Across a Moonlit Sea (27 page)

It was more of an observation than a question and she barely gave it a glance by way of acknowledgment.

“Pitt and his princess are on board, I see. Rather a lovely little thing, is she not? Like a rosebud with dew on the petals, so fresh, she fairly begs for a man’s protection. Poor Pitt. He’ll likely be stammering like a schoolboy before the week’s out.”

Beau slapped down her charcoal stick and straightened. “Was there something specific you wanted, Captain? I have readings to take and a course to plot. If you are so taken
by her
freshness
, why don’t you go below and enjoy a closer look?”

If either her rebuke or her mood surprised him, he gave no sign. In fact, the only response he offered was through his eyes, and what Beau saw there made her catch her breath and hold it. He was subtly telling her what she knew already, that she looked thoroughly and utterly debauched, that she could lace her doublet twice as tight and he would still know what lay beneath, that she could scrub her skin raw with lye soap and he would still be able to detect the scent of camphor and musk. That she could pepper her every word with brimstone and cordite and he would still be able to hear the echo of her begging gasps.

“No,” he said quietly. “There is nothing specific I want. Not at the moment, anyway.”

“Then please”—she released her pent-up breath in a soft gust—“leave me to my work.”

The smoky, silvery eyes narrowed. “It’s a small ship, Isabeau. You won’t be able to hide behind your work forever.”

“I can try.”

He held her gaze a moment longer, then gave a small bow. The roguish smile was still playing about his lips as he turned and descended the ladderway. Beau watched him, she could not help herself. He moved like a big, graceful cat, a sleek panther with the air of lazy indifference that came from being well fed and content. And why should he not look so satisfied? He had spent the night doing exactly as he pleased with her and, true to his warning, had not stopped again to ask her permission … for anything.

No specific needs at the moment? Did that mean he expected something at a later time? Tonight, perhaps? Did
he expect her to go to him again for a lusty repeat of what had happened last night?

Beau’s skin shivered at the thought but she resolutely pushed the notion, even the possibility, as far to the back of her mind as she could. She had weakened once, but that was all. That was the end. She could blame her lapse on the excitement of their victory over the
San Pedro
, the amount of wine she had consumed, her exhaustion, her inability to fight her own curiosity any longer … or the itch, as her father had so artfully put it.

All these things could explain a single lapse, but to do it again? To go willing and sober into his arms would put more than just the swagger of satisfaction in his gait. It would put her at his mercy, reduce her once more to a mere female in his eyes … and in the eyes of every other man on board the
Egret.

She looked slowly around the deck, but could see no one staring at her or pointing and murmuring behind raised hands. But they would. If they knew she had succumbed to the Comte de Tourville’s sexual prowess, she would lose all of the hard-won credibility she had gained over the years. One clumsy tumble from a capstan was all it took for years of finely balanced work in the rigging to be forgotten.

She could not let that happen. She would not.

It took nearly four hours before the
San Pedro de Marcos
was reduced to a speck on the horizon. During that time a goodly portion of the Egret’s crew were sent to their berths to catch up on some much-needed sleep, while those who seemed to thrive on nerve alone continued to work on repairs. Most of the spare canvas had gone into the yards, leaving the damaged, torn, and scorched sheets to be patched and reinforced. Men sat on overturned barrels
much as at a quilting bee, stitching and cutting, swapping versions of their own involvement in the battle. Damaged ropes and cables were spliced, the guns were reamed and their carriages greased. Spit McCutcheon had thriftily retrieved most of their spent shot from the wreckage of the Spaniard’s deck, plus helping himself to powder and fuses from the galleon’s stores so they would not be lacking in firepower should they attract the eye of any cruising vultures.

Cook was in his glory. He now had rations to spare and spent most of the day happily at
work
over his cauldrons. Two large pigs were slaughtered and the meat set to roast over a long metal trough filled with scraps of wood and broken timbers. At various times during the day men gathered to stare, their mouths watering, their palms sweating, their bellies rumbling in a chorus of expectation. At mealtime every man’s pannikin was filled to the brim. Chins and hands dripped with grease, and the jeers that had been challenging Cook’s slowness all day long were replaced by the sound of chewing, drinking, and belching in robust contentment.

Spence called for a barrel of ale and ordered twice the normal measure for each tar. With his head still bandaged and the bottom of his hose knotted over empty air, he sat in the midst of his crew, drinking, eating, cheering, as heartily as the others each time a fresh platter of carved meat was passed from the trough.

Even Clarence the cat had no need to resort to skulduggery. He sat by Cook’s heels, his tail snaking back and forth across the planking, his face upturned and his eyes bright, waiting patiently to catch the thick, meaty scraps that fell his way.

Beau deliberately chose to take a seat with the common seamen. Spence arched an eyebrow in her direction, indicating
an empty place reserved beside him, but she only shrugged and smiled and raised her cup in a silent salute. Dante sat on the other side of Spence and Lucifer sat cross-legged on the deck beside him. It made for one of many uncomfortable moments during the meal when Beau looked over to find the Cimaroon’s eyes fixed upon her. She recalled, later, that he usually slept across Dante’s door at night, and if so, had likely heard more than snoring coming from inside the cabin last evening.

Pitt had made a brief appearance carrying two fine porcelain dinner plates, but his tawny head disappeared quickly belowdecks again as soon as they were filled. The duchess was still in shock and too sick at heart to leave her cabin, thus Pitt had assigned himself her personal guard and messenger.

Eventually, a long and mighty belch from Spence marked the end of the revelry. Fresh watches were sent up into the tops with orders to report so much as a farting bird on the horizon. The coals in the trough were doused in a billowing cloud of steam and the residuals spaded carefully overboard. By habit the men contributed their bones and scraps back into a soup pot, knowing full well that one day’s excess could mean another day’s lack.

They finished out the first full day under sail without incident. The wind picked up in late afternoon and the seas roughened, but Beau was happy with the way the Egret responded. She took the galleon through a few tacking maneuvers to test her seams—one of which brought Geoffrey Pitt stumbling up onto the deck again, pale as ash and taut around the mouth—and was satisfied the ship could handle herself with courage and spirit if need be. When the blue of the sky began to leech into pinks and grays, Beau took a fix from the first star that appeared and gave orders to the new helmsman who arrived to take the watch. She
rolled her charts under her arm but instead of venturing anywhere near the cabins in the stern, she found an empty hammock in the darkest corner of the crew’s quarters, curled herself into a blissful ball, and slept.

Sometime during the night two large shadows made their way through and around the maze of hanging, swaying cocoons. Billy Cuthbert led the way, his hand cupped around the weak flame of a taper, and when he found the one that held Beau, he stood aside and let Simon Dante pass in front. The Frenchman lifted her carefully into his arms and the two men retraced their steps, parting company with a whispered thanks on the starlit deck.

Dante made his way alone into the stern cabin and deposited his sleeping bundle on her own bed. His hand may have lingered a moment longer than was necessary on the chestnut lock of hair that had curled forward on her cheek, but whatever thoughts or cravings that may have passed through his mind were dismissed before they could take hold. He pulled a blanket up to her chin, doused the guttering candle, and closed the door quietly behind him as he left.

 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 rapinous 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.