Pirate Wolf Trilogy

by Canham, Marsha

  “She also said you were very much like her—sometimes to her sorry regret. That you are always so damned determined to prove you don’t need anyone’s help getting through life, that you sometimes forget that other people do.”

  “Are you saying you need my help?”

  “Call it a character flaw. The need to comprehend the incomprehensible. Although I think need is perhaps too strong a word. Desire might be better suited. The desire to understand you and the need to understand myself.”

  “What are you having trouble grasping? You came here to do your duty to the crown. You have done it. Two weeks ago you were eager to see the last of us, to get back to your England and your rolling green hills and well-ordered life.” She waved an arm, vaguely indicating the stretch of blue water. “You had your chance three days ago to leave. You didn’t take it. And now you need my help to understand why you did not?”

  “Oh, I know damned well why I did not. You see, I have spent the past twenty-eight years of my life wandering around without any real purpose, without any real ability to stray off the path that was chosen for me, the one that was set out in a straight line from the day I was born. I said I became duke by default and that part is true, but ten years ago, had you stood me beside my two brothers you would have been hard pressed to tell the three of us apart. We dressed the same, talked the same, were educated by the same tutors. I expect we even made love the same, for were all taken to the same brothel for our initiation into the earthy delights of a woman’s flesh.

  “My older brother studied politics because that was what he was expected to do. My middle brother learned finance and the law so that the family business would stay in the family. I joined the army because that’s what third sons do. We even—all of us—agreed to marry women that were chosen for us because, while you had at least seen love up close and knew it existed, we were never exposed to anything so... earthy and uncivilized. Our parents were polite the two or three times a year they attended the same balls and court functions. They never touched, never—God forbid—smiled. When Father died, Mother’s first priority was assuring we all had the proper wardrobes. I had absolutely no idea love could produce actual physical pain. Not until I watched you stand on top of Pigeon Cay with your arms outstretched, vowing you would one day sail over the horizon to see if such things as dragons truly existed. Do you have any idea how truly pitiful a moment that was for me? There I was wondering if there had ever been an instant in my life that I actually believed such a thing as love existed, while you were convinced there were mythical creatures lurking just beyond the horizon, waiting for you to discover them.

  “I think that was the very first time I knew what the pounding in my chest was all about. It was the moment I fell in love with you, though there were occasions afterward that made me think: ah, that was the one. Or: no, perhaps that was it. I have had three days and three very long nights to think about it, you see, and... I guess I was hoping you had been just a tiny bit miserable about sending me away.”

  She stared at him, watching his lips move, hearing the words he was saying. And she had followed them right up to the point where he said he loved her. That was where her mind had frozen, where every single thought had slammed to a halt.

  “I realize you made it quite shockingly clear from the outset that all you wanted was a pleasant diversion,” he added, somewhat uncomfortable under her stare. “I just thought... I assumed... ”

  When she continued to stand there, saying nothing, he sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. “Of course, that would be assuming a great deal, would it not? It would assume you gave a damn one way or another, that you didn’t just send me away because you’d had your fill of me, but because you were afraid it wasn’t just a diversion anymore.”

  Something hot and stinging welled along Juliet’s lashes, blurring him into a blot of white shirt and blowing dark hair. A blink sent a splash down on her cheek and a soft gasp parted her lips, for it was all there. All of it was in his eyes. How much he loved her, how much he wanted her, how desperately he needed her to want and love him in return. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time to realize she had that kind of power over another human being, and to know that someone had that same kind of power over her. Not the kind of power won with a sword or a knife or a blustery command, but the kind that would come in quiet moments, with a look or a touch, or in the promise of a smile.

  “I sent you away,” she whispered, “because I didn’t think—”

  He pushed away from the boulder and moved closer. “You didn’t think... what?”

  “I didn’t think... you could love someone like me.”

  He raised his hand, touching a fingertip to the fat tear that rolled slowly down her cheek. “Someone like you?” he murmured. “Someone who takes my every breath away? Someone who makes me want to be more of a man because she is so much more than any other woman I have ever had the privilege, the honor, the pleasure of knowing? Someone for whom I would gladly slay dragons the rest of my life?”

  Juliet felt a flush rising up into her cheeks. Her eyes met his briefly, the tears brimming with damnable persistence as if once started, they would never stop. All four of his fingertips were wet now and he tried using his thumb to staunch the flow, but they just kept coming.

  “You never thought it would happen to you either?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never thought it would.”

  “And? Has it?”

  It was a foolish question, for of course he knew. He had known it before she had even acknowledged the possibility to herself that this wild beating in her chest, this molten heat in her limbs, the pleasure of simply have him sit with her through the night and hold her was more than anything she had ever expected. She did not know how or when it had happened, but he had not just won his way into her body, he was inside her blood, a part of her now, flowing through her veins like life itself.

