The Beast of Blades

by Winchester, Rosamund

  “What are you frightened of, Whelp? Scared that you will discover you cannot compare to a real man?” he quipped, his dark slashes of eyebrows rising mockingly.

  She snorted, lifting her chin into the air. “Oh, I know I will never be as much a man as you, la Bete, but I promise you that I am not frightened.”

  She was lying. She knew it. He knew it.

  He took a step closer and she flinched, suddenly trapped between the giant and the closed door at her back.

  “Not frightened, eh?” he asked, his gaze dragging over her smaller frame, which was absolutely not trembling.

  Swallowing the lump of trepidation, she answered, “Non.” With more fortitude than wit, she dropped her shoulders and planted her feet. “I am not frightened.”

  He arched a single eyebrow, his eyes filling with merriment—at her expense.

  “Of me or the bath?” he inquired, hitching his thumb over his shoulder at the still steaming tub behind him.

  “Neither,” she answered, false bravado ringing sharply in her own ears. She heard it. He heard it, and he acted on it.

  Before she could squeak in surprise, Brendan had vaulted her up over his shoulder. Her belly landed against the muscles of his upper back. His right arm banded around her legs, and his left hand held her in place, his fingers pressing into her lower back, just above the swell of her arse.

  Somehow, he’d gotten her from inside the cabin, up the stairs to the deck, and to the railing. The sloop had been anchored for the night, which meant it was riding the gentle rolling of the waves.

  Still stunned by Brendan’s treatment of her, Rio could only lift her head, catching sight of snickering crewmen lying about the deck, their backs propped up against anything upright as they drank themselves into a stupor. Except Callet who was at the helm, watching the goings-on with a strange gleam in his eyes.

  Brendan stopped at the railing near the bow of the ship.

  “Since you will not bathe with me in the room, you can bathe with the fish,” Brendan called out.

  Stark terror exploded within her. “No! You cannot do this!” she screamed, kicking and wriggling, slamming her fists against his back. But nothing she could do seemed to affect him. He was a beast of stone in a man’s flesh and blood body.

  She kicked again, tears streaming down her face. In her panic, she began begging him in French, forgetting that the bastard couldn’t speak a word of it. But once she finally remembered, it was too late.

  Picking her up from his shoulder, Brendan didn’t hesitate to toss her over the railing, his rumbling chuckle the last thing she heard before she hit the water. And as she descended into the dark chaos of the sea, her lungs burning and her limbs heavy, her mind shrieked for salvation she knew would never come.

  Brendan watched the whelp sink like a tiny stone until he couldn’t see him anymore.

  Any moment now, the whelp would surface, sputtering and spitting mad. He had to bite back the grin that image conjured. He waited. Waited. Waited. A sick sense of wrongness began to stir in his belly.

  From behind him, Callet cleared his throat.

  “Ah, Captain?”

  “What?” Brendan snapped, his gaze still pinned to where the whelp had disappeared.

  “How sure are we that the lad could swim?”

  Brendan huffed. “Of course, he can swim!” Couldn’t he? Damn, he had never asked Rio if he’d ever learned to swim. And where would a child from the streets learn such a trick?

  “Hell!” Suddenly burning with panic, Brendan tore off his shirt and dove over the side, hitting the water and cutting through the surface like a knife through butter.

  He had to find the lad, had to save him. The whelp would not die because of him!

  Diving into the depths, Brendan caught sight of something fluttering far down below—the hem of the whelp’s coat.

  Pushing his might into his movements, he hurried after the quickly sinking boy. Just as the air began to burn in his chest, he caught the edge of the lad’s coat in his fist, pulling the lad to a stop.

  Rio wasn’t moving.

  Frantic, Brendan began kicking his legs, using every last ounce of his strength to get to the surface. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, his body bellowed for air, and finally, he broke the surface, opening his mouth to drag in fresh air as he hauled the whelp to the surface after him.

