The Beast of Blades

by Winchester, Rosamund

  “Where is Van Rompay?” the lone woman in attendance inquired, her soft tone barely carrying across the parlor to where he sat.

  He waved off her concern. “He will not be joining us tonight.”

  “Good. The blackguard has been more of a hindrance than I thought he would be. That debacle with stealing another of Fernandez’s ships—it could have handed us right into Demonios hands,” the man on the right groused, slamming his fist into the arm of his chair. “He needs to be reeled in, Monsieur. He will be the ruin of our carefully laid plans.”

  “No need to bother your thick head about it, my friend,” he remarked as the man bristled. “I have things well in hand.”

  The man on the left grumbled. “To think, they consider themselves the scourge of the seas, as though they are the kings of all they survey. And yet, they cannot see beyond their own momentary pleasures.”

  “Why did you call this meeting, Monsieur?” the man seated on the far right inquired as he leaned back in his seat indolently. Out of all of them, he was the only one who was in the select group—not because he’d been coerced and then bribed, but because he was truly just that diabolical. As the strategist in the group, he was the one La Revanche conferred with on matters pertaining to using their information, connections, and funds. All decisions were his, of course, but he appreciated the man’s sharp mind and willingness to do whatever it took to succeed.

  “This meeting is simply a formality. In a short time, we will be ridding ourselves of two encumbrances. We must discuss their replacements.”

  There was silence, then the man on the left bellowed. “You didn’t!”

  La Revanche knew the man had realized the truth.

  “I did. Since the beginning, I have been plotting and planning, moving the pieces on the board to get exactly this outcome,” La Revanche drawled, pride filling his chest.

  The woman slid to the very edge of her seat, her long, slender fingers gripping the arms of her chair until her knuckles turned white.

  “You mean to tell us that you meant for the Van Rompays to fall into this…this trap with the Welsh and the Spanish?” she snapped. Her usually sedate demeanor disappeared beneath her rage. “What of the ties to the crimes against the Demonios de Mar? And now the Welsh? Surely that will come back on us if they are not there to take the punishment for their part in all of this. What purpose will this serve?”

  His own rage blanketed his skin in hot waves. “Why do you question my intentions? Have I not been good to you? Have you not made good with the monies I have provided you?”

  With a gasp and a tremor, the woman snapped her mouth shut.

  “Those deeds were done for the benefit of our collective. That is all you need to know.”

  “What of his attempt on Rees’ life? Did you mean for him to try to kill the Beast of Blades?” the man on the right asked.

  “I knew the fools would bungle that, giving the task to someone incapable of doing it right the first time. They love to get their hands bloody if it directly profits them, but they are hesitant to get involved where there isn’t money to be made.”

  “What about the fool who agreed to wield the knife? Wasn’t he captured?” the man on the right asked.

  “I took care of that, as well,” La Revanche barked.

  Finally, the man on the far right spoke, leaning forward to plant his elbows on his knees. “So, what have you planned for the brothers?” Of course, as the strategist extraordinaire, the man would be oh so curious about La Revanche’s plans. It was expected.

  “I have orchestrated it perfectly, you’ll see.” His chest burned with the need to laugh, and so he did. He laughed until the others departed, leaving him alone in his mirth.

  Her stomach roiled, screaming at her then forcing more gorge into her throat. For the twentieth time, she swallowed it down, refusing to show her new captain any weakness.

  “Rio! Where are you, Whelp? I want a bath!” la Bete bellowed from the helm, where he and the man named Callet had been standing and talking for the last hour, while she’d been grasping the railing of the ship, her body rebelling against her and the majestic bitch of the sea.

  Sucking in a deep breath, Rio forced her arm to push away from the railing and her legs to function as they should—one foot, then another foot. Finally, she made it to the helm, pinning her new captain with a glare that silently conveyed her opinion of his need for a bath.

  Callet snickered. “Looks like your new cabin boy would rather throw you overboard than haul the brass tub from the hold.”

