He gritted his teeth. This preoccupation with the first beautiful woman he’d seen in nigh on two years was becoming ridiculous.
Caballeros, I do give unto him this Letter of Marque authorizing him as Capitán and Commander of the vessel Santa María…
He breathed more easily. It was the first indication his beloved ship was going to be returned to him.
…Oppose, pursue, subdue, take, sink, burn or otherwise destroy ships of the country of Great Britain…
Dios mío, the words made him sound like the murderous marauder he was accused of being. Despite his resolve, he looked again at Lady Valentina, hoping the regret in his eyes bespoke his true character. He couldn’t deny men had died in defense of the ships he’d plundered, but he derived no pleasure from it.
It was adventure he relished, harnessing the power of the wind filling his sails, the thrill of besting another captain, of challenging the sea and all her moods. He’d incidentally amassed a small fortune which he might now be able to retrieve from its hiding place, having cheated the gallows. That pleasing prospect reminded him to listen attentively to the remaining terms.
…Vessels, goods, merchandise taken under the aegis of this Letter of Marque shall become the property of His Sacred Majestad, King Carlos…
He stiffened his spine, ready to loudly voice his objections.
…Of which one half share may be granted to said Capitán Velázquez upon application to His Excellency Governor Felíx Melchor.
He supposed it was more than he could hope for as he accepted the quill from the clerk and prepared to append his signature.
“We must agree on the security you intend to offer,” Señor Raccoon suddenly interjected into the silence. “As your guarantee of good behavior.”
Anger constricted Santiago’s throat. On top of his rodent-like appearance, the Raccoon’s mode of speech indicated Catalonian birth. However, it seemed the stern-faced Melchor was equally annoyed with his vice-governor. Lady Valentina stared at Montserrat with narrowed eyes. It was of some consolation that she plainly despised the man, but his blood boiled in his veins. Who did this colonial nobody think he was, questioning the honor of an Andalusian in such a manner? For one reckless moment Santiago was tempted to tell Montserrat what they should do with their Letter of Marque. Or better still he could march up to the supercilious Catalán and shove the document down his throat.
He inhaled deeply. His word as a gentleman should have been enough, but he sensed Montserrat’s greed. “Will five hundred escudos suffice?” he said nonchalantly. At least, he hoped he sounded as if the outrageous amount was of no consequence to him.
He wished he’d been more circumspect when he saw the gleam in the Raccoon’s eyes. The rash declaration had hinted at the existence of his hidden wealth.
He had to drag his errant thoughts away from bedding the delectable Lady Valentina. Preoccupation with a new lover had led to his downfall in Sevilla. Carelessness in this foreign outpost could prove equally dangerous.
Five hundred gold escudos!
Valentina’s heart pounded in her ears. Velázquez had rattled off the amount as if it were a mere nothing. Either he was lying, and had no such funds at his disposal, or his wealth from plunder bordered on the obscene.
She didn’t know him at all, yet she was certain he wasn’t a liar. Honor was of paramount importance to him.
A man of honor wouldn’t send men, and perhaps women and children, to a watery grave. The idea of a gruesome death aboard a burning ship couldn’t be borne.
She could understand attacking the warships of an enemy nation, but plundering merchantmen for personal gain seemed highly immoral.
Despite her indignation, she wished he hadn’t piqued the interest of the Montserrats. The Raccoon was practically salivating at the mere mention of so much coin. A tic played at the corners of Ivanna Luna’s harsh mouth.
Valentina clenched the muscles in a very private place as Velázquez signed the Letter of Marque with an ostentatious flourish, an enigmatic smile rendering his weather-bronzed face even more handsome.
She inwardly acknowledged an insane flood of relief that the rogue had escaped the gallows.
Santiago shook hands with Melchor, impressed with the man’s firm grip. He tucked his furled copy of the signed document inside his tunic and retrieved his hat. He was pleased with the astonished reactions the long feather had wrought, but it was as well he’d removed the headwear beneath the too-low ceiling beams. The sooner he was gone from this boxy room, the better.
