Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  “That funny little man came lookin’ fer rum an’ Mr. Crisp thought ye might want summit to eat with it,” he said. “Should I just put the victuals ‘ere on the table?”

  “Aye. Thank you Johnny Boy,” she said on a panted breath. “Take a bite of cheese for your trouble.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. Thankee Cap’n. Mr. Crisp also said to tell ye we’ve had to shorten the mains’l again, cuz the... the “great ‘eaving sow” has dropped off another point.” As he said this, he cheerfully plucked a knife from his belt and helped himself to a huge wedge of yellow cheese from the wheel on the platter. He took a bite and tucked the rest inside his shirt. “‘Ee also says to tell ye the wind ‘as shifted an’ the sea has picked up a chop. We’ll likely be in a hard blow afore mornin’.”

  Juliet swore. She unclamped her legs from Varian’s throat and sprang to her feet, leaving him splayed like a starfish on the floor behind her, gasping for air.

  “How far astern is the Santo Domingo?”

  “We couldn’t ‘it her with a double charged long gun blowin’ a light load.”

  The boy’s standard of measurement indicated a mile, perhaps more. Too great a separation if a squall was blowing up.

  “Tell Mr. Crisp I’m on my way.”

  With his cheek puffed out over the chunk of cheese, Johnny Boy asked if there was anything else the captain needed.

  “A hammock for his lordship,” Juliet said. “He’ll be sleeping elsewhere from now on.”

  The lad paused in his chewing and cocked an eyebrow. “Where’ll I put ‘im?”

  “Empty one of the sail lockers, it should be private enough.”

  The boy looked at Varian, looked at Juliet, then chuckled. “Aye, Cap’n. A locker it is.”

  The muted thump that marked the boy’s departure brought Varian rolling over in his misery. From his position, lying prone on the floor, he was able to turn his head enough to see through the curtain of his hair. The lad was missing a leg. His right knee was bound to a padded cradle that sat atop a wooden peg. In itself, the sight was not uncommon, for seamen were often without any kind of medical treatment save the knife and saw. What caught Varian’s eye was the carving on the stump and cradle. The former was whittled and polished to resemble the body of a serpent; the latter was an open mouth complete with glittering glass eyes and sharp teeth.

  The duke groaned and closed his eyes again. His thumb was dislocated, his hand was burning like coals in a forge, his throat was only just beginning to respond to his efforts to swallow.

  Juliet retrieved her dagger from the wall and crouched down on her haunches beside St. Clare. She could not see his face. Dark puffs of hair were being drafted in and blown out in the vicinity of his lips and, using the tip of the blade, she edged aside the curtain of gleaming locks and waited for one of the midnight blue eyes to roll up and look at her.

  “Perhaps next time, sirrah, you will show more caution when you throw out your challenges.” She glanced down at the hand he held cradled against his chest and clucked her tongue once in sympathy. “I’ll wager that hurts a devil. Shall I pop the thumb back in for you, or can you manage it yourself?”

  Through the white grate of his teeth, he released a hiss of air to coincide with the sharp twist and shove he gave his thumb. The bone clicked back into the socket with a sickening thwock and though a shiver went up his arm, he did not take his eyes away from her face.

  “Like you, madam,” his voice rasped with fury, “I would prefer if you did not touch me again without a specific invitation to do so.”

  She let the hair drop back over his face and sent her gaze sweeping down his back to the tautness of his buttocks. “Depending on how one interpreted that milord, it could be mistaken for another challenge.”

  He drew and expelled a breath before he answered. “Never believe for a moment that it is, for I would sooner invite the attentions of a toothless, three-bellied hag.”

  Juliet grinned. “Faith, if that is where your preferences for female companionship lie, I shall endeavor to keep any lusty thoughts I might be tempted to have to myself.”

  “Do so and I shall expire in a state of eternal gratitude.”

