“I don’t want to return to England,” he replied, “but what’s to become of me in Cuba?”
“I can always use loyal men,” Santiago said.
The lad’s eyes widened. “I ain’t no pirate.”
Santiago chuckled. “Who said anything about becoming a pirate? I plan to establish a shipping company in La Habana, and I’ll need crewmen who love the sea.”
The youth hesitated, his eyes darting from Santiago to Melchor and back. “I don’t habla the español,” he mumbled.
Melchor laughed. “I’m sure my daughter would love to teach you.”
Collins frowned. “Why would she bother with the likes of me?”
“Because you saved her life, for which we are eternally grateful,” Santiago replied. “And because she cares what happens to you.”
Collins swallowed hard as he looked up at Valentina still standing on the fore-deck and began to shrug off his jacket. “If she teaches me, I can look after her pig in return.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
LA HABANA
Despite the correct Spanish flags flying from the appropriate masts, the Santa María was challenged as she approached the narrow inlet leading to La Habana’s harbor. Santiago had forewarned Valentina this would happen, but she nevertheless looked anxious as the Spanish marines boarded the ship.
“What if they discover the chest?” she asked.
“They won’t,” her father replied, squaring his shoulders to confront the boarding officer before the man could open his mouth. “I am Don Felíx Melchor, most recently Governor of La Florida. We were delayed by the hurricane. I wish to speak at the earliest opportunity with Governor de Funes.”
Valentina breathed more easily when the marine gaped open-mouthed, then stood to attention and bowed hastily. “A thousand pardons, Your Excellency. Capitán Gregor at your service. We are overly cautious given…”
“Sí, sí,” Melchor interrupted with a dismissive wave. “Commendable.”
Gregor’s face reddened as he scanned the decks and the crew. “We have reports this is a pirate ship.”
Her father scowled. “Do I look like a pirate?”
Santiago coughed and studied his feet, afraid if his eyes met Valentina’s he might laugh out loud. Melchor did look more like a windblown pirate than a gentleman and was fully aware they carried gold plundered from unwary ships.
The color drained from the officer’s face. He bowed again, then barked orders for his men to pull back the heavy copper chain blocking the entrance to the harbor.
“Well done, sir,” Santiago said quietly to Valentina’s father.
Melchor shrugged and put an arm around his daughter’s shoulders. “We’ve undergone enough difficulties without having to deal with officious marines. If they’d done their job, La Habana would never have fallen. Anyway, enough of that. What’s done is done and we should pay attention to the impressive fortress we are passing. Looks like there’s been extensive damage.”
“Morro Castle,” Gregor replied, having apparently overheard. “Castillo de los Tres Reyes, named for the Three Kings. There used to be a watchtower, destroyed during the British siege.
“They also mined one of its bastions. The main reason the city fell,” he asserted. “Governor de Funes is planning to build a better fortress along the channel, the Forteleza de la Cabaña, so no such thing can happen again.”
Once the chain had been removed, the Santa María sailed on to dock in the harbor where repairs were underway on several damaged vessels. It appeared Cuba’s north coast hadn’t been left unscathed by the storm.
Gregor bowed again and offered to lead Melchor’s way to the Governor’s residence in the Castillo de la Real Fuerza, apologizing profusely that a carriage would normally be made available but the storm had rendered the streets impassable.
“My daughter and her betrothed will accompany me,” Melchor stated bluntly.
Gregor eyed Santiago, clearly surprised a man he evidently considered a lowly sea captain was affianced to a governor’s daughter.
Valentina’s eyes widened as she smiled at Santiago.
Melchor’s apparent acceptance of their desire to wed bolstered Santiago’s determination to provide his bride with a comfortable life in Cuba.
He assisted Valentina along the coastal road littered with broken branches and debris, until they eventually arrived at the star-fort.
Gregor pointed to the top of the central watchtower. “La Giraldilla,” he announced.
Valentina and her father frowned, clearly not understanding.
Santiago explained before Gregor had the chance. “He’s referring to the statue of the woman on top of the watchtower. See?”
Valentina nodded. “Who is she?”
“It’s said to represent the wife of the famous explorer Hernando de Soto,” Gregor said with a smug smile. “She kept watch for her husband’s return from La Florida, not knowing he had died.”
“How sad,” Valentina whispered, snuggling closer to Santiago who decided this was the moment to impart a piece of knowledge Gregor was most likely completely unaware of. “The statue is called La Giraldilla because it’s fashioned after the one atop the famous La Giralda tower.”
“In Sevilla,” Valentina exclaimed. “Your birthplace.”
Santiago laughed, elated she had remembered something of his history.
Gregor scowled as they entered a low, arched tunnel. “When we reach the end, you must wait. I will inquire if His Excellency can see you.”
“He’ll see us,” Melchor replied.
La Habana wasn’t at her best after the hurricane, yet a sense of homecoming washed over Valentina. The capital was bigger and noisier than San Agustín, but it had the same tropical ambience.
She hoped Santiago’s pleasure in explaining the statue of La Giraldilla was a good omen. “Do you get homesick for Sevilla?” she asked while they waited in the anteroom at the end of the tunnel.