Yet, his feet were apparently fixed to the stone floor. It would be rude and ungentlemanly to leave without bidding farewell to his hostess. He almost had himself convinced that was the reason he strode to her side and bowed. “Adíos, Lady Valentina. Gracias por su hospitalidad.”
Her fierce blush indicated she was still suffering the effects of the heat. He wondered why she didn’t carry a fan.
“There is no need to thank me, señor. I have done nothing for you beyond what is expected of a hostess.”
He looked into eyes the color of amethyst, filled with an urge to tell her she had done more for him than she realized. Her beauty, her smile, her sultry voice, even her youthful uncertainty had knocked him off balance, made him realize he could still harbor tender feelings he’d thought long dead. She’d resurrected the hope that love and happiness might yet await him…somewhere.
But these were fanciful notions. His shaft had merely responded as it should to an attractive woman. That was all there was to it.
He brushed a kiss on her knuckles, donned his hat, turned on his heel and left with an imperious wave to the gaping crowd.
He resisted the urge to burst out laughing when Christian saluted stiffly before following him.
Chapter Eight
STARK REALITY
“Your behavior was outrageous,” Manuela hissed, her lined face even more wrinkled than usual. “And don’t think for a moment the Montserrat woman didn’t notice.”
Valentina had expected this scolding. She studied the carpet of her bedchamber, tempted to giggle when she remembered how the feather of the pirate’s hat had tickled the ceiling beams right below where she now stood. Her dueña would have been truly scandalized if she’d reached out to run a finger along the magnificent plume.
“You allowed him to kiss your hand,” Manuela huffed. “Twice!”
Valentina raised the offending knuckles to her nose and inhaled.
“No doubt the stink of him lingers,” her chaperone accused. “You must wash your hands.”
A faint aroma did cling to her skin, intriguing, natural, arousing. “What was I supposed to do?” she retorted. “He was my father’s guest.”
“Tonterías! Mark my words, Señora Montserrat will gossip. She and that sunken-eyed Catalan husband of hers thirst to discredit your papa. You know this, yet you give them ammunition. Your excuses are rubbish.”
Valentina’s throat tightened as tears of shame welled. “I would never do anything to put my father’s reputation in jeopardy.”
Manuela took hold of her hand and dragged her towards the baño. “Then you must stay away from pirates.”
Valentina allowed herself to be led, resigned to the likelihood Capitán Santiago Velázquez would never give her a second thought in any case.
Standing on the deck of the Santa María, Santiago shaded his eyes and looked up at the Hudson’s Bay Company flag flying from the mainmast. “Does it look enough like the Royal Navy’s red ensign to get us by?” he asked Christian.
“The ruse worked for us before,” the First Mate replied. “From a distance.”
“What about the nameplate?”
“Nailed over the real one. We are now King George II,” Christian replied with his trademark grin.
“How very British,” Santiago replied sarcastically. “Let’s hope some bright Royal Navy officer doesn’t wonder what a Hudson’s Bay vessel is doing so far south.”
He gripped his own ensign, taken dow
n in favor of the fake flag, and pressed his thumbs into the purple drac emblazoned on the white silk. It reminded him of the astonishing amethyst depths of Valentina’s lovely eyes. He’d chosen to fly the dragon popular in Andalusian folklore rather than a traditional pirate flag; a winged female drac with prominent breasts, two long claws and an eagle’s beak had proven effective in persuading various captains to surrender. It was his intimidating good luck token.
In an effort to calm his disquiet, he gathered the material in his fists and held the creature’s breasts to his lips. The men would believe he was saddened by the removal of his personal talisman when in reality he was imagining Valentina’s ample globes pressed against his face as he suckled rigid nipples…
He resisted the urge to cover his unruly manhood when he noticed a grinning Christian eyeing his groin.
