The Beast of Blades

by Winchester, Rosamund

  Before answering, Brendan turned his attention back to Rio, who was standing, stretching, beside the pile of unnecessary ropes. She was arching her back, her head thrown backward to let the sun kiss her face. Only a blathering fool would mistake her for a boy, especially now that she could no longer hide behind greasy, lanky hair, black smudges on her cheeks, and that godawful coat. He’d thrown that coat overboard the moment he could, and good riddance!

  As if sensing their focus on her, Rio dropped her head and turned toward them, her gaze catching on Brendan’s. There was a moment there when he wondered if he would ever breathe again. And when she flushed and dipped her chin to hide her face from him, he wanted to storm across the deck, take her face in his hands, and kiss her until that flush covered the whole of her body.

  Perhaps she was a mind reader, because her eyes widened and the pink on her cheeks deepened before she tore her gaze away to begin organizing the ropes that didn’t need organizing.

  Beside him, Callet cleared his throat. “Perhaps she knows that ye know, and she is just havin’ some fun with ye.”

  He shook his head decisively. “Nay. She has lived her life as a boy. There is no doubt that she believes now what she believed in Calais, that her disguise will keep her safe.”

  “And will it?”

  The question struck Brendan because it was one he’d been asking himself since watching her sleep after her near-drowning. Would she be safe? From him?

  He answered truthfully, unable to hide much of anything from his bowsman. “I do not know.”

  As the afternoon arrived and the Torriwr pulled into port to anchor, Brendan called the crew.

  “Callet, you stay aboard with Ricki, Marcus, and the twins,” Brendan ordered, watching as each man nodded in obedience. “Rio,” he called, turning to his cabin boy who was standing several feet from everyone else, her hands clasped before her nervously. At the sound of her name, her gaze snapped to his. There was something there he’d had to have been blind to miss: the unchecked fire of want. Lust.

  “Oui, Captain?” she blurted, her cheeks turning pink once again. Rio, the woman, was not unaffected by him, was, in fact, attracted to him.

  Good.

  He fought the urge to smile, to flash a wicked grin he knew would send her running.

  “You will go to shore with me,” he remarked, watching her eyes widen. “I will need my interpreter.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded.

  “And bring the letter,” he added just before dismissing the crew to busy himself with lowering the small skiff into the water.

  Brendan didn’t miss Callet’s look of humored surprise. The bastard was having his own fun watching his captain slowly lose his mind over his effeminate cabin boy.

  Having prided herself on her light-footedness, it was terribly annoying to find herself tripping over her own feet whenever Brendan was near. The man had a bad habit of showing up when she wasn’t expecting him, giving her orders to do something unnecessary or repetitive, and then watching her—staring at her—while she went about doing his bidding.

  It was humiliating. It was infuriating. But there was little she could do about it. He had made a promise to her, and she’d sworn to serve him, and so they were stuck with each other, as far as she was concerned. And so she’d done everything he’d asked of her, above and beyond, putting all of her strength and might into every task. She refused to give him a moment of regret for bringing her on board, and remaining as busy as she was helped her forget about him once in a while. But her dratted memory, and his overwhelming presence, meant that she thought about him more often than she didn’t. It was frustrating. She had no idea why she felt the way she did about him. He was a beast, a heartless, growling creature who found pleasure in making her miserable.

  And then he went and commanded her to go ashore with him—as his interpreter! She wasn’t a fool. She knew he could have taken Ricki with him. Ricki was from La Rochelle, the same port at which they had anchored, and he spoke flawless French. It didn’t make sense to bring along a lanky, uncertain cabin boy to interpret for him, when there was a grown man who knew the city, who could be a far better help to him.

  He means to torment me further, there is no other explanation. But why? Since their falling out in the cabin and his tossing her overboard, she’d been the model cabin boy. Even though the captain hadn’t spent a single night in the cabin with her, she’d made sure his bed was made and his cabin was spotless, so that when he deigned to actually use the room, there would be no reason to complain. But he hadn’t used his room, leaving Rio to sleep in there alone in a hammock Brendan had strung between two of the ceiling beams.

