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G eoffrey Pitt did not hear the first shot, nor the second.

He and Lucifer had descended through five of the six levels of cabins contained in the massive after-castle of the galleon.

Each level boasted cabins as lavish and ornate as suited the wealthy young hidalgos whose privilege it was to serve aboard the San Pedro.

With few exceptions most of those on the upper three tiers were in ruin, for the gilded stern rails and glittering array of gallery windows had been hotly contested by the Egret’s gunners.

Panes from the stained-glass lights lay in shards on the floor; the contents of bookcases, shelves, cabinets, and chests were strewn as far as the corridors.

Furniture was broken, curtains and tapestries blown off the walls and windows.

Here and there, fresh stains on the planking indicated someone had been unfortunate enough to have been standing in the way of flying glass.

Shattered though it all was, the opulence was staggering.

Furnishings were upholstered in embroidered brocades.

Thick wool carpets covered the floors, and scores of solid silver sconces and candelabra provided the light in the companionways and on the tables.

On one level a massive dining table stretched from one side of the ship to the other, laid in fine white linen and, to judge by the debris scattered beneath it, set with solid gold plate in anticipation of a meal.

On another, situated low enough in the hull to have avoided heavy damage, the cabins were decorated by an obviously feminine hand; furnishings were delicate and frilled with satin ruffs, the bed was an ornate four poster draped in tiers of fine netting that made it seem to be suspended in a frothy white cloud.

Geoffrey Pitt, observing all this as he followed in the wake of the Spanish officer, approached the last cabin on the tier and stepped around a door that had been knocked off its hinges.

The quarters had been transformed into a salon as elaborate and comfortable as any in a grand palace.

He had to duck his head to clear the lintel, and when he straightened, he saw the four occupants of the salon huddled together against the far wall.

The Spaniard stopped short as well. His eyes jumped from one pale, shocked face to the next, their accusing stares, combined with his own mortification over the purpose of his visit, causing him to blanche the color of ashes.

One of the women was clearly the matron.

She was older and stouter than the rest, with a face as harsh as a winter wind and a forthright bosom that protruded like the prow of a ship.

She boasted a comely moustache for a woman and in moments of high tension—like this one—it glistened with dewy droplets of sweat.

Two others were dressed similarly in modestly high-necked bodices and skirts that were rich enough to suit their exalted stations as companions to the King’s niece.

The fourth member of the group was situated protectively to the rear, her wide, startlingly blue eyes focused on the men who stood in the doorway.

Pitt, the son of a common foundry worker, had not an ounce of aristocratic blood—however diluted through past generations of droit du seigneur—flowing through his veins.

His adventures and close friendship with Dante de Tourville had almost allowed him to forget his past as an ironmonger’s son who always stank of metal filings and sweat, and he had worked hard to adopt the manners of his betters.

He had learned to read and write, to use his wit and quick intelligence to talk, charm, bluff his way out of almost any situation.

But there were times nothing could keep him from feeling like a coal-blackened urchin born alongside the barrel of a cannon—and this was one of them.

Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza was simply the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

She was as petite and fragile as the first buds of spring.

Her hair was dark, not quite black, not quite brown; her face was heart shaped and pale as cream, the skin so delicate and smooth as to be all but translucent.

Her eyes were like pieces of the sky, large and wide and solemn, and started a sliding sensation in his chest and belly that had nothing to do with the motion of the ship.

The blue of her eyes was perfectly matched in her gown, cut with a low, square neckline that showed just a hint of the rose-dust silk chemise beneath.

Already exquisitely tiny, her waist was further reduced to nothing by the sweepingly deep V of the bodice where it met the exaggerated flare of the farthingale.

From her shoulders descended a conch, a sheer, gauzelike veil of such fine material, it was all but invisible.

Nervousness had made her gather the edges of the floor-length veil around her shoulders and hold them like a shield over the tender young half moons of her breasts.

Her hands shook so badly, the tremors caused the transparent fabric to shimmer and quake.

The Spaniard seemed to find his tongue and bowed stiffly, offering his most abject apologies for disturbing them in so brusque a fashion.