  Juliet was looking studiously at the hollow at the base of his neck, unable to lift her gaze above the level of his collarbone. Even when he tipped his head, trying to make contact, she bowed hers lower, leaving him no choice but to thread his long fingers into her hair and gently turn her face up to his. He must have seen the answer to his question shimmering in her eyes, for he smiled and closed his own. She thought she heard him breathe a faint, “Thank God,” but she could not be sure, for in the next heartbeat, he was kissing her cheeks, her eyes, her temples, her brow. He brushed her lips lightly two or three times before his mouth came down hard and firm over hers but by then her arms were already around his neck, and she was partly laughing, partly sobbing as he swept her up off her feet and spun her in a dizzying circle.

  She heard him say her name over and over, and she shuddered violently, knowing she wanted to hear it said that way, hoarse and ragged with passion, forever. Her own lips moved, and whether the words she uttered had substance or not, she could not tell, but at least she knew without any further doubts or hesitation that she wanted to say them and that, for the time being, was enough.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Havana, September 15, 1614

  The Contadora was among the thirty-two warships anchored in a protective semi-circle around the harbor, and one of the larger warships that comprised the armada de la guardia. There were fifty-nine merchant ships inside the ring of galleons, their captains increasingly anxious about the coming voyage to Spain. As early as last summer, the captains, the island governors, the officers in every garrison along the Spanish Main had been on edge, knowing that it was important for the vast armada to reach Spain safely. The king needed the ships and the treasure the flota carried. Almost more than the gold and silver, Spain needed her best soldiers and officers if the plans for the new invasion of England were to succeed.

  Common sailors and officers below the rank of captain were not told in advance that the treasure fleet would be larger than usual. Seamen were notoriously loose-tongued and privateers from every nation would have descended on them l
ike locusts. Nor were they told the Indies would be stripped of her biggest warships. Those same loose tongues would have been bragging about how they planned to exact revenge for the fleet of 1588, and Spain would not only lose any advantage of surprise back home, but there would be open war with the English privateers in the Caribbean.

  Of those who did know something was in the air, there were very few entrusted with all the details, fewer still who had realized the full scope of the enterprise until their ships were approaching the rendezvous in Havana and they saw the crowded conditions of the harbor. At the same time, most reported that there had been increased attacks on the ships attempting to reach Havana. Each cluster of ships that arrived brought stories of French and Dutch marauders thick as flies on a rotting corpse. Seven ships had been sunk or captured, another twelve had turned back to their home ports not wanting to risk their valuable cargos.

  The Contadora had sailed from Vera Cruz. She mounted forty-eight big guns, which was enough of a deterrent against the privateering vessels that plagued the smaller, unescorted merchantmen. Her captain, Luis Ortolo had been recalled from his normal duties patrolling the coastline off Cartagena, and this would be his first trip home in five years. On board for the voyage to Spain were twenty-three important passengers, including the former governor of Nuevo España and his family. Also on board was Captain Diego Flores de Aquayo and several of his officers who had themselves been victims of the marauding privateers. News of the stunning capture of the Santo Domingo had spread like wildfire through the fleet, adding to the tension that was building incrementally with each tale of attacks and sinkings received in the harbor. For a ship so large, so heavily armed to have come under such a brazen attack, how could smaller vessels expect to defend themselves?

  Earlier that evening, the obese, red-faced Aquayo had retold the story again for the benefit of the new passengers on board the Contadora. His version of the attack built incrementally with each telling, and on this particular night, there were seven heavily armed ships involved in the Santo Domingo’s demise. Although her crew had put on a valiant defence, had nearly emptied her armory of shot and inflicted savage damage on her enemies (sinking at least one ship in the conflict!), the captain had felt it a merciful necessity to surrender before the pirates slaughtered them to the last man.

  Credit was lavishly bestowed on Don Cristobal Nufio Espinosa y Recalde for his bravery and courage. The capitán had offered resistance to the final possible instant and bore the bloody scars to prove it! The lower halves of his ears had been shot away, leaving gnarled black scabs, the remnants of which were still visible beneath the precisely curled waves of his hair.

  Recalde himself remained rigidly silent through most of Aquayo’s recitation of the events, though there was the occasional flicker of exasperation in the ebony eyes when the embellishments grew almost too outlandish to believe. But there had been no refuting the identity of the attacking ship and for that, the governor, Don Felipe Mendoza, could heartily agree that Captain Aquayo had indeed been lucky to escape with his life.

  “La rosa de hierro. The Iron Rose.” The governor had shaken his head in disbelief. “We were under the mistaken impression this was but the name of a ship. We knew, of course, there were sons who sailed under the crimson flag of the pirata lobo, but to think of a daughter having such boldness! She must be so mannish and ugly it is beyond the ability of a god-fearing man to conceive of her as a woman.”

  The statement had been met with a general rumble of agreement around the dinner table. Also partaking of the exquisite wine and artfully prepared platters of food were three dark haired, doe-eyed beauties—one of whom was the governor’s wife, the other two his daughters. The latter were seventeen and fifteen respectively and because neither were permitted to set foot outside their cabins without the protective shadow of their duennas, these dinners in the company of so many handsome officers rendered them both flushed and breathless by the end of the evening.

  “Is it true, señor capitán?” The elder daughter had asked, her intrigued whisper inviting Recalde to look up from his soup. “Is she so ugly she could be mistaken for a man?”

