Brendan groaned, his thoughts spinning with all that had occurred over the last year, all the changes, the good and bad, and the newly forged alliances with other factions of the Pirates of Britannia. There was much to celebrate, but there was also much to be wary of—it was the reason he’d come into Calais in secret, keeping his name from being bandied about. The fewer who knew of his presence in France, the less likely he would meet resistance in his information gathering. It had taken several days of spying, bribing those with their eyes and ears on the streets, and watching his back before he finally learned about the exchange between a man named La Revanche and the Van Rompay brothers, the leaders of the enemy French pirate faction. It was that exchange he had come to stop, or at least overhear. Blessed be the powers above—the exchange took the form of a letter that he’d easily confiscated from the cutthroat tasked with transporting it from La Revanche to the Van Rompays.
And now, the letter was missing.
Damn!
Draining the remaining ale, Brendan tossed a few livres on the table and turned from the tap house toward the stairs leading up to the second-floor rooms. His room was the last one, facing the street, where he could see people coming and going.
Hitting the landing, he listened to his heavy boots as his feet led him to his room, a bone-deep weariness tearing at him. At his door, he pressed the latch and pushed the door open. The interior of his room was dark, save a single candle burning on the bedside table.
It would have been a welcoming sight, except…he hadn’t lit the candle.
Closing the door behind him, Brendan held his shoulders straight, not allowing the alarm racing through his blood to reign over his decisions. If someone was in his room, he couldn’t make any sudden movements, he needed to go slow, methodical, make them believe he had no clue they were there. And once they did something to reveal themselves, he’d be on them, dagger to their throat.
Hand on his sword belt—the one thing he never left without—he walked toward the bed, his attention on his periphery.
His focus on the shadows in the corners, he caught the movement from the corner nearest the only window, a window that was cracked, though he’d left it closed before he’d left that morning.
Remaining alert, he began to remove his shirt, slowly untucking it from his breeches.
As he moved closer to the window, his hands at his waist, he waited for another movement, and when it came, he grinned.
“You best come out of the shadows, Whelp,” he drawled into the darkness.
The was no sound, not even a peep, but the movement repeated, this time, someone emerged.
His gaze caught on the figure, slight in stature, but with straight shoulders and a head held high. Whoever this whelp was, he sure was a bold one; breaking into his room and hiding in wait.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my room?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
The figure took another step forward, until the candlelight cast its meager glow over the whelp’s face.
A grimy face with wide eyes stared up at him. The boy smacked his lips and then crossed his own arms over his much smaller chest.
“The name is Rio,” the whelp answered.
Rio! Brendan tensed, his gaze searching for the satchel the boy had stolen.
“Where is my satchel, Whelp?” he demanded, his voice little more than a growl.
The boy—unbelievably—didn’t flinch, seeming to stand even straighter, taller.
So, the whelp has balls.
“I have it. Hidden,” the boy replied, his accent not as heavy as Brendan had expected. Also, the fact that this boy, Rio, was speaking to him in English wasn’t lost on him.
“Hidden?” Brendan prodded, moving closer by stepping to the side, as a predator would slowly circle prey. “And why are you here, Whelp?”
The boy huffed, cursing in French, before answering, “You pay me for the satchel and I give it back.”
Surprised at the boy’s audacity, Brendan chuckled, the sound discordant, like a seldom played instrument.
“You wish to sell me my own satchel?” he asked, incredulous. He took it back; the boy didn’t have balls, he had rocks in his head. “You must be mad to think I would pay you for that bag. It is worth nothing to me.” But what it contained was worth the very prosperity of his family. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, but he did not want the whelp to know the importance of the letter, for then he would, no doubt, seek to sell it back to its rightful owner for far more money than Brendan currently had access to.
The boy shrugged before tipping his head to the side, his greasy-looking shoulder-length hair was dark in the candlelight. Brendan still couldn’t make out much of the boy’s features, but he could tell his face was a dirty as his hair—and his clothes were also grimy, stained, and as rank as the sewer he probably crawled out of.
The boy let out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “No, I suppose the bag means nothing to you…” He paused. “But what about the letter inside the satchel?”
Alarm blared through his body, turning every muscle to stone.
“What of the letter? Do you still have it?” Brendan demanded, taking a step closer to the boy, his size and presence making the boy lift his head to pin his eyes to Brendan’s face.
The boy’s eyes were a soft, honey color, like the glaze on a sweet tart. And his chin was dainty, coming to a perfect curve beneath lips that were far too plump and pretty for a boy.
Snapping himself from those uncomfortably striking thoughts, Brendan used every bit of his height and considerable size to intimidate the lad. It was one of the things he was good at, the others being killing enemies with his twin blades, and pleasing women with his other blade, one that was long, thick, and hard. He made men scream in pain as they died, and he made women scream in ecstasy as they came all over him.
Again, he shook himself from his thoughts, staring down at the boy who was staring right back at him.
“Do you still have that letter?” Brendan asked again. This time, the boy nodded.
“Oui, I still have it. But that is not the right question, Monsieur la Bete,” the boy drawled, almost sounding…confident. Peevishly so.
