rough. As horrible as Bella had found the first few days on board to be, the constant lurching and plunging and violent rocking from the waves rendered any sea legs she had gained as useless. There was no possible way to eat anything and keep it in her belly. There was nowhere to draw a fresh breath of air that was not fouled with the musk of damp wood and crowded bodies. There was nowhere to go to gain relief from the misery of the tiny, cramped cabin and more times than she could count, Bella bemoaned her decision to leave Dante's larger quarters.
She did not catch so much as a glimpse of Jonas Dante during those three storm-ridden days. The only visitor to the cabin was Young Pitt who brought their meals. Fires were not permitted while the ship was being tossed about like a cork on the ocean, not so much as a pipe or lantern, and most assuredly not cooking fires in the galley, which explained why their food consisted of hard biscuits and cold salted fish.
On the fourth day, Bella's afternoon was disturbed by the sound of running footsteps on the deck overhead, something she had not heard in days. The howling of the wind was gone and the turbulent rocking had diminished somewhat. There were voices shouting and things banging around. Heavy things that made her look up at the ceiling beams. As the timbers shook, a spider who had survived Molly's diligence long enough to spin an intricate web in the corner, abandoned the bug it was encasing and crabbed into a crevice between two planks.
"What do you suppose it means, mistress?"
Bella shook her head. "I don't know. The crew could be clearing away storm damage, perhaps?"
But then they both heard the ship's bell clanging and a horn blowing. The urgency was echoed in the familiar rumble of the heavy wooden gun carriages being wheeled forward into position at the ports.
Bella flung aside the book Young Pitt had procured for her. She stamped into her boots then ran out into the corridor, following another crewman as he scrambled up the ladderway.
The sky was still thick with scudding clouds, but there were wide patches of blue and the air was crisp; it felt good blowing through her hair. All three of the Tribute's masts were filled with sail, the huge canvas sheets curled forward with the wind. Men were on the yards working the ropes, climbing up or sliding down the rat lines as orders were relayed from the quarterdeck.
In the belly of the main deck, the gun captain, Artemis Franks, was overseeing his crews. Bella had seen him on deck many times but, as with most of the crew, she had never sought to stand toe to toe with him or had any reason to engage him in conversation.
Molly, on the other hand, had recently been easing a good deal of her boredom by spending time with the crew learning to splice ropes or mend a sail. She had encountered Franks on several occasions, enough to put a blush in her cheeks whenever she spoke of him.
"He is very kind and thoughtful. At first I was frightened to speak with him and I think he was too shy to speak to me."
"A shy pirate?"
"He bears some dreadful scars on his face that make him so," Molly had said quietly. "But he is ever so clever and funny. He was once an officer in the king's navy. He tried to stop a man from being flogged to death over some petty crime and he ended up being locked in the hold to await his own flogging. The ship came under attack and caught fire and he was left down there to roast to death. The bar holding the door closed burned enough for him to kick his way free, but he had to run through an inferno to reach the upper deck."
"Was it Dante's ship that attacked?"
"Oh, no! No, it was a Spanish galleon. Afterward, he spent a year on board, chained to the oars like a slave until Captain Dante attacked the ship and freed him. He has been on board the Tribute ever since."
At the moment Franks was calmly checking the cannon, pacing down one line of crouching brass monsters and up the other, occasionally stopping to stab a finger into the touch holes to ensure they were dry. The youngest members of the crew, moved in a steady stream bringing balls and powder casks up from the armory and setting them alongside the cannon. Others filled buckets with sea water and placed them beside the guns. Still others set out buckets of sand, which Bella had never seen them do in previous drills. From some vague snatch of conversation she knew that sand was scattered across the deck to prevent the men from slipping in blood.
A chill ran down Bella's spine.
This was no drill; the crew was preparing for battle.
Dante stood on the quarterdeck. He was hatless and his red hair was loose and blowing forward over his cheeks. Beside him were Varian St. Clare and Hobson Grundy. Each held a spyglass to their eye. Bella squinted and searched in the direction they were concentrating on, seeing nothing but the choppy peaks of green water marching across the horizon.
~~
"I count three," Varian said, peering through his glass.
"Aye," Hobson agreed. "The big bastard out front is three-masted and square-rigged. Portuguese trader, mayhap Dutch? The other two… too far ahind to tell."
Dante lowered his glass. "Likely blown off course by the same storm that caught us. I can't get any kind of a true reading through these bloody clouds, but a best guess puts us near enough to the Azores to run afoul of marauders lying in wait for merchantmen making for home."
Jonas caught a slight movement out of the corner of his eye and frowned when he saw Bella coming up the ladderway to the quarterdeck. "You should not be up here."
"Aye. Quarterdeck's reserved for the captain an' his officers," Grundy said on a grumble.
Varian smiled. "I think we can permit the infraction this time. I'm glad to see you are feeling better, Bella. We heard you and Molly were both a little seasick."
"A little?" Bella laughed. "I thought my stomach had adjusted to the motion of the waves, but apparently not."
"It was a particularly rough storm. You would be surprised how many of the crew were leaning over the rails."
Bella let the gentlemanly lie pass unchallenged. "We heard the guns being rolled out and thought it might be another drill."
"No drill. There are three ships sailing on a course that appears to directly intersect with ours."
"Three ships? I cannot even see one."
Varian stepped over and offered his spyglass. It was leather and brass and he showed her how to hold it to her eye and extend the sleeves out to the full length. He pointed in the general direction of the three galleons but it still took Bella several moments to locate them. When she did, she was startled enough to take the glass away from her eye and stare at the empty horizon, then put the glass back and view the three tiny vessels sailing toward them out of the west.
"How remarkable."
"Indeed. If they were any closer you would be able to see the feathers on their caps and the gold braid on their shoulders. The ship running out front is b
ig and slow and likely full of cargo, tempting the other two to give chase."
"The other two…?"
"Hunters."
"You mean pirates."
Varian smiled. "Not quite distinct enough yet to identify their flags or silhouettes… or their intent. They could just be escorting the merchantman, keeping them safe from..."
"Pirates," she finished for him, her mouth curved to a wry smile.
Beside them, Dante snapped his glass into a more compact tube. "Whoever they are, they are far enough away we have two, three hours before we need to draw any conclusions. With any luck, we should be able to reach that island—" he paused and pointed ahead to a bumpy, purplish smudge in the distance— " before we make any decisions on what actions to take."
Bella glanced down to the maindeck, to the obvious signs of preparing for battle. "Surely you do not intend to attack them?"
"I intend to be prepared for which ever way the dice fall. And at the moment, I am prepared to enjoy the pork I smell frying in the galley."
"You are going to eat?"
"I am hungry." He moved toward the steps. "And one should always take advantage of a hot meal when it's available."
Grundy, still scowling over Bella's presence on the hallowed quarterdeck, followed his captain down the ladderway and headed below; the duke graciously hung back a moment, but when Bella did not move, he touched a finger to his brow, smiled apologetically, and hurried after the others.
Manners and social graces, she reminded herself, had little or no place on board a ship full of men who had not enjoyed hot food in three days.
Bella was stubborn enough she might have stayed there for the rest of the day, but then she, too, identified the delicious scent of roasted meat and quickly followed the men below. The door to Dante's cabin was open and she hesitated on the threshold a moment before Varian glanced in her direction.
"Come in, come in. Before Grundy takes the choicest pieces for himself."
The Far Horizon Page 13
