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B eau’s jaw gaped as she heard him hiss the name. His body had gone rigid and the vast bulk of muscle across his chest and arms had turned as hard as stone. She knew this because her first reaction was to reach out and touch him.

“Are you absolutely certain? How could he have made the turnaround so quickly?”

“He could have. The greedy bastard would not miss an opportunity like this. And, yes, I am absolutely certain it is the Talon. I would not mistake that hull over a thousand others just like it.”

“She stands a thousand yards away,” Beau argued.

“She could stand two thousand. Three. I would know her guns anywhere.”

Beau traced the glint of sunlight across the wide expanse of water and caught the metallic reflection off bronze muzzles.

She recalled something Pitt had mentioned during an evening discussion: that he had fitted Victor Bloodstone’s ship with some of the same demi-cannon he had commissioned from Marseilles specially for the Virago.

She herself had remarked at their uniqueness, with the elegantly long snouts scrolled and embellished with gilded eagles in full wingspread.

“It does not mean Victor Bloodstone is at the helm,” she said lamely.

“He is there. I can feel him.”

Dante’s eyes were a raw, angry blue, his face was a chiseled mask of rage, the squared edge of his jaw so prominent, Beau could have drawn a line by it.

“What are you going to do?” she asked in a whisper.

“What would you suggest I do? Invite him to share a tot of rum?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“But what?” The blazing blue eyes speared her.

“What, Isabeau? Tell me what! You don’t think he deserves to die?

You don’t think he deserves to be lashed to the shrouds and run through by every man on my crew?

He ran, God damn his soul. He turned and ran like a greedy, sneaking thief in the night.

He stole our food, our water, our gold, then left us to the zabras to cover his crime.

Killing is too good for him. He deserves to be slashed open and his wounds packed with salt until he screams himself to an agony of madness. ”

“He appears to have told a different version of what happened. According to Carleill—”

“According to Carleill, he made me out to be a martyr, sacrificing my ship and crew for the sake of his scrawny neck.”

“And indeed, Captain Dante, who would believe that?” His eyes narrowed dangerously, but she kept going.

“Who would believe you would throw yourself in front of another ship to help buy time for a wounded comrade to make good his escape? Having seen you in battle, I would. Jonas would. Every man on board this ship would. ”

“You have a point to make?”

“My point,” she said carefully, “is that Bloodstone has friends. Important friends, some of whom are probably here, sailing beside him. What is more, he has made you out to be the hero of the day, saving him and his crew from certain death.”

“A brief reprieve, I promise you.”

“I have no doubt you want to kill him—”

“With my bare hands,” he interrupted with quiet ferocity.

“—but do you really think Sir Francis will allow it?”

“He will have little to say about it; this is between Bloodstone and me.”

Beau bit down on her lip and looked hesitantly at the fleet of galleons, huge deadly warships bristling with purpose, entrusted with safeguarding England’s future.

Having met Drake, having seen the hunger in his eyes, the ambition, and the lust for power, she was not entirely convinced he would simply stand aside and let the personal grievances of two men divide his forces and jeopardize his mission.

“Why do you suppose he did not tell you Bloodstone and the Talon were here? He had ample opportunity to mention it.”

“Maybe he wants me to kill the bastard.”

“Maybe he does. Maybe he knows your temper well enough to predict you would run Bloodstone through the instant you set eyes on him, without troubling with explanations, without seeking the benefit of a jury. Maybe he would just let you kill him so he could be justified in throwing you in chains and hauling you back to England on a charge of cold-blooded murder.”

“Why in damnation would he do that?”

“To take full credit for Cadiz?” she suggested quietly.

Dante stared at her for a long, disbelieving moment before he exploded. “He is Sir Francis Drake! He does not have to resort to throwing me in chains to protect his reputation!”

“Did you not see the look on his face when you told him about the San Pedro de Marcos? Did you not hear the way his teeth grated when he spoke of Veracruz? When was his last victory against the Spanish? When did he last plunder a ship or sack a city? How many heroes can he afford to bring home to England if he is to convince the Queen he is worthy of being Lord Admiral of the Fleet?”

Dante’s mouth snapped shut. His knuckles were bleached white where he gripped the rail, rivaling the slash of his teeth as he drew his lips back in a snarl.