Brendan leaned back against the thick bedpost and crossed his arms once more, knowing the size of his thick muscles would bugle, showing his strength. Strength he would not hesitate to use against the boy.
“What is the right question then, Whelp?” Brendan drawled, allowing his deep voice to rumble just right to show his displeasure.
The whelp—Rio—grinned, his smile blinding, staggering, making Brendan’s heart thud as it tripped over itself.
What the hell just happened?
“The right question, la Bete, is how much you are willing to pay to get it back.”
The whelp’s ability to surprise Brendan only seemed to make the lad all the bolder; he skirted the light from the candle, remaining in the cover of darkness as he made his way to Brendan’s bed, where he proceeded to throw himself backward, spread himself out, and sigh.
Blinking at the vision of a languid street urchin making himself at home in Brendan’s room, Brendan grunted, running his hand through his hair before letting his arms drop to his sides. Apparently attempting to intimidate the lad failed miserably.
“What do you know of the letter?” Brendan asked, his gaze pinned to the slender lad lying supine on the relatively clean covers. Well, at least they’d been clean before the filthy lad had lain upon them.
The boy smacked his lips, almost as though fantasizing about the coin he would be getting.
“I know that it is important to you.”
“Oh?”
“Oui. The paper is finely made and the seal on the envelope is one I have seen before. I know it.”
Tensing, Brendan moved, rushing toward the bed to snatch the boy, but the boy moved faster, rolling—feet over his head—off the bed, landing in a squat on the other side.
“Damn,” Brendan barked. “Have you read
the letter, Whelp?” Hell, if the boy knew what the letter contained and still thought to return it to La Revanche, Brendan might as well never return to Wales, for he would have delivered his family into a lifetime of continued collaboration with the goddamn Spanish.
The boy remained silent, his eyes narrow.
“Do you know what the letter says?” Brendan ground out, damning himself for not knowing a word of French, otherwise he would have read the letter himself, burned it to keep it from the hands of the Van Rompays, and then imparted the information to the Demonios himself. But he couldn’t, none of the Rees’ could, which was why he was only meant to confiscate the letter and deliver it to Santiago Fernandez—he could damned well find his own interpreter.
Interpreter! That word shook many other words loose. The lad could speak English well enough, and it was obvious he could speak French.
“How do you know English?” he asked, switching tactics. This time, his question was asked with a voice of curiosity rather than command.
The boy’s expression never changed, and he remained as still as death.
Taking up a stance of nonchalance and ease, Brendan leaned against the bedpost once more.
“Well?” he prodded.
Finally, the whelp slowly rose to his feet, his gaze darting to the window and then back to Brendan.
“It is a simple enough question, Whelp—”
“That is not my name, la Bete,” the whelp interjected, his long, thin fingers playing with the frayed bottom of his filthy coat.
“And though I do not speak French, I can assure you that my name is not la Bete,” Brendan replied easily.
The boy huffed. “My name is Rio.”
“And my name is Brendan.”
Rio squared his shoulders, taking a deep breath.
“I speak English because it is the first language I learned to speak,” he answered, shocking the hell out of Brendan.
“You are English?” he asked, surprise sharpening his words. Rio flinched.
“I am, though I am also French. And so I speak French as well,” Rio replied coolly, his expression wary.
Brendan nodded, understanding forming in his mind. “Do you read in English and French as well?” If the boy could read the letter and interpret it, he would earn a year’s worth of meals—Brendan would see to it.
But just as the excitement began to well within him, he noticed the boy’s shoulders slump.
“You cannot, can you?”
Rio turned away, his surprisingly white teeth biting into his lower lip.
Ignoring the tightening in his loins—because, hell! He could not be attracted to a small boy—he grunted, pushing away from the bedpost to stride to his small sea chest. It contained the matching sword to the one at his hip, three small sacks of coins, and several hidden daggers. Lifting the lid, he reached in a picked up a sack of coins, tossing it up and catching it so that the sound of clinking gold met the lad’s ears.
Straightening, he turned, finding exactly what he expected—for the first time in this encounter. The lad was standing as still as a pole, his wide eyes pinned to the sack of coins in Brendan’s hand.
A slow grin spread over Brendan’s face.
“I have a proposal for you, lad, one that will make you some money and get you off the streets.”
The whelp sucked in a breath, his eyes flickering with surprise and then wariness, but, unless he were mistaken, and he rarely was, there had been a bit of relief in there as well.
Tossing the sack up and catching it, Brendan watched the boy’s face. It tightened, his expression hardening.
No doubt the lad is wondering what the catch is. Street rats like him were always on the lookout for the catch, for most all things came with a risk that could cost them their lives.
Willing to assuage the boy’s fear, he began, “I need your services—”
“I am no putain masculin! I will not lie with you,” Rio blurted, his hands making fists at his sides.
Chuffing, disgust roiling through his stomach, Brendan snapped, “Do I look like the kind of man who buggers street boys? The services I require are as an interpreter—nothing more.” Grinding his teeth, he barely stopped himself from planting a fist in the wall. Never had anyone dared malign him in such a way—as if he would ever victimize an innocent lad.