  “We were but briefly in her company, Señorita Lucia.”

  “Oh come now, Don Cristobal,” Aquayo boomed. “Surely you cannot forget a chest like an iron barrel, a face brutish enough to frighten the Devil himself. Had I a daughter like that, I would lock her away in a cellar from shame.”

  Recalde’s gaze hardened. “I did not say I have forgotten her face, señor capitán-general. In truth, it is burned permanently on my mind and shall remain there until I see her standing before me again. In chains, of course. With a rope around her neck.”

  “With the reward you offered the Dutchman for her capture, I am certain your vision will be realized soon.”

  “I harbor the same vision of her father,” said the captain of the Contadora. “You speak of the Devil, Don Diego, then surely this man is his spawn. He appears out of nowhere and rains hell down upon our ships. He prays upon the weak and strong alike, as if he fears nothing, not our guns, not our numbers, not our might.”

  “He is a man,” Recalde said coldly. “Cut him and he bleeds. Shoot him and he dies.”

  “The problem, Don Cristobal,” said another officer, “is getting close enough to either cut him or shoot him. There is not a man in this room who can even boast of having seen this Simon Dante face to face.”

  Recalde held his silence. It had been his fondest hope, before they departed from Havana, to have one last chance to avenge himself upon the Dantes. Father, daughter, it made little difference. It would have been a fine way to begin the new enterprise against England with a victory against her most prolific sea dog.

  The loss of the Santo Domingo while under his command was an insult that would not go unanswered, regardless how long it took. To that end, he almost considered it an inconvenience rather than a pleasure to be returning to Spain. A thousand things could happen between now and when the war with England was successfully resolved. La rosa could be caught by another captain. She could be killed attacking another ship. She could fall overboard and drown and Recalde might never have the pleasure of seeing her pay for her crimes.

  The conversation at that point had drifted, naturally, into debates over the upcoming enterprise against England and no one seemed to notice he was not participating. No one except Lucia, who had been looking at him all evening as if he were a succulent morsel of some rare, exotic sweetmeat.

  Knowing she was watching, he let his gaze slip boldly down her neck and into the valley of her cleavage. At seventeen her breasts were small and shapeless but through the wiles of modern fashion, they had been pushed up and squeezed together to crown impressively over the bodice. She had a fine olive complexion with large fawning eyes and while she chattered incessantly about her upcoming wedding to the son of one of the richest families in all of Spain, Recalde thought of other ways to put that mouth to good use.

  His gaze shifted deliberately to the younger sister, who was seated farther along the table. She kept her eyes downcast most of the time but Recalde had caught the plumping effects of an impatient sigh heaved whenever the sister would steer the conversation back to herself.

  Thankfully, the ladies retired early and at the first opportunity Recalde had begged his leave of the governor and the captain, using his wounds as an excuse to retire early from the table.

  It was not entirely a lie. When the shots had torn off the lobes of his ears, the pain had been excruciating. The bitch had been standing close enough when she fired that he still bore scorch marks from the powder burns furrowed into his cheeks. A fraction of an inch higher on either side and he would have lost his hearing; as it was, he suffered headaches and still had a constant ringing in the left side, an annoyance that affected his ability to distinguish between the sound of the breeze rushing through the trees on shore and the soft whisper of a silk skirt approaching across the deck.

  “You find our company bo
ring, señor capitán? The conversation dull, perhaps?”

  He was at the rail, listening to the water slap against a hundred hulls when the dainty figure stepped up beside him. It was the governor’s youngest daughter, Marisol, the gauzy ends of her lace shawl fluttering gently in the night breezes.

  He looked past her shoulder but the staunchly bulked figure of her ever-present duenna was nowhere to be seen.

  “I can promise you, señorita, it was not the fault of the company,” he said, bowing gallantly. “If anything, I feel it is my own presence that must insult the beauty of such tender eyes as yours.”

  “You refer to your wounds, capitán? But I do not find them offensive in the least. Indeed, with your hair arranged so carefully, they are hardly visible at all. I have some knowledge of healing herbs, taught at the Convent of the Holy Sisters in Madrid, and if your wounds pain you, I might be of some small assistance.”

  Recalde stepped back as she stepped forward, a hand rising instinctively to protect his damaged ears from her curiosity. He did not need this now. He did not need a coddling, mewling novitiate keening over his wounded vanity.

  “There is a chill in the air, señorita. You might be wise to return below.”

  “Nonsense. It is so warm, the dampness wets my skin like dew.” She slipped her shawl off her shoulders and, ignoring his suggestion, placed her hands on the rail and gazed out across the harbor. “How beautiful,” she whispered. “How entirely, wondrously beautiful. I think I have never seen so many ships gathered in one place. They glitter and twinkle just like the stars, of which I have never seen so many as there are here in the New World.” She looked up and her face fell, for it had rained all day and the sky was still thick with clouds.

  The entire ocean beyond the harbor was black, not a point of light to be seen anywhere. It was like staring into a great black void and the awe was reflected in Marisol’s voice.