Pirate Wolf Trilogy (21 page)

“We will also
want a list of your passengers, Señor Marquis. Unless I am
mistaken, you have a rather important guest on board.”

Moncada waved a
hand dismissively. “I have many sons of nobles on board, and they
are all important guests.”

Dante exchanged
a significant glance with Geoffrey Pitt, who reached inside the
front closure of his doublet and withdrew a long, gold silk
pennant.

Moncada’s
ferret eyes widened a moment before glistening in Dante’s
direction. “You would dare violate the sanctity of a member of the
King’s court?”

“In case you
had not noticed, I would dare a great deal. And unless you would
care to have your own sanctity violated”—he slowly withdrew one of
the brass inlaid wheel-lock pistols from his belt and set it down
on the desk in front of him—“it would be in your best interest if
you voluntarily produced him.”

“It is an
affront to His Most Catholic Majesty, Defender of the Faith,
Suppressor of Heresy, by the Grace of God King of Spain—”

Dante sighed,
anticipating all sixty-five of the King’s titles were about to
sprout forth. He picked up the pistol, cocked the spanner key, and
squeezed the serpentine trigger. The powder in the pan ignited,
causing an almost simultaneous explosion as the lead ball was
discharged and shot past the captain-general’s shoulder, tearing a
harmless stripe through the rich velvet sleeve of his doublet. The
two Spanish officers recoiled from the sound of the exploding shot;
the fifth Marquis of Moncada screamed, clutched his shoulder, and
promptly fainted.

Dante, waiting
until the puff of smoke cleared, swung his long legs off the corner
of the desk and leaned forward to peer at the unconscious Spaniard.
He cocked an eyebrow and glanced sidelong at Pitt and Beau.

“Damn my soul,
but my aim must be off today. I was actually trying for the lamp
behind him.”

The two
hidalgos turned and gaped at the lamp, easily eight feet to the
left of where the captain-general had been standing.

“Gentlemen”—Dante drew their owlish attention back to where he was
removing the second pistol from his belt— “would either of you care
to assist us in this matter or would you prefer I practice my
marksmanship again?”

For a
long moment neither of them moved. Only when Dante thumbed the
spanner key did one of the officers stiffen and look straight into
the silvered eyes for the first time. “His Majesty’s niece, Doña
Maria Antonia Piacenza, Duchess of Navarre, travels aboard
the
San Pedro
de Marcos
under the
protection of God and the King of Spain. To even attempt to
desecrate this holy coverture would be a sacrilege against the
Heavenly Father and all of mankind.”

“We have no
desire to desecrate anyone,” Dante assured him blandly. “In fact, I
am most anxious for you to escort a couple of my men to her
quarters now so that they may guarantee her personal safety.” He
glanced at Pitt and Lucifer. “Gentlemen?”

Pitt nodded and
Lucifer stepped out of the shadows, his scimitars glinting in the
dull wash of light.

The Spaniard
hesitated, but since his captain-general was still prone on the
floor, he had no choice but to lead the two Englishmen out of the
cabin.

When they were
gone, Dante aimed the barrel of the pistol at the second officer.
“We can both save ourselves a great deal of time and energy if you
will show me where the captain-general keeps his logs and
manifests.”

The young man’s
face glistened with sweat, but to his credit he remained rigidly
silent. Dante sighed and caressed the brass trigger with his
forefinger. It was Beau who reached forward and touched Dante’s
arm, murmuring a cautious “Wait.”

S
he had seen the
smallest flicker of movement in the Spaniard’s liquid brown eyes
and she followed it now to the pair of cabinets behind her. Being
set against a solid wall they had, for the most part, avoided
sustaining the damage suffered by the rest of the cabin. The
squatter of the two cabinets held the goblets and bottles Spit had
availed himself of; the taller and more ornately carved had wide
arched doors that, when she swung them open, unfolded to present a
religious triptych, the central panel depicting a two-foot-tall
rendering of Christ on the cross. A small compartment beneath held
gold reliquaries that contained holy artifacts; an altar below that
was covered with a cloth woven of fine linen, exquisitely
embroidered along the edges and hem with gold silk
thread.

