Breath From the Sea (Thistle and Rose #3) (11 page)

Antónia shrugged, her gaze intense, she looked toward his bed. “A naval captain without.”

“Touché, madam.”

“Now, out with ye, else this little dance of ours never begins.”

“A dance?”

“I thought to put it in terms ye might understand, English.”

“I am more comfortable with nautical terms than courtly diatribes.”

“Then ye’ll not be spinning me a romantic ballad?”

Titus pressed his hand to his heart. “Oh, doth the heart cry when swindled by a lass so sly.”

Antónia blew him a kiss. “How the lady did wish to take a lover, but alas duty doth hover.”

Regret flooded his chest. “You see, Annie, we’d have made a good pair.”

Antónia stiffened, swallowing hard. “Do not call me that.”

Titus frowned. “Why not?”

“Time to go, English, else I am forced to put a bullet in ye.” Her manner had changed considerably. Gone was the jovial tone, the sarcasm and wit.

What had caused the sudden change?

A coldness came into her eyes that he’d not seen before, even when she’d boarded his ship that morning and demanded he surrender. This was the pirate, Antónia. The captain of her ship. The granddaughter of the most feared pirate of the Emerald Isle and, indeed, all of Europe. The daughter of the Devil’s Hook.

“I’ll go, Antónia. I’ll allow you to escape with my ring”—not to mention his enduring admiration, and dare he say heart?—“but tell me something first.”

“I am in no mood to oblige.” Her eyes flashed with unspoken emotion before going placid once more.

“If we were in Calais. If we were at that tavern, would you make me leave at gunpoint?”

“There is no point in answering your foolish question. That was but a game, a fancy. And one that could never, and will never, happen.”

“But why not?” He took a step forward, noting how she faltered. “We obviously… like each other.”

“I’ve bedded many men,” she said coolly, her rigid stance returning. “Do not mistake my enthusiasm and enjoyment for anything more than a mere blending of our flesh and passion.”

“You might have bedded many, but even you admitted I was different.”

She grimaced. “I lied. I came for one thing, the ring, and now I have it.”

The crushing feeling in Titus’ chest was new to him. A painful, thudding ache. It was hard to breathe. She was lying still.

But for whatever reason, she needed that lie, and as much as it hurt, he was going to let her have it. For now.

Titus opened the door and backed out of the cabin.

“I will find you,” he said.

“I’d be a fool not to believe ye’ll try.”

Chapter Eight

As soon as she was aboard ship, shouting orders to her men to raise the anchor and ready the sails, Antónia felt as though a dense weight had settled in her belly. The clouds overhead, mirroring her moods, darkened, covering the sun and making the water choppy.

She didn’t look back at
The Lionheart
. Didn’t speak of her time with Titus to Sweeney who looked ready to pounce on her and demand to know what the bloody hell she’d been thinking.

Hands on the helm, she steered them back toward home, her gaze on the horizon and then falling to the ring that darkened on her finger.

A trick of the hidden sun, perhaps. Or her imagination.

The once blood red stone slowly blackened, until the following day when they reached the shores of the western coast of Ireland, the stone resembled onyx. No trace left of the once beautiful red she’d admired aboard Titus’ ship.

Her crew worked to close down the ship for their disembarkment, those who’d remain aboard for duty she’d given permission to host a few guests, as long as her vessel was in one piece come morning, for she planned to go on a raid. Needed the excitement of adventure to dull the irritating ache thudding in her chest.

Antónia climbed down the rope ladder to the waiting rowboat below, still having barely spoken other than to bark orders at her men.

Why was she so melancholy? She refused to put any credence to the fact that she felt the slight twinge of misery. That she actually might miss the bloody fool. She barely knew him!

And yet…

Nay. Nay. Nay. She did not miss him. Could not miss him.

She stared down at the blackness of the ring on her finger. Well, she might have wanted the antique for herself, for very good reasons, but now she knew those reasons were mute. She’d simply take it off and hand it over to Granuaille and be done with the whole business. Love was a fantasy, a thing that so many chased, like sailors chasing nymphs.

If she continued to search for it, one day she’d go mad.

’Twas best to be rid of it, and soon.

“Row.” She ordered and her men nodded, without comment, though their eyes said enough.

At the shore, the men jumped into the shallow waters and pulled her up onto the beach. She climbed out and stomped up the stone stairs and followed the path to the castle gate.

