Pirates of Britannia Box Set

by Devlin, Barbara

  “Nailed over the real one. We are now King George II,” Christian replied with his trademark grin.

  “How very British,” Santiago replied sarcastically. “Let’s hope some bright Royal Navy officer doesn’t wonder what a Hudson’s Bay vessel is doing so far south.”

  He gripped his own ensign, taken down in favor of the fake flag, and pressed his thumbs into the purple drac emblazoned on the white silk. It reminded him of the astonishing amethyst depths of Valentina’s lovely eyes. He’d chosen to fly the dragon popular in Andalusian folklore rather than a traditional pirate flag; a winged female drac with prominent breasts, two long claws and an eagle’s beak had proven effective in persuading various captains to surrender. It was his intimidating good luck token.

  In an effort to calm his disquiet, he gathered the material in his fists and held the creature’s breasts to his lips. The men would believe he was saddened by the removal of his personal talisman when in reality he was imagining Valentina’s ample globes pressed against his face as he suckled rigid nipples…

  He resisted the urge to cover his unruly manhood when he noticed a grinning Christian eyeing his groin.

  Annoyed he’d allowed emotions to resurface that he’d resolved to quash, he thrust the flag at his First Mate. “Fold it carefully and put it away in my cabin with the other ensigns.”

  “Never know when we might need La Drac again,” Christian remarked, bright eyes twinkling. “I’ll take good care of her.”

  After his friend disappeared below decks, Santiago strutted about, willing his inconvenient arousal to abate. He barked orders to the crew preparing the ship for her maiden voyage as an agent of the Spanish Crown.

  When he felt sufficiently in control of himself, he summoned his navigator and they joined Christian in his cabin, where they pored for a long while over charts Melchor had provided.

  Having settled on a course, he called for the crew to be assembled on deck. Five minutes later, he let his gaze roam over the twenty men. They ranged in age from a lad of fifteen to an old salt of fifty summers. Some were from the original crew, others more recent additions. There were Spaniards, mulattos, blacks, Mexicans, a Chinaman and even an inglés.

  Narrowing his eyes, he braced his legs and began. “As you all know, the Santa María has plundered ships in the Gulf of Mexico and along the Spanish Main.”

  There was mumbled agreement and a few frowns of confusion. Did they sense what was coming?

  He smiled. “And rich were our rewards.”

  Loud cheering and whistling ensued.

  He replaced the smile with a scowl which produced the silence he’d expected. “We were forced to sail to San Agustín after our arrest. However, this east coast port provides an ideal, well-defended base for raiding to the north.”

  There was some muted cheering. Every man knew they were venturing into an area Santiago had avoided. Not that there weren’t rich pickings to be had from vessels bringing goods to the British colonies of Georgia and the Carolinas. But the Royal Navy patrolled the Atlantic, prepared to destroy any ship that threatened trade with the empire.

  It was a stark reality his crew would now have to face head on. Picking off solitary merchantmen hadn’t been without risks. Many were armed with awesome firepower. But Santiago didn’t relish the prospect of trying to outrun a 90-gun Royal Navy ship-of-the-line.

  He lifted his chin, determined to imbue confidence in the men. “We are once again the King George II.”

  Booing greeted his pronouncement.

  Santiago raised a hand. “I understand your feelings. But you must put aside your hatred of the late but unlamented Hanoverian and hope the charade gets us past the Royal Navy.”

  Apparently satisfied Valentina was tucked up in bed for the siesta, Manuela finally left for her own chamber. Glad to be free of her dueña’s suffocating presence, Valentina slipped from between the sheets and tiptoed to the verandah at the back of the house. She cringed when hinges squealed and wood creaked.

  There was really no cause to worry. It would take a cannon blast to awaken Manuela from her two-hour afternoon nap.

