Chapter Fourteen
FLIGHT
Valentina wasn’t privy to the discussions her father held with Major Hedges in the Castillo. She paced back and forth, expecting the worst. What would become of her if the British executed her beloved father?
There was no mistaking the exhaustion that lined his face when he returned to the house several hours later. Her knees almost buckled with relief when she saw him. Like most Spaniards of noble birth, they’d never been given to public displays of family affection, but she threw herself at him as he came in the door.
“It’s done,” he said, stroking her back as she sobbed. “I have surrendered the keys to the Castillo and signed the documents. We are now guests of the British government.”
She dried her tears on the hem of the simple muslin frock she’d donned and handed him a tumbler of water, the knot in her stomach tightening. “But surely they don’t intend to make us stay.”
He took off his wig and guzzled the water, then wiped a dusty sleeve across his mouth. She had never seen him look so disheveled, but his reply gave her hope. “I negotiated an agreement that any of the local people who want to go to Cuba will be granted permission.”
He sat heavily in one of the wooden chairs in the dining room. “It was a proviso of the treaty in any case. Hedges evidently expected me to be illiterate,” he muttered derisively.
A multitude of questions still swirled in her mind. “Hundreds will want to go, especially the blacks. Staying here means losing their hard-won freedom. They’ll refuse to board British ships.”
“Hedges won’t provide ships; he’ll allow Spanish vessels from Cuba to be used for the exodus. Apparently, there is a small flotilla already on the way from La Habana. It seems everyone was apprised of developments except me. Is it surprising we lost the war?”
She cupped his tired face in her hands. “I am so very proud of you, Papa.”
He took her hand and kissed her palm. “And I am glad you’re here, Querida. I feel better now I know we’ll be evacuated to Cuba. However, we must all leave from Mosé. Hedges won’t allow Spanish vessels into the harbor. Montserrat has gone into the village to get the migration underway.”
Her heart lurched. Her father had overseen the cutting down of much of the dense forest between San Agustín and Mosé to deter attacks by pro-British natives from Georgia, but it would still be a daunting journey.
Christian chuckled as he and Santiago strode into the fortress at Mosé. “How does it feel now to be in the minority?”
Santiago was aware the stockade was manned by runaway black slaves granted freedom and Spanish citizenship. In return they served in the militia defending La Florida’s northern reaches. However, he had to admit it was an odd feeling to be the only white-skinned person in sight. “I expect you’ll rush to my defense if needs be,” he jested in reply.
Christian laughed. “Only if you promise to give me another beaver hat.”
“De acuerdo,” he agreed, distracted by the frenzied activity going on around them. “Looks like they’ve heard the news.”
“Where’s your commander?” Christian asked a soldier hurrying by.
They proceeded unchallenged in the direction indicated and soon encountered a giant issuing orders to seemingly no one in particular. He glared at them, a hint of panic in his bloodshot eyes. “How many can you take?” he asked gruffly.
It was as if a spell had been cast. A hush fell as every expectant eye turned to Santiago and his first mate, awaiting a response.
“Careful,” Christian murmured.
Santiago played for time. “I am Don Santiago Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada. Your name, señor?” he asked in near-perfect Castilian Spanish.
“Jacobs. How many?”
At least the giant hadn’t recognized his name, but if he came to suspect Santiago’s primary intent was to rescue white diplomats from San Agustín, rather than transport black soldiers, he might commandeer their ship. “Probably a dozen or so,” he replied.
Jacobs immediately began selecting one soldier after another.
Santiago held up a hand. “That will have to wait. I am authorized by the Spanish government to ascertain if the British have abided by the terms of the treaty and agreed to the evacuation of all the citizens of San Agustín.”
“No matter their color,” Christian added solemnly, giving weight to the lie.
Santiago hoped he still looked sufficiently like a Spanish nobleman to convince Jacobs as the man eyed him. He hurried on to stifle any doubts. “What’s the lay of the land to the south?”