Granuaille stood on the ramparts gazing down at her, her silver hair flying, hands on her hips. She captained her fortress as well as she captained her ship. Antónia couldn’t help a smile, though it left her feeling hollow.

She raised a hand to her grandmother, then ducked beneath the gates. Granuaille would expect her to come up to the battlements, and so she did, greeting her as they both gazed out over the landscape.

“Did the queen like her gift?” Granuaille asked.

“Immensely. She laughed and was reassured of your alliance.”

Antónia brushed the hair away from her face that blew just as wildly as her grandmother’s. But upon bringing her hand down to the stone, her limb was seized by Granuaille’s bony, but strong, grasp.

Granuaille’s gaze was riveted on the ring. “What’s this?”

“Ah, aye,” Antónia said, as though she’d forgotten all about the ring. It had swelled on her finger with Titus, but the sea seemed to have done her some good, and she slipped it off, setting it on the stone. “The Lucius Ring. I found it for ye.”

“Where did ye find it?”

“Someone had given it to the queen. I followed one of her captains who was charged with taking it to France. And, well, I did what I do best.”

“But it is black.”

“Aye.”

“Do ye remember the story behind the ring?”

Antónia shrugged, not wanting to talk about it. Not wanting to remember.

“My dear, love turns the stone crimson and heartache turns it black.”

Antónia laughed bitterly. “We all know I’ve no love in my heart. I am the daughter of the Devil’s Hook. Black suits.”

Granuaille grunted. “He may be a harsh and wild man, but he loves your mother.” Granuaille touched the ring. “I never wanted ye to suffer as I have. Knowing no true love.”

Antónia swept her arm out toward the sea and smiled softly at her grandmother. “I have a true love, the sea.”

Granuaille touched her cheek, looking deep into her eyes. “Ah, but I think ye must have found another.”

With a violent shake of her head, she said, perhaps a little too harshly, “None.”

“But why was the ring black on your finger? It sensed your heartache.”

“I am not aching.” Something pulsed behind her ribs. The something she’d refused to think about the entire journey back to Ireland.

“Ye’ve never been able to lie to me. Why try?” Granuaille gazed down below. Sweeney was barking orders at the men, his face red as a fresh apple. “Is it Sweeney? Do ye love him? He seems angrier than usual.”

Aye, he’d been so angry aboard ship, she’d had to stop him from laying the lash into one of the men’s backs for dropping a bucket. “I love him like a brother.”

“Then who?”

Antónia chewed her lip. “’Twas a mistake, nothing more. We are both wrong for each other.”

“The heart does not always recognize what is right and what is wrong.” Granuaille tapped Antónia’s head. “Nor does the head.”

“This is very wrong. Trust me.” Antónia swiped at her hair.

“Tell me.”

“Ye will not like it.”

“Perhaps.”

“He is a captain in Elizabeth’s Navy.”

Granuaille let out an abrupt cough, or perhaps she was choking. “Ah, I see. Aye, he is very wrong.” The softness she’d shown about love a moment before was quickly replaced by rage. “No kin of mine will sully themselves with an Englishman.” Granuaille clucked her tongue in reproach. “And yet the ring says ye’re heartbroken. How can this be? How can ye love our enemy?”

“I don’t love him. And my heart will get over it.” Antónia let out a long sigh. Love… A fool’s emotion. “Take the ring, I want nothing to do with it. I need to rest.”

Antónia kissed her grandmother, and descended the ramparts, in search of her bed within the castle. With every step, she tried to push thoughts of Titus further and further from her mind, but they only seemed to grow larger until every breath constricted in her lungs, and her limbs itched to climb aboard her ship, not to plunder merchants, but to seek out the captain. Her bed was hard, uninviting, and she drank entirely too much whisky in order to finally fall asleep.

When she woke the next morning, a headache pounding behind her eyes, the ring was on the table beside her bed, taunting her.

“You did what?” Queen Elizabeth’s voice boomed through the velvet-draped walls of her privy chamber.

She sat upon her throne chair, face thick with white makeup, red hair piled high, and jewels sparkling from every inch of her gown and every finger. The starched white ruff around her neck looked confining enough to still even Titus’ breath.

Titus cleared his throat. “I allowed her to get away.”

“You allowed a lawless pirate to steal what belonged to the crown—and get away with it?”