  Closing the door behind her, she inhaled the sweet scents of the garden below. Paula Melchor’s illness had kept her confined to bed. She’d taken little interest in the colorful tropical plants that grew in riotous profusion, but Valentina loved them. Alessandro had taught her any of the exotic names. She listened with rapt attention as the ancient gardener spoke of the delicate yellow hibiscus, the aptly-named bird of paradise, the flamboyant bougainvillea, as if they were his children, his niños.

  She longed to ask permission to assist with weeding and the like, but knew her father would bow to Manuela’s indignant refusal.

  What was the point of living in the Americas if you didn’t enjoy the beauty? Surely there was more to life than simply doing one’s duty for Spain by exploiting La Florida’s resources.

  She sighed, resolving to be less judgmental of her chaperone. Manuela had not come to La Florida of her own volition, any more than her mother had. The long-time lady’s maid had considered it her duty to take on the role of chaperone after Paula Melchor’s death.

  While daily life was sometime tedious, Valentina preferred her new tropical home to the suffocating, dirty streets of Madrid. Madrileños baked for three months of intense summer heat, then shivered in the bone-chilling dampness of the remaining nine months.

  In San Agustín, she soaked in the sun’s warmth every day. Indoors might be humid and sticky, but outdoors the balmy sea breeze was refreshing and carried with it tales of faraway places.

  And therein lay the other thing she adored about La Florida—the océano Atlántico. Madrid was far from the sea. Here raucous gulls and other seabirds glided above her. Fishermen brought creels teeming with fish, crab, shrimp and other delicious edibles to the stone kitchens at the end of the garden. The water could be as calm as a pond, then change quickly to a seething cauldron, sending towering waves to crash against the shore.

  She spent many an hour on the verandah, staring at the movement of the water, inhaling the salty aroma. On the long voyage from Spain, she’d ventured on deck at every opportunity, ignoring the protestations of her mother and Manuela, both too stricken with mareo to do anything to prevent her. She’d been fortunate not to suffer the same debilitating seasickness and had relished every moment of the adventurous journey.

  She shaded her eyes and looked beyond the garden to the port. Several ships of the Spanish navy lay at anchor, but only one civilian galleon. The white pennant with the purple dragon it had flown yesterday had been replaced with another that resembled the red ensign of the Royal Navy. After the British raids on San Agustín, every Floridano was taught to recognize that hated flag, though it had been twenty-five years since the last failed attempt to take the town.

  She startled when the door opened, relieved to see her papa when she glanced over her shoulder. He would never betray her to Manuela. “Is that the pirate ship?” she asked when he joined her at the railing.

  “Sí,” he replied.

  “Will they sail north?”

  “Sí. Mañana.”

  For the first time the dreadful implications of the Letter of Marque struck her. “It will be dangerous.”

  Her father put an arm around her shoulder. “Velázquez is resourceful and clever. He’ll disrupt the British trade routes for a while, perhaps give us and our French allies the breathing room we need.”

  “Then he’ll return,” she said, wishing she had the courage to go down to the dock on the morrow to see the arrogant pirate off, to feel the press of his lips on her hand once more.

  He shook his head. “It’s doubtful. He might flee to a safe haven—Cuba, perhaps, though La Habana has fallen to the British. It’s more likely his ship will be blown to bits.”

  Sleepless in San Agustin

  Santiago lay on his back, knees bent, watching the last of the sun’s rays dip beyond the horizon through the window of his cabin.


  His spacious bunk was comfortable, but he sensed he’d get no sleep this night.

  He dismissed his restlessness; any man facing danger on the morrow would toss and turn. Strangely, though, he felt no fear. The Letter of Marque made him a privateer, but in truth it was no different from being a pirate, and he’d embarked on many a marauding adventure before. It was preferable to hanging from the gibbet.

  Perhaps the heat was keeping him awake. Or the humidity.

  He raised his arms above his head, arched his back, and stretched, thinking back over the events of the day. One face, one stunningly beautiful face, predominated, and his arousal spiked in response. He cupped his balls to ease the pressure. “What you’re trying to say,” he admitted to his cock, “is that I won’t get any sleep unless I see Valentina again.”

  His erection bucked.