Apparently, his tone of voice and Christian’s remark persuaded the black man. “There’s a flotilla en route from Cuba, but they’re forbidden to dock in San Agustín. The trek north is underway.”
Santiago’s hopes rose. “They’re coming here?”
“Hundreds,” Jacobs admitted resignedly.
There was no way of knowing if Valentina would be among the evacuees. It was likely her father had already shipped her off to Cuba. The rational course of action would be to take as many of the Fort Mosé militia as he could and flee south.
But his heart whispered otherwise. “With your permission, Jacobs, we’ll stand by here for a day or two.”
“Offshore,” he added under his breath.
Mosé was a scant five miles from San Agustín, but Valentina feared for Alessandro. The elderly gardener might not survive the trek through the treacherous, snake-infested wasteland of scrub. Jagged tree stumps lurked beneath the greedy undergrowth already reasserting its claim on the land.
She didn’t know his precise age, but he’d been born in La Florida and was now being forced to leave behind everything he’d ever known. His pride had led him to refuse her offer of a ride. She slowed her horse’s pace to keep an eye on him as he trudged along with other villagers to an uncertain future.
Before leaving the village, they’d stood together in the tiny cemetery and shared a bouquet of blooms from his garden. He’d lain his atop the grave of his wife and two of his children; Valentina’s had wilted in her grip as she knelt by her mother’s grave, unable to stem the tears.
Her father rode at the head of the exodus, Montserrat at his side. Strangely, she felt she belonged in the midst of the desperate throng.
There were few trees left to offer shade from the merciless sun. Swarms of mosquitoes came in waves, then blessedly disappeared to be replaced by horseflies. The hours dragged by; people who fell by the wayside were either helped back to their feet by friends and relatives, or mourned where they dropped.
Letting her horse pick his own way through the dangerous terrain, Valentina drifted into a dream world. She was safe in Santiago’s arms, sifting her fingers through his thick hair, staring into his brown eyes, taking comfort from his deep voice reassuring her all would be well.
A wail jolted her back to reality. She slid from the horse when she saw Alessandro lying on the ground. His neighbors moved way as she knelt beside him and took his bony hand. “You can make it. We’ll get you on the horse,” she promised.
He shook his head. “Leave me, chica. I want to die in my homeland.”
His breathing became labored, then quickly deteriorated to an eerie rattle. She choked on a sob when the rattle ceased, and he whispered, “Bloom where you’re planted, Valentina.”
Someone must have helped her rise as his life ebbed away. Next thing she knew she was back on her horse, still on the march to Hell.
She tried to resurrect the happy dream, but it was useless. The pirate captain was either at the bottom of the sea or he’d made good his escape to Cuba.
Chapter Fifteen
ALMOST THERE
Stripped to the waist in the infernal heat, Santiago paced the deck, aware of Christian’s eyes on him. They’d pulled further offshore to deter any thoughts Jacobs might be entertaining about commandeering the ship. The stockade had a couple of ancient cannon, but he doubted the giant would open fire on a vessel that was so far the onl
y means of escape.
He scanned the horizon.
“No sign of them yet,” Christian reassured, “and Xiang will let us know the moment he sees them.”
Santiago put away his telescope, irritated he seemed unable to get Valentina out of his head. What’s more, his first mate was annoyingly aware of it.
He took out the telescope again and scanned the coastline to San Agustín.
Nothing.
“Shall we dispense with these HBC flags and hoist the Spanish colors?” Christian asked.
Santiago clenched his jaw. As captain he should have been the one to consider the dangers of flying the British flags when the Spanish flotilla arrived from Cuba. “Sí, and change the nameplate, of course.” As his first mate hurried off, he shouted, “And get yourself another beaver hat.”
Christian paused and saluted, grinning broadly, before disappearing below.
Santiago took off his own hat, mopped his brow, and put the tricorn back on. He almost hoped Valentina had been evacuated to Cuba. He couldn’t bear the thought of her trekking through the exposed wastelands to the south in weather that was hotter than Hades.