  Brendan peered at her, his gaze dropping to her wobbling legs, then racing up to take in her face. Her skin was probably as green as the beast’s eyes. Had he no compassion? She’d never left Calais before, let alone ridden on a ship on the ocean!

  “You look ill, Whelp,” he sneered, his masculine lips rising in a curl that made her belly flip over. “Perhaps you should head back to land.”

  Again, Callet snickered, making Rio’s nerve pull tight.

  Cursing in French, she pulled herself upward, straightening her shoulders.

  “I am no more sick than anyone else who has never set foot on a ship before,” she snapped, turning her attention to a blushing Callet, who seemed drawn to the frayed hem on his coat. Then, she turned her focus on the much-too-large man who’d crossed his massive arms over his enormous chest, making her mouth gape at the sight before she remembered she was annoyed with him.

  Careful, you owe him more than you can ever repay. Already, she had delayed in giving him his letter. Then again, he hadn’t asked for it yet.

  “Captain,” she intoned flatly. “If I am to prepare your bath, I need to know what to do.” She dropped her gaze to her own body, raising her arms. “As you can see,” she sniffed, “and smell,” she added, “I know very little about bathing.”

  Did Brendan just crack a smile? Her heart tripped. But the image disappeared as soon as it appeared, diminishing her startling excitement.

  What was wrong with her?

  Brendan mumbled something to Callet who ran off, then, she and la Bete were alone. Brendan threaded his fingers through the spokes in the ships wheel, his giant hands taking control of the helm as if he were born to it.

  “Using the excuse of never bathing will not work on the Torriwr,” he drawled, glancing at her from the corners of his eyes. “My men bathe regularly,” he announced. “And now that you are part of the crew, you, too, will bathe.”

  A bath! She’d never had a bath before. Suddenly, the prospect of sitting in a tub of scented water, languishing as the rich and useless did, was a blisteringly incredible idea.

  But then Brendan’s next words stole her breath.

  “We will share the bath.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but Brendan’s gaze cut to her.

  “We do not have the luxury of wasting the fresh water stores, so many of us bathe in the same water.” His gaze flicked to her stained breeches, then back to her face. “But not at the same time.” He curled his lips, flaring his nostrils as if in disgust of what he was seeing.

  She shrugged. She knew she was a sight—and a smell—but that would be remedied soon enough. Though…

  “I have no other clothes than these. What am I to wear once I am clean?”

  Brendan turned away before answering, “Look in my sea chest. There should be some clothes in there you can wear.” His voice rang with finality, dismissing her.

  Biting back a snapping retort, she wobbled toward where she saw Callet go, hoping he would lead her to where they stowed the bath tub. One step at a time, she descended the stairs in the middle of the deck into the interior of the hold. It was barely large enough for her to stand upright, she couldn’t imagine how a man as large as la Bete could ever enter the space without removing his own head and shoulders. A single lamp was lit and hanging from a hook on one of the thick wooden beams. With that light, she could see that the hold was mostly empty save a few crates, four barrels, and Callet, who was hunch
ed over, standing beside what looked like an upside down brass wash tub.

  “Oy, come over here,” Callet called, waving her over. She went, stopping just before him to stare down at the gleaming tub. “Ye take this to the captain’s quarters. I will get the water heatin’.”

  Rio nodded, unsure how to get the tub up one set of stairs and down another without dropping it on her toes.

  “And once the water is hot enough, ye will carry it, by the bucket, to the wash tub—I think five or six buckets’ll do it.”

  Five or six trips with a bucket full of water—after hauling the tub?

  “I will be naught but wet bread by the time I am done,” she remarked, rubbing the back of her neck to dull the thought of the aches to come.

  Callet chuckled, slapping Rio on the back. She stumbled forward but caught herself before she landed, face first, onto the tub.

  “Ye’re a whelp, just as the captain says—” Rio stiffened, hating that damned name. “—but ye’ll grow, get strong. I have no doubt ye will be a capable lad by the time the captain is done with ye.”