  “Not too soon, I hope. You have put the thought into my head that you might be worth a ransom after all. Your intended bride, for instance. What would she pay to have you back safe and sound and...” she glanced along the muscled length of his body a second time “...unsullied by the depravities of a rapine pirate wench?”

  His hair had fallen over his face again but she could see the glitter of his eyes through the silky strands.

  “Or perhaps,” she said, leaning closer to whisper seductively in his ear, “I should endeavor to win you over with my charm?”

  “Since the necessary tools are entirely lacking,” he spat, “the risk is negligible.”

  Juliet braced her hands on her knees and pushed to her feet.

  “Savor that feeling of righteous piety, milord, for you have yet to meet my father. You think me quick to take offense? Lift your nose too high in his company and he will slice it off without a thought.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The weather held to occasional gusts through the night, but the dawn came up gunmetal gray with seas high enough to send gouts of green spume over the deck rails. A wide, growling swath of black thunderclouds was circling in the western sky, and while the Iron Rose could easily have piled on more sail and outrun the storm, the galleon could not. Compounding the stubbornness of Spanish shipwrights who refused to alter the design of vessels that were square-rigged and could only go where the wind took them, they insisted upon building huge castles fore and aft—towering wooden decks that severely hampered speed and made the already top-heavy ships unstable in bad weather.

  Juliet would be damned, however, if she lost such a grand prize to the wind and the sea.

  “Lash down everything that is not already nailed or tied, Mr. Crisp. We’re in for a sweet one.” She lowered her spyglass and squinted up at the roiling mass of cloud. “We did both say it had been too easy, did we not?”

  Nathan blew out an oath and went aft, shouting orders at the men as he passed.

  A jagged fork of lightening cracked open the clouds and Juliet counted the seconds before the sound reached them. Travelling at roughly one league every three seconds, she guessed the blow was four leagues away and swirling in on them fast. The wind was cold and damp; it snatched off hats and rattled deadeyes. It changed direction sharply from one minute to the next, making the sails overhead boom like cannon.

  Apart from the men assigned to stand by the lines, the crew remained below. Gun captains checked that the culverins were tied down, the ports sealed against water coming inboard, and wax plugs were fitted into the noses and priming holes of the guns. The powder barrels were secured and the several hundred balls of shot were safely confined in the magazine. The pumps were oiled and manned. Lanterns that had not been lit during the night remained cold, for the greatest hazard on board a ship was fire; even the coals in the galley were smothered to guard against any accidental spillage.

  Juliet tracked the approaching storm from the quarterdeck, her feet braced wide to counter the rolls and dips the Iron Rose took riding from one swell to the next. She had her bandana knotted snugly around her forehead to keep her hair from lashing into her eyes, but strands were constantly being torn loose, making her look and feel like Medusa.

  One stony figure who undoubtedly shared her impression stood down in the belly of the main deck, his hands clutching the rail, his face turned out to the sea. Juliet had been surprised to see the Duke of Harrow venturing out in such heavy weather. She was frankly surprised to see him at all, dressed as he was in a rough-spun shirt and canvas galligaskins, neither very clean nor anywhere near a proper fit.

  The shirt, which might have been loose on the wiry frame of an average sized seaman, was tight across the shoulders and absent any laces so that it gaped open across his chest. The breeches were similarity stretched
at the seams and so threadbare she wondered how safe they would be if he had to bend over in haste. In combination with the fine, silver-buckled shoes that were the only personal items salvaged in the rescue, he made a somewhat comical figure and she suspected it was sheer stubbornness that had brought him topside at all.

  She had not seen him since the incident in her cabin, had not troubled herself to inquire which locker Johnny Boy had elected to transform into his cabin. She only knew her berth was empty when she fallen into it sometime after midnight.

  A rare twinge of guilt prickled Juliet’s conscience as she studied him. It was possible she had consumed a tad too much rum last night and her reaction to his touching her might have been slightly out of proportion to the actual crime. She had been startled, more than anything else, when he’d pulled her to her feet, for she had just been wondering, not half a moment before, what it would be like to have all that naked flesh pressed up against her body. The knife had been in her hand before she knew it, after which of course, there could be no backing down. Especially not after he accused her of having an unfair advantage.