He cursed himself for a fool. She’d probably forgotten all about him—if she’d even noticed him in the first place. Sometimes, he was so full of his own…
“Sheeps,” Xiang yelled, “Flendly.”
Ignoring the pulse beating in his ears, Santiago focused his telescope. At least a dozen smaller ships, all flying Spanish colors, were approaching from the south, escorted by two British warships. “Get those flags changed,” he shouted to Christian who’d just emerged back on deck.
The resulting flurry of activity only increased his agitation. The rescue ships had arrived, but where were the evacuees?
The somber mood lifted a little when the marchers became aware of the flotilla of ships sailing up the coast. They’d trudged in silence for a long while, but suddenly excited chatter filled the air as the unlikely promise of escape now seemed a reality. The rescue vessels flew Spanish colors and the British ships were apparently acting as escort and not in pursuit.
For Valentina, the flags of her homeland brought bittersweet memories. Little had she known that her rigidly controlled life in Madrid would be thrown into such turmoil.
Her father’s appointment as Governor of La Florida had seemed like an enormous honor, though her mother hadn’t thought so. Perhaps he had been selected for the prestigious office because the government had known he was the right man to salvage what he could if Spain lost the war. A strong man. King Carlos must have foreseen Britain would lay claim to La Florida. Her father must have known it too.
The tumultuous events of the past days had thrown her off balance. How else to explain the constant preoccupation with a man she’d met only once and who was totally unsuitable for her. A pirate!
Thirst and sunstroke had addled her wits.
But sorrow made it difficult to breathe when she thought of never seeing Santiago Velázquez again.
Faint shouts barely penetrated the fog of despair.
Mosé! Mosé!
The stockade loomed not far away. They had made it. The ships had come to take them to Cuba.
She straightened her shoulders. A new life awaited. A proud Spaniard of noble birth, she resolved to fulfill Alessandro’s admonition. She would bloom where she was planted.
“Peepoh,” Xiang shouted. “Many peepoh.”
Santiago swiveled the telescope to the land, filled with an urge to laugh out loud when he clearly made out Melchor riding at the head of the refugees. He scanned the crowd around the governor, his hope dwindling when he failed to find Valentina. “As I suspected, she’s already fled to Cuba,” he told Christian.
His first mate grabbed the telescope. “I was sure she’d be among them,” he declared, tilting back the top hat. “Let me see.”
His friend had obviously been as anxious as Santiago. It would be amusing if it weren’t so disappointing. He’d been certain, but perhaps it wasn’t meant to be.
“There she is,” Christian declared, handing back the telescope. “Towards the rear.”
Heart racing, Santiago refocused, his eyes eventually coming to rest on the woman he sought. She looked hot and tired, but she rode with dignity, her spine straight, shoulders squared. “I knew she would refuse to abandon her father,” he shouted, thumping the ship’s rail with his fist. “Into the skiff.”
“Take care,” Christian advised as they climbed over the side. “We don’t want to get on the wrong side of Jacobs.”
Santiago was in too much of a hurry to worry about Jacobs and didn’t have the patience to wait for Xiang to climb down from the topmast. He took up the oars and began rowing like a man possessed.
“You might at least have donned your captain’s jacket to greet the lady,” Christian scolded.
Santiago paused in his rowing and looked down at his sweaty body. “Madre de Dios,” he exclaimed. “I cannot let her see me like this.”
His first mate shrugged. “It will be an interesting test of whether she’s as besotted with you as you are with her. My guess is she’ll be overjoyed to see a friendly face after the trek from San Agustín.”
Santiago resumed rowing, recognizing the merit in his crewman’s words. He refrained from mentioning that his face wasn’t the only part of his body eager to offer Valentina a warm welcome.