  Bristling at the implication that the captain would be the one doing all the work, Rio ignored Callet’s continued laughing and bent at the knees to grab hold of the lip of the tub. With a burst of strength, she lifted the tub, effectively flipping it onto its side.

  “Better to carry it over yer head, like a hat,” Callet advised. “But first, ye have to drag it from here—” he pointed at the tub just there, “—to there.” He pointed to the bottom of the stairs that led to the deck. It was the only place in the hold where someone could stand upright.

  Steeling her resolve, Rio gritted her teeth and began the work of moving the tub from one place to the other, the sound of the thing scraping against the wooden boards was like iron nails on glass.

  Finally, she succeeded in moving the tub, straightening up to stretch her back.

  From behind her, Callet swore. “If ye’re already achin’ from this, ye’re headed for one hell of a time gettin’ it to the captain’s quarters.”

  Rolling her eyes, she snapped, “It is a good thing I will have a bath to ease the aches once I am done.” Her mamma had once told her that the nobles in England would use the bath as a way to work the strain from the muscles; the heat from the hot water working like a medicament from the outside. Oui, Rio would need such medicaments once she was done fetching the bath.

  Callet arched a brow at her as one would do a silly child. “Ye think the captain will let ye laze in the bath long enough to ease any of yer piddlin’ aches? And besides that, Captain gets the bath first.”

  The image of the massive man with the thick muscles—naked and reclining in the bath—hit her square between the eyes. She lost her breath for a moment.

  Recovering it quickly, she met Callet’s mirthful gaze. “Then I will wait for him to finish…” she began, but Callet’s chuckles stopped her.

  “Nay, cabin boy. Who do ye think will do the washin’?”

  Chapter Seven

  It had taken nearly three-quarters of an hour to move the tub and then fill it with hot water, but once it was done, Rio felt like collapsing.

  Damn! How am I to keep up the pretense of being a lad if I cannot even prepare the captain’s bath without losing my strength? What would happen if he required her to do even harder labor? Sooner or later, they would all realize she was lying.

  Not if I do not give them a reason to doubt me!

  Struggling to remain on her feet, Rio slowly moved toward the cabin door to head to the deck and tell the captain his bath was ready. But, when she opened the door, the captain was standing there, his large body filling the opening, his broad shoulders touching the door frame on each side.

  Hell, he really was a beast, a creature of myths that took on human form to torture mere mortals.

  His green gaze flicked from her to the steaming bath behind her and, without a word, she moved out of the way, allowing him to stride by.

  Sometime during the hauling of the tub and water, she’d shucked her thick, wool coat, leaving her only in her shirt sleeves, breeches, and boots. In the midst of the work, she hadn’t given much thought to what others might see when they saw her without her coat to cover the more feminine parts of her physique, but now that Brendan was standing there in the room with her, she was all too aware of their differences. And the fact that, though her breasts were small, they still looked like breasts.

  Damn!

  Panicking, she spotted her coat thrown over the back of the captain’s chair. Hurrying to it, she snatched it and put it on. Finally, she turned back to the captain, who was eyeing her curiously.

  Had he noticed? Hell, if he did, what would he do to her? She doubted he would turn the ship around and take her back to Calais, safe and sound. Still, she had the letter, she could use it as leverage—if it came to it.

  Brendan, still staring at her, sneered, “Why do you still smell like a whore’s arse? And why are you still wearing those filthy clothes?”

  Stunned by the vitriol in the man’s words, Rio didn’t think before she snapped, “I have been busy drawing your bath, Captain. I have not had the time to rid myself of my stench when I have been working so diligently in hopes of ridding you of yours!” By the time the last of her words left her mouth, she could feel the devastating weight of the tension in the small room.

  La Bete’s eyes flashed green fire, his expression sharpening. She watched as his lips thinned into twin lines of barely bridled rage. What would it be like to kiss the anger from those lips, to taste the bitterness of his wrath and infuse it with the sweetness of desire?