  From where she stood on the quarterdeck, she could not see his face. He did not seem the least interested in glancing her way either, which was rather like dragging a line baited with fresh red meat in front of a shark. She had one foot on the ladderway when the sky rumbled, the wind abruptly dropped off, and the underbellies of the clouds lit up with an ungodly green glow.

  ~~~

  In the sudden, unearthly silence, Varian glanced upward and held his breath. Fiery, brush-like discharges of static were crackling and snapping from the mastheads and yards. Bright orange in color, they were like little bolts of lightning playing across the skeleton of the ship, leaping from spar to spar, travelling down the masts and setting the air hissing overhead.

  “Most seamen have a superstitious fear of St. Elmo’s Fire,” Juliet said quietly. “They believe that anyone who dares to let the light fall on his face will be dead within a day.”

  Varian lowered his gaze grudgingly from the dancing lights. His hair had been blown about his face and clung to his cheek and throat where two day’s worth of dark stubble snagged the strands.

  “I have heard of the phenomenon, but never seen it.”

  Juliet tilted her head up, but the flickers of light were already beginning to fade.

  “You are not superstitious?” he asked.

  “About some things, yes. I would never begin a voyage on a Friday, for instance, nor would I bring a black cat on board. I also have the caul of a newborn babe hanging in my cabin and I never set sail without pouring a fine bottle of wine on the gundecks for luck. Mind, since the most dreaded curse on the high seas is supposedly having a woman on board, I tend to be more sceptical than your average tar-boy.”

  “And here I was advised on very good authority before departing London that gales and high winds would subside if a naked woman stood on deck.”

  “Which is why most figureheads are of naked women. Nevertheless, you might want to take yourself below,” she advised, blinking as a fat drop of rain splashed her cheek. “I have no intentions of stripping down, and the wind can toss you about like a child’s toy if you haven’t a good pair of sea legs beneath you.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Beacom said, peering around from behind his master’s broad shoulder. “I was about to suggest that very thing to his grace: To retire below until this unpleasantness passes.”

  “Whereas I was thinking a bit of rain, a brisk bit of wind might make for a stimulating change,” Varian said tautly.

  “Suit yourself,” Juliet said. “But if you end up riding a wave briskly over the rail, we won’t be turning about to fish you out.”

  Beacom made a sound in his throat, but Varian merely offered a small bow to acknowledge the advice, then turned to stare out across the boiling seas again.

  “Stimulating?” Beacom waited until Juliet had returned to the quarterdeck before he questioned his master’s sanity. “As stimulating as the storm we encountered off the Canaries on the voyage south?”

  Varian’s dark eyebrow twitched at the memory, for the gale that had battered them for four days and five nights had left the two men so weak from seasickness they would have welcomed a swift death at the end of a spiked bludgeon. Even so, the wench had thrown down a subtle gauntlet. Were he to retreat below now, with his thumb throbbing a reminder that she had lorded her superiority over him once already, it would suggest his legs were made of less stern stuff than her own.

  “Go below if you wish,” he said, squinting against the beads of rain. “I choose to remain here a few minutes longer.”

  The few turned into ten, and by then the blackest of the clouds were directly overhead, the wind was lashing across the deck and rain was pelting down like needles. Varian was satisfied he had made his point.

  With Beacom’s teeth chattering too badly to express his gratitude, the two men began to make their way across the deck, but before they were safely through the hatchway, the planking shifted under their feet. The ship seemed to rise up beneath them, careening perilously to one side, tossing both Varian and Beacom hard against the base of the mast. Dazed, they could only brace themselves as a solid green wall of seawater crashed over the deck, beating down on them with enough force to carry them across the deck and flatten them against the bulkhead. The ship righted itself, then rolled in the opposite direction, sending Beacom skidding and sliding across the wet planking almost back to the rail.

