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“In case you had not noticed, I would dare a great deal. And unless you would care to have your own sanctity violated—” he slowly withdrew one of the brass inlaid wheel-lock pistols from his belt and set it down on the desk in front of him— “it would be in your best interest if you voluntarily produced him.”

“It is an affront to His Most Catholic Majesty, Defender of the Faith, Suppressor of Heresy, by the Grace of God King of Spain— ”

Dante sighed, anticipating all sixty-five of the King’s titles were about to sprout forth.

He picked up the pistol, cocked the spanner key, and squeezed the serpentine trigger.

The powder in the pan ignited, causing an almost simultaneous explosion as the lead ball was discharged and shot past the captain-general’s shoulder, tearing a harmless stripe through the rich velvet sleeve of his doublet.

The two Spanish officers recoiled from the sound of the exploding shot; the fifth Marquis of Moncada screamed, clutched his shoulder, and promptly fainted.

Dante, waiting until the puff of smoke cleared, swung his long legs off the corner of the desk and leaned forward to peer at the unconscious Spaniard. He cocked an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at Pitt and Beau.

“Damn my soul, but my aim must be off today. I was actually trying for the lamp behind him.”

The two hidalgos turned and gaped at the lamp, easily eight feet to the left of where the captain-general had been standing.

“Gentlemen—” Dante drew their owlish attention back to where he was removing the second pistol from his belt— “would either of you care to assist us in this matter or would you prefer I practice my marksmanship again?”

For a long moment neither of them moved.

Only when Dante thumbed the spanner key did one of the officers stiffen and look straight into the silvered eyes for the first time.

“His Majesty’s niece, Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza, Duchess of Navarre, travels aboard the San Pedro de Marcos under the protection of God and the King of Spain.

To even attempt to desecrate this holy coverture would be a sacrilege against the Heavenly Father and all of mankind. ”

“We have no desire to desecrate anyone,” Dante assured him blandly. “In fact, I am most anxious for you to escort a couple of my men to her quarters now so that they may guarantee her personal safety.” He glanced at Pitt and Lucifer. “Gentlemen?”

Pitt nodded and Lucifer stepped out of the shadows, his scimitars glinting in the dull wash of light.

The Spaniard hesitated, but since his captain-general was still prone on the floor, he had no choice but to lead the two Englishmen out of the cabin.

When they were gone, Dante aimed the barrel of the pistol at the second officer. “We can both save ourselves a great deal of time and energy if you will show me where the captain-general keeps his logs and manifests.”

The young man’s face glistened with sweat, but to his credit he remained rigidly silent. Dante sighed and caressed the brass trigger with his forefinger. It was Beau who reached forward and touched Dante’s arm, murmuring a cautious “Wait.”

She had seen the smallest flicker of movement in the Spaniard’s liquid brown eyes and she followed it now to the pair of cabinets behind her.

Being set against a solid wall they had, for the most part, avoided sustaining the damage suffered by the rest of the cabin.

The squatter of the two cabinets held the goblets and bottles Spit had availed himself of; the taller and more ornately carved had wide arched doors that, when she swung them open, unfolded to present a religious triptych, the central panel depicting a two-foot-tall rendering of Christ on the cross.

A small compartment beneath held gold reliquaries that contained holy artifacts; an altar below that was covered with a cloth woven of fine linen, exquisitely embroidered along the edges and hem with gold silk thread.

Beau was about to dismiss the find and close the arched doors again when her foot scuffed the hem of the altar cloth, scraping on wood beneath.

She parted the edges of linen and turned slightly to throw a grin over her shoulder at Simon Dante.

Hidden by the cloth were two more doors, both securely locked.

Dante returned her grin and addressed the Spaniard again. “I don’t suppose you know where the keys are kept?”

“Keys,” Beau scoffed, and dropped down on one knee. She produced her stiletto and worked the tip in the lock, rewarded a few seconds later by the sound of the catch springing free.

“Have you any other talents I should know about?” Dante asked, lifting his eyebrow.

She met the silver-blue eyes briefly before she turned and opened the two unresisting doors. The chair creaked as Dante leaned forward to look over her shoulder, and she heard him swear in a soft, deep voice.

Inside the cabinet were the leather-bound logs and manifests, a large gold and jewel-encrusted box stamped with the marquis’s family crest, and, not the least of all, multiple stacks of beribboned documents and letters, all bearing official seals meant only to be broken by the hands of King Philip of Spain.

“Voilà, mam’selle,” he murmured. “ Le vrai trésor.”

Beau started to turn, to remind him that Jonas Spence would likely not be talking French, but the chastisement died on her lips when she saw that the Marquis of Moncada had pulled himself to his feet and had already retrieved one of two small pistols he had concealed beneath his breastplate.

He had the gun raised and cocked, the barrel aimed at Dante’s broad back, and it was instinct rather than any sensible thought that made Beau fling herself forward, knocking Dante to one side just as the powder exploded in the firing pan.

The shot barely missed its primary target, streaking past Dante’s ear close enough to startle his gold earring before it struck Beau’s temple and sent her crashing back against the open cabinet door.