  Needing to know if the boy was alive, he pulled the boy into his chest, pressing a hand to his torso to feel for breaths.

  But it wasn’t breaths he felt, it was something else entirely.

  Stunned at this development but still holding on to a nearly dead child, he called out to Callet who, with the rest of the crew, was at the railing, tossing a rope ladder over the side.

  “Toss a rope, I will tie the whelp to it,” Brendan commanded. In a flash—but it still felt like he’d been treading water for years—the end of the thick rope slapped the water. As quickly but as gently as he could, he tied the rope under Rio’s arms and chest, and signaled for the men to pull.

  Once Rio was on the way up, Brendan wasted no time climbing the rope ladder, his bare feet landing on the deck of the ship with a decided thud.

  The men were gathering around Rio, and Callet was kneeling beside the unmoving body.

  “Move aside!” he demanded, taking a knee and forcing Callet from Rio’s side. He lifted his face long enough to order the other men to gather dry linens.

  Thinking quickly, Brendan rolled Rio onto her side, traced a hand down her back from the nape of her neck to the point right behind her heart, and then slammed the palm of his hand against it. The girl’s small body lurched forward but she made no sound.

  “Damn!” he did it again, and again, harder each time, knowing that, if she survived, she would have his mark on her.

  His breaths heaving, his blood and fear pooling in the pit of his belly, he slammed his hand against her back once last time.

  She coughed and, until then, Brendan never would have considered the sound of retching a beautiful sound.

  “Rio, goddammit!” Brendan grumbled, leaning over the girl’s trembling frame to see if she expelled all the water. Once she was breathing deeply, he rolled her onto her back to peer down at her face. She was pale, her eyes closed, her long, thick lashes like skittering spider legs over the flesh of a corpse.

  Struggling with this new emotion—guilt—Brendan bent and drew Rio into his chest, cradling her shivering body, easily lifting the child as he stood.

  “Have the lads bring the linens to my cabin. I will care for the whelp there,” Brendan murmured to Callet without looking to see if he was still even there. His attention, his utter focus, was on the slight and ethereal creature in his arms.

  The creature that was not what he had ever expected.

  Chapter Eight

  Rio tried to roll over but there was something heavy against her chest. She stilled, her mind furiously trying to put the pieces of her death together. She was dead, wasn’t she?

  She remembered that bastard, la Bete, carrying her like a sack of grain, then throwing her over the side of the ship and into the dark water. She remembered sinking, watching helplessly as the light from the lanterns disappeared. She remembered the cold. The fear. And then…the nothing.

  Groaning, she moved her eyes behind her lids, pulling them open just enough to see that the room she was in was illuminated by a single point of light.

  A candle.

  Raising her hand, she slid her fingers over her chest. A thick blanket covered her, its weight so much heavier than she was used to. Her usual blanket was nothing more than threadbare curtains the brothel had thrown into the rubbish.

  “There you are, Whelp,” a deep voice murmured softly from her left.

  Brendan. He was there.

  “I hate that name,” she rasped, her throat on fire.

  There was a scrape of movement and then the light from the candle was blocked out by the shadow of the man standing over her.

  “How
are you feeling?” he asked, his large hand brushing a lock of hair from her face…almost reverently.

  Unused to such treatment, she stiffened, which only made the muscles in her belly revolt. She grunted.

  “Easy there, Rio, you have been through much this eve.”

  As if the words had slapped her, she turned her head to glare up at him and nearly lost all sense. His face was so much softer than she’d ever seen before, his expression a mix of concern and something else. Something she couldn’t name even if she knew it. His deep green eyes were filled with heat, flickering with nearly unchecked fire.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she ground out, “My evening would not have been so harrowing if you had not delivered me to the sea like a parcel.”

  Brendan’s expression hardened in an instant. Good. She knew what to do with his anger; his warmth and concern were far too disconcerting.

  “I would not have ‘delivered you to the sea’ if I had known you could not swim,” he intoned, his gaze sharpening.