  “But she’ll be abed, no doubt watched over by her dueña.”

  He turned onto his side, but couldn’t get the woman out of his head.

  I wonder what color her nipples are?

  Long legs.

  Breasts that would fit my hands perfectly.

  “Mierda!” he exclaimed aloud, leaping from the bed. “She’s cast a spell on me.”

  It was folly, but perhaps if he just walked to her house, the fresh air would do him good. Clear his head.

  The rigid flesh clamoring to break free of his leggings said otherwise; a midnight swim might be needed.

  Valentina lay awake, listening to the cicadas. It was much too hot to sleep. Too humid. She threw off the linen sheet, but that didn’t help.

  Perhaps if she removed her nightgown.

  She giggled, recalling Manuela’s oft-repeated pronouncement that only women of ill repute slept naked. She pulled the nightgown over her head before she had a chance to talk herself out of it.

  A strange, new awareness of her body caused gooseflesh to pebble on her inner thighs, despite the heat. She closed her eyes and imagined Santiago Velázquez was watching, raking his gaze over her nakedness. Would he think her beautiful?

  It was wicked to smooth her hands over her breasts, but she liked it so much she pinched her nipples.

  She moaned as intense desire spiraled into a very private place. She held her breath and listened, hoping Manuela hadn’t heard.

  Temptation whispered in her ear. “Touch yourself, there, where you want him to touch you.”

  She crossed her legs. At this rate she’d never get to sleep.

  She yanked the nightgown back on and got out of bed. Five minutes on the verandah inhaling the fragrant flowers would clear her head of these wanton notions.

  She opened the door of her room slowly, thankful the hinges didn’t creak for once, then tiptoed out to the verandah. Gripping the railing, she inhaled deeply, but the heady aromas only seemed to intensify the sensuous feelings coursing through her. How could a brief encounter with one distinctly unsuitable man cause such turmoil in a girl’s heart?

  She startled and took a step back at the sound of leaves rustling below.

  She thought she might be dreaming when a voice whispered her name. “Valentina.”

  Santiago could scarcely believe his eyes when Valentina appeared on the verandah like a bright angel. He watched her breathe in the scented night air, wishing he was standing behind her so he could feel the weight of those tempting globes as they rose and fell in his hands.

  It would be wrong to reveal his presence.

  “Valentina,” he whispered softly, cursing himself for a lovesick fool.

  She startled, so he had to reassure her she wasn’t in danger. “It’s me, Santiago.”

  To his relief, she didn’t rush inside to raise the alarm. Instead, she leaned over the railing. “Santiago?”

  It was the first time he’d heard his name on her lips. His heart did a peculiar flip inside his chest. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said lamely, as if that explained what he was doing below the verandah in her darkened garden.

  “I was too hot,” she replied.

  “Humid,” he agreed, clenching his fists. Why was it so difficult to simply tell her he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  She glanced over her shoulder. “I kept thinking about our meeting,” she whispered.

  His past reared its ugly head.

  Be careful. Remember Salomé.

  But he had sworn after his arrest to trust his instincts. Valentina was no conniving courtesan. She was an innocent who had fired his blood more than any woman ever had. He wanted her, wanted to hear his name on her lips. It was a sobering admission for a man determined never to trust a woman again. “I have the same problem,” he admitted.

  “But you’re leaving on the morrow,” she said.

  He’d considered the unavoidable mission to harass enemy merchantmen as just another chance to laugh in the Devil’s face, to wander the high seas at will until he was caught again, or killed. Now he had a reason to live, and it scared him to death. “I will return,” he promised.

  She leaned over and stretched out her hand. “I’ll be waiting for my pirate.”

  The husky seductiveness of her voice propelled him up the wisteria vine, far enough to reach out and touch his fingertips to hers. “Adiós, Valentina. No me olvides.”

  “I will never forget you,” she replied.

  The squeak of a door hinge inside the house convinced him to release his hold on the rough vine. He dropped to the ground, thunderstruck when she sucked her fingertips into her mouth. She might be an innocent but he’d wager once he got her into his bed…

  “Go with God,” she said before disappearing into the house.

