“I heard that,” Gabriel said, looking up from the entry he was making in his logbook. “And I will expect both of you to be all prettied up with just as much pomp and frivolity. Off with the pair of you now. Be on deck in ten minutes looking like Spanish blow-boys.”
The lads ran out, managing to hold their laughter in check until they had exited the cabin.
“You’re going to dress up like a Spaniard?”
Hearing the softly whispered question, Dante set his quill aside and raked his fingers through his hair. His eyes sought hers and held them long enough for her to feel as though he was sliding under her skin and coiling through her body.
"There are four well-armed ships out there. I've fought against ill-weighted odds before but not without taking heavy casualties. And never in a strange ship that handles like a pig, with cannon that are in a fixed position and sails that..." He stopped and sighed, having said all this before. "Our best chance lies in duping them. With luck they'll accept us as one of their own and go on their merry way."
"And if they don't?"
"If they don't," he mused, "we may all be in for a hot time."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Is there anything I can do?"
A slow smile spread across his lips. "With regards to what, Mistress Chandler? Manning one of the cannon? Climbing the shrouds with a blunderbuss? Or perhaps waving a bit of lace and appealing to their gallant nature to simply sail away and leave us unmolested?"
As soon as he saw the flush in her cheeks he regretted the sarcasm, but the last thing he needed to worry about in the heat of battle was Evangeline Chandler being cut in half by a twenty-four pound lead shot.
"If you truly want to help," he said in a gentler tone, "you can fill up those pillowslips with my log book and charts in case they have to go over the side. And then make sure they do go over the side rather than falling into Spanish hands. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes. Of course."
"Good." He stood and walked over to the bed to inspect the garments Eduardo had laid out. With a sigh of resignation, he stripped off his shirt and flung it aside. The stark whiteness of the bandaging around his back stood out against the bronzed skin of his arms and shoulders and Eva was somewhat pleased to note there were no pink stains leaking through the linen. Not wanting to be caught staring, she retreated to the far corner of the cabin as he stripped off his breeches... did he not know the meaning of modesty?... and started dressing in the Spanish garb.
When she thought a suitable time had lapsed, she peeked over her shoulder and saw that he had pulled on the white stockings, the scarlet balloon-shaped trunkhose, and was standing at the washstand shaving most of the thick, dark fuzz from his cheeks and jaw, leaving a neatly trimmed, pointed imperial on his chin.
When he was done, he donned the stiff peascod doublet and fastened the score of gilded buttons up the front. It was a snug fit but emphasized the breadth of his shoulders and the trimness of his waist. Next came the sleeves, which needed to be fastened to the rolled padding on the shoulders by means of tapers threaded through a series of eyelets. There were a dozen of these ribbons on each sleeve, few of which he could manipulate on his own.
Gabriel debated calling Eduardo back but then he felt cool fingers brushing across the muscles of his bare upper arm and saw Eva beside him, quietly lacing and tying the tapers. He tried not to look too uncomfortable—indeed he wondered why he even gave it a second thought—each time the nimble little fingertips skimmed his flesh. It was far from being the first time a woman had dressed or undressed him, yet he was conscious of standing taller and keeping his eyes focussed straight ahead.
After the sleeves were attached, she helped him with the stiffly goffered white ruff that went around his neck. When she picked up the pillow hat, the feather drooped precariously on a broken stem. While he muttered over the tightness of the ruff, she searched through the chest until she found a thick indigo plume to replace the bent feather and after he raked his hair back and set the cap on his head, he stood back and spread his arms wide so she could assess the results.
"Well? Think you I could pass for a puffed up Spanish peacock?”
Eva felt an odd tingling spread outward from her belly, for in truth, he looked quite magnificent. The swelling around his eye was barely noticable and the bruises on his cheek had faded enough to blend with his deep tan. The scabbing had come off the slash that ran down the side of his cheek, leaving a pale pink line that traced the square, rugged jawline. His lips, which had been mostly hidden by the beard, were full and shaped like sin itself, and while he still bore the physical evidence of having been in a battle recently, he now clearly looked like the victor.
She lowered her eyes quickly and nodded. "You look quite regal, Senor Capitan."
Dante smirked and snatched the Spanish signal book off his desk. "Stay here. Keep the bolt across the door."
"What if the ruse fails and you have to fight?"
The tarnished gold of his eyes looked back and locked briefly with hers. "You will be safe enough here."
And then he was gone, ducking through the door, the plume dragging along the underside of the lintel.
Eva moved slowly to close the door behind him and lock it. Something in the way he had said safe enough here made her run the tip of her tongue across her lower lip, as if she could still taste the remnants of their kiss. Something else made her nibble on the same lip and glance over at the sea chest. It had contained the former captain's finery, but while looking for the feather, she had discovered something else folded carefully and packed at the bottom.
~~
"They're definitely comin' to have a closer look," Stubs said as Dante joined him on deck. The barrel-chested quartermaster looked comical in an oversized doublet and trunkhose that made his legs look like two spindly sticks. He wore a striped cap that kept slipping off the bald side of his head and drooping over his eye.
