Pirate Wolf Trilogy (60 page)

As the ship
reared to climb above the next trough, he swung back on board and
this time was able to get a hand around the boy’s arm before they
parted again. The rope he was holding cut into his wrist and his
arm was nearly wrenched from the socket as he caught the boy and
dragged his weight behind his own, but before the ship careened
again, he was able to shove the lad in the direction of the shrouds
where Juliet was now standing high enough to snag him.

Varian saw her
reel Johnny Boy in. A second later, he was sailing outward over the
side of the ship again, reaching the end of the arc with such a
hard jolt, he felt the rope start to slide through his hand.
Fighting to claw his way fist over fist up the cable, he was caught
by the next wave, his feet sucked forward by the force of the
rushing sea. As the wave broke across the deck, his vision cleared
long enough to see the solid shape of the mainmast coming up swift
and deadly in front of him. A moment away from slamming into the
oak, he felt hands reach up to grab at his legs. Someone shouted at
him to release the “farkin’” rope and when he did so, he was
plucked out of the air and thrown by his shoulders and thighs
through an open hatchway.

He landed in
the same wet heap as Johnny Boy, who had been tossed there only
moments before. Nathan and Juliet stood glaring down at the pair a
moment before closing the hatch behind them and returning to the
haze of beating rain and sluicing water on deck.

Another shadowy
figure loomed out of the corridor beside them.

“Mother, Mary,
and Joseph,” Beacom cried. “I thought you were gone, your grace.
Gone! What possible madness could have inspired you to venture out
of cover in this tempest?”

Varian’s teeth
were clenched too tightly to offer any explanations and the boy had
already disappeared into the gloom. He accepted Beacom’s help to
rise first to his knees, then to his feet, but he shook off the
older man’s offer of a shoulder to lean on and staggered on his own
through the gloom of the lurching gun deck in search of the tiny,
airless locker he had been banished to last night.

After opening
three narrow wooden doors and having sails, holystones, and spars
fall on him, he swore and stumbled along another narrow
companionway that led to the stern. The captain’s cabin was empty
and relatively clear of sloshing seawater, and he stood there
dripping like a great shaggy dog, his hair hanging over his face,
his borrowed clothing sopping wet and clinging to him like a soaked
layer of parchment.

“Your grace...
?”

The agony of
his previously bruised shoulder and hip did not bear dwelling upon
but when he looked down, the front of his shirt was covered in a
wide red smear of blood with more splattering down each second. He
remembered the end of the rope lashing his cheek and searched his
face with his fingertips, gasping at what he found.

“Your
Grace—?”