“Never,” he replied quickly, “though I regret being isolated from my brothers and sisters.”
Before she could reply, a nearby door burst open and a portly gentleman bustled out. “Felíx,” he exclaimed, rushing to embrace her father.
“Ambrosio,” he replied. “Good to see you, old friend.”
“We’ve been worried. Señora de Montserrat told us you’d stayed behind to organize the evacuation, but you didn’t arrive on any of the ships we sent.”
“It’s a long story, amigo mío, but first permit me to introduce my daughter, Valentina, and her betrothed, Capitán Santiago Velázquez.”
The governor brushed a kiss on Valentina’s knuckles. “Encantado, señorita,” he gushed. “You were but a babe-in-arms the last time I saw you.”
He frowned as he turned his attention to Santiago. “Surely not the notorious pirate captain?”
“No,” Melchor replied quickly, calming Valentina’s nervousness. “A member of the famous shipping family from Sevilla.”
De Funes arched a brow. “The Velázquez trading company whose vessels bring us goods from España and sail away with our exports?”
“The same,” Santiago confirmed.
The governor clamped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome indeed. And you’re just in time to meet another member of your family. Emilio Velázquez arrived recently to help re-establish the trade routes disrupted by the British. A cousin perhaps?”
Valentina worried when Santiago’s smile disappeared.
Emilio!
Here in La Habana?
Santiago’s heart careened around his ribcage. An urge welled up inside. He must find his little brother, wrap his arms around him and squeeze the life out of him. But…
“Your brother?” Valentina asked.
“Sí,” he replied, his thoughts in turmoil.
“You must find him at once,” she said with a happy smile.
Santiago hesitated. “He might not be glad to see me.”
“Why not?” De Funes asked as he ushered them into his
office.
Once again, Melchor came to his rescue. “Never mind that now. There are more important matters to discuss, including why our government didn’t notify me of the treaty ceding La Florida to Britain.”
De Funes gaped. “But I sent an envoy from Madrid with an official notification weeks ago, as soon as I received word of my appointment. The missive was handed directly to your Vice-governor. The envoy assured me of it when I arrived here to accept the British handover.”
“Therein lies the answer,” Melchor replied. “Montserrat has been acting as an agent of the British crown, apparently believing he was furthering the cause of Catalonian independence. He did not pass the message on to me.”
“Then he must be brought to justice,” the governor declared.
“He’s dead,” Santiago informed him. “He tried to flee to Jamaica. His ship was wrecked in the hurricane. He didn’t survive.”
Gratitude shone in Melchor’s eyes. No one must ever know Valentina had spent time unchaperoned aboard HMS Lively.
“Oh dear, Ivanna Luna will be distraught at the news.”
Santiago thought the governor’s sympathies should have been directed to Valentina. It was interesting that Montserrat’s wife and Ambrosio de Funes were apparently on a first name basis.
“I’ll inform Señora Montserrat of her husband’s demise, and his treachery against her and his country,” Melchor insisted.
“Sí, sí,” de Funes replied absently.
Valentina leaned close to Santiago’s ear. “I get the feeling Ivanna Luna will know of it before my father has a chance to tell her,” she whispered.
The governor rang a small handbell on his desk. “My vice-governor will escort you and your daughter to our guest chambers and provide whatever you need, Felíx. I am hosting a reception this evening and there’ll be time enough to continue our discussions. It will be your chance to reunite with your brother, Capitán Velázquez.”
Santiago was relieved he wasn’t expected to remain in the castillo. He needed time aboard the Santa María to think on what he would say to the brother who had inherited what should have been his birthright.
He brushed a kiss on Valentina’s knuckles, bowed to his host and took his leave.
Chapter Thirty
RECEPTION
Valentina soaked in the blessedly hot water a servant had poured into an impressive cast iron tub, listening to Clara chatter as she washed her hair. Preoccupied with the news Emilio was in La Habana, she wasn’t really paying attention.
Santiago had confided the whole story of his flight from Spain and she knew how much his family meant to him. Hopefully, Emilio would be glad to see his older brother.
“I have no siblings,” she muttered out loud without realizing it.
“Qué?” Clara asked.
She improvised. “I was only thinking how much I am looking forward to meeting Señor Velázquez.”
“And Señora Manuela will be glad to see you again. She has fretted about you since her arrival.”
Valentina felt guilty. She ought to have sought out her dueña sooner, but there would no doubt be an argument regarding Santiago.
Clara helped rub her body dry.
It felt good to be clean again and she brightened further at the sight of several gowns and new undergarments laid out on the bed. “Where did these come from?”
Clara shrugged. “The British governor’s wife had all kinds of clothing made, but she hardly wore any of it—complained it was too Spanish. Hah!”
Valentina allowed Clara to assist her with the undergarments and chose a red silk gown for the evening, anticipating Santiago’s reaction.
Clara fastened the buttons and cinched the fabric in at the waist. “Just a little too big. I’ll fix that quickly.”
They both startled when Manuela burst into the chamber.
Valentina smiled and opened her arms.
“You can’t wear that,” her dueña declared. “It’s much too low in the front. And red!”
