by Sara Reinke
* * *
“Is it true?” Rafe demanded of Cristobal, speaking sharply in Spanish so that Kitty could not understand. He had called his brother and Claudio both to his quarters, and stood before them now, his brows furrowed, his fists clenched.
Claudio looked down at his feet, his shoulders hunched, his brows lifted sheepishly, but Cristobal hoisted his chin and met Rafe’s gaze evenly. “Father did not want you to know,” he said. “He knew you would not realize if nothing was ever said to you of it, and he did not want to trouble you on the mainland.”
“Trouble me?” Rafe exclaimed. “He was a pirate, Cristobal―a bloody damn criminal these past two years, and you knew it! You both knew it! Mother of God, you both sailed right along with him!”
“The King was wrong to revoke the writs!” Cristobal snapped, his own brows narrowing. “The English take and take as they damn well please! It was within our rights to―”
“How could you not tell me?” Rafe said to Claudio, ignoring his brother and grasping the older man by the shoulder to draw his gaze. “Claudio, you let me set sail thinking we had the sanction of the King! My God, we have taken this girl for no reason! There is nothing to avenge!”
“Nothing?” Cristobal said, the furrow between his brows deepening. He shoved Rafe back a step. “Our father is dead―murdered by John Ransom!”
“Ransom had every right!” Rafe shouted, nearly toe to toe with his brother. The two of them had never come to blows before. Rafe had always been overly mindful of Cristobal’s maimed leg and, like everyone else, had coddled his brother because of his handicap. At the moment, however, he was so furious, so outraged and ashamed, he could have easily pummeled Cristobal where he stood. He forced himself to turn away, to face Claudio again, because that was where the true betrayal lay for him; not with his brother, but with Claudio, a man whose word he had always trusted infallibly, just as he had his father’s.
“How could you do this?” he asked, anguished. “How could you let me do this?”
“It was not his to decide,” Cristobal said. “It was my idea.”
Rafe leveled his seething gaze at his younger brother. “Then you will answer for it, Cristobal. I will see to that personally once we get to La Coruna.”
“La Coruna?” Cristobal and Claudio both asked in near unison, their surprised voices overlapping.
“Yes, La Coruna,” Rafe said. “We will dock there and have the bowsprit fixed, and these manacles removed.” He shook his arm demonstratively, making Kitty’s flap beside him. When Cristobal opened his mouth to protest, he added sharply, “And after that, I am sending Kitty home again to England. It is over. Do you hear me, Cristobal? This plan of yours for vengeance against Ransom is over.”
Of course, he would not tell Kitty that. She would take it as a victory; that she had triumphed over him with her sharp tongue and aggravating pertness. Let her think her father remained in harm’s way for his pursuit. It might do her some good.
Cristobal’s eyes flew wide in disbelief. “You cannot do that,” he began, limping forward.
Rafe caught him by the front of his shirt, closing his fist against the thin linen. The chains at his wrist drew taut at this sudden motion, and Kitty, who had been sitting quietly, timidly behind him, was jerked to her feet. She yelped in surprise and uncertain fright, her cry overlapping Cristobal’s as he struck the wall with shuddering, forceful impact.
“I can do anything I damn well please,” Rafe seethed, leaning toward Cristobal. “It is my ship, my helm, my rules. Remember? And for the rest of this voyage, I want you below in your quarters. There will be no more pirates holding deck on this ship.”
He turned his furious gaze to Claudio. “Can you to get us into port at La Coruna?” he asked.
Claudio looked at him, his expression solemn. “Not without Cristobal,” he said. “We will need an experienced man to hold the deck if we―”
“Claudio, please,” Rafe said and his voice grew hoarse, pained. He did not understand why Claudio would pick now of all times to side with Cristobal on anything, but he was desperate for the older man’s support. “I’m asking you as my friend, Claudio, not my boatswain, because I cannot take you at your word as that anymore. I need you to promise me as my friend that you will get us to La Coruna.”
Claudio’s brows lifted in gentle sympathy to see the hurt in Rafe’s eyes. “Yes, Rafe,” he said at last, nodding once. “I will see the ship to La Coruna.”
Rafe released Cristobal, stepping back as his brother stumbled to reclaim his hobbled footing. “Get out of here,” Rafe said to him, as Cristobal glowered, gingerly touching his neck.
“Gladly.” Cristobal spat against the floor in front of Rafe. He turned and stormed out of the room.
“Rafe, we will need him,” Claudio said quietly. “The shoreline surrounding La Coruna is the most rugged in all of Spain―la costa de la muerte, they call it; the coast of death. I have sailed with Cristobal and your father there plenty of times, but it will take a man with Cristobal’s experience―his head for the sea―if you hope to navigate it safely.” He lay his hand against Rafe’s sleeve. “Even if circumstances were not as they are, and you were able to hold the helm, I would not let you for this. We need Cristobal.”
Rafe shrugged away. “No,” he said. “Not now―not after this.” With his brother gone, his furious resolve waned, and he blinked against the sudden sting of tears. “Why?” he asked. “Why did Father leave this to me? You are right. Cristobal has the head for the sea; he sailed with Father all of these years, not me. If Father did not want me to know about this…the truth about him, why did he leave it all to me? He sent me away all of those years ago…” His voice grew choked, and he paused, blinking down at his feet, struggling proudly to compose himself. “He sent me away,” he said again, his voice steadier now. “He did not want me to be a part of this life―his life―then. Why would he have left it to me?”
“Oh, Rafe,” Claudio said quietly, reaching for him again. “Is that what you think? That your father did not want you?”
His calloused palm settled gently against Rafe’s face, and Rafe closed his eyes, feeling his tenuous self-control cracking.
“He sent me away,” Rafe whispered, and in his mind, he could still hear his father’s voice, Evarado’s words, as clearly as they had been when he had spoken them almost fourteen years earlier.
You will be leaving in the morrow, Evarado had told him, and his eyes had been stern, his jaw rigidly set, his voice curt. Pack one bag, and no more. You will be sailing for the mainland, for Madrid, with Señor Guevarra Silva.
And oh, how that thought had terrified the then-thirteen-year-old Rafe―Lucio Guevarra Silva, with his angry brows and sharp tongue, a man who had seemed incapable of anything other than gruff dismissiveness where Rafe had been concerned. Rafe had known the elderly physician’s temperament wasn’t likely to improve before the morrow, either. Because he had known―just like Father had. They both knew what happened to Cristobal’s leg was my fault.
“Father sent me to Madrid,” Rafe said, frowning as he ducked away from Claudio’s hand. “That is not what I think―that is a point of fact, Claudio. He sent me away, and then he made this life for himself―the life of a pirate.”
“Because he felt he had no choice,” Claudio said. “King Ferdinand may not have sanctioned his actions, but he still paid for them nonetheless―and generously, too.” Rafe turned in new surprise, and Claudio nodded. “Generously enough that your father could never hope to make as much returning to fishing or simple trading. He had his crewmen to consider, and their families back on Mallorca, the lives that his actions―his money―had made possible.”
Rafe shook his head, his brows furrowing more deeply. “What a pity he never considered his own bloody damn family.”