Annoyed he’d allowed emotions to resurface that he’d resolved to quash, he thrust the flag at his First Mate. “Fold it carefully and put it away in my cabin with the other ensigns.”
“Never know when we might need La Drac again,” Christian remarked, bright eyes twinkling. “I’ll take good care of her.”
After his friend disappeared below decks, Santiago strutted about, willing his inconvenient arousal to abate. He barked orders to the crew preparing the ship for her maiden voyage as an agent of the Spanish Crown.
When he felt sufficiently in control of himself, he summoned his navigator and they joined Christian in his cabin, where they pored for a long while over charts Melchor had provided.
Having settled on a course, he called for the crew to be assembled on deck. Five minutes later, he let his gaze roam over the twenty men. They ranged in age from a lad of fifteen to an old salt of fifty summers. Some were from the original crew, others more recent additions. There were Spaniards, mulattos, blacks, Mexicans, a Chinaman and even an inglés.
Narrowing his eyes, he braced his legs and began. “As you all know, the Santa María has plundered ships in the Gulf of Mexico and along the Spanish Main.”
There was mumbled agreement and a few frowns of confusion. Did they sense what was coming?
He smiled. “And rich were our rewards.”
Loud cheering and whistling ensued.
He replaced the smile with a scowl which produced the silence he’d expected. “We were forced to sail to San Agustín after our arrest. However, this east coast port provides an ideal, well-defended base for raiding to the north.”
There was some muted cheering. Every man knew they were venturing into an area Santiago had avoided. Not that there weren’t rich pickings to be had from vessels bringing goods to the British colonies of Georgia and the Carolinas. But the Royal Navy patrolled the Atlantic, prepared to destroy any ship that threatened trade with the empire.
It was a stark reality his crew would now have to face head on. Picking off solitary merchantmen hadn’t been without risks. Many were armed with awesome firepower. But Santiago didn’t relish the prospect of trying to outrun a 90-gun Royal Navy ship-of-the-line.
He lifted his chin, determined to imbue confidence in the men. “We are once again the King George II.”
Booing greeted his pronouncement.
Santiago raised a hand. “I understand your feelings. But you must put aside your hatred of the late but unlamented Hanoverian and hope the charade gets us past the Royal Navy.”
Apparently satisfied Valentina was tucked up in bed for the siesta, Manuela finally left for her own chamber. Glad to be free of her dueña’s suffocating presence, Valentina slipped from between the sheets and tiptoed to the verandah at the back of the house. She cringed when hinges squealed and wood creaked.
There was really no cause to worry. It would take a cannon blast to awaken Manuela from her two-hour afternoon nap.
Closing the door behind her, she inhaled the sweet scents of the garden below. Paula Melchor’s illness had kept her confined to bed. She’d taken little interest in the colorful tropical plants that grew in riotous profusion, but Valentina loved them. Alessandro had taught her any of the exotic names. She listened with rapt attention as the ancient gardener spoke of the delicate yellow hibiscus, the aptly-named bird of paradise, the flamboyant bougainvillea, as if they were his children, his niños.
She longed to ask permission to assist with weeding and the like, but knew her father would bow to Manuela’s indignant refusal.
What was the point of living in the Americas if you didn’t enjoy the beauty? Surely there was more to life than simply doing one’s duty for Spain by exploiting La Florida’s resources.
She sighed, resolving to be less judgmental of her chaperone. Manuela had not come to La Florida of her own volition, any more than her mother had. The long-time lady’s maid had considered it her duty to take on the role of chaperone after Paula Melchor’s death.
While daily life was sometime tedious, Valentina preferred her new tropical home to the suffocating, dirty streets of Madrid. Madrileños baked for three months of intense summer heat, then shivered in the bone-chilling dampness of the remaining nine months.
In San Agustín, she soaked in the sun’s warmth every day. Indoors might be humid and sticky, but outdoors the balmy sea breeze was refreshing and carried with it tales of faraway places.