  She attempted to sit up, the blanket over her chest catching on the buttons of her coat. Good. At least she was still clothed; her secret was still hers.

  “I did not think it was necessary,” she snapped.

  He reared back, almost like a bear would when scenting a threat.

  “Of course it is necessary! You took the position of cabin boy—on a ship! Do you not think that being able to swim is necessary to keep from dying?”

  She rolled onto her side, her still wet hair falling over her face. She swatted it away and met his glare with one of her own.

  “I would not have been dying if you had not thrown me into the water!”

  “But if you had been able to swim, you would not have been dying!” He had begun to roar, rising to his full height, no doubt in an attempt to intimidate her.

  It was working. Slightly.

  Brendan hissed, the sound unsettling. “I thought you were smarter than that. I thought that only a fool would take a commission on a ship without knowing how to swim—without even considering the dangers of a ship at sea.”

  “Dangers such as the captain throwing a fit and then throwing you overboard?” she questioned, sweetly, as a young lad would an annoying older brother.

  Brendan made a sound, deep down in the pit of his being, then replied, “Oh, Whelp, I am so much more dangerous that you could ever imagine.”

  She couldn’t miss the hint of threat in his voice, nor the scorching flames in his gaze. Her mind fraying at the edges, she let her mouth run away with her.

  “Do you make it a habit to throw your crew overboard?” she taunted. “Or am I the only one with that glorious distinction?”

  Brendan raised his hands, reaching for her, then stopped dead before dropping his hands to his sides once more. He’d wanted to throttle her, for certain, but he’d shown restraint. It was the jolt she needed to bring clarity to her hazy thoughts.

  Hold your tongue before you push him too far.

  Cursing in French, Rio threw herself back onto the mattress and covered her eyes with her arm. She hoped that ignoring the brute would make him go away.

  But he didn’t. She didn’t know what he was doing, but she could hear him moving about the small room.

  Was he pacing? Oui. And he was murmuring to himself in a language she had never heard before. The pacing and murmuring continued, and as she listened, her eyes became heavy, and the darkness devoured her once again.

  Brendan stared down at the slumbering woman in his bed. Oh, aye, he knew what she was now—a blasted female.

  As his goddamn cabin boy!

  Damn, his cousin, Lucian, would laugh himself to death if he ever got wind of it. That was only one of the reasons he would be keeping this revelation to himself. The other being that if the crew discovered he’d been so easily fooled, he would lose some of the respect that had taken him years to obtain. Smugglers were slow to trust, but once they trusted completely, they were loyal unto death. Unfortunately, he wasn’t so sure that any of the men, besides Callet, were utterly loyal to him yet.

  And he’d bugger himself if he allowed this one circumstance to be the revelatory factor.

  Also…he still didn’t know what to think about what he’d uncovered, or rather what he felt pressed against him in the water. He’d pulled the limp and lifeless body of the whelp into his chest and was stunned to discover that the Whelp had a pair of tits! She was a woman. And now that he’d had the time to examine her face and his memories of her body pressed to his, he knew she couldn’t be the young girl he’d first thought she was—well, after first thinking her a young boy.

  Nay, she was a grown woman, though a small one. It was no wonder she’d been able to pass as a lad in the streets. No doubt, she used the ruse to keep herself from being violated by drunk and rapacious curs. He could not fault her for what she’d done. Hell, his own cousin, Lucia, chose to dress as a man. Though, in Lucia’s case, it was because wearing breeches made it easier to tread the boards of a ship and tend to the wounded as the family healer. Also, Lucia was twin to Lucian and, from birth, she’d striven to be just like her brother.

  But Rio…Brendan couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than the need to survive. And how did the whel—err, woman, end up the leader of a gang of pickpockets? Sighing, he thrust his fingers through his short-cropped hair, making the black strands stand upright on his head.

  “What am I going to do with you, woman?” he whispered in Welsh. She stirred and the sides of her unbuttoned coat slid open, baring her chest. Though her chest was covered with the thin material of her shirt, it was enough to see the outline of two, pert, rose-colored nipples through the still damp fabric.