  And damn if she wasn’t lonely when he wasn’t there with her.

  Shaking herself, she tugged the collar of her coat up higher on her cheeks. In Calais, they knew her as a lad, but La Rochelle was new. At a single glance, they may guess her secret, leaving her flayed open for Brendan’s rage at being fooled for so long.

  But was he fooled?

  There had been many times over the last three days when she’d catch him staring at her, his eyes like twin fire emeralds. Was that how a man usually looked at his cabin boy? If it was, there was a much larger secret being kept aboard the Torriwr.

  Non. Brendan was a man’s man, he did not need to stare after little boys. So…why else would he look at her so?

  You are a fool to think, even if he does know the truth, that he would desire one such as you. A man as breathtakingly gorgeous and virile as Brendan Rees didn’t need to pant after a boyish urchin, not when he probably had a waiting woman in every port.

  The sludge of jealousy pooled in her belly and she cursed.

  Following Brendan through the streets, his new satchel held securely to her shoulder, it took most of her considerable skills to keep up with him in the crowds. Oui, he was a giant, so spotting him above the sea of heads was easy enough, but getting to him was like weeding through a field of elbows and grasping hands. As the best pickpocket in Calais, she knew what to do to keep her belongings where they belonged, but she knew for certain that Brendan didn’t.

  Bah, he deserves to lose a few more coins, since he seems to have forgotten that your legs aren’t as long and thick as tree trunks! Even when she finally got within several feet of him, he would eat up the distance ahead of him in two strides while her considerably shorter legs had to make up the same distance with four or five.

  Huffing out a frustrated and angry breath, she collided with a very firm backside, nearly tumbling back onto her own backside before two big, strong hands grasped her around the waist.

  “Careful there, Whelp,” a deep voice she was growing to hate drawled. “Wouldn’t want you to be trampled, now would we?” There was a teasing in his tone that made her bristle.

  Looking up into his face, Rio couldn’t miss the quirking of his lips as he fought off a mocking smile.

  Pushing against his chest until she had enough room to breathe, she found her footing, then knocked his hands away.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked curtly, her brows drawn down to display her annoyance.

  He flicked a thumb over his shoulder at a squat building behind him.

  “We are staying here tonight,” he answered, and an invisible hand grabbed then squeezed her heart, making the air in her chest rush out.

  “We? Tonight?” she blubbered as heat rose into her face.

  Brendan arched a black eyebrow, his eyes dancing. “Aye. We. Tonight. No use in going back to the ship when we have business here tomorrow morning.”

  It made sense. She knew it did. So why did the idea of spending the night with Brendan Rees make her skin hot and her heart pound?

  “Come along, Whelp,” Brendan called, turning around to head into the building.

  Without any viable reason to argue with him or disobey him, Rio followed her captain into the inn, her fevered gaze caught on the flexing of the muscles in his perfect arse.

  Damn. She w
as in serious trouble.

  Chapter Eleven

  La Revanche stared out over Calais from his study window. The city, from this distance, was beautiful, a jewel of France. But at street level, the city was no better than an overflowing latrine, ripe with shite, swarming with flies, and teeming with maggots.

  He swallowed down the bile that so often rose when he considered the state of the city he loved. Once loved. He could not love it now, not with the way it had whored itself, allowing anyone with wealth to spread her legs and beget useless, lazy nobles.

  Turning back to his desk, he folded his most recent letter and slipped it into an envelope. Heating the wax over a candle, he sealed the envelope, giving a silent prayer that this one would remain sealed until it reached its intended destination; the house of a prominent duc. A duc who owed La Revanche—or rather the man behind La Revanche—a favor.

  Pulling the bell pull, he waited only a moment before his footman arrived.

