Victor Bloodstone turned slowly on his polished heel. At first he saw nothing ominous in the burly, bald-headed captain who beamed a nervous greeting through the frothed red fuzz of his beard. But then a cold chill of foreboding swept down his spine and his eyes followed a line of shadow to where a dark, gleaming ebony head was just straightening from having to duck to clear the lintel.
A moment later a breathless, choking, constricting moment later, he found himself staring into the iced, cobalt-blue eyes of the recently dead and departed Simon Dante, Comte de Tourville.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Dante kept his smile firmly in place as he walked fully into the brighter light. He advanced slowly on Victor Bloodstone, stopping only when he was close enough to smell the shock that oozed instantly to dampen the Englishman’s brow. Dante’s hands ached with the need to close around the stolid, patrician neck; his arms throbbed with the desire to channel all of his strength and power into squeezing, tearing, choking the life out of the treacherous thief’s miserable body.
Horace Lamprey sent his hand instantly to the hilt of his sword, but a white-lipped hiss of breath from his captain stopped the action before it could be noticed by anyone other than Dante. The hazel eyes narrowed and he managed a taut “Simon.”
Dante smiled. “Victor. I gather, from the look on your face, you were not forewarned?”
Bloodstone’s jaw tightened. “No. I was not.”
Sir Francis shrugged amiably. “For such a happy occasion I thought not to spoil the surprise.”
“Where the devil have you come from?” Bloodstone asked, his eyes not wavering from Dante’s.
“Kind of you to ask. And I suppose the devil would be the one to answer, but since he isn’t here with us today— in his normal guise, at any rate—it falls to me to be the bearer of bad tidings.”
Aware of every owlish eye rapt upon them, Bloodstone made an admirable recovery of his wits and stepped forward. “Bad tidings? I should think it is nothing less than miraculous. Allow me to be the first to … welcome you back to life.”
Dante could hardly push away the hand Victor braced on his shoulder, though the sentiment was obvious enough in his eyes to have the intrusion swiftly withdrawn.
“The Virago?” Bloodstone attempted a smile. “Did she survive as well?”
“Alas, no. The zabras did their job well. She lies at the bottom of the sea.”
“Then we can only thank God you do not lie there with her. But … how did you escape, man? The last I saw, I would have said there was no hope.”
“Perhaps if you had stayed around awhile longer, you would have seen more.”
A few breaths were drawn in, a few more let go on soft whistles, but otherwise, the cabin was as silent as a tomb.
“I had no steerage,” Bloodstone said in a quiet, even tone. “The main was cracked, the rudder sloppy. I tried to follow our initial course of action, but the wind turned gusty and I could not bring the Talon about.”
“I have no doubt she handled like a bitch,” Dante agreed. “Especially with all that added weight on board. The barrels of food and water—?”
Lamprey cut brusquely into the conversation. “That was my doing, Captain. I did not think we should leave what few supplies we had behind to benefit the Spaniards in the event you did what damage you could and escaped. They could have used the island and our stores to refurbish and come after us.”
“Indeed,” Bloodstone added blithely. “I had no notion you would even be so foolhardy as to stand and fight, especially when you could see the trouble we were in. One ship against six?” He lifted his hand in an airy appeal to the logic of the other captains present. “Who would have expected it?”
“And when the wind died and your rudder was stronger, did you not think to circle back and search for survivors?”
“Frankly? No. If there were six enemy ships pounding me to splinters and the last you saw, I was leading them away so that you might make good your escape, would you have let the gesture go for naught and circle back—possibly to be captured and killed yourself—just so you could vanquish your conscience and say ‘We searched for survivors and found none’?”
He was smooth and convincing. Logical. Reasonable. And lying through his teeth, Dante knew.
“I suppose you thought it best to take the gold out of harm’s way as well?”
Bloodstone’s eyes betrayed a small flicker. “After all we had gone through to steal it from the King? Would you not think it the wisest course as well?”
