“Well?” he prodded.
“The letter is from someone named La Revanche, to another man,” she offered.
At the hearing of that name, Brendan tensed. It had been a name that haunted him through the streets of Calais. “What is the name of the other man?”
“It only says, ‘du Noraville’.”
“Have you heard of either of them before?” he asked, wondering if she, as a rather prolific street urchin, had encountered either of them before.
She shook her head. “I have never heard of du Noraville, but La Revanche is a name that many mutter under their breaths. He is supposed to be the son of a comte, who was disowned by his father for marrying an opera singer.”
Brendan had heard such tales before; the wealthy tearing off their own limbs in spite.
“Is there any truth to the tale?”
“Who is to say. Lies are as good as money in some places,” she answered, her cheeks turning pink. Aye, she’d lied, using it to live, but she wasn’t like La Revanche, who seemed to want the fear of the people rather than to simply survive as Rio had.
She will never have to simply survive again.
“You are not like him, Rio. You never meant to hurt those you stole from, you only wanted to provide for your brothers and yourself. La Revanche is a criminal—a true bastard. I think he may have been the one who wanted me dead, the one that sent that man after me in Calais.”
Her face paled and her eyes widened. “The man with the daughter?”
He sighed. “Even if he did have a daughter, they are still both dead.”
She flinched as if he’d slapped her, her gaze snapping with fire.
“So what if they are dead, as long as you are alive and well?” she rasped, her voice pitched.
Guilt—a rather disconcerting emotion—flooded him. “That is the way of the world, Whelp. People die every day, and it is men like La Revanche who profit from it. If you are to envenom anyone with your anger, let it be him.”
She continued to glare at him until the fight seemed to seep away. She slumped, pressing a hand to her forehead.
“The rest of the letter speaks of a ship. It has tonnes of silver aboard. The letter is saying the someone named Van Rompay—”
He snapped upright. “Van Rompay?” he blurted. She tensed. “Are you sure?”
“Oui!”
“What of Van Rompay?” That blasted French pirate was a damned blight on the world. He and his brother were soulless scourges, happy to rampage and rape and loot, as long as they found pleasure in the spoils. It was men like the Van Rompays that gave honest, moral smugglers like the Rees’ a bad reputation.
She bit her lip, scrunching up her nose in thought. “Your French is terrible, I must…let me think a moment.”
Thinking to help her along, he began re-reading the letter in his, admittedly, poor French accent.
“You are mangling my language!” she blurted, poking him in the chest. Hard.
Snapping his mouth closed, he tapped a blunt finger on his thigh, his patience thin. What seemed like hours later, Rio chirped, a smile erupting on her face.
“I think I have it, oui,” she effused. “It says that the Van Rompays are to intercept the La Mariposa, and bring her and her cargo back to Calais.”
La Mariposa?
“Ah, hell,” he grumbled.
Once again he was running, head long, into the goddamn Spanish.
Chapter Thirteen
La Revanche stepped from the carriage and smoothed the wrinkles from his brocade embroidered coat. Even when traveling, he dressed as he would before a king. He had the money for it, the style, why not flaunt both?
The building before him was moderately sized, about three times smaller than his home in Calais, but it would do for now. It wasn’t as though he’d come all the way to La Rochelle to be at home to visitors.
No. He’d come to La Rochelle to land the killing blow to his enemies. Enemies that had become far too cocky.
Even now, Brendan Rees was strolling about the city, seeming a tourist rather than a smuggler and a bastard. And who was this woman he’d been seen with? The report from his man on the inside said the woman was his cabin boy, or had been when she was first brought on board dressed as a lad.
When he’d read that, he’d smiled. Only a fool of a Welshman wouldn’t be able to tell tits from a man’s identity, or perhaps Rees preferred the woman when he thought her a boy?
It didn’t matter to La Revanche, he’d still make sure Brendan and his woman were dead. And once they were dead, he’d make sure the Van Rompays took the blame for it. Once word spread that the French faction of pirates had landed a blow against the Welsh, the Rees’ would retaliate, and the Van Rompays would be so busy running for their miserable lives, he could wash his hands of them.
They would be as good as dead, as well. And he would have the silver from the La Mariposa all to himself. That silver would go a long way to ridding Calais of her parasites.
The door to the house opened and a liveried footman appeared.
“My lord,” he drawled, bowing appropriately.
La Revanche appreciated the diffidence, giving the footman a glare, though, so he would not forget his place.
“Have they arrived yet?” he asked, his voice flat.
“Yes, my lord. They are awaiting you in the parlor,” the footman answered, his face suddenly flushed.
Stepping into the house, La Revanche caught the expression of uncertainty on the man’s face.
“What is it?” he demanded, suddenly tired of interacting with the help.
“The, ah, guests are making themselves at home, my lord,” the footman said hurriedly, as though rushing to get the words out so he could leave.
La Revanche sighed heavily. Of course, his guests would be making themselves at home. It wasn’t every day that they knew such luxury—but he would rid himself of them as soon as could be done.