  Two handfuls of plump femininity, attached to one of the most aggravatingly enthralling women he’d ever met. Rio moved in her sleep, making the hem of her shirt ride up just enough to expose the skin of her belly up to her naval. Her skin was still pale from her ordeal, but it looked soft, supple.

  His manhood sprang to life at the sight.

  Damn and blast. Shooting to his feet, he grabbed the blanket that had fallen to her waist and pulled it up over her to cover her. What kind of man grew hard watching a helpless woman sleep? He was fast becoming a lecher where Rio was concerned.

  Making sure to tread lightly as to not wake her, Brendan exited the cabin. He needed to find Callet and speak with him about dropping Rio off at the next port. They were headed to La Rochelle, where they would pick up a shipment of wine they would then smuggle into port in Spain. It was the money they made from that run that would pay for the supplies they would need for the return trip to Port Eynon Bay and home.

  On the deck, Brendan noticed that most of the men had strung up their hammocks and had settled down for the night. The one left awake at the helm, a sailor named Ricki, was a man he’d hired on in La Rochelle before their journey north to Calais. He’d come with solid references from two different sources, he seemed fit enough for life aboard a ship, and the other men seemed to like him. Brendan had spoken with him several times, but because the man spoke little, their conversations never got that far. Not that he had much time to sit and natter with his crew. This business with La Revanche and the Demonios de Mar was quickly becoming more than he wanted to carry on his own, especially since this mission was supposed to be simple.

  Simple? Ha! He’d nearly been killed, and then he discovered that the one who’d saved his life was a female! Cursing, he cast a quick glance at the sky. Brendan knew from the positioning of the stars overhead that at least Ricki was keeping them on their charted course.

  Brendan found Callet in the hold, leaning against a crate of apples and drinking from a flask of Scotch whisky. It was some of the best whisky they’d ever smuggled.

  “Come, sit down a spell.” Callet waved him over and Brendan sat beside him, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankles.

  “What has ye bothered?” the older man asked, holding the flask out in offering to Br
endan. Brendan pushed the flask away, shaking his head. “Definitely bothered by somethin’. Ye usually don’t deny yerself the whisky.”

  Brendan dropped his head back until it banged against the crate behind him.

  “I cannot afford to dull my wits. Not now,” he remarked, closing his eyes against the need to go back to his cabin, to shake Rio awake, and demand answers.

  “Is it the lad?” Callet asked, making Brendan start, his eyes flying open.

  “I will take that as an aye,” Callet murmured, then chuckled softly.

  “Aye, it is about the lad,” Brendan confirmed, his mind in two places at once; first with Rio in his cabin, and there with Callet in the hold. “We have to put him off the ship in La Rochelle.”

  Callet’s hand, on its way to deliver the flask to his waiting lips, halted in midair.

  “Put the lad off the ship? But we just brought him on. This cannot be ’bout what ye did to the boy, can it?” His wide eyes scoured Brendan’s face and Brendan, fearing what the older man would find, turned away, scowling.

  “It has nothing to do with what happened and everything to do with my not needing a cabin boy,” Brendan asserted, clasping his hand in his lap to keep himself from running his fingers through his hair which was, according to his cousin, Rose, his tell. When he was flustered or nervous, he would muss his own hair. It was a sure sign that something was going on in his thoughts that had nothing to do with something as simple as not needing a cabin boy.

  Callet took a swig of whisky, hissing as the burn slid down his throat. Then, as expected, he took hold of Brendan’s shoulder.

  “Ye knew ye didn’t need a cabin boy. Ye knew and ye still brought the boy on board. There has to be more to this than that. More ye aren’t tellin’.”

  Hell, there was a reason Callet was still an invaluable part of the crew; he brought wisdom and perceptiveness. Brendan just wished that, this once, the bastard wasn’t using those things on him.