The English dogs, he added in rapidly whispered Spanish, had already shot the most revered Don Alonzo de Moncada and he was certain they would have no scruples shooting any or all of them, despite assurances given that no harm would befall the royal ward.

“Why has he come here?” the younger of the two maids snarled. “What does he want?”

The second one, with her brown eyes glittering speculatively, took a long, slow perusal of Pitt’s broad shoulders and lean waist. She was as petite as the duchess, with a face that could have launched a thousand ships—in the opposite direction.

Her shrewish, harpy features became even more pinched as she stared boldly at the bulge of Pitt’s codpiece and whispered something in the duchess’s ear.

Whatever the confidence, it made Dona Maria turn as pale as her veil. The first maid, whose eyes and mouth grew rounded and wet, stared at her more worldly-wise companion in horror.

“It is true, you innocent turd,” the latter whispered haughtily. “It is what these English dogs do and what they expect you to do to them in return.”

Having overheard the waiting-woman’s crude observation, the bulwark-breasted duenna flared her nostrils and flew across the room, her wide skirts belling behind her, and planted herself in front of Pitt.

“How dare you vilify the air with your presence here! Who are you to threaten the welfare of Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza, Duchess of Navarre?”

“My name is Geoffrey Pitt. Our ship is the Egret , her master is Captain Jonas Spence. I assure you we pose no threat to anyone’s welfare.”

The duenna knotted her fist and thrust a sausage-like finger under Pitt’s nose. “You attacked our ship! You shot and killed our captain-general! You barge uninvited into my little quail’s chamber and stand there panting and sweating like a stallion eager to rut … yet you say you pose no threat!”

Pitt looked down at the angry duenna with some surprise. “You are English?”

The bosom lifted and heaved proudly forward.

“To my eternal shame at this moment, yes. I am indeed English. I am also Catholic and have vowed never to return to that heretic country until the legitimate queen and heir, Mary Stuart, is released from prison and restored to her rightful place on the throne!”

Pitt frowned. “Since she has already been in prison nineteen years, you may have a long wait.”

“Blasphemer! Heretic! Murderer! Pirate!”

Pitt offered a wry smile and repeated his captain’s words.

“The San Pedro fired the first shot, it therefore attacked us. As to the charge of murder, your vaunted captain-general fainted without suffering so much as a scratch to his person. If I have shattered royal protocol by not knocking on a door that is no longer there … I do offer my humblest apologies, but”—he looked over the duenna’s head and, trying to temper the fear shining in the duchess’s eyes, in her own language added, “I swear on my honor and on my life, we have no intentions of ravaging anyone. My captain has dispatched me to offer his personal protection, and to this I add my own blood oath that no harm, however slight, will come to Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza.”

The duchess held his gaze a moment and blushed so beautifully and so noticeably, the harpy took her scoldingly by the shoulder and turned her around.

“Indeed.” The duenna snorted derisively. “Why should we believe you?”

Pitt’s green eyes descended again, “You don’t have to, of course, but you might find the alternatives somewhat less appealing. ”

Something, a twinkle in Pitt’s eyes or a faint movement in the shadowy corridor behind him, drew the duenna’s attention to where Lucifer stood, the expanse of his gleaming, bulging black torso and limbs broken only by the scanty width of his loincloth and the twin scimitars tucked into the folds.

Her jaw sagged and she sucked in such a horrified mouthful of air, the shock of it sent her eyes rolling back in her head and her body teetering on her heels.

Pitt managed to catch her before she slumped to the floor and was in the act of passing half the burden onto the Spanish officer when Billy Cuthbert skidded to a breathless halt outside the door.

“Spit says you’re to go back to the great cabin, sir!” he gasped at Pitt. “There have been shots fired and the captain’s dead!”

Pitt’s response was delayed a split second before he shoved the duenna into the Spaniard’s hands.

He shouted at Billy and Lucifer to stay where they were, to let no one in or out of the cabin until he returned.

He drew his pistol and raced out into the companionway, taking the steps topside two at time.