“The Queen was pleased? I am looking closely but see no sword imprints on your shoulder.”
Bloodstone’s high cheekbones warmed under a flush. “She was too distraught over the loss of her favorite Frenchman to think of aught else.”
Dante offered up a wry laugh. “I can well imagine how she must have wept over my untimely demise.”
Dante’s apparent humor seemed to be the signal for others to relax and for one brave soul actually to join in on the exchange.
“More likely she wept over the share of her profits that went down with the Virago. For another twenty thousand, she would have danced on Leicester’s grave.”
“Twenty thousand?” Dante mused. They had easily taken six times that much; the Crown’s share should have been closer to fifty. So you not only cheated me, you arrogant bastard, you landed the Talon before you reached England and off-loaded some of her cargo. “For that much I would dance on my own grave.”
It was a timely jest and served to break the tension with the other captains. The shock of seeing a ghost gave way to the pleasure of seeing the pirate wolf in their midst again and the captains started to jostle forward, finding their voices all at once. Dante’s back was pounded and a glass was pressed into his hand. A flood of eager questions came from all quarters and toasts were offered. Praise was heaped on the heads of the two valiant captains who had dared raid the King’s treasure house at Vera Cruz, both of whom continued to stare steadfastly at one another, seeing and acknowledging the true way of things in each other’s eyes.
It was Drake who interrupted the revelry by reminding them all of a third hero present. He hailed Spence forward and insisted he take up the story of the rescue and the attack on the San Pedro. He listened and cheered as enthusiastically as the others, so that one would think he was hearing the tale for the first time. But Sir Francis was nothing if not a master at manipulation, and by the time the paintings of the three Spanish harbors were produced, the men were crowding around the table, absorbing his every word, agreeing—nay, insisting—their first strike be against Cadiz.
Through it all Dante and Bloodstone stood in opposite corners of the cabin. If anyone noticed that the- two did not seem overly anxious to seek out each other’s company again, it went unremarked. If anyone noticed the frequent looks that passed across the room, laden with promises, threats, and cutting derision, they preferred to keep their heads bowed and their own gazes safe from accidental interception.
The storm rolled over the huddled fleet like a great wet blanket, smothering lights and sounds, pounding like angry fists on the decks and hulls, driving all but the most stalwart under cover. There was no one to watch, no one to hear his screams, no one to see the rivers of blood that poured from Dante’s knife as he stabbed Victor Bloodstone. He used the traitor’s own jeweled dagger and plunged it into the bastard’s soft underbelly, just above the pubic bone, jerking upward on the blade until he had ripped through the groin, stomach, chest, and eventually the heart. All the while he was dying, Bloodstone screamed for mercy, begged for it, but Dante only murmured the names of the men who had died much more horrible deaths on board the Virago, men who had died because of a common thief’s greed and treachery. Then he gouged the knife deeper, giving it an added twist or taking a small but effective detour to carve out the bowels, spleen, and liver.
Dante smiled and looked down into the celebratory cup of brandy he had poured himself. He took a satisfied swallow, letting the most excelle
nt liquor roll to the back of his tongue and down his throat, warming him all the way to his toes.
When he looked across the cabin, Victor Bloodstone was still standing there, talking in muted tones to his second, Horace Lamprey, and Dante had the pleasure of killing him all over again.
“Simon?”
It was Drake, with Carleill beside him, and Dante gave them his grudging attention.
“Watching the storm, were you? Hellish thing. Black as a maw out there.”
Dante had only been vaguely aware of the weather and he looked now, seeing the thick white splatters hitting the gallery windows beside him.
“I thought I ought to ask formally if you would honor us with your presence at Cadiz,” Drake said. “Given the nature of the hunt and your penchant for always striving to be in the hottest part of hell at any given time, I may have overstepped myself by presuming you would want to accompany us. I am reminded, however, you have just come from a particularly exhausting adventure and may feel the strain would be too much.”
