She moaned as intense desire spiraled into a very private place. She held her breath and listened, hoping Manuela hadn’t heard.
Temptation whispered in her ear. “Touch yourself, there, where you want him to touch you.”
She crossed her legs. At this rate she’d never get to sleep.
She yanked the nightgown back on and got out of bed. Five minutes on the verandah inhaling the fragrant flowers would clear her head of these wanton notions.
She opened the door of her room slowly, thankful the hinges didn’t creak for once, then tiptoed out to the verandah. Gripping the railing, she inhaled deeply, but the heady aromas only seemed to intensify the sensuous feelings coursing through her. How could a brief encounter with one distinctly unsuitable man cause such turmoil in a girl’s heart?
She startled and took a step back at the sound of leaves rustling below.
She thought she might be dreaming when a voice whispered her name. “Valentina.”
Santiago could scarcely believe his eyes when Valentina appeared on the verandah like a bright angel. He watched her breathe in the scented night air, wishing he was standing behind her so he could feel the weight of those tempting globes as they rose and fell in his hands.
It would be wrong to reveal his presence.
“Valentina,” he whispered softly, cursing himself for a lovesick fool.
She startled, so he had to reassure her she wasn’t in danger. “It’s me, Santiago.”
To his relief, she didn’t rush inside to raise the alarm. Instead, she leaned over the railing. “Santiago?”
It was the first time he’d heard his name on her lips. His heart did a peculiar flip inside his chest. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said lamely, as if that explained what he was doing below the verandah in her darkened garden.
“I was too hot,” she replied.
“Humid,” he agreed, clenching his fists. Why was it so difficult to simply tell her he couldn’t stop thinking about her.
She glanced over her shoulder. “I kept thinking about our meeting,” she whispered.
His past reared its ugly head.
Be careful. Remember Salomé.
But he had sworn after his arrest to trust his instincts. Valentina was no conniving courtesan. She was an innocent who had fired his blood more than any woman ever had. He wanted her, wanted to hear his name on her lips. It was a sobering admission for a man determined never to trust a woman again. “I have the same problem,” he admitted.
“But you’re leaving on the morrow,” she said.
He’d considered the unavoidable mission to harass enemy merchantmen as just another chance to laugh in the Devil’s face, to wander the high seas at will until he was caught again, or killed. Now he had a reason to live, and it scared him to death. “I will return,” he promised.
She leaned over and stretched out her hand. “I’ll be waiting for my pirate.”
The husky seductiveness of her voice propelled him up the wisteria vine, far enough to reach out and touch his fingertips to hers. “Adiós, Valentina. No me olvides.”
“I will never forget you,” she replied.
The squeak of a door hinge inside the house convinced him to release his hold on the rough vine. He dropped to the ground, thunderstruck when she sucked her fingertips into her mouth. She might be an innocent but he’d wager once he got her into his bed…
“Go with God,” she said before disappearing into the house.
“I will,” he said, “but first a swim.”
Chapter Ten
SETTING SAIL
The sun was peeking over the horizon when the King George II set sail, the glow painting golden streaks among the high clouds. Santiago scanned the crew bustling to get the ship underway. Clean, drab seamen’s garb had replaced colorful pirate clothing; the inglés was decked out in something resembling a captain’s uniform with Santiago’s tricorn perched atop his head, minus the feather. The appropriate Hudson’s Bay flags and pennants flew from the correct masts. To the untrained eye they might pass for a merchant ship, but he worried about Robertson’s ability to play the role of captain convincingly if they were challenged. The man claimed to be British, but he was originally from the port of Glasgow. The English he spoke was like nothing Santiago had heard before. Robertson proudly referred to it as Scots. He was the only man aboard who could pass for an Englishman, apart from Christian who would have to be cautious if they encountered any British ships. At least the Glaswegian had agreed to a wash and shave.
As the men worked to secure the unfurled sails, Santiago shifted his gaze to the Castillo de San Marcos. In all his travels, he’d never seen a more impressive fortification, even in España, and he wondered if he would ever see it again.
A movement further along the shore caught his eye.
Someone was waving.
A kerchief.
From the verandah of the house where he’d met Valentina.
Was it her?
Sí, his pounding heart confirmed. Valentina!
He stood to attention and saluted, as did his cock at the memory of shapely hips and tempting globes. He’d tried to deny it, but no woman had captured his interest like Valentina. His heart and his body recognized it, though they’d barely exchanged a word. He hoped she knew her gesture of fare-thee-well had strengthened his resolve to keep his promise to return.
However, by the time San Agustín was a dot on the horizon, reality squeezed his heart. He clenched his jaw and turned his attention to the waters ahead. As a young man he’d aspired to a deep and abiding love. Salomé had crushed that youthful hope. Valentina held the renewed promise of such a passion.
But she was a noblewoman, an innocent. He was a pirate about to tweak the nose of the Royal Navy.
Valentina watched Santiago’s ship disappear over the shimmering horizon. She wasn’t certain if he had seen her, and hadn’t expected him to return her wave. He’d dispensed with his hat and the wind teased his black hair. Something about his stance reassured her. He would return.
Or had she dreamt the scene on the verandah?
