Page 6

“Oh aye. Aye,” Spence said, striving to suppress his excitement. “Cables thick as my arm an’ a winch stout enough to lift a brace of oxen.”

Visions of crates full of gold and silver bars sent a visceral thrill through the members of the boarding party, for surely the grateful Frenchman would offer to compensate Spence for his troubles.

As spry as she was and as bold a captain they had at the helm, the Egret had been plagued with nothing but foul luck on this voyage.

Two months into the venture a storm had forced them into Tortuga, where most of their trade goods had been confiscated by greedy port officials.

They had some barrels of rum and bales of spices, but it would barely bring enough in Plymouth to cover the cost of the expedition.

Spence’s thoughts had taken a similar turn and were abuzz with so many possibilities, he almost did not hear what Dante said next.

“It isn’t gold we’ll be transferring, Captain Spence. It’s guns.”

“Eh? Guns, did ye say?”

Dante nodded. “A commodity far more valuable than gold these days and as you have already noted, we have a pretty arsenal on board the Virago. I may be able to do nothing to save my ship, but I sure as hell can save the guns to use again another day.”

Spence looked again at the monstrous bronze demi-cannon. They were surely beauties, with scrolled snouts and great winged eagles molded onto the barrels; worth a small fortune to anyone whose intent was not honest trade. “But … what of the gold ye took from Veracruz?”

“We have already been relieved of that burden,” said the pirate wolf, his voice rusty with the same anger that kindled in his eyes.

“But I promise you, the guns are far more valuable. They are unique, in fact, cast in the royal foundry at Marseilles. Mr. Pitt assures me, if your beams are sound, you can take the weight. Your Egret is what … one hundred and eighty tons, thereabout?”

Spence nodded mutely.

“The Virago is one-sixty and she bore up with no complaint. It is well worth the risk,” he added, grinding his teeth against a surge of impatience. “These demi-cannon fire thirty pounds four hundred yards, with enough power behind them to blast any ship clear out of the water.”

“Any ship except the one that found you,” Beau remarked under her breath. Spit glared at her again, but he was too late.

The startlingly piercing eyes located the source of the whispered sarcasm and Beau felt the tiny hairs across the back of her neck ripple to attention. He walked toward her, pushing past the coughing McCutcheon, whose attempt to camouflage what she had said went for naught.

He came right up and stood in front of her, close enough for the menacing heat that radiated off the masses of muscle and brawn to have melted any man’s courage.

“Did you say something to me, my boy?”

The gunmetal jaw was level with the top of Beau’s head and she had to square her shoulders and tilt her chin up to meet him squarely in the eye.

It was a gesture her father knew all too well and she thought she heard him groan but could not be certain; the blood was suddenly pounding in her ears, too loudly for her to hear anything but the sound of her own heartbeat.

This close, she could not help but be awed by the sheer size and presence of the silvery-eyed sea hawk.

His legs were long and thick with muscle, barely contained by the filthy woolen hose; his waist was lean, his belly-where it showed through the carelessly open V of his shirt—was flat and hard as a board.

Chest and arms would have flattered a gladiator, with power flexing through every sweat-sheened sinew.

His neck was a solid pillar, the jaw blunted somewhat under several weeks’ worth of bearding, but as imposing as the man himself, with a deep cleft shadowing the center point of his chin.

His lashes were absurdly long for a man, black as ink, framing eyes that burned with equal measures of contempt and arrogance.

Beau could feel herself tensing, her blood humming as it did in the hot, still moments before battle.

She suspected he was singling her out for a reason, being the smallest and slightest among the boarding party, wanting to establish his superiority from the outset.

“In the first place, I am not your boy,” she said evenly. “And what I said was, your invaluable guns did not appear to be all that effective against the Spaniards who found you.”

If it was possible for him to become any angrier, he did, and Beau would have reason later to remember the chilling fury that turned his eyes from silvery gray to a clear, crystalline blue.

For the moment, however, all she could see were exploding starbursts.

His hand had come up with the speed of a striking cobra, grabbing her under the chin and lifting, squeezing so tightly, the air was instantly and painfully cut off from her lungs.

Only the tips of her toes touched the decking as he brought his face near enough to hers, she could feel the heat of his breath scorching her cheeks.