Dante smiled. “I think I can bear up, but I thank you for your concerns over my health. In truth”—he glanced over at Bloodstone—“I am feeling quite invigorated.”
Drake followed his gaze. “I thought you might.”
Dante took a sip of brandy and pushed his shoulder away from the wall. “You might have had a thought to warn me, Francis. You know how I dislike surprises.”
“Yet you handled yourself admirably well. Victor, on the other hand, seemed a little uncomfortable.”
“It is rather close in here,” Dante mused. “So much rhetoric, so much damned zeal.”
“And not one word of dissent.”
“So far.”
“So far,” Drake agreed. “Borough will probably give me the headache with his infernal discourses on naval warfare, but the rest … they seem an eager lot.”
“They usually are at the mention of the word profit”
“Do you deny the possibility that vast profits exist? If nothing else, Cadiz is the warehouse for supplies that come from the Mediterranean and Baltic. Cannon from Italy, cordage, spars, sailcloth … even the priests who hold their court in Seville will disembark for Lisbon through Cadiz. And if we should stumble across another treasure ship or two…?”
“You did seem to make that a highly likely possibility,” Dante noted dryly.
“I merely suggested the San Pedro de Marcos would not have been sailing across the Atlantic alone.”
“I also thought you skimmed rather lightly over the possibility of the King’s ships fighting back. And the fact the bay can become a trap if the wind should fail.”
“I saw no soft spines here tonight. They are all aware of the risks.” Drake pursed his lips and took a seemingly casual step in front of Simon Dante, placing himself directly in the line of vision between the privateer and Victor Bloodstone. “He said his mainmast was damaged and his rudder too unsteady to keep the enemy engaged.”
“So I heard.”
Drake’s eyes turned as cold and hard as two chips of broken glass. “Is that what you saw?”
“I was rather preoccupied at the time.”
“I need to know I can count on every man who sails in my wake. I need to know, if an enemy is closing on my back, there will be guns there to defend me.”
Dante’s eyes lifted above Drake’s head and fastened on Bloodstone as he took another measured sip of his brandy. “I would be inclined, in that case, to keep the Talon in front of you.”
“Are you saying—?”
“I am saying … you should have a ship at your back you can depend upon to stay in the battle and not run away when his holds are full and the smoke becomes thick enough to claim convenient damages.”
Drake’s tongue took another stroll around his mouth, removing the sudden bad taste he had acquired. “I see. You have shown remarkable restraint, cousin.”
“Haven’t I, though. It must be the exalted company.”
“If you care to lay a charge …”
“I prefer to lay a broadside, but in my own time, Francis. In my own time.”
“To that end … have you given thought to Captain Spence’s offer?”
Dante looked over to where Jonas sat surrounded by a dozen privateers quaffing ale and brandy, retelling the taking of the San Pedro for what was surely the tenth time. He had offered to throw his guns in with Drake’s fleet, to follow them to Cadiz that he might serve God and Her Most Gracious Majesty the Queen in whatever capacity his humble talents might allow.
“I would suggest he has all the profit and glory he can handle at the moment,” Dante said evenly. “He is a good man and has a stout ship under him, but I see no benefit to having him put at risk what he has already gained.”
Drake pursed his lips. “He seems a proud man.”
“His pride will recover the moment he sails into Plymouth Sound.”
“And your most charming Black Swan? Will she recover as quickly?”
Dante blew a soft breath between his lips. “She will have no choice. She goes where the Egret goes.”
“Nevertheless, perhaps we can soften the blow somewhat. One of our pinnaces is leaking like a sieve. We were going to send her home, but the captain would not hear of it. Now she can be given the ‘task’ of acting as escort to the Egret, and vise versa. It would be a shame, after all, to lose either ship to those barbarous French scoundrels who lurk out of Biscay. I shall put it to Captain Spence directly,” he added, “couching it in terms of a personal favor to me.”