She lifted her face to the sun, feeling its warmth despite the early hour. She inhaled the salty smell of the sea, the heady aromas of gardenia and frangipani, trying to make sense of the restless feelings and sensations that had plagued her body and mind since she’d first set eyes on Santiago Velázquez.
What was the alchemy between them? For it seemed he had felt it too. Or perhaps men were simply predatory where young women were concerned, as Manuela claimed.
She braced herself for a scolding when the door squeaked then banged shut, but relaxed when she heard her father’s voice. “You couldn’t resist,” he teased.
She shrugged. “I just came out to see the sunrise.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “You may try to hide your feelings, Niña, but a father senses when his daughter is drawn to a man.”
She averted her eyes from his insistent gaze. “But he’s a pirate. And I doubt he even noticed a silly girl.”
He took her into his embrace. “Oh, he noticed, and while he may be a pirate now, he’s of noble Spanish blood.”
She blinked away the welling tears as hope rose in her breast. “So his boasting wasn’t just for show?”
“No. But you mustn’t harbor false hopes, Valentina. We are embroiled in a war we probably have no hope of winning. The last reports I have from Cuba don’t augur well.”
She pulled away and looked at his face, alarmed by the sadness in his eyes. “We’ll be safe here, won’t we?”
Even as she posed the question, she recalled what she’d been told of the last time the Royal Navy came to San Agustín, but her father’s reply shook her to the core.
“The British want La Florida.”
“Sheep ho,” Xiang yelled from the roundhouse, pointing north. “Flenchie.”
Santiago grabbed his telescope, glad of having something to do after two hours of nothing but wind and waves.
“He’s
right,” he shouted to Christian when the ship on the horizon came into focus. “French man-o-war. Hoist the Spanish flags. Rápido. Uncover the nameplates.”
Frenzied shouting and activity ensued as flags and pennants were hauled down and men grabbed hammers.
Santiago paced. His crew had carried out this same deception many times. Their ability to change his ship’s nationality quickly didn’t worry him. He simply hadn’t anticipated a French ship so far south. Melchor had said nothing about the possibility, which probably meant he wasn’t aware of it either. It wasn’t surprising Spain was losing the war when the French navy, her supposed ally, wandered at will.
Christian re-emerged, arms full of the new colors, and calmly issued commands to the men who took them from him.
“What irony if we are blown out of the water by an allied vessel,” Santiago told his First Mate. “So much for our Scottish captain. Get my hat and keep a steady pace. But be ready to come about and run.”
Long minutes later, hat in hand, he stood with legs braced on the fore-deck, hoping the French captain hadn’t observed the quick exchange of flags. The vessel was coming on fast, too fast to unleash its firepower on Santiago’s ship. Indeed, her gun ports remained closed.
Timbers creaked, sails flapped, but nary a man spoke as the Frenchman drew ever closer.
The spindrift on Santiago’s face helped calm his nerves when he finally made out the vessel’s name. He thought the Victoire intended to pass without challenge, but she suddenly slowed and changed course to intercept them.
Chapter Eleven
OVERKILL
Santiago wedged his tricorn firmly on his head and straightened his coat as the two vessels slowed and came abreast. He refrained from issuing muster orders; the men knew enough to be ready in case the approaching ship guessed their true identity. He intended to behave like a captain, unlike the Frenchman who was waving wildly, making circles in the air with his finger.
“What’s he saying?” Christian asked.
Santiago shook his head. “Too far away to hear.”
Then the voice came on the wind. “C’est fini.”
“He says it’s over,” Santiago explained, though he’d no idea what the man meant. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Fini?” he shouted.
“Oui. Paris. Traité.”
“Crazy Frenchman. He’s lost his mind if he thinks he’s bound for Paris,” Christian exclaimed. “It’s a long way from here.”
The Victoire was picking up speed again, heading south. Her captain pointed north. “Anglais,” he shouted, shaking his head.
Santiago watched as the ship pulled away. “She’s running from the English,” he remarked, peering up at Xiang. “What do you see?” he bellowed.
“Nothing.”
Santiago drummed his fingernails on the ship’s rail for another hour.
Suddenly, the Chinaman swore loudly in his own language, gesticulating wildly. “Lot o’ sheeps. Blitish.”
“Mierda,” Santiago hissed, cursing that he hadn’t paid heed to his intuition as his telescope picked out a half dozen British warships on the horizon. “That’s why Frenchie was fleeing. He wants to keep his vessel out of enemy hands.”
It was unlikely the Santa María could outrun the Royal Navy, and Santiago had never been one to turn tail and scarper. “Get the other flags back up.”
Pandemonium erupted again as men scurried to obey.
“Something’s wrong,” he told Christian when he returned with the fake flags. “I expected some patrols, but this appears to be an armada headed for San Agustín, which means…”
“The war’s over,” his First Mate replied. “That’s what Frenchie meant.”
Santiago’s heart lurched. “If the British have won, they will lay claim to La Florida, if they haven’t already.”
“The Frenchman didn’t act like a victor. No use going back to La Florida in that case,” Christian said. “Better we make for Cuba.”
