Pirate Wolf Trilogy (29 page)

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
duena 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 ruinous 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 Doña Maria Antonia Piacenza did not really
mind him finding ways to distract the duenna.

“You were very
wicked, señor,” the duchess whispered, drawing her cape closer
around her neck to ward off the cool night breezes. “Señora
Frosthip will have a very large head in the morning but a very
short temper.”

Pitt
acknowledged his guilt with a wry chuckle. Throughout the meal he
had kept the duenna’s goblet brimming and now, with Spence’s
conspiratorial help, had earned a waved dismissal and permission to
escort Doña Maria Piacenza around the deck for a last breath of
fresh air before she retired.

“If she so much
as raises her voice to scold you, simply tell me and I will toss
her overboard.”

The duchess
looked startled, then eased somewhat when she saw his wide,
handsome smile. “You tease with me, Señor Pitt. It is unkind, since
my English is not so very good.”

“Your English
is excellent and a credit to the señora. But yes, it was unkind of
me to tease you.”

She accepted
his compliment and his apology with a shy little half-smile and
Pitt’s heartbeat stammered in his chest. She had turned her face
into the soft amber glow of the stern riding lantern, and every
sweet translucent curve was brushed with a pale shimmer of gold
light. His belly, his chest, his arms, ached with the need just to
reach out and touch her, to run the backs of his fingers along her
cheek to see if her skin was anywhere near as warm and smooth as he
imagined it to be. He ached to see, just once, the timid, fearful
wariness washed from her eyes, and to see her look at him with
nothing but trust … and love.

It was true:
Pitt loved women and fell in love with nearly every beautiful woman
who crossed his path. It was his one weakness and Dante mocked him
mercilessly about it, saying that he could never just bed a woman
and part with a fond farewell come daylight. He had to take her to
heart, to woo her and win her and regard each act of love-making as
if it was a commitment of the soul.

More than
just his soul was in his eyes, lodged in his throat, knotted in his
belly now as he looked at the alabaster perfection of Doña Maria
Antonia Piacenza. These were no ordinary knots either, they were
deep and penetrated to the core, and ached with the hopelessness of
knowing this was not just another cavalier infatuation. She was the
niece of the King of Spain and he was the son of an ironmonger. Who
she was, her lineage, her royal bloodlines, only made it that much
more excruciating to know he could never have her even if he
reformed his ways, abandoned the renegade life he led, vowed
everlasting obedience, even took up the Catholic cross….

He could love
her but he could never touch her.

A frisson
of shock ran up his arm as he realized he
was
touching her. His hand was on the rail and the
edge of her cloak was brushing up against it. She was looking out
over the vast black emptiness of the sea and so could not see the
expression on his face as he gazed down and caressed the tiny patch
of cloth with his thumb and forefinger.

“Señor”—she was
suddenly there again, her face upturned to his, her eyes wide and
dark and filmed with moisture—“do you believe in heaven and
hell?”

The question
took him aback and he had to swallow hard before an answer stumbled
off his tongue. “I … suppose I do. I mean, I must.”

“But you are
not certain.”

“Of course I’m
certain. I mean, if there wasn’t any such thing as heaven or hell …
there would be nothing to separate good from evil. There would be
no rules to follow, no reason not to kill, cheat, steal, lie.” He
paused and twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “No hope of
redemption for sinners like me.”

“Are you a very
bad sinner, señor?” she asked in her breathy whisper.

Pitt gave more
weight to the question than he normally might have done, partly
because of the solemn expression on her face, partly because, in
his twenty-nine years, he had not given it much thought before.
Surely, he had done his share of cheating, scheming, and lying; it
was a necessary evil in order to avoid spending the rest of his
life molding iron over a peat fire. He had done his share of
killing as well; it went hand in hand with the life he had chosen.
But he had never deliberately betrayed the trust of another man,
never raised a hand against a woman or child, never kicked a dog or
slit a man’s throat for the sheer sport of it.

“Not as bad as
some,” he said finally. “Possibly worse than others. But I sleep
well at night, and know many men who call me friend.”

“Including your
Capitán Dante and Capitán Spence?” Her lashes fluttered down to
shield her eyes. “They helped you tonight, did they not?”

Pitt cleared
his throat. “Helped me?”

“Distract the
señora.”

He had the good
sense not to deny it, and the better sense not to say anything at
all while she struggled through whatever dilemma was putting a
small frown on her brow.

“
You all
seem so … kind. And far more honorable than I was told to expect in
an Englishman. My … maid … warned us before we were taken from
the
San Pedro
…
that both the señora
and I would probably be raped by every member of the crew before
the first sun fell.”

“Your maid
frightened you needlessly,” Pitt assured her. “You have nothing—and
no one—to fear on board this ship.”

“She—she also
said England is a pit of snakes and vipers; heretics who sacrifice
children and drink the blood of their victims. She said it is a
cold, dark place of pestilence and sickness where the sun never
shines and terrible storms ravage the land all year round.”

