His Wicked Kiss (4 page)

Carlos squeezed the trigger, hitting his target. “Ha!” With a cocky grin, he tossed the Baker to Jack and sauntered back to his harem to be admired.

Jack eyed the youth in sardonic amusement as he set the gun aside; he, too, had thought himself invincible at that age. “Word of advice,” he offered Don Eduardo. “Keep that pup of yours away from the battlefield. He’s much too green and bent on glory.”

“Easier said than done, my friend.” With a cordial chuckle, Don Eduardo clapped him on the shoulder. “Come inside and have a drink.”

They strolled into the luxurious villa, where floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the terrace. Filmy curtains wafted in the night breeze, cooling the stately drawing room. The elegant furnishings and gilt-framed oil paintings might have easily placed the home in
London
,
Paris
, or
Madrid
, but they were many miles from any such civilization now. The capital of
Caracas
, a couple hundred miles away, was the nearest city, but situated on the coast, it had fallen back under the control of the Spanish empire. The rebels held control of the interior, however, and had made the hot colonial settlement of Angostura their stronghold.

The town reminded Jack a bit of
New Orleans
—another place where he had gotten into more than his share of trouble. Beyond its low hills, abundant flowers, and shady live oaks covered in Spanish moss, stretched endless miles of flat tidal plains called the
llanos;
until finally, the mighty
Orinoco
,
Venezuela
’s watery highway, slipped into shadowed jungle, before emptying into the sea.

“How long will it take you to reach
England
, Lord Jack?”

“Four to six weeks, depending on the winds.”

“You will be pleased to hear that Bolivar means to award you with ten thousand acres in rich cattle land as a token of his t
hank
s when the war is won.” Montoya cast him a shrewd glance, as he checked the label on a bottle of port by the flickering light of the pewter candelabra.

Jack stared at him. “That isn’t necessary.”

“Ah, but we are very grateful for the help you have promised our cause, my lord. See for yourself.” Finished pouring the port, Montoya took out a map, unfurled it on I the table, and leaned closer to inspect it, nodding at Bolivar’s signature. “The Liberator has etched the boundaries of your holdings here. We wish you to accept it—as a gift.”

“Let me see that.” Jack narrowed his eyes. With the flat of his dagger, he traced the outlines of the land he was to be given at their leader’s behest, but his lips twisted in a cynical half smile.

A bribe.

So. They didn’t trust him. He was a little offended but not altogether surprised. His lashes flicked downward as he glanced over the map, but he mentally shrugged off the insult. He did not need their money or their land, but if it put their minds at ease, he could pretend to take the bait. Far be it from Black-Jack Knight, after all, to do anything out of the goodness of his nonexistent heart.

Besides, there were vast profits to be gained if this brash plot succeeded, opening up the continent to trade.

For centuries,
Spain
had had a chokehold over
South America
, jealously guarding her rich colonies with ironclad monopolies.

If Bolivar managed to cut
South America
free of her chains, then the risks that Jack was now taking to come to their aid would ensure that Knight Enterprises would be among the first outside companies to establish favorable trading agreements with the newly independent nations.

Unfortunately, the colonists hadn’t a prayer of winning this fight unless they received reinforcements—and soon.

The rebels had plenty of silver. What they lacked was men. Jack, however, based in neighboring
Jamaica
, knew exactly where to find this commodity in abundant supply, namely, the half-pay heroes of
Waterloo
.

Pouring back into England after winning the war against Napoleon, countless thousands of British soldiers were arriving home only to find there was no work for them, no way to feed their families. Throughout
England
,
Scotland
, and
Ireland
, there was a surplus of skilled and battle-hardened warriors, many of whom would be willing to fight as mercenaries in
South America
, especially since Bolivar’s cause could be called noble, if a man cared for such things.

There was only one small snag. Parliament had just issued a decree forbidding British soldiers from going and joining the fight. Obviously, Englishmen fighting alongside Venezuelan rebels to divest
Spain
of her colonies would have raised many an eyebrow in
Madrid
.

Having just extricated the nation from twenty years of war against
France
, the last thing the Foreign Office wanted was fresh trouble with the Continental neighbors—this time,
Spain
.

But if Jack knew one thing about soldiers—which he did, having a bona fide war-hero amongst his brood of brothers—it was that they were practical men. Loyalty to king and country only went so far; you could take a soldier’s arms and legs and blow his bosom friends to smithereens, but you did not trifle with his family.