Dismissing the footman, he strode to the parlor where the doors were left wide open. Entering, he was immediately met with the sight of a naked buttocks as the man who owned it thrust punishingly into a woman who was barely dressed in a maid’s uniform. The man turned his head to look over his shoulder and a grin split his red, sweaty face.
La Revanche arched an eyebrow and scowled, but the blackguard continued thrusting as if they didn’t have an audience. On the other couch, which wasn’t being violated, sat his other guest, a man who was languidly sipping a dark amber liquid from a crystal tumbler.
He cleared his throat, which made the woman raise her head, her gaze catching on him and her eyes going from pleasure-dazed to terrified shock.
“My lord!” she squealed, pushing at the man’s chest. He stumbled back, disengaging himself from his play thing. The man chuckled before pushing his manhood back into his breeches. The woman righted her clothing, dipped a frantic curtsey, and then fled the room.
“Did you not know it is rude to rut with another man’s help?” La Revanche asked, sneering.
The man shrugged. “Did you not know it was rude to keep another man waiting, especially when that man has been summoned like a commoner?”
“Agreed,” the other man interjected, uncrossing his long legs to stand. “We came, we waited, and so my friend, here, made good use of your household offerings.”
They both snickered, making the hair on the back of his head stand erect.
No one laughed at him, especially men who were no better than the shite they walked through in the streets.
This could not be borne.
Annoyed—not at their use of his maid, but rather their belief they could take whatever they wanted, La Revanche slowly removed his supple leather gloves, placed them on the table just inside the parlor door, then moved to stand before the man who’d dared to make good use of what belonged to him.
The man’s snickering stopped. He knew what was coming. He knew what he deserved for his breach of conduct. For his disrespect.
Without another word
, and with elegance lost on such disgusting creatures, La Revanche drew his rapier, slashed a long, thin line across the man’s throat, then stepped back, moving out of the way of path of the gore that came after.
The other man stood, staring, his face pale.
La Revanche ignored the wet sounds the dying man was making as he collapsed. La Revanche smiled at the man remaining, a smile that offered little sympathy.
“Now that we have culled the disease, let us discuss what I want you to do to Brendan Rees.”
It had been three of the best days of her life, spending every waking moment with the man she had grown to admire more than she ever could have imagined. He walked with her through the streets, his head held high, not ducking his face to hide the fact that he was with her. He kissed her, held her, and would openly tease her, making her feel like the luckiest woman. And then, when the night settled over the city, he would make love to her, showing her all the delicious, sinful things her body had been made for.
And now, after another such decadent pleasuring, they’d spent hours just talking, learning about one another.
“How many cousins do you have?” Rio asked, sliding her fingers over Brendan’s chest, making slow circles in his swirling chest hair.
Brendan furrowed his brow in thought, a rather comical sight, then answered, “There are the five who work within the family smuggling business, and two of them have wives. Seven.”
“Seven?” she repeated. “That many?” Rio was both jealous of him and happy for him.
Brendan’s brow furrowed for a different reason now, his eyes warming with empathy.
“You do not know your cousins?” he asked, his hand sliding up her naked back to pull her closer. She shook her head in answer. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t, not having known your father.”
“I only know that he was French and that my mother met him while she was working as a housemaid.” Rio sighed. “She would not tell me anything else, not even about her own family. It was almost as though she were ashamed of where she came from.”
“Why do you say that?” Brendan asked, his gaze peering into her, his concern for her etched into the hard lines of his handsome face.
She shrugged, laying her cheek on his chest. Wiry hairs played along her nostrils as she inhaled. “Whenever I asked her about my grandparents, she would tell me they were dead, but there were times when I would catch her speaking about them as though they were alive. Those were unguarded moments, when we were laughing. Rare moments. She would say, ‘Anamaria, I wish they could meet you…they would love you.’”
A sharp ache tore at her, peeling back the scab on a wound she did not know she had. It was the wound of loneliness, of neglect, of restlessness, of having no one and nothing to root her. Oui, she had Etienne, Bruiser, and the other boys, but they could not offer her the solid foundation her soul had been seeking since her mother left. Her mother had made her promise to leave Calais as soon as she was able, and so Rio thought it meant seeking adventure, her own fortune, a way to survive. But she didn’t want to just survive, she wanted to thrive; plant roots and watch her life bear fruit. She wanted to do more than take from others to barely feed herself and her brothers, she wanted to be able to offer them an actual home. Four walls, proper beds, a hearth, a table laden with food, and all the candles they would ever need to keep the night away.
“What are you thinking that has your beautiful face so pinched?” Brendan murmured, brushing his lips over her forehead.
She sighed. Though she had bared her body to him, somehow, baring her soul seemed too…intimate.
“I do not want to speak of it now,” she declared, sitting up and pushing at his chest, attempting to roll onto her back and then off the bed. As much as she’d enjoyed her time in the bed with la Bete—in and out of bed—there was business to take care of.
With a grunt, Brendan let her go, leaning on his elbow to watch her as she, inelegantly, tried to get out of the bed while covering herself with the blanket. When she tripped, he chuckled, tugging the other end of the sheet right out of her hands. She gasped, raising her hands to cover herself.