His blood turning to acid, Brendan turned away from the whelp, beginning to pace. He got like that; when he was agitated and cooped up, as he often was in his sloop during smuggling runs. He would pace, his long legs easily eating up the distance between two much too close points.
Rio grumbled something under his breath which made Brendan stop and look at him. He was rubbing the back of his neck, his thin arm held aloft, pulling the fabric of his dingy, worn shirt tight.
Something there caught his attention, but it couldn’t be what he thought it was.
“Interpreter?” the boy asked, dropping his arm to clasp his hands in front of himself nervously.
“Aye.”
Despite the wary tension in his small frame, a look of utter determination solidified on the whelp’s face.
“I will do it.” The boy’s voice was breathy, almost wavering, but he continued on. “I am your interpreter, la Bete.” A weak smile began to form on his lips before it widened into a grin that made Brendan want to grin in return.
But he couldn’t; it wouldn’t work to show deference for the boy. Brendan sneered. “Not only that, Whelp,” he drawled menacingly, “you are also my new cabin boy.”
At the boy’s shocked gasp and stricken expression, Brendan chuckled darkly.
“Welcome to the crew of the Torriwr, Rio.”
Chapter Four
“You’re really leaving, then?” Scrapper asked, his eyes wide and ringed with smudges of grime and sleeplessness.
“Of course she’s leaving,” Bruiser ground out, his ruddy face red, his lips pinched. “She don’t care about us no more.”
Rio cursed, reaching out to slap Bruiser on the shoulder. “You know better—you’re the family I never had. I would do anything for you boys, and you know that.”
“That’s right, Bruiser,” Etienne chimed in. “Rio wouldn’t leave us unless she absolutely had to.”
She grinned at Etienne, a sadness creeping in. “That’s right, Etienne. Captain Rees has promised that I can come back in the next year, and when I return, I will bring treasure beyond anything we’ve ever snatched.”
All five sets of eyes pinned to her; Etienne, Bruiser, Remick, Jacques, and Scrapper, and their mouths were hung open, scraping their chests.
“Treasure?” Jacques echoed, awe in his voice.
She nodded. “That’s what he said.”
Bruiser crossed his arms, his expression of awe falling away. “How can you trust him? He’s not even French. He could be lying to you to get you on board to force you into labor.”
“You mean like…how Elise is forced to—”
Rio raised her hand and hissed. “No. He only knows me as Rio, the boy. He has no idea who or what I really am, and I aim to keep it that way.” Elise had been a sister of one of their former “brothers”. She’d been wide-eyed and hopeful, willing to believe what any wealthy man told her. One such man promised her silks and wine and then, when she gave herself to him, he sold her to all of his friends. Breaking her.
No, she would never be as naïve as Elise, but she couldn’t pass up this chance to escape Calais, to see the world, to experience freedom from the hand she’d been dealt.
They fell silent, the drip-drop of the rain falling outside the sewer grate sounded like a rapid heartbeat to her ears.
“I promise,” she uttered, “I will come back. And when I do, I will find you, and I will make sure you never spend another night sleeping in the dirt.”
She meant every word of it. She would save the boys she thought of as brothers. She would lift her family out of poverty. She would escape the streets and help those five boys escape, too. Even if it took every drop of blood
in her veins, she would do as she promised.
And what if Rees doesn’t keep his promise?
Well, then she’d have to slice open his throat and make sure his blood spilled for every lie he told her.
Remick grunted, his dear face covered in grease, but still as handsome as ever. “Where are you to meet this Captain Rees?”
“At the Coq, just after dawn,” she replied. The words spoken aloud were a knell, a dreadful reminder of what she was truly doing: leaving her family behind.
Like Mamma did.
Shaking herself, she forced a smile, trying to call to mind why she was really going: her promise. She’d promised her mother that, given the chance, she would leave the slums of Calais. And Captain Brendan Rees, la Bete, had given her that chance. She could not turn him down, even though with all his sneering and brutal good looks, he had seemed…harmless, as though, behind the giant beast was a man, offering a nothing street urchin an opportunity of a lifetime.
“Tomorrow? That means we celebrate tonight, right?” Etienne blurted, clapping his hands excitedly. His usually weary-heavy eyes were bright, like twin bonfires blazing with hope.
Forcing a smile she didn’t quite feel, Rio ruffled the boy’s hair, which made Etienne giggle before pulling away. God how she loved his laughter, the guilelessness and innocence of it. It was like a spark of light in a very dark place.
“Oui, tonight we celebrate!” And she would make it a memorable last night with the family she would miss more than her own heart.
Slowly, quietly closing the grate entrance to the hideout, Rio pulled her coat collar up to cut off some of the chill of the early morning. After spending the night celebrating with the boys, she’d snuggled up with little Etienne one last time, absorbing his heat, enjoying the sweetness of the boy’s simple presence.
Out of all the boys, she’d miss Etienne the most.
Tears burned the back of her eyes but she pushed them down. She could not afford to cry now, not when today began the most intense trial of her life; she would have to spend the next year pretending to be a boy while in close quarters with Brendan Rees.
The Beast of Blades Page 3