  “Deliver this to the home of Duc du Noraville. If you are accosted on the way, be sure to destroy the letter before anyone can take it from you. If you return not having delivered this letter, I will make sure you never speak of this to anyone.” He pinned his withering gaze on the footman who flinched under his master’s heated regard. “Am I clear?”

  The footman nodded, taking the letter and hurrying from the room.

  Settling back at his desk, La Revanche wondered how the business in La Rochelle was progressing. He knew that Draper had commissioned Le Noir, an accomplished assassin, to dispatch with the Rees and bring the letter the pirate stole back to Calais. It would cost him, for Le Noir would not work for less than a king’s ransom, but it would be worth it in the end. The world would be brighter with one less Rees, and his plan to wash away the filth of Calais would be one step closer to completion.

  One of several matters of business complete for the day, La Revanche pulled out another sheet of paper, poising his quill over it, before beginning.

  The Welshman is as good as dead. Rally in Biarritz in preparation to take the La Mariposa and her haul. And remember, do not cross me. There is enough silver on board that ship to make us all very rich men. If you steal from me, however, you will both be very dead men.

  He signed it with a flourish and rang for another footman to deliver it to the two cock-brained sots in an inn at the docks. For all the whispers about how bloodthirsty and fierce they were, La Revanche saw very little about the Van Rompays that instilled even a modicum of awe. Not for the first time, he wondered if it had been a mistake to ally with them. Then again, there were few on the sea who dared to toy with the Spaniards, and he needed men who were both easy to manipulate and willing to make enemies.

  “Goddamn you, Van Rompay. You had better not disappointment me.”

  The afternoon had passed swiftly as he went about making connections in the underbelly in preparation for taking on the smuggled cargo. He’d met with several other captains looking to “offload” their insured goods; an old trick many captains in arrears would use to make extra money on their cargo to pay back their debts. It’s what kept families like his in business. The Rees’ were more than obliged to help those in need—for a profit, especially if the need is to save themselves from dismemberment from their debtors.

  It was easy money, and he could really use something easy.

  After meeting with the captains, Brendan met up with an old friend who had news about his cousin Saban and Saban’s wife, Essa. They were on their way to Spain to visit with Essa’s parents, which meant that Brendan didn’t have to travel all the way back to Wales with the written notice of the Rees’ clean break from their tie to the Demonios de Mar. Once he offloaded the smuggled goods, pocketed the money, then delivered the stolen letter, or the information the letter contained, to Santiago Fernandez, the leader of the Demonios, he would make his way inland to where Saban and Essa were staying. It would mean leaving the Torriwr anchored off shore for several weeks, but it only needed a skeleton crew when they weren’t carrying cargo.

  And what of Rio?

  Without fail, his thoughts returned to her. Since that night she’d stolen his satchel, the whelp had been a thorn in his side. At first, it had been the thought that anyone could take something from him. Then, it was that a cheeky little street rat had the audacity to try and get more money from him—for his own belongings! Then, it was that there’d been something about the whelp that intrigued him, something that pricked the back of his mind. Brendan hadn’t known what it was then—hadn’t dared to suppose it then when he thought her a lad—but now he knew it had been attraction. Though Rio had dressed as a lad, fooling everyone for years, it took only a few encounters with her for his body to recognize what his eyes could not. There was a woman under the hideous coat, a woman he wanted.

  And he never denied himself something he wanted.

  Right now, the focus of his growing obsession was sitting alone in the room he’d rented at the inn. No doubt, she was anxious, being in a new city. Alone. But she wouldn’t be alone for much longer.

  A lopsided grin curled his lips.

  Now that his business was done, he would take the evening to get to know his cabin woman. Aye, she dressed as a lad, but there was more to her than that. When they’d first spoken to one another, she’d admitted that she was British but also French, and since she spoke both languages, that was easy enough to believe. But which one of her parents was British, and what were they doing in France? And, most importantly, where were they now? How long had Rio been living on her own on the streets of Calais?