Clara laughed, earning a scowl from Manuela, who ordered her out of the chamber.
“I’m happy to see you too,” Valentina said, aware of a shift in her relationship with the older woman. She no longer needed a chaperone to take care of her. She had Santiago. “But Clara stays. She’s going to sew my gown.”
Manuela huffed, but didn’t argue. It was as if she too sensed things had changed. “Your father tells me you’re to be married,” she said after long, silent minutes. “You won’t need a dueña any longer.”
“No, but I know you care about me. I’ll always appreciate your advice, especially as we begin a new life in Cuba. We’ll bloom together where God has planted us.”
Manuela almost allowed a smile to flit across her face, and her body relaxed visibly. “Fanciful notion,” she remarked, coming closer to inspect Clara’s stitches.
Valentina chuckled inwardly. Alessandro would have deemed Manuela’s predictable reaction amusing.
Santiago recalled the last time his first mate had watched him inspect the fit of his finest coat in front of this selfsame mirror.
“No feather on this occasion?” Christian quipped.
Santiago smirked. “My goal isn’t to attract attention.”
“Perhaps a top hat?”
“No, definitely not. Too British. How do I look?”
“Like a man about to meet a long-lost brother, but unsure of his reception.”
“Not to mention being denounced by any number of people present as a pirate.”
“Señora Montserrat?”
“Having received word her husband is dead, she should go into deep mourning, but she might be vindictive enough to attend in order to destroy Valentina’s happiness.”
“The dueña?”
Santiago rolled his eyes. “Perhaps it would be better if I don’t go.”
“I never took you for a coward, my friend.”
Christian was right. Emilio would wonder about his absence if he failed to appear. There might never be another chance to reunite with his brother. He wanted his family to meet Valentina. He shouldn’t leave her to face the first social gathering of their new life alone. He and his intended bride belonged among the nobility.
He straightened the tricorn, toying with the idea of adding the feather for courage. He decided against it when his grinning friend shook his head. “Wish me luck.”
“I look forward to hearing all about it,” Christian replied.
Santiago made his way from his cabin to the dock, where he encountered the marines who’d escorted him from the castillo. Their wide-eyed surprise assured him he’d successfully transformed from a travel-worn sea-dog to an impeccably dressed nobleman.
Christian and the rest of the crew had expressed no concerns about what would happen to them in Cuba. Exposure to possible arrest in La Habana was an enormous risk. They trusted him to make the right decisions that would result in a new beginning, not only for himself, but for them.
He prayed silently that he would be equal to the task.
As they stood in line outside the reception hall, waiting to be announced, Manuela fussed and clucked about the red dress.
Valentina didn’t care, preoccupied that Santiago hadn’t yet appeared.
However, she was elated when her father said, “Calmate, Manuela. Be proud that your little Valentina has grown into a beautiful young woman.”
She almost laughed out loud at her dueña’s open-mouthed astonishment when he added, “Perhaps it’s time you abandoned your widow’s weeds and wore brighter colors.”
Manuela’s spluttering retort was cut short when her father handed his card to the footman and they were announced.
“His Excellency Don Felíx Melchor de Alcobendas y Guadarrama, by the grace of His Sacred Majesty King Carlos, Governor of La Florida,” the bewigged footman intoned. “Lady Valentina Melchor de Alcobendas y Guadarrama, and Señora Manuela Campo.”
The loud chatter in the crowded hall ceased as every head turned to the ent
ryway. Valentina held her breath, determined to enter with head held high. If these Cuban Spaniards decided to censure her father for the loss of La Florida, she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of appearing cowed.
She breathed again when the applause began and soon grew to a crescendo.
Ambrosio took her father’s elbow and introduced him to a flock of men clamoring to shake his hand.
Feeling somewhat abandoned, Valentina scanned the hall, amused by the errant thought that Santiago’s feather wouldn’t be long enough to tickle the high vaulted ceiling. She peered into alcoves for a glimpse of a man who bore any resemblance to Santiago. But what would she say if she came face to face with Emilio Velázquez?
Hello, I’m madly in love with your brother and I hope he arrives soon.
She was grateful when Manuela linked arms with her. “Come, we must present ourselves to the ladies.”
Her heart did a strange flutter as they approached the bevy of noblewomen, all fanning their faces in a leisurely manner totally unlike Ivanna Luna’s affected antics. For a moment, she was transported back to the suffocatingly strict code of court life in Madrid. The widows were easily identifiable, clad from head to toe in black; the other women wore subdued colors. Some gaped in amazement at her red gown. It appeared the less formal atmosphere of the tropics hadn’t yet touched the female members of the Cuban gentry.
She supposed she shouldn’t be overly judgmental. These ladies had persevered through two years of British occupation, a notion that resurrected unpleasant memories of Maitland.
If things were the same here as in Spain, her reception into Cuban society would depend on the actions of the dominant female—the leader of the pack.
It came as an enormous relief when a smiling young woman stepped forward to greet her with a kiss on each cheek. “Welcome, Lady Valentina,” she said. “I am Lady Elena de Funes, Governor Ambrosio’s daughter.”
The Marauder (Pirates of Britannia Book 11) Page 13