  She nearly slapped herself for thinking such thoughts. The man before her was a beast, her captain, the man to whom she owed too much. The man who could take it all from her.

  Ducking her face to hide the surge of heat in her cheeks, she blurted, “Je m’excuse—I apologize Captain. I was not thinking. I am tired from the day, I am not used to such labor…” She’d been speaking, but she hadn’t heard the man move or make a sound at all. Daring to lift her face to look, she nearly fell on her ass.

  Brendan was towering over her even from two feet away, and he was glaring down at her. His hands at his sides weren’t fists as she’d expected them to be, but they were flexing as if in need of strangling her.

  Overwrought and suddenly exhausted, Rio grunted, crossing her arms over her chest as she’d seen him do too many times.

  “Well, are you using the bath or not? If not, I would like to bathe the whore’s arse from my body and perhaps get some sleep. Callet said that tomorrow will be a long day, and I still have much to learn about being crew on this sloop.”

  Nothing in the world could prepare Rio for what happened next.

  He laughed. Brendan Rees, the Beast, laughed. In stunned silence, Rio watched as the most terrifyingly handsome man she’d ever seen threw his head back and roared his laughter into the rafters. His thick neck muscles worked, flexing and bunching most enthrallingly. The sound from his chest was both loud and rumbling, as though Brendan could produce his own thunder.

  She didn’t know how long he laughed or how long she stood there staring at him agape but, finally, he lowered his head and met her wide eyes.

  A smirk remained on his mouth, his lips quirking. She wanted to bite them.

  “I see you have lost none of your spirit, Whelp.”

  She growled, hating that name.

  He merely chuckled again. “Alas, I am not in need of a bath. I bathed at the inn just last evening.” Sitting down on the edge of the bed, which was set into a frame affixed to the wall, Brendan lifted his leg and began removing his boot.

  Rio watched him, transfixed by his movements. How could a man as big as him move so…gracefully? She hadn’t even heard him walk across the room!

  “Go on, then, Whelp. Get in the bath before the water gets cold and all your labor goes to waste.”

  It took her a moment before clarity arrived.

  “You mean f
or me to bathe with you in the room?” she asked, incredulous and horrified. She’d bathed perhaps thrice in her life, but she had never—not once in her life—undressed before anyone, especially not her brothers. She might not act as a woman, but she knew better than to let any man gaze upon her naked body. It was immodest. Humiliating.

  If he makes me disrobe before him, I am caught.

  Brendan finished removing one boot and then began removing the other, ignoring her.

  “I will wait until you are finished, and then I will bathe,” she continued, desperate to get him out the of room.

  He finished removing the other boot and then stood, his hands dropping to the buckle at his waist.

  He meant to disrobe before her!

  Heady fear and a sizzling awareness of something else shot through her, making her nipples erect and her head swim.

  She had to get out of there.

  Turning on her boot heel, she hurried toward the door.

  “Whelp, where are you going? I thought you needed a bath,” Brendan drawled, his deep voice pulsing through her. Unless she was mistaken, there was a hint of teasing in his tone.

  She tensed, her shoulders rising to her ears. He was having fun with her, the animal! But she could not rise to the bait, could not just remain there, shuck her clothes, and let him know her deepest, longest-kept secret.

  “I changed my mind,” she muttered, refusing to turn back to look at him. “I will leave you.”

  “And just where are you going? It is nearing time for the evening meal, and I refuse to let you near the other men until you are washed. Nothing makes a man lose his appetite faster than the stench of the streets.”

  Oui, she smelled of the streets, but that was the hazard of being a street urchin—a title of which she was proud.

  “I will bathe—if you leave,” she replied, finally turning to meet his gaze. Mistake. Mistake! His sea green eyes were pinned to her and dancing with the glow of humor that took her breath away. Damn but he was a beautiful beast.