“You put me in your debt,” Dante said with a small bow.
“I know. And I plan to collect upon it with interest. You have knowledge of the harbor at Cadiz, you have knowledge of the defenses. With Carleill’s generous permission you will also have a ship to show us the way.”
The lieutenant, who had taken in the entire conversation and said nothing until now, stood a little straighter, and flushed a little darker.
“My ship, sir, is the Scout She is small, but sturdy, and is currently being navigated by my brother, Edward. I have discussed the matter with him and we would consider it an honor and a privilege to relinquish command to you that you might regard her as your own until this venture is concluded. She … lays a spirited broadside, sir, and would be the match for any ship that might cross your path.”
Dante studied the young man’s tense features and wondered how much of it was an honor and how much was a direct request by Sir Francis Drake.
Carleill misinterpreted his hesitation and his coloring wavered again. “She isn’t the Virago, I know, but—”
“No. No, Lieutenant, that isn’t why I find my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. I am just…” Dante stopped, realizing Carleill had been put into a position where he might be more insulted if the offer was refused. He shook his head and smiled, extending his hand. “I am the one who is honored, Christopher, and I accept your gracious offer, with thanks.”
Carleill seemed startled at the friendly use of his name, but it had the desired effect. Some of the starch came out of his face and he shook Dante’s hand with something akin to comradeship.
“I have some Virago men on board the Egret who may be interested in joining me.”
“Arrangements can be made for as many as choose to follow you, sir. Have you your own pilot?”
Dante’s breath caught a moment. “No. No, he went down with my ship, rest his soul.”
“I can promise you my brother is most capable at the helm. If it is agreeable to you, he would be … beside himself with the honor.”
“It would be most agreeable. I thank you again.”
“Well, then.” Drake clapped Dante on the shoulder. “If all seems to be settled to everyone’s satisfaction, I shall wend my way to Captain Spence and see if I cannot persuade him to do me this momentous favor. If you will excuse me…?”
Drake strolled over to where Jonas was holding court. Carleill lingered long enough to discuss the Scout with Dante, but when a summons to
go topside interrupted them, he excused himself, leaving Dante with a promise to introduce him properly to the ship and crew at his earliest convenience.
Dante leaned his shoulder on the wall and briefly watched the solid tattoo of rain on the gallery windows. His charming little black swan would not be thrilled at all with the notion of being summarily dismissed, regardless whether it was couched in friendly terms or not. An image of Beau standing on the afterdeck of the Egret, her eyes streaming from the clouds of smoke that rose from the guns, her hands raw and bleeding, her face pale with fear, came to his mind and he knew he would have to find his own way of softening the blow to her pride. He meant what he had said. He wanted her safe in England.
He wanted someone to go home to.
The thought surprised him and he narrowed his eyes against the glare of the lights reflected off the panes of glass. It had been so long since he had even thought of anywhere being home, other than the sea. His gray-cloaked accountants kept reminding him he had several in both England and France, but they had just been cold, gloomy castles in his mind’s eye, full of pomp and ceremony, gilded in the rents his tenants could not afford to pay …echoing with the scornful laughter of his wife throwing the proof of her infidelity in his face. Strange, but he could barely hear it now. And not at all when Beau was with him, whether she was cursing him, fighting with him, or warming his ear with the soft, rushed breaths of ecstasy.
What would Isabeau Spence make of a four-hundred-room French chateau?
The question, and its answer, brought a smile to his lips even as he tried to see past the smear of rain on the windows and find the Egret.
~~
“The cocky bastard,” Victor Bloodstone muttered. “He’s actually grinning at me.”
Horace Lamprey followed his captain’s burning gaze and saw De Tourville standing by the gallery windows, staring into the reflections duplicated in the many panes.
“Blast his miserable soul to hell, why could he not have gone down with his ship?”
Pirate Wolf Trilogy Page 29