Santiago nodded. “Sí. Eventually. Right now, our only chance is to bluff our way through the armada,” he replied, knowing in his heart that, if they survived, he’d return to San Agustín to rescue Valentina.
Valentina lay down her embroidery and came to her feet.
“That’s the reason I prefer we do our sewing indoors,” Manuela complained. “Too many distractions out here on the verandah. And the cloying smell from the flowers. It’s overpowering.”
Valentina toyed with the idea of trying to convince her chaperone of the delights to be found in the wonders around them, but the woman was probably a lost cause, happy in her misery. In any case, she was interested in the French ship that had entered the strait, then dropped anchor instead of coming into port as usual.
“They’ve launched a rowboat,” she told her dueña who simply grunted in reply.
“Looks like just two men are coming ashore, but the ship’s sails are still…”
She startled when the sound of a downstairs door slamming preceded the appearance of her father, shrugging on his coat as he strode hurriedly down the pathway toward the dock, his wig slightly askew. Montserrat padded along in his wake.
Earlier in the day, her papa had hinted at an imminent defeat. She’d had a feeling then there was something he wasn’t telling her. Now she was certain of it.
Gripping the railing, deafened by the pulse in her ears, she watched her father and Montserrat conversing with the men from the ship.
“Get on with your sewing,” Manuela admonished. “You spend too much time worrying about affairs that don’t concern you.”
Anger constricted Valentina’s throat. She picked up the sampler and threw it over the railing. “Silly old woman,” she exclaimed, struggling to control her fear. “We have lost the war.”
Manuela’s astonished gaze was too much. Tears threatened. Valentina looked down into the garden, straight into the eyes of her dear papa.
“Come down quickly, Niña,” he said softly. “You’re leaving on the French ship.”
King George II maintained a steady speed as she approached the oncoming armada. Santiago didn’t worry about the authenticity of his Hudson’s Bay Company flags and pennants. They’d been stolen from a Company ship plundered in English waters by a French privateer, then sold on through various hands before coming into Santiago’s possession. The trade in foreign flags was a brisk one.
His concern was that few HBC ships plied the southern waters on this side of the Atlantic. He decided it was time to make use of another important purchase he’d made when he’d bought the flags. “Get two of the beaver top hats,” he told Christian. “Give one to Robertson.”
“What about the other one?”
“For you. Unless you want to be taken back to Jamaica…in chains.”
A few minutes later, Christian returned, the felt top hat of a gentleman perched jauntily on his tight black curls.
Looking nervous, Robertson took the second hat and jammed it on his head.
“Don’t worry,” Santiago reassured him, hoping his voice didn’t betray his own uncertainty, “I’ll be nearby telling you what to say.”
Most of the English ships gave them a wide berth, the crews gawking at the black man with the top hat.
“With any luck, they’ll consider us too insignificant to…”
“Heave to in the name of His Majesty, King George the Third.”
Santiago’s spirits plummeted. He immediately nodded the command to obey and gripped the rigging as his ship slowed. “A forlorn hope,” he rasped to Robertson.
He looked across the narrow strip of water separating his ship and the ninety cannons protruding from the gun-ports of HMS Blenheim. A single well-aimed shot from just one of those guns would be sufficient to send the Santa María to a watery grave. The unnecessary display of awesome firepower gave him an indication of the kind of enemy he was dealing with. It renewed his hope. “Overkill, wouldn’t you agree?” he muttered.
Chapter Twelve
NARROW ESCAPE
Manuela seemed rooted to the spot, but Valentina had no time to worry about that. She rushed downstairs, almost colliding with her father as he came in the door.
“The captain of the Victoire is prepared to take all our ladies to Cuba,” he began. “Montserrat has gone to get his wife. Where is Manuela?”
She cringed at the memory of her dueña’s stern demeanor during the long voyage from Spain. The prospect of spending more than five minutes aboard ship with the woman and the Raccoon’s hateful wife was too much. “My duty is to remain here with you,” she declared, feeling better once the words were out of her mouth.
He tucked errant strands of thinning hair under his powdered wig. “Please, Querida, the Royal Navy is on its way. It appears our government has ceded La Florida to the British in exchange for the return of La Habana. Demonio! I learn this from a Frenchman and not my own government. They apparently require my signature to make it official. The situation is so confused, I would feel better knowing you were far away from here when they arrive.”
“But I don’t want to go to Cuba without you,” she pleaded.
He took hold of her hands. “I will join you there as soon as I can, God willing.”
She shook her head. It seemed wrong to leave him. The British would not provide transportation to Cuba. They might even imprison him. The chaperone’s heavy footfalls echoed on the wooden stairs. “Manuela can go. I am staying here.” She rolled her eyes when a red-faced Señora Montserrat bustled in with her husband.
“Nonsense,” Ivanna Luna exclaimed. “You’re coming with us.”
The narrow hallway filled with angry voices as everyone began arguing at once.
Valentina had always allowed other people to make decisions for her. It was time to take control of her own life. “Basta! Enough!” Ignoring the trembling in her knees, she fisted her hands in her skirt when stunned silence greeted the loud outburst. “I am staying here,” she repeated.
The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11) Page 5