  “I will,” he said, “but first a swim.”

  Setting Sail

  The sun was peeking over the horizon when the King George II set sail, the glow painting golden streaks among the high clouds. Santiago scanned the crew bustling to get the ship underway. Clean, drab seamen’s garb had replaced colorful pirate clothing; the inglés was decked out in something resembling a captain’s uniform with Santiago’s tricorn perched atop his head, minus the feather. The appropriate Hudson’s Bay flags and pennants flew from the correct masts. To the untrained eye they might pass for a merchant ship, but he worried about Robertson’s ability to play the role of captain convincingly if they were challenged. The man claimed to be British, but he was originally from the port of Glasgow. The English he spoke was like nothing Santiago had heard before. Robertson proudly referred to it as Scots. He was the only man aboard who could pass for an Englishman, apart from Christian who would have to be cautious if they encountered any British ships. At least the Glaswegian had agreed to a wash and shave.

  As the men worked to secure the unfurled sails, Santiago shifted his gaze to the Castillo de San Marcos. In all his travels, he’d never seen a more impressive fortification, even in España, and he wondered if he would ever see it again.

  A movement further along the shore caught his eye.

  Someone was waving.

  A kerchief.

  From the verandah of the house where he’d met Valentina.

  Was it her?

  Sí, his pounding heart confirmed. Valentina!

  He stood to attention and saluted, as did his cock at the memory of shapely hips and tempting globes. He’d tried to deny it, but no woman had captured his interest like Valentina. His heart and his body recognized it, though they’d barely exchanged a word. He hoped she knew her gesture of fare-thee-well had strengthened his resolve to keep his promise to return.

  However, by the time San Agustín was a dot on the horizon, reality squeezed his heart. He clenched his jaw and turned his attention to the waters ahead. As a young man he’d aspired to a deep and abiding love. Salomé had crushed that youthful hope. Valentina held the renewed promise of such a passion.

  But she was a noblewoman, an innocent. He was a pirate about to tweak the nose of the Royal Navy.

  Valentina watched Santiago’s ship disappear over the shimmering horizon. She wasn’t certain if he had se
en her, and hadn’t expected him to return her wave. He’d dispensed with his hat and the wind teased his black hair. Something about his stance reassured her. He would return.

  Or had she dreamt the scene on the verandah?

  She lifted her face to the sun, feeling its warmth despite the early hour. She inhaled the salty smell of the sea, the heady aromas of gardenia and frangipani, trying to make sense of the restless feelings and sensations that had plagued her body and mind since she’d first set eyes on Santiago Velázquez.

  What was the alchemy between them? For it seemed he had felt it too. Or perhaps men were simply predatory where young women were concerned, as Manuela claimed.

  She braced herself for a scolding when the door squeaked then banged shut, but relaxed when she heard her father’s voice. “You couldn’t resist,” he teased.

  She shrugged. “I just came out to see the sunrise.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “You may try to hide your feelings, Niña, but a father senses when his daughter is drawn to a man.”

  She averted her eyes from his insistent gaze. “But he’s a pirate. And I doubt he even noticed a silly girl.”

  He took her into his embrace. “Oh, he noticed, and while he may be a pirate now, he’s of noble Spanish blood.”

  She blinked away the welling tears as hope rose in her breast. “So his boasting wasn’t just for show?”

  “No. But you mustn’t harbor false hopes, Valentina. We are embroiled in a war we probably have no hope of winning. The last reports I have from Cuba don’t augur well.”

  She pulled away and looked at his face, alarmed by the sadness in his eyes. “We’ll be safe here, won’t we?”

  Even as she posed the question, she recalled what she’d been told of the last time the Royal Navy came to San Agustín, but her father’s reply shook her to the core.

  “The British want La Florida.”

  “Sheep ho,” Xiang yelled from the roundhouse, pointing north. “Flenchie.”