“Can these words be from the same mouth that defended Drake as the greatest seaman and hero in the world, at the same time comparing myself to a French bull rogue who would could not sail his way out of a gale?”

Her eyes flashed hotly. “Must you remember every insult I threw at you?”

“You did not mean them?”

“Of course I meant them,” she snapped. “At the time, I meant every word.”

“Since then, of course, we’ve had a few good tumbles in bed and you’ve come to appreciate my finer points?”

Beau kept her face remarkably blank, though she could feel it stinging as if he had slapped her with the flat of his hand. She started to walk away, back into the cabin, but his hand shot out and gripped her tightly around the upper arm.

“Let me go,” she said quietly.

“Isabeau—”

She looked him square in the eye. “If you want to kill Victor Bloodstone, by all means kill him; no one on this ship will stop you. Just promise me you will think about what I said. Ask yourself why Drake said nothing and if you still want to go and kill Victor Bloodstone, I will row you across myself and hold him while you plunge the knife in his heart.”

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and carried on through her cabin and out to the companionway. She did not stop or look back, not even when he cursed her on her way and sent his fist smashing into the gallery door.

A dozen feet away, on the other side of the narrow companionway, Geoffrey Pitt’s fists were aching to smash something as well.

He had come to Dona Maria’s cabin after spending several minutes just standing outside the door, wondering what his reaction was going to be if it proved to be true that she was the wife of the Duke of Medina Sidonia.

Her value as a hostage would increase immeasurably.

She would be sent directly to London, where he would be lucky if he caught a glimpse of her in a Tower window.

He had not heard any sounds coming from inside the tiny cabin, not even after he had braced himself and knocked. He had knocked a second time, and when there was still no response, he had tested the latch and pushed the door open an inch or two.

Both the duchess and her duenna had been given strict instructions to remain in their cabin and out of sight—for their own good, they had been told, unless they wanted to find themselves in the hands of the Dragon of the Apocalypse.

Dona Maria had wilted at the very notion of seeing Sir Francis Drake; Agnes Frosthip had vowed to confront the English pirate and lay upon his head the blame for all the evils of the world.

To that end she had fortified herself with the contents of a bottle of rum and, when Geoffrey Pitt eased open the door of the cabin, was lying belly-down on the narrow cot, her arms askew, her legs drooping over the side.

Dona Maria was sitting in a straight back chair, her face as pale as candle wax, her eyelids swollen and polished as if she had been crying through most of the morning.

She held a small crystal glass in her hand, and as Pitt came all the way into the cabin, she drained the last few drops of amber liquid and pushed shakily to her feet.

“Have they come for me, senor? The soldados who will arrest me and throw me in chains?”

“There are no soldados. No one has come to arrest you.”

“We heard voices. Many voices. And there are many ships in El Draque’s fleet, many soldados.”

“No one has come to arrest you,” he insisted quietly, closing the door behind him. “No one is taking you anywhere, not unless they go through me first.”

Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over her lashes.

She wept without making a sound and there was no movement other than a slight tremor in her lower lip, but the tears flowed hot and fast, streaming down her cheeks in such a quantity, they dripped off her chin and stained the rich silk of her bodice.

“They will know. They will discover the truth and come for me, and not even you, senor, will be able to stop them.” She waved her hand in a futile little gesture and sobbed pitifully. “They will kill me. They will kill me for being so deceitful.”

“Maria—” He moved forward, but for each step he took, she retreated an equal distance until her back was against the wall and she had nowhere to go. “I swear to you, on my soul—!”

She covered her face with her hands and her slender shoulders started to shake with sobs. “No! No! They will have me killed! ”

Pitt took hold of her wrists and tried to ease her hands away from her face. “Maria, listen to me…”

“No! I am not Maria! I am not the Duchess of Navarre!”

Pitt’s hands tightened around her wrists and he had to fight himself to keep from cursing out loud. This was the moment he had dreaded. If she wasn’t the Duchess of Navarre, then she was indeed …

“I am only a poor maid! A poor, foolish maid, and the Dragon will kill me for the deception?”

Pitt stopped trying to force her hands and simply held her wrists as he stared down at her.