No self-respecting warrior who had helped to thrash the
Grande Armée
was going to stand by and let his children starve, not when he could take up his musket and sword and earn excellent pay in
South America
.

All it took was someone with the right connections, high and low, the nerve, the discretion to recruit said mercenaries without attracting the notice of the British government, the ships to bring the two parties together, and the ability to slip a few thousand troops past the Spanish blockade.

That was where Jack came in, but nobody had to know that he actually cared.

He looked up from the map, nodded his acceptance of their offering, and took a large swallow of port.

Montoya’s face flooded with relief. “We have a deal, then? You will bring us men?”

He let out an appropriately mercenary laugh. “Men?” He slapped Montoya’s shoulder with a wolfish glint in his eyes. “Tell Bolivar that I will bring you devils.”

Some time later, Jack walked through the darkened guest apartment he’d been assigned for the night, wearily unbuckling his pistol holster and tossing aside his knife belt in turn.

He pulled off his black jacket and dropped it on the large bed as he sauntered out onto the balcony, feeling restless.

Resting his hands on the black wrought-iron rail, he stared out over the river, trying not to think about all he stood to lose if things went badly. His freedom. His company. Possibly his neck. None of that bothered him, though, as much as the prospect of facing a world again that he had walked away from a long time ago. A world that had not wanted him.

His mind drifted off across the darkened landscape, far away, toward his destination over the sea… to the green, rolling, patchwork fields of his native
England
.

Every muscle in his body clenched. A steadying exhalation escaped him quietly. It was hard to believe that in a few weeks’ time, he would set foot on English soil again, after his long, long exile. Nothing but the threat of this slaughter practically in his back garden could have induced him to return.

He’d have to see his brothers again, he supposed, and of course, one could not forget Maura.

His face hardened. Perhaps when he saw her again after all these years, he could ask her if marrying the marquess had been worth it.

Turning away from the railing, Jack prowled back into the unfamiliar chamber and shrugged off his waistcoat, tossing it willfully aside, along with his troubled thoughts.
Hot bloody night
. How was a man supposed to sleep? He was spoiled, he guessed, by the cool ocean breezes at his elegant white-stuccoed villa in
Jamaica
.

His principal home sat high on a cliff overlooking the sea. It was a short drive into
Port Royal
, where his company, Knight Enterprises, was headquartered.
This
was the home he had made for himself, he thought, though a part of him had yet to be convinced that he actually belonged anywhere on earth.

As he lifted his loose linen shirt off over his head, a timid knock sounded at the door.

“Aye?”

Jack waited, expecting some last-minute reminder from Trahern on the shipment of tropical hardwoods they’d be collecting in the morning before they set out—the rare zebrawoods in particular were going to fetch a steep price on the London markets—but when the chamber door opened, his eyebrow lifted.

The pretty senorita from the terrace peeked in, carrying a water pitcher in one hand and a stack of freshly folded towels in the other. “I-I have these things for you, sir,” she said in the sweetest little accent.

It turned his blood to honey. A narrow smile crept over his face. “Come on in, darlin’.” He stared hungrily at her, stunned all over again by these local goddesses. In brooding speculation, he watched her carry the items over to the mahogany washstand. She sent him a shy but sultry smile.

Four to six weeks at sea… no woman to warm his bed.

Jack reached into the pocket of his discarded coat for a few gold coins, fully prepared to make it worth her while.

She must have felt his study, for she glanced over her shoulder at him, her curious gaze flicking down his bare chest, over the thick muscles, work-hardened contours, and assorted scars on his body.

He lifted his chin, offering himself for her pleasure without a word. The girl swallowed hard, clearly interested, but perhaps also intimidated by his size and the bruiser’s build that he had inherited from his real father, a champion prizefighter; she was, he guessed, more accustomed to the wiry body of that no doubt overeager boy.

“I don’t bite,” he whispered with a shadowed smile.

But perhaps she liked what she saw, for when he crooked his finger at her slowly, she approached with cautious steps.

“Will there be—anything else, my lord?” she asked a trifle breathlessly.

He nodded, staring, and pressed the gold into her hand. The girl trembled but uttered no protest as he began gently unlacing her bodice.