Varian whirled
around with a roar and slammed the door. Over further protests and
pounding fists, he threw the bolt to lock it, leaving Beacom
outside in the companionway.

~~~

The storm
battered the
Iron Rose
for
another two hours before relenting and driving east. By late
afternoon the rain had eased, though the wind remained at strength
long after the thunder and lightening had been chased far out into
the Atlantic. With the peculiar character of a tropical storm, the
sky cleared enough by nightfall to offer a late glimpse of the
setting sun where it sank like a coppery fireball beneath the
choppy sea.

One man had
died in a fall from the rigging, another had been washed overboard.
There were tangled lines and torn sails, broken spars and debris on
all the decks, but that was not what concerned those who stood on
the quarterdeck searching the empty horizon behind them.

The
Santo Domingo
was nowhere in sight. With darkness rapidly descending,
they did not even know in which direction to search; the sea
appeared vacant for miles around. Juliet sent men with the sharpest
eyes up into the crows nest and refused to leave the quarterdeck or
even hand off the spyglass until a twinkle of light was spotted
well down on the horizon. She gave orders to bring the
Iron Rose
about, and as a precaution,
cleared her guns for action in case the lights were not the ones
they were expecting. Another anxious hour passed before they had
closed the distance enough to be assured it was the
Santo
Domingo
.

The
galleon had been hammered, but the English crew had helped pull her
through. When the
Rose
drew
alongside, extra men were transferred aboard, including Nathan
Crisp. With the seas rough, Juliet wanted to take no chances during
the last stretch to Pigeon Cay.

Coming about
again, they resumed their steady south by southeast course and it
was only then that Juliet took time to go below and search out dry
clothes. While it was still daylight, she had ordered the galley
fires lit long enough for the cook to bring his cauldrons up to the
boil, and she did not know which she was more eager for, a bowl of
hot mutton stew or a stiff glass of rum.

The need to
make a choice was delayed by the sight of Beacom standing miserably
outside her cabin door.

“What the devil
are you doing here? Where is your master?”

“He ... he is
inside, madam,” Beacom said, wringing his hands. “I did my best to
deter him. However—”

“He’s inside?
He is inside my cabin?”

“Yes, madam. I
am afraid he is. And... and I am afraid he has locked the door
behind him.”

Juliet’s eyes
widened. She approached the door, put a hand to the latch, and
rattled it. When nothing happened, she moved back a pace and kicked
the bottom of the planks.

“Good my lord,
you have two seconds to unlock this blasted door, before I shoot
off the damned hinges!”

When there was
no immediate response, and knowing full well her pistols were
locked inside with the duke, she cursed and kicked the door again,
this time hard enough to send splinters flying off the timbers.

She was about
to take a run at it with her shoulder, when they heard the bold
slide across wood and the latch was turned from the inside. The
door swung open half an inch before she hoofed it the rest of the
way, slamming it with enough force it bounced off the wall.

Juliet strode
into the cabin, her eyes sparking with hot blue flecks. “How dare
you! How dare you come in here and—!”

She stopped
cold and the breath left her lungs in a startled rush. Varian St.
Clare was swaying on unsteady feet in front of her, his shirt
scarlet to his waist, his breeches red to the knee. His eyes were
so dark they looked like holes burned into his skull, part of which
could be seen gleaming white where his cheek had been torn open to
the bone.

An empty bottle
rolled to and fro on the floor below the berth. The cup that
dangled in his hand spilled a few drops as he took a few halting
steps back.

“You seem to
have acquired a fondness for my rum, sirrah,” she said quietly.

He said nothing
for a moment, then reached up and touched the flap of flesh that
was hanging down his cheek. “I find myself requiring its effects
more and more as the pleasantries of each new day in this tropical
paradise unfold.”

Juliet turned
her head slightly and spoke softly to Beacom. “Go and fetch the
ship’s sailmaker. No, wait. He isn’t on board, dammit!”

Varian started
to pitch forward, forcing Juliet to scramble fast to catch him up
under the arms before his weight bore them both down onto the
floor. He made a peculiar sound in his throat, followed by a belch
that reeked of too much rum.

“Puke on me, my
lord,” she warned with a grunt, “and you’ll not live out the
day.”

“Is that a
threat or a promise?”

“Both.” She
glared over her shoulder at Beacom. “Don’t just stand there
gawping. Help me get him onto the berth.”

The valet
fluttered his hands once before hastening forward. Together they
manhandled the duke over to the bed and forced him to lie down.
Juliet splashed some water into an enamel bowl and fetched some
relatively clean cloths. She set Beacom to bathing the blood off
his master’s face and throat while she rummaged through her sea
chest and produced a small gold sewing case she had appropriated
from some long forgotten ship.

When she
returned to the bed, Varian’s eyes were closed, an arm was draped
across his forehead.

“Is he passed
out?” she asked Beacom.

“No, he is
not,” Varian answered thickly. “Despite his every good
intention.”

“In this case,
it might be better if you had succeeded. Shall we wait, or are you
braced enough to bear up under a bit of stitching?”

“That depends
upon who is going to do the stitching.”

“
Unfortunately you are rather limited in your choices at the
moment. The sailmaker is still on board the
Santo Domingo
tending the wounded from the
Argus
, and since
you have expressly forbidden me to touch you without an invitation,
that would appear to leave Beacom.”

She held the
needle out to the valet, who blanched the color of old ashes and
quailed loudly enough to bring Varian’s eyes open again.

“Oh for pity’s
sake,” he sighed. “Touch me, kill me, sew my cheek to my foot, it
is of no consequence.”

“Come now,” she
said. “You were far too pretty anyway. A scar will give you
character.”

Juliet nodded
at Beacom to bring a chair over beside the berth. She lit a lamp,
then gave it to