He nodded, though technically his queen was giving the ring away, he wasn’t going to correct her on that point. Those in attendance tittered behind their hands, whispering of his failings. No doubt he’d be stripped of his position in Her Majesty’s Navy, his title and lands, and tossed in the Tower, heavily fined for the rest of his days—however numbered they were.

“I admit to playing the fool. She was very… persuasive.” Titus bowed before his queen, ready to take whatever punishment she exacted on him. Hoping that a swift death would dull the pain in his chest that grew with every passing hour.

But Elizabeth’s laughter was the last thing he expected.

And, apparently, it was not what the other courtiers expected either, as her reaction seemed to finally still their wagging tongues.

“Well, Lord Graves, if you were so willing to let the pirate wench take our ring, perhaps you’d be willing to take her in hand another way—through marriage, further solidifying our hold in that godforsaken savage land.” Elizabeth’s voice was calm, extremely clear.

And yet, Titus still had to shake his head. He could not have heard her correctly. Nay. He’d not marry her for an alliance. Antónia would only laugh at him. Hold her blunderbuss to his head and pull the trigger.

“Majesty?” He raised his gaze to his queen’s, stunned to find her smiling.

“Oh, you heard us correctly, Lord Graves. You will marry the wench. She is of noble blood—however tainted it is by her Irish parentage, it is noble.”

“But…” He trailed off, stopping himself from complaining before the queen had a chance to lash him truly.

The queen stiffened, staring him down as though he were no greater than a rat that had trampled across her table.

He held his breath, waiting for the quick death that was certain to take him. A fit of apoplexy.

Marriage. Antónia. His
forever
.

A death sentence for certain, and yet it gave him another chance to see her face. To kneel before the woman who’d been able to claim him so thoroughly.

Though his heart pumped a hearty tune, it did not burst. Nor did it pain him. If anything, he felt a great weight lift from his body. An elation taking hold. He bit the tip of his tongue to keep from smiling, for he was actually… happy. Excited.

“She will not have me,” he said.

“She has no choice. I am queen and I have ordered it.” Elizabeth turned to Cecil. “Write the edict, bring it to me to sign, and then we can wave Lord Graves off from the quay.”

“My ship…” He stared. “Her ship…”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, you do strike a hard bargain, Lord Graves.”

“Majesty?” Again he was perplexed.

“You are lucky we feel in good spirits today. We are weak and ornery most. We see something in you, something in her.” She sat back in the throne, some of the energy she’d boasted sapping, and then she switched to less formal tones as she spoke, a wistful note to her tongue. “I long for the days when Sir Francis Drake and Sir John Hawkins regaled me with stories of the sea. I want you to follow in the footsteps of my great Sea Dogs. I want you and Lady Antónia to be the new Sea Dogs. My privateers. You’ll sail the Channel together. And when you come to court, you’ll bring me great treasures and tales.”

Shock made him blanch. “You do me a great honor, Majesty.” Titus knelt to the ground, his hand over his heart.

“I’m giving you a new ship, Graves. One that has been newly built and will be commissioned next week. We’ll name it
Theodosia,
seems fitting. Send me your Lieutenant Grenville. I am giving him a promotion.”

“Aye, Majesty.” Titus was breathless as he stood. “He awaits me in the Presence Chamber.”

“Send him in. Cecil will bring you the edict tomorrow and in a week’s time, you will set sail on the
Theodosia
to Ireland, delivering Lady Antónia Burke the news.”

“And a crew, Majesty?”

“You may set sail with half a crew. The lady should supply the other half.” She snapped her fingers at her secretary. “Cecil, make certain it states that as part of her dowry, Grace O’Malley and the Devil’s Hook will provide one half a crew for the
Theodosia
, paying their salaries indefinitely.”

It seemed the queen did not believe Grace O’Malley was as impoverished as she let on. Perhaps, the older Irish wench had touched on a warm spot with his bitter queen. A place in her heart where she longed to be set free from the responsibilities. Perhaps that was why she’d so loved her Sea Dogs. She longed for adventure. To be free. And she saw in another woman the chance to do so, and she wanted to claim it as her own. To allow it to continue and to thrive from it.

Mayhap.

Titus would never presume to know the mind of his queen, for she was often fickle, smiling one minute and roaring the next. Much like her father, though Titus had not been alive during Henry VIII’s rule. He’d heard enough. Knew enough.

“I will see your will done, Majesty.” Titus bowed low once more, kissing the ring she offered toward him.