Eduardo, dressed like a Spanish cabin boy, handed Gabriel his spyglass. Two of the ships were close enough to fill the magnifying lens completely and showed tiny figures moving about on deck. Another two hours, if their speed held, the lead galleon would be within hailing distance.
The wind was sporadic and untrustworthy, and, as Gabriel carefully swept the glass across the westerly horizon, he could see why. They were running parallel to the rocky coastline of Espiritu Santu. The irony was not lost on him that they were in the Tongue, the passage where La Fantasma had possibly met her end when she had been blown off course by the hurricane.
That thought made him stare harder at the four galleons. He was not a man who believed in coincidences, yet they appeared to be pushing themselves into his face so he had to at least acknowledge them. First the girl with her improbable story of the coin and the search for her missing father. Then the letter found in the packet of correspondence bound for Spain, hinting that another search was about to begin for the lost treasure ship. And now four galleons, well away from the normal patrol lanes, were on a course straight down the Tongue.
Neither of the two lead ships showed battle damage, making it unlikely they had been part of the recent conflict. They both showed multiple open gunports, however, so they were suspicious bastards, whoever they were.
"Reef all sails so it looks like we're just as curious as they are," he said quietly to Stubs. "But get men up there with buckets to wet down the sheets. If we have to maneuver out of range fast, I want every breath of wind we can catch, every knot of speed we can squeeze out of the bitch.”
While Stubs relayed the orders, Gabriel signalled to the master gunner. Giddings was the oldest member of the crew, lean and wiry, and did twice the work of men who were half his age. He had an affinity for blowing things up and had personally tested each cannon on board.
“Open the ports and run out the upper tier of culverins. If they can show their teeth, so can we, and since ours are bigger, it might make them think twice about annoying us."
"Aye Cap'n. An' might I say ye cut a
fine figure as a Spanish officer."
Gabriel glared and ran a finger around the plate-sized ruff where it was pinching his neck. It was pleated so stiffly it reminded him of the time he and Jonas were locked in a stockade. He was also coming to realize why Spanish officers all walked straight as pikes. It was out of fear of having the stiffened, pointed end of the doublet turn them into eunuchs.
He had to admit, however, looking around at his crew, he would have no reason to suspect they were not Spanish. There was a sea of scarlet and black, of plumes and striped caps. Apparently the capitan's taste in clothing had been the order of the day for his crew as well.
"Whup, there they go," Stubs said, pointing out the flags that were being run up the lines on the lead ship.
Dante consulted the signal book and relayed the order of colored flags to form the proper response. The galleon appeared to be satisfied and showed no sign of slowing or maneuvering into a hostile position.
"How well do you speak Spanish?" Dante asked in a murmur.
"I understand most of it. Can't speak but a few words though, just enough to get an ale or a whore, or tell a sonofabitch to surrender or lose his guts through his nose."
Beside them, Rowly touched a forelock. "One o' my wives was from Castile so I know all the swear words.”
"Marvellous," Dante said dryly. "If they come aboard we can ask them if they want to drink or fuck.”
"Ye think they'll want to come aboard?"
"I'd be surprised if they didn't."
"I count 'arf a dozen spyglasses, Cap'n. They're watchin' us as closely as we're watchin' them."
Dante nodded grimly, but he was far more interested in the ships themselves. They were easily half the tonnage of the Endurance with ten gun ports down each side for heavy cannon as well as smaller perriers and several light swivel guns mounted fore and aft. One on one, the Endurance outmanned and outgunned the Spanish ships, but if they had to take on all four, combined in force, they might be hard-pressed to avoid taking heavy damage.
“That fourth ship is still hangin’ back,” Stubs pointed out. “Appears to have come to a dead stop, as a fact.”
“Maybe her capitan is shy.”
Stubs hawked and spat, not buying into that explanation.
Neither was Dante as he glanced casually down over his own main deck. He did not see the scarlet and stripes this time so much as the solemn faces of his men, most of them crouched down out of sight. He noted some of the wounded had come up from their sickbeds below and his chest swelled with pride. Any grumblings or misgivings or questions they had concerning his sanity over rescuing Eva and bringing her on board had been replaced by absolute loyalty, trust, and a craving to avenge their lost shipmates.
He felt a slight change in the motion of the Endurance and noted the dark shades of blue as the currents lulled them into to the treacherous stretch of reef that ran alongside the island. The wind may have fallen off, but there were other elements running beneath the keel that might be used to good advantage.
Something was still bothering Dante about the galleons.
He turned his focus to the lead ship. It had glided close enough for him to see the soldiers and officers on the quarterdeck. The open ports worried him but there was no sign of gun crews standing at the ready. No other signal flags had been raised, not even the white flag calling for a parlay. Two of the other three ships had moved up to flank their leader, leaving the fourth still too far back to identify. In another few minutes, the lead ships would be in the ideal position to unleash full broadsides and every instinct he possessed told him that was exactly what was about to happen.
The itching sensation across the nape of his neck grew more persistent, and this time it was not from the tightness of the ruff. He trained his glass on the lead ship and extended the telescoping shaft as far as it would reach.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “That’s no goddamn patrol.”