Beau was about
to dismiss the find and close the arched doors again when her foot
scuffed the hem of the altar cloth, scraping on wood beneath. She
parted the edges of linen and turned slightly to throw a grin over
her shoulder at Simon Dante. Hidden by the cloth were two more
doors, both securely locked.

Dante returned
her grin and addressed the Spaniard again. “I don’t suppose you
know where the keys are kept?”

“Keys,” Beau
scoffed, and dropped down on one knee. She produced her stiletto
and worked the tip in the lock, rewarded a few seconds later by the
sound of the catch springing free.

“Have you any
other talents I should know about?” Dante asked, lifting his
eyebrow.

She met the
silver-blue eyes briefly before she turned and opened the two
unresisting doors. The chair creaked as Dante leaned forward to
look over her shoulder, and she heard him swear in a soft, deep
voice.

Inside the
cabinet were the leather-bound logs and manifests, a large gold and
jewel-encrusted box stamped with the marquis’s family crest, and,
not the least of all, multiple stacks of beribboned documents and
letters, all bearing official seals meant only to be broken by the
hands of King Philip of Spain.

“
Voilà,
mam’selle,” he murmured. “
Le vrai trésor.”

Beau started to
turn, to remind him that Jonas Spence would likely not be talking
French, but the chastisement died on her lips when she saw that the
Marquis of Moncada had pulled himself to his feet and had already
retrieved one of two small pistols he had concealed beneath his
breastplate. He had the gun raised and cocked, the barrel aimed at
Dante’s broad back, and it was instinct rather than any sensible
thought that made Beau fling herself forward, knocking Dante to one
side just as the powder exploded in the firing pan. The shot barely
missed its primary target, streaking past Dante’s ear close enough
to startle his gold earring before it struck Beau’s temple and sent
her crashing back against the open cabinet door.

CHAPTER
TWELVE

Geoffrey
Pitt did not hear the first shot, nor the second. He and Lucifer
had descended through five of the six levels of cabins contained in
the massive after-castle of the galleon. Each level boasted cabins
as lavish and ornate as suited the wealthy young hidalgos whose
privilege it was to serve aboard the
San Pedro.
With few exceptions most of those on the upper
three tiers were in ruin, for the gilded stern rails and glittering
array of gallery windows had been hotly contested by the
Egret’s
gunners. Panes from the stained
glass lights lay in shards on the floor; the contents of bookcases,
shelves, cabinets, and chests were strewn as far as the corridors.
Furniture was broken, curtains and tapestries blown off the walls
and windows. Here and there, fresh stains on the planking indicated
someone had been unfortunate enough to have been standing in the
way of flying glass.

Shattered
though it all was, the opulence was staggering. Furnishings were
upholstered in embroidered brocades. Thick wool carpets covered the
floors, and scores of solid silver sconces and candelabra provided
the light in the companionways and on the tables. On one level a
massive dining table stretched from one side of the ship to the
other, laid in fine white linen and, to judge by the debris
scattered beneath it, set with solid gold plate in anticipation of
a meal. On another, situated low enough in the hull to have avoided
heavy damage, the cabins were decorated by an obviously feminine
hand; furnishings were delicate and frilled with satin ruffs, the
bed was an ornate four poster draped in tiers of fine netting that
made it seem to be suspended in a frothy white cloud.

Geoffrey Pitt,
observing all this as he followed in the wake of the Spanish
officer, approached the last cabin on the tier and stepped around a
door that had been knocked off its hinges. The quarters had been
transformed into a salon as elaborate and comfortable as any in a
grand palace. He had to duck his head to clear the lintel, and when
he straightened he saw the four occupants of the salon huddled
together against the far wall.

The Spaniard
stopped short as well. His eyes jumped from one pale, shocked face
to the next, their accusing stares, combined with his own
mortification over the purpose of his visit, causing him to blanche
the color of ashes.