  Nay, not on her own. She had a gang of urchins, boys she’d called her brothers when she’d stubbornly negotiated for her eventual return to Calais at the end of a year. She hadn’t wanted to leave them behind, but there had been a slow burning fire of excitement in her eyes, a sort of hope.

  But for what?

  He’d know sooner rather than later, if he had his way.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he reached his rented room at the end of the hall, facing the street—as his rooms always did—and knocked. If Rio had truly been a lad, he wouldn’t have bothered but, since she was not, he figured he’d be gentlemanly enough to announce his arrival.

  Hell, his cousin, Rose, would never let him live such thoughts down. She was as much a man as any man with bollocks. At least, that’s what she wanted all men to believe.

  He knocked again, wondering what the whelp had gotten into while he’d been gone. When Brendan heard nothing from the other side of the door, he tensed. Had Rio left the safety of their room?

  Without further hesitation, he pressed the latch and pushed the door open, revealing a slumbering figure, supine on the bed, her pale hair spread over the dark wool blanket beneath her.

  Damn. She was near perfect. How many nights had he pictured her just like this? Though in his dreams, she was awake, gloriously naked, bared to his ravenous eyes, beneath him, and welcoming him into her lush body. Her moans of pleasure meeting his ears, urging him on.

  Strangling a groan, he closed the door behind him, softly, then walked to the edge of the bed to look down at her. Her golden lashes were fanned over her cheeks, and her eyes were moving rapidly beneath their lids.

  What was she dreaming about? Did she dream of him as he dreamed of her?

  He must’ve made a noise because her eyes fluttered open and, in that split second before she came fully awake and recognized him, there was a deep, dark, blazing fire in her gaze.

  “Captain?” she asked, her voice husky from sleep…and something else. She pushed herself up on her elbows, which pulled the fabric of her coat tight over her chest. His gaze flicked to it, and he was disappointed that her coat hid his prize from him.

  Soon.

  Clearing his throat, he said, “Get up, Whelp. I have ordered supper to be sent up.” He sat on one of the two chairs beside the small hearth in the corner. There was a table between them, which would be big enough to hold their modest supper.


  “We are to eat here?” she asked, sliding to the edge of the bed to drop her bare feet to the floor. Rio hardly ever wore stockings, which meant her boots often stank, but at least she’d made a habit of washing her feet daily. “I thought we might eat downstairs.”

  He shook his head. “Too many eyes and ears downstairs. Besides…” He paused, waiting for her to look up from her feet and meet his gaze. Once she did, he offered her a smile he hoped displayed friendliness rather than fierce hunger, because he was hungry. And not for the slop they would send upstairs on the supper tray.

  She visibly swallowed. “Besides?” she prodded nervously, her voice no longer husky, but rather squeaky. He bit back the urge to grin wider, more wolfishly at that.

  “Besides, I believe it is time for me to get to know my cabin boy properly,” he supplied, crossing his right leg over his left knee in a feigned show of languid ease. On the contrary, he was strung tighter than a rotund nobleman’s corset.

  Rio, as expected, tensed, wariness hardening her features.

  That’s it, Whelp, be wary. The Beast is stalking you.

  Arching a golden brow, she drawled, “What is it you want to know about me, Captain?”

  He shrugged, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his shirt. “Have you always lived in Calais?”

  “Oui. For as long as I can remember.”

  “You said you are British and French,” he began. She nodded. “Is your father British?”

  “No. It was my mother.” She offered no additional information, her lips thinning.

  “Oh?” he asked, sensing he was treading on a precarious topic. “And your father was French?”

  “Oui,” she answered, leaning back on her hands, which only made the coat all that much tighter. It wouldn’t take much to pop one of those buttons from their closure, revealing what he’d been fantasizing about since feeling them against him in the sea. There were curves hiding beneath those ill-fitting clothes, curves he’d already seen flashes of when her coat rode up over her ass to reveal the pert globes covered by the much too tight fabric of her too small breeches. He’d nearly lost consciousness when she’d bent over while scrubbing the deck, her delectable hind quarters made the quarters in his breeches thicken.