“We have a fair
share of rain, but—”

“She says the
rain is God’s tears and that He despairs of ever saving England
from the hands of heretics and devil-worshippers. She also says
there is no beauty in England, no beauty in the people who live
there.” Her lashes lifted and the stunningly clear blue eyes roved
over the tawny gold waves of his hair, the handsome planes of his
face, the solid breadth of his shoulders, before she continued.
“She says the people are small and twisted, that they stink of sin
and corruption. That to touch one, to—to lie with one, can only
breed more corruption in the womb and condemn the immortal soul to
everlasting hellfire.”

“She said all
that, did she? Words of comfort to cheer you on your journey?”

“I … had never
seen an Englishman before,” she confessed shyly, her eyes finding
his again. “Only the señora, who told me once she used to be the
most beautiful woman in her village.”

“Had she been
enjoying too much Madeira at the time?” Pitt asked with a
frown.

The duchess
tilted her face higher into the light and smiled in a way that sent
Pitt’s heart into his throat. “I believe she must have been, for
you are not the smallest part ugly. Or frightening. And you smell …
quite wonderful.”

Pitt’s tongue
suddenly felt as dry and matted as a skein of uncombed wool. All of
his wit and most of his senses deserted him, and he could think of
nothing either charming or amusing to say in return. He could only
think of what he would forfeit at that particularly desperate
moment—an arm, a leg, all his teeth, his ears, his toes—just to
kiss her bow-shaped mouth one time.

The moment
faded along with her smile. “What do you think will happen to me
when we come to England? Will I be … sent to prison?”

“Good God, no.
You will be treated with all the courtesy and respect due a royal
visitor. Judging by what your maid has told you about England, I
can only imagine the stories you have heard about our Queen, but I
promise you, none of them are true.”

“She is not
thin and old and does not have hair the color of unripe
cherries?”

“Her Majesty is
slender, and mature, and her hair is … er, reddish, yes, but would
pale to inconsequence beside Captain Spence’s beard.”

“She does not
hang priests and burn those who follow the Catholic faith?”

“She …
discourages them from practicing openly, but the fires, I am
afraid, belong to your own Court of Inquisition.”

A fine crease
of a frown reappeared. “And she has not kept her only sister locked
away in a prison cell for nineteen years?”

“
Mary
Stuart is her cousin and has plotted ceaselessly to assassinate
Elizabeth and take the throne by force. She had the throne of
Scotland and could not keep it through all her wild affairs and
scheming. Our Queen has tried on numerous occasions to effect a
reconciliation, only to uncover yet another plot, another attempt
to steal the throne, another assassin lurking in the shadows. Would
your King react any differently to someone who repeatedly committed
outright acts of treason?”

“I do not know
how our King would react, I am only—” She stopped and bit her lip,
consigning her face to the shadows again. “I am not privy to Court
discussions.”

It was not the
first time Doña Maria had taken refuge behind the innocence and
ignorance of her position. Many times, in fact, when the
discussions over the meal table became heated—which they often did
with Spence, Dante, and Beau expressing their opinions as freely as
flowing water—the duchess would grow visibly pale and cringe in
apprehension of any attempt to draw her into the conversation. Pitt
supposed it was because she had been raised in a convent and
groomed to do nothing more than marry into a rich alliance.
Nonetheless, she was a sharp contrast to someone like Beau Spence,
who spoke her mind with a frankness and authority that brought to
mind a not too distant parallel with England’s own queen.

But then
everything about Doña Maria Piacenza was a sharp contrast to Beau
Spence. And while Pitt had come to admire the captain’s daughter
for her intelligence and wit—not to mention her skill at the helm
of a ship—he was not about to discount the appeal of a woman whose
unfounded fears and vulnerability struck at the very soul of
chivalry.

It was true she
had been taken as a hostage to ensure safe passage home, but
political hostages were taken frequently, on both sides of the
Channel, and exchanged on a regular, almost amicable basis. The
more valuable the hostage, the quicker the exchange.

Pitt looked
down at the duchess’s hands again, which were now worrying the
elaborate lacing on the cuff of her sleeve. They were slender,
delicate hands, devoid of the sort of gaudy jewelry most nobles
liked to wear to flaunt their wealth. Her only adornment was a
plain gold circlet, molded at one end to the shape of a tiny hand,
the other an equally tiny heart, the two twined together to close
the circlet.

Was she
married? Was the ring worn to signify her heart belonged to
another?

“Maria,” he
murmured, easing closer and placing his hands on her shoulders,
“Maria, I don’t want to squander what little time we have together
debating politics or—”

The duchess
reacted as much to the familiar use of her name as she did to the
warmth of his hands and body pressing against hers. She recoiled
sideways and spun fully into the light, her hands flying up to rest
against the base of her white throat.

Pitt
acknowledged both infractions at once. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,
Doña Maria, I did not mean any disrespect—”

“We can have no
time together, señor. I should not have come out here alone with
you tonight; I must not be alone with you again.” She turned and
ran along the deck and was swallowed into the shadows of the
hatchway before Geoffrey Pitt could uproot his feet to follow. He
caught the merest glimpse of the hem of her cloak as she dashed
into her cabin, but he was too late to earn more than the sound of
the door slamming in his face.