Brendan’s eyes burned like green fire, and his lips quirked.
“Now, now, Whelp, there’s no need to cover what I have already claimed as my own,” he drawled, his voice low, almost a growl. She shuddered as the sound seemed to vibrate through her, sizzling through her blood and into the deepest parts of her.
Biting the inside of her mouth to keep from admitting that to him, she dropped her hands and let him look his fill, putting on an air of someone used to standing naked before dashing pirates.
“The last three days have been…lovely,” she began, her heart tripping as Brendan began to stand.
“Just lovely?” he asked, striding toward her, his long, thick legs, eating the distance easily. He grasped her by the shoulders and held her in place as he peered down into her face. She held his gaze, knowing there was no way he could not hear her heart thundering. “With your wit, fy harddwch, I think you can come up with a better word than that,” he practically purred.
Lord, how she wanted to close her eyes and lean into the wall of warm, strong, delicious muscle, but she couldn’t—they couldn’t—hide away in La Rochelle forever. Not when the world just outside was lunging into horror.
“You and I both know what that letter said,” she said, placing a hand against his chest, just to feel something real beneath her palm. Something alive and vital and comforting.
A curse rumbled from his chest. “Aye, we know what it says, but there’s naught we can do now, save wait and watch.”
“Wait and watch?” she asked, her frustration rising. How could he act so easy about something that could possibly mean the lives of dozens? Since the reading of the letter, Brendan had told her of the Van Rompays, how they were nothing better than animals, and that they enjoyed the kill as much as they enjoyed the ale and women. If they did nothing, if they allowed the Van Rompays to follow through with their plan, she would be just as guilty of murder as the pirates.
He must have read some of her thoughts on her face because Brendan’s expression went from calm to razor sharp in a blink.
“You think that I have not already sent word to my connections in Calais to keep watch on the Van Rompays? You think I would let those wretches succeed in their plots? I have no idea what La Revanche and du Noraville are planning to do with all that silver, but I do know that Santiago Fernandez, owner of the La Mariposa and leader of the Demonios de Mar, would hold my family accountable for the loss of fortune if he heard we knew of it but said nothing in warning.”
He was seething, his nostrils flaring, his green eyes dark and fathomless. What she saw in those depths shook her. For Brendan, his reaction to her thoughtless comments wasn’t about her hurting his pride, it was about her not trusting him to do what was right.
The truth of her own faithlessness was like a blade to the heart.
Tears burned the backs of her eyes, and she swallowed the lump of guilt and sorrow in her throat. “I am sorry,” she murmured, raising her hands to his cheeks. The roughness of his unshaved face tickled her palm, a disparate sensation to the scouring in her chest.
Rising to her tiptoes, she leaned in to kiss him, to tell him, without words, what she truly thought of him. Felt about him. But he pulled away, taking hold of her wrists.
“I need to go,” he ground out, dropping her hands. His eyes were black, gut-wrenchingly bleak.
Stunned, she could only watch as the beast who claimed her heart quickly dressed, then slammed the door behind him as he left.
Chapter Fourteen
Brendan didn’t know how long he’d been gone, he only knew that he needed to be away, needed to breathe without the scent of strawberries invading his soul.
She had called him feckless, no, not in so many words, but her eyes told him what her mouth did not. She thought he was careless, thoughtless, only concerned for himself and what he could do for himself. As if he would
use her body as a way to escape. To fill the void of his life with pleasures and ignore the horrors at the back.
Aye, he had wanted an escape, time away from all that had weighed on him over the last two years, but he wanted it with her. To know the bliss of just being with someone who expected nothing from him, and could be everything to him. He’d wanted to feel at peace, even if war was staring them down. And he’d had that with her. Until that moment when she’d made it clear that what she felt for him was nowhere near as powerful as what he felt for her.
It had hurt him more than he could say, gutting him. And he could not stay in the room with her, knowing that she had given her body and nothing else.
He’d wanted more. He wanted for himself—for once in his life. He wanted something of his own. As a Rees, he was part of a family, one that believed in community, in sharing the spoils so that each of them and those who depended on them, would thrive. He had never regretted giving all for the family before; he loved them, would die for them. But for the first time, he wanted to live for something else.
For her.
His thoughts lost, he let his feet carry him wherever they led, and he ended up at a three-way split, two alleys headed toward the heart of the city, and the third headed toward the docks. The inn where he’d left Rio was toward the docks. He’d chosen it because it was the closest to where the Torriwr was anchored. Every day, one of the crew members rowed ashore for several hours of leave, rowing back to the ship at night. It had been four days since they’d arrived in La Rochelle, and he knew the crew was getting restless, especially since the cargo they were smuggling was already aboard. Callet said that it was like a goose sitting on a nest of viper eggs, just waiting to get arse bit.
But Brendan hadn’t wanted to worry about that, he’d wanted to forget about the cargo, the crew, the letter, the Spanish, the French, and all the enemies approaching the gates. Now, though, he realized how foolish he’d been.
The Beast of Blades Page 10