One of
the women was clearly the matron. She was older and stouter than
the rest, with a face as harsh as a winter wind and a forthright
bosom that protruded like the prow of a ship. She boasted a comely
moustache for a woman and in moments of high tension—like this
one—it glistened with dewy droplets of sweat. Two others were
dressed similarly in modestly high-necked bodices and skirts that
were rich enough to suit their exalted stations as companions to
the King’s niece. The fourth member of the group was situated
protectively to the rear, her wide, startlingly blue eyes focused
on the men who stood in the doorway.

Pitt, the son
of a common foundry worker, had not an ounce of aristocratic
blood—however diluted through past generations of droit du
seigneur—flowing through his veins. His adventures and close
friendship with Dante de Tourville had almost allowed him to forget
his past as an ironmonger’s son who always stank of metal filings
and sweat, and he had worked hard to adopt the manners of his
betters. He had learned to read and write, to use his wit and quick
intelligence to talk, charm, bluff his way out of almost any
situation.

But there were
times nothing could keep him from feeling like a coal-blackened
urchin born alongside the barrel of a cannon—and this was one of
them.

Doña Maria
Antonia Piacenza was simply the most beautiful creature he had ever
seen. She was as petite and fragile as the first buds of spring.
Her hair was dark, not quite black, not quite brown; her face was
heart shaped and pale as cream, the skin so delicate and smooth as
to be all but translucent. Her eyes were like pieces of the sky,
large and wide and solemn, and started a sliding sensation in his
chest and belly that had nothing to do with the motion of the
ship.

The blue of her
eyes was perfectly matched in her gown, cut with a low, square
neckline that showed just a hint of the rose-dust silk chemise
beneath. Already exquisitely tiny, her waist was further reduced to
nothing by the sweepingly deep V of the bodice where it met the
exaggerated flare of the farthingale. From her shoulders descended
a conch, a sheer, gauzelike veil of such fine material, it was all
but invisible. Nervousness had made her gather the edges of the
floor-length veil around her shoulders and hold them like a shield
over the tender young half moons of her breasts. Her hands shook so
badly, the tremors caused the transparent fabric to shimmer and
quake.

The Spaniard
seem to find his tongue and bowed stiffly, offering his most abject
apologies for disturbing them in so brusque a fashion. The English
dogs, he added in rapidly whispered Spanish, had already shot the
most revered Don Alonzo de Moncada and he was certain they would
have no scruples shooting any or all of them, despite assurances
given that no harm would befall the royal ward.

“Why has he
come here?” the younger of the two maids snarled. “What does he
want?”

The second one,
with her brown eyes glittering speculatively, took a long, slow
perusal of Pitt’s broad shoulders and lean waist. She was as petite
as the duchess, with a face that could have launched a thousand
ships—in the opposite direction. Her shrewish, harpy features
became even more pinched as she stared boldly at the bulge of
Pitt’s codpiece and whispered something in the duchess’s ear.

Whatever the
confidence, it made Doña Maria turn as pale as her veil. The first
maid, whose eyes and mouth grew rounded and wet, stared at her more
wordly-wise companion in horror.

“
It is
true, you innocent turd,” the latter whispered haughtily. “It is
what these English dogs do and what they expect
you
to do to them in return.”

Having
overheard the waiting-woman’s crude observation, the
bulwark-breasted duenna flared her nostrils and flew across the
room, her wide skirts belling behind her, and planted herself in
front of Pitt.

“
How dare
you vilify the air with your presence here! Who are you to threaten
the welfare of Doña Maria Antonia Piacenza, Duchess of
Navarre?”

“
My name
is Geoffrey Pitt. Our ship is the
Egret
, her master is Captain Jonas Spence. I assure you we pose
no threat to anyone’s welfare.”

The
duenna knotted her fist and thrust a sausage-like finger under
Pitt’s nose. “You attacked our ship! You shot and killed our
captain-general! You barge uninvited into my little quail’s chamber
and stand there panting and sweating like a stallion eager to rut …
yet you say you pose no threat!”

Pitt looked
down at the angry duenna with some surprise. “You are English?”

The bosom
lifted and heaved proudly forward. “To my eternal shame at this
moment, yes. I am indeed English. I am also Catholic and have vowed
never to return to that heretic country until the legitimate queen
and heir, Mary Stuart, is released from prison and restored to her
rightful place on the throne!”