Chapter Sixteen
ALCHEMY
Valentina’s father and Montserrat dismounted, then hurried into the stockade with a tall, black man. Excited people milled around her: blacks, whites, mulattos, men, women and children. Some she recognized, others she’d never seen before. Some lugged huge bundles of belongings on their backs. Most carried nothing. Like a slow-moving tide, all drifted towards the sea and the ships docking in the bay.
The noise and confusion added to her dizziness. She gripped the reins, reluctant to dismount.
She became aware of someone speaking her name.
“Valentina, Valentina.”
She narrowed her eyes, trying to concentrate. A smiling man held the bridle, his free hand extended. He’d come to help her dismount, but he was stripped to the waist and sweaty. It was tempting to allow those strong arms to lift her…except Manuela would be appalled.
Swallowing hard, she peered through the blurry fog of exhaustion. Dragging her gaze from his broad chest to his face, she noticed something intriguing about his brown eyes. And the tricorn. It reminded her of…
Elation surged. “Santi,” she exclaimed, sliding off the horse into the warmth of his welcoming arms.
Santiago prided himself on his sang-froid, never allowing his emotions to be on display. It had helped him survive.
Valentina’s reaction took him completely by surprise, and was more than he could have hoped for.
He had never allowed anyone but close family to address him in such an informal manner, now the nickname was music to his ears. He wanted to hear her growl Santi, Santi, over and over when he claimed her.
He held her tightly as she sobbed, her tears cool on his overheated skin. Stroking her hair, he cooed words of endearment he’d never spoken to a woman before. “Hush, Cariña. You’re safe now, my darling girl. I have you.”
It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d had a woman in his embrace. Usually, though, he’d been impeccably dressed—or completely naked. In either circumstance, cleanliness had been the watchword. Now he was sweating and not very sweet-smelling.
Valentina didn’t seem to mind, any more than he cared about her disheveled, dusty state. Indeed, their obvious need for each other was spontaneous and exhilarating. Dress, appearance, dignified behavior—all things of utmost importance to the Spanish nobility—were as nothing compared to the comfort and support they found in each other’s arms.
She poured out her loss, barely able to speak for the sobs that racked her. The prospect of exile he understood, though he wouldn’t speak of his own unjust banishment…yet. He knew all about leaving behin
d everything he’d ever known to face a new life in foreign climes. He didn’t know who Alessandro was, but it grieved him the man’s death had affected her so deeply.
She arched her back, pressing her breasts to his chest, but he doubted she fully appreciated her body’s natural instinct to join with his. His cock understood all too well and responded fiercely. He risked pulling her to his arousal, elated when she ground her hips against him. His little Valentina was a woman of hidden passion.
When the sobbing ceased, she inhaled deeply and lifted her chin. “I had abandoned hope.”
The fragile sincerity in her tear-filled amethyst eyes humbled him. This beautiful, sophisticated woman had pined for him, exiled criminal that he was. He had an urge to strut like a rooster, but at this moment she didn’t need the arrogant Santiago Velázquez. She needed a man who could give her tenderness, compassion…love.
He’d been fond of many of the women he’d known. Love had never kicked him in the gut before and he’d be a fool to deny the incredible gift. “I was afraid I would never see you again,” he rasped.
Valentina was beginning to fear Santiago must think her a childish nitwit, throwing herself at a grown man, causing a spectacle of them both, but his words sent tiny winged creatures fluttering in her belly. Had he meant them? “You thought of me?”
He tucked an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “I have thought of little else since we met, mi amor. You’re in my blood.”
She’d occasionally caught a glimpse of sailors in the harbor stripped to the waist, but had never been so close to a man in such a state of undress. The sincerity in his gaze gave her courage. She flared her nostrils and flattened her palms on his bare chest, shocking even herself. She felt the strength of chiseled muscles, the dampness of dark hair. “You’re a work of art,” she whispered, wishing she was brazen enough to brush her thumbs over his male nipples, touch her tongue to his glistening skin.
The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11) Page 7