“For your information, boy , it was six ships, not one, that found us. We sank four on the spot and sent the other two limping off to perdition, more than likely” —he gave her two violent shakes to emphasize his words—“to sink before the night was out.”

Beau’s hands clawed at the vise clamped around her throat, but it was like trying to pry away bars of steel.

She could barely see through the blackness clouding her eyes, could not think for the pain.

She tried reaching for one of the guns at her waist, but the attempt was knocked aside.

She tried kicking and scuffing him with her bootheels, but he parried her efforts with ridiculous ease.

Some of the crewmen from the Egret saw her predicament and started to surge forward, but they, too, were stopped cold when a large black shadow hurled itself over the forecastle rail and landed with a thunderous roar between Dante and the advancing threat.

The polished steel of the Cimaroon’s two scimitars flashed in the sunlight, causing Spence to throw up his hands with a roar.

“Aye, that’s enough!” he shouted. “Leave go o’ her, ye blackhearted bastard. Leave go o’ her, do ye hear me!”

Geoffrey Pitt reacted first. He whirled and looked closely at Beau’s red and swollen face, then at the front of her doublet where the strain of her frantic efforts to free herself had resulted in the prominent outline of breasts.

“Simon! Simon, for Christ’s sakes—it’s a woman!”

Dante’s eyes screwed down to slits. The veins in his temples and throat were throbbing, the ones in the back of his hand and forearm stood out like blue snakes.

He blinked to clear the sweat from his eyes and found himself looking down into a face that was too smooth and flawless to ever know the need for a barber’s skills, into hot amber eyes that were blazing with outrage and indignation, but were, beneath the feathery lashes, a woman’s eyes.

“What the hell—”

His fingers sprang open and he dropped Beau heavily onto the deck.

Gasping, choking for air, she crumpled to her knees and doubled over enough for De Tourville to see the thick auburn braid that hung halfway down her back.

If he needed more proof, it came in the form of the shrill, distinctly female voice that began to curse him through coughs and splutters of air.

“Beau! Beau, are ye all right, lass?” Spence shoved past the Cimaroon and crouched awkwardly on one knee. “Slow an’ deep. Breathe slow an’ deep.”

Beau clutched his arm for support and dragged at gulps of air.

The curses were getting stronger, the words more decipherable, and after a minute she glared up and found Dante de Tourville.

“You … son of a … bitch,” she gasped. “You … sonofabitch!”

“Aye,” Spence grunted. “Ye’re all right.”

He pushed to his feet again and glowered at the Frenchman. “It might be she has a sharp tongue in her head at times an’ ought not have questioned yer courage so … bluntly. But ye had no call to choke her either.”

“The captain isn’t quite himself—” Pitt began.

“I need no one to make excuses for me,” Dante snapped, rounding on his own man.

“Nor does the situation warrant one. She spoke out of turn. Maybe she will think twice before doing so again—to me, anyway. In the meantime, Mr. Pitt, we don’t have much time.

I want as many guns transferred to the Egret as we can manage. ”

“Hold up there,” Spence snarled. “She’s still my ship an’ I’ve not agreed to take any o’ yer bloody guns on board yet.”

“You don’t have a choice, Captain Spence. And I don’t have the time to argue.”

“Ye’ll damn well make time, by God, or ye’ll be arguin’ with this!

” Spence stepped back and drew his cutlass, but quicker than he could curse, a slash of curved steel sliced across his intentions, the point of the scimitar hooking the hilt of Spence’s blade, sending it cartwheeling off into space.

The Cimaroon’s blade then slid upward, shearing off a thick chunk of wiry red beard as it came to rest across Spence’s jugular.

At almost the same time the rest of Dante’s men drew swords and pistols, effectively halting any move by Spence’s group to reach for their weapons.

“I had hoped it would not come to this, Captain,” Dante said grimly. “I had hoped you would not force me to take command of your ship.”

“Command o’ my ship?” A thin red trickle of blood ran down Spence’s throat and began soaking into his collar, but the sheer audacity of De Tourville’s statement caused the leathery face to break out in a wide, disbelieving grin.

“There are near a hundred fully armed men on board the Egret Are ye plannin’ to force them as well? ”

“I won’t have to if they see their captain cooperating.”

“Faugh!” Spence snorted disdainfully. “That’ll be a cold bloody day in hell! Ye can slit my throat three ways to Sunday an’ I’ll not give the order to hoist a single sail.”