Page 40

T he Egret made good time on her journey north.

She managed to avoid notice most of the time; sails were spotted twice on the horizon, too far to do more than identify one suit as belonging to a Frenchman, the other English.

Neither paid the Egret more attention than it took to read her silhouette and dismiss her as being of little importance.

Spence was fully mobile again. Thomas Moone carved him a new limb, though not as elaborate as the last with its shaped calf and solid foot. A stout peg was the best he could do, he declared, until they reached England and found a good, solid piece of Norfolk pine.

Carrying forty extra crewmen, the quarters on board were cramped and free space extremely limited.

Privacy, normally only a word thrown out in jest at the best of times, was nonexistent.

The men ate, slept, and tended to their bodily functions in groups, sometimes crowds, and if not for the weight of the gold and treasure in the Egret’s holds, tempers would likely have flared along with the squalls that blew with seasonal frequency.

One in particular, striking on the tenth day of April, had strong enough teeth to rip the mainsail and send a yard slamming into the back of a sailor’s skull, splitting it open like a melon.

On clear days the men still gathered on the gundeck and swapped stories.

Once in a while Spence would join them, but conspicuous by his absence was Dante de Tourville.

He spent most of the daylight hours poring over the salvaged letters and documents from the Spanish ship, searching for the key to the King’s code.

They were all translated to the best of his abilities but if there was a key, he could not find it.

Spit McCutcheon’s limited knowledge of Spanish proved to be just that.

He knew how to ask a whore the price of a tup and how to barter for food and ale, but the refined Castilian spoken and written by the King and his governors left the quartermaster scratching his spiky gray stubble and scowling over the plague of the nobility.

Lucifer’s rib, with or without the chicken foot, appeared to heal with miraculous speed.

He was the only one who commanded a wide private space at least once each day while he practiced with his twin scimitars.

The men would fan well back or swarm like ants into the shrouds and rigging, hanging by hooked arms and legs while they watched the enormous black man move gracefully around his cleared circle of deck, blades flashing and slashing at invisible foes.

After a few days of watching, one brave lad ventured into the circle, his new Spanish cutlass glinting dully in the sunlight.

Lucifer’s eyes narrowed warily for as long as it took the man to wipe the sweat off his palms and challenge the Cimaroon to a friendly match.

The men who had put their mate up to it called out their wagers, and soon it looked as if there might be a new afternoon diversion.

The unfortunate challenger had no hope of putting his blade anywhere near Lucifer and the Cimaroon became so frustrated himself at the boy’s ineptness, he started giving him instructions.

From then on, at various times of the day, Lucifer’s gleaming ebony body could be seen leading a dozen or so men at a time through the intricate steps and arm movements that made him seem so invincible.

Different groups drilled on the heavy guns.

Geoffrey Pitt and Dante supervised these exercises until McCutcheon became almost as proficient, whereupon the task of honing the crew fell on his willing shoulders.

As for Beau, she became as wily as Clarence the cat at avoiding Simon Dante.

Whenever he was on deck, she managed to be elsewhere, and after the first few days he did not even trouble himself to look for her.

The only times she could not make herself entirely invisible were those when Spence insisted on having everyone present for an evening meal.

Then she would seat herself at the opposite end of the long trestle table, uncomfortably trying to ignore the hot and cold flushes that skittered along her spine each time Dante spoke or laughed, or just raked back his hair with impatient fingers.

These were the same scarce times when Pitt and the Duchess of Navarre could sit in relatively close proximity without the bulk of the duenna intruding.

These, too, were the times when Mistress Agnes Frosthip, who had started out guarding her charge with the tenacity of a fighting cock, seemed less concerned at the glances the pair exchanged than she was at the frequency with which her wine goblet was filled.

As the days and leagues were swept swiftly behind them and it became clear that neither the burly captain nor the crew had any ruinous intentions toward her little lamb, the duenna even appeared to mellow somewhat, and to preen her moustache into a smile whenever Jonas Spence offered up an amusing anecdote.

Geoffrey Pitt was, as Dante predicted, quite hopelessly taken by the petite duchess.

His eyes shone like polished jade whenever they were set upon her; his hands suffered from a nervous tremor whenever their arms accidentally brushed or whenever the sky-blue eyes risked a glance into his.

Because of Agnes Frosthip the two were rarely left alone, but those few moments, stolen here and there, were enough to suggest to Pitt that Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza did not really mind him finding ways to distract the duenna.

“You were very wicked, senor,” the duchess whispered, drawing her cape closer around her neck to ward off the cool night breezes. “Senora Frosthip will have a very large head in the morning but a very short temper.”

Pitt acknowledged his guilt with a wry chuckle. Throughout the meal he had kept the duenna’s goblet brimming and now, with Spence’s conspiratorial help, had earned a waved dismissal and permission to escort Dona Maria Piacenza around the deck for a last breath of fresh air before she retired.

“If she so much as raises her voice to scold you, simply tell me and I will toss her overboard.”

The duchess looked startled, then eased somewhat when she saw his wide, handsome smile. “You tease with me, Senor Pitt. It is unkind, since my English is not so very good.”

“Your English is excellent and a credit to the senora. But yes, it was unkind of me to tease you.”

She accepted his compliment and his apology with a shy little half-smile and Pitt’s heartbeat stammered in his chest. She had turned her face into the soft amber glow of the stern riding lantern, and every sweet translucent curve was brushed with a pale shimmer of gold light.

His belly, his chest, his arms, ached with the need just to reach out and touch her, to run the backs of his fingers along her cheek to see if her skin was anywhere near as warm and smooth as he imagined it to be.

He ached to see, just once, the timid, fearful wariness washed from her eyes, and to see her look at him with nothing but trust … and love.

It was true: Pitt loved women and fell in love with nearly every beautiful woman who crossed his path.

It was his one weakness and Dante mocked him mercilessly about it, saying that he could never just bed a woman and part with a fond farewell come daylight.

He had to take her to heart, to woo her and win her and regard each act of love-making as if it was a commitment of the soul.

More than just his soul was in his eyes, lodged in his throat, knotted in his belly now as he looked at the alabaster perfection of Dona Maria Antonia Piacenza.

These were no ordinary knots either, they were deep and penetrated to the core, and ached with the hopelessness of knowing this was not just another cavalier infatuation.

She was the niece of the King of Spain and he was the son of an ironmonger.

Who she was, her lineage, her royal bloodlines, only made it that much more excruciating to know he could never have her even if he reformed his ways, abandoned the renegade life he led, vowed everlasting obedience, even took up the Catholic cross.

He could love her but he could never touch her.

A frisson of shock ran up his arm as he realized he was touching her.

His hand was on the rail and the edge of her cloak was brushing up against it.

She was looking out over the vast black emptiness of the sea and so could not see the expression on his face as he gazed down and caressed the tiny patch of cloth with his thumb and forefinger.

“Senor—"she was suddenly there again, her face upturned to his, her eyes wide and dark and filmed with moisture— “do you believe in heaven and hell? ”

The question took him aback and he had to swallow hard before an answer stumbled off his tongue. “I … suppose I do. I mean, I must.”

“But you are not certain.”

“Of course I’m certain. I mean, if there wasn’t any such thing as heaven or hell …

there would be nothing to separate good from evil.

There would be no rules to follow, no reason not to kill, cheat, steal, lie.

” He paused and twisted his mouth into a wry smile.

“No hope of redemption for sinners like me.”

“Are you a very bad sinner, senor?” she asked in her breathy whisper.