“Eh?” Stubs raised his glass.
“The black-haired bastard with the winemark on his face. That’s Estevan Quintano Muertraigo. He was in command of the garrison in Havana until he got too greedy and was arrested. He was sentenced to hang but his men broke him out and he’s been flying the jolie rouge ever since.”
“He i’n’t flyin’ it now,” Stubs observed.
“No. But I expect his ploy is similar to our own, to give the appearance of a normal patrol, get close enough to their quarry, then force a surrender or blast them out of the water.”
Dante lowered the glass. The itching persisted but at least he knew the cause. The Spaniard was cautious enough to know Dante’s thirty-two-pounders could do considerably more damage than his twenty-fours at such close range. Dante could prove that point now by opening fire first. There was a fair to even chance he could destroy at least one of the three ships, but then the battle would be on against the other two. And if they caught him in a crossfire, it would likely end badly, especially with the wind reduced to a luffing breeze.
Indecision was not a part of his nature and Gabriel wondered if the recent capture and loss of the Valour had wreaked more havoc on his nerve than he suspected. He could not afford to let his crew think he was hesitant about going into battle. The eyes of each and every man on board were watching him, waiting for him to give the signal. They would fight. They would die to the last man if he asked it of them.
Dante glanced up at the brilliant blue of the sky. The sun was out, the breeze smelled sweet, bringing the scent of pine and frangipani from the distant island.
It was a good day to die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Just as he was about to give the order to open fire, Gabriel heard a commotion on deck and turned to search out the cause. Beside him, Stubs’ eyes were nearly popped out of their creases, and as Dante followed the quartermaster's stare, his flew equally wide.
Eva Chandler had come up on deck. She was wearing an elegant gown cut from fine green moire silk, heavily embroidered from waist to neck with a matching panel of gold leaves and vines down the front of the skirt and around the hem. The neck was high, severely modest in the Spanish style, topped by a narrow ruffle liberally embellished with pearls and gold thread. Her hair had been gathered up in a high twist, the camphored oiliness of it covered by a lace veil over which sat a pert green velvet caplet trailing silk ribbons.
Up close, it was easy to see where the hooks and eyes on the bodice were not evenly matched, where lacings had not been pulled tight, and where bare toes peeked out from beneath the sweeping circle of the farthingale. But from a distance she could fool the sharpest eye into admiring the exquisite richness of the garment, the delicate beauty of the woman wearing it, the feminine puff of the lace handkerchief she withdrew from a ruffled cuff and held daintily to her nose.
Dante could barely contain his anger. “What the devil do you think you are playing at?”
"I found this in the captain's sea chest," she explained. "He must have been taking it home to his wife or mistress. You did say I could try waving a bit of lace and appealing to their gallant nature to simply sail away and leave us unmolested."
She faltered slightly at the look of absolute horror on Dante's face but she managed to walk past him and stand at the rail. With one hand gripping the wood for support, she smiled gaily and waved the lace by way of a friendly greeting to the men watching from the galleon... men who appeared to be as momentarily shocked by her appearance on deck as Dante—and indeed Dante's entire crew—had been.
"This is not a game,” he said through his teeth. "In case you have lost the ability to count along with all of your senses, there are four of them and only one of us."
"I count very well Captain. Mostly I have counted the number of times I have been forced to let someone else decide my destiny. If this ship is attacked and I am to die today, I would as soon do it with the sun on my face, not hiding under a table in your cabin."
Her words so closely mirrored Gabriel's own thoughts that he bit back the command that
would have had two of the crewmen hastening her below and locking her in a pen with the livestock.
"We will discuss your penchant for disobeying my orders later," he warned softly.
"I'm sure we will," she said, the green of her eyes blazing defiantly. "For the time being, however, you may want to look a little less murderous, for the capitan is smiling and waving back, as are some of his crew and officers."
Dante tore his gaze away from her face and looked out across the water again. By God, and damn his eyes if she wasn't right. The Spaniard had doffed his tricorn and was offering a gallant bow, and when he straightened, there was a smile on his face. It was a thin, cruel smile, undoubtedly fuelled by notions of taking the stunning beauty captive, but for the time being, at least, it might buy Dante some precious time.
As if he needed any further evidence of Muertraigo’s original intention, heads began to appear along the rails as the men who were crouching behind the guns stood. Gabriel was sorely tempted to open fire just because they had done the same thing as he.
Instead, he took up the speaking trumpet and hailed the Spaniard in flawlessly refined Castilian. He identified the ship as His Most Majestic Majesty King Phillip’s Santa Maria and himself as Capitan Rafael Enrique Padilla, a name he had employed on other nefarious occasions. When the words finished echoing across the water, the reply came back: “Capitan Francisco de Cuellar sends greetings and felicitations from the San Mateo.”
While more mundane lies were exchanged, Eva remained by the rail, hearing only the rushing of her own blood in her ears. What had struck her as being a good idea at the time was obviously not held in such high regard by Gabriel Dante—or the rest of the crew. She could feel several hundred pairs of eyes boring into her back and had no doubt they would blame her—yet again—as a bad luck charm if this encounter turned sour.
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