And therein lay the other thing she adored about La Florida—the océano Atlántico. Madrid was far from the sea. Here raucous gulls and other seabirds glided above her. Fishermen brought creels teeming with fish, crab, shrimp and other delicious edibles to the stone kitchens at the end of the garden. The water could be as calm as a pond, then change quickly to a seething cauldron, sending towering waves to crash against the shore.
She spent many an hour on the verandah, staring at the movement of the water, inhaling the salty aroma. On the long voyage from Spain, she’d ventured on deck at every opportunity, ignoring the protestations of her mother and Manuela, both too stricken with mareo to do anything to prevent her. She’d been fortunate not to suffer the same debilitating seasickness and had relished every moment of the adventurous journey.
She shaded her eyes and looked beyond the garden to the port. Several ships of the Spanish navy lay at anchor, but only one civilian galleon. The white pennant with the purple dragon it had flown yesterday had been replaced with another that resembled the red ensign of the Royal Navy. After the British raids on San Agustín, every Floridano was taught to recognize that hated flag, though it had been twenty-five years since the last failed attempt to take the town.
She startled when the door opened, relieved to see her papa when she glanced over her shoulder. He would never betray her to Manuela. “Is that the pirate ship?” she asked when he joined her at the railing.
“Sí,” he replied.
“Will they sail north?”
“Sí. Mañana.”
For the first time the dreadful implications of the Letter of Marque struck her. “It will be dangerous.”
Her father put an arm around her shoulder. “Velázquez is resourceful and clever. He’ll disrupt the British trade routes for a while, perhaps give us and our French allies the breathing room we need.”
“Then he’ll return,” she said, wishing she had the courage to go down to the dock on the morrow to see the arrogant pirate off, to feel the press of his lips on her hand once more.
He shook his head. “It’s doubtful. He might flee to a safe haven—Cuba, perhaps, though La Habana has fallen to the British. It’s more likely his ship will be blown to bits.”
Chapter Nine
SLEEPLESS IN SAN AGUSTIN
Santiago lay on his back, knees bent, watching the last of the sun’s rays dip beyond the horizon through the window of his cabin.
His spacious bunk was comfortable, but he sensed he’d get no sleep this night.
He dismissed his restlessness; any man facing danger on the morrow would toss and turn. Strangely, though, he felt no fear. The Letter of Marque made him a privateer, but in truth it was no different from being a pirate, and he’d
embarked on many a marauding adventure before. It was preferable to hanging from the gibbet.
Perhaps the heat was keeping him awake. Or the humidity.
He raised his arms above his head, arched his back, and stretched, thinking back over the events of the day. One face, one stunningly beautiful face, predominated, and his arousal spiked in response. He cupped his balls to ease the pressure. “What you’re trying to say,” he admitted to his cock, “is that I won’t get any sleep unless I see Valentina again.”
His erection bucked.
“But she’ll be abed, no doubt watched over by her dueña.”
He turned onto his side, but couldn’t get the woman out of his head.
I wonder what color her nipples are?
Long legs.
Breasts that would fit my hands perfectly.
“Mierda!” he exclaimed aloud, leaping from the bed. “She’s cast a spell on me.”
It was folly, but perhaps if he just walked to her house, the fresh air would do him good. Clear his head.
The rigid flesh clamoring to break free of his leggings said otherwise; a midnight swim might be needed.
Valentina lay awake, listening to the cicadas. It was much too hot to sleep. Too humid. She threw off the linen sheet, but that didn’t help.
Perhaps if she removed her nightgown.
She giggled, recalling Manuela’s oft-repeated pronouncement that only women of ill repute slept naked. She pulled the nightgown over her head before she had a chance to talk herself out of it.
A strange, new awareness of her body caused gooseflesh to pebble on her inner thighs, despite the heat. She closed her eyes and imagined Santiago Velázquez was watching, raking his gaze over her nakedness. Would he think her beautiful?
It was wicked to smooth her hands over her breasts, but she liked it so much she pinched her nipples.
The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11) Page 4