  Varian cursed and went after him, managing to grasp hold of a bony arm and drag him back to the safety of the hatchway. Above them on the quarterdeck, Juliet was shouting orders to the helmsman, who was doubled over the whipstaff, his hair streaming horizontally into the wind. One moment he was there, his full weight pressed into keeping the rudder on course, the next he was gone, flung against the rail and only saved from being swept overboard by the length of cable bound around his waist.

  “Your grace!” Beacom was screaming, hauling on his arm, but Varian could not move, could scarcely see more than a few feet in front of him. He tried to scrape the salt water out of his eyes, but everything remained a blur. He could not see Juliet Dante. If she was still up on the quarterdeck, she was obscured by the sheets of driving rain.

  If she was still there.

  A thunderous crack, startled Varian’s gaze higher as a bolt of lightening struck the top of the foremast. The jagged white streak seemed to hang in the air a moment before dissolving into a fountain of brilliant red sparks, some of which showered the heads of the crewmen who were working the lines. Weakened in the battle with the Santo Domingo, the top of the mast fractured in two under the fiery strike and a ten foot section came crashing down toward the deck, the shroud lines popping and snapping as it fell. The broken length of oak cannonaded into the planking close enough to where Varian was standing to lash his face with spray.

  “Your grace, I beg you: you must come below!”

  Beacom’s voice was frantic, but Varian’s attention was dragged back to the quarterdeck. There was still no sign of Juliet. The helmsman was on all fours, his face bloodied where his forehead had hit the rail. Varian shook off Beacom’s clutching hands and ran to the bottom of the ladderway. He vaulted up the steps two at a time and saw her. She was on the starboard side of the quarterdeck attempting to climb into the shrouds.

  At first he could not see why she would be doing such an insane thing, but then he looked higher and saw the boy with the peg leg hanging upside down from the rat lines. A cable was looped around his good ankle, and Varian guessed that when the mast had come down, the line had been pulled taut and jerked the boy off his feet and up into the tangle of rigging. He hung there helpless, being swung to and fro with the movement of the ship, coming ominously closer to the base of the mast on each swing.

  Doubled over against the force of the wind, Varian made his way across the open quarterdeck. He reached Juliet’s side just as another mountainous green wave crashed over t
he bow, nearly flinging them both down on the deck. He circled an arm around her waist and another around the four-stranded lanyard lines, and held them both against the shrouds until the wave passed.

  Unfettered lines snaked treacherously underfoot and the broken section of mast continued to pull on the rigging with each plunge and toss of the ship, snapping shearing poles, popping the chain-plates out of the gunwale and freeing more cables to whip over their heads. Varian heard Juliet shout something in his ear, but his mouth and nose streamed salt water, his hair was plastered flat to his skull and he turned the wrong way just as the end of a rope whipped across his cheek like a cat o nine tail.

  The painful sting added to his blindness and almost made him miss Johnny Boy as he swung toward the shrouds. Varian reached up to grasp a flailing hand but he misjudged the distance by half an arm’s length and realized he had to climb higher to reach him. Pushing Juliet to one side, he put a foot to the rail and hoisted himself up into the shroud lines. He caught his balance in time to see the next wave before it struck and turned his head to avoid the worst of it, but when he shook his head to clear the water out of his hair and eyes, the loose cable lashed him again. With a curse, he caught the end and looped it several times around his wrist which was, he acknowledged too late, probably the most foolish thing he could have done.

  The ship plunged into a trough and the yard around which the rope was bound swung forward with the motion, carrying Varian with it. He was yanked off the shrouds and found himself in the same perilous situation as the boy he had come to save. The two made brief contact as they swung in opposite directions, then St. Clare was bounced out and around the far side of the shroud. Being considerably heavier, with much more rope at play, he was sent spinning out over the side like a whirligig and for a full ten seconds, there was nothing under his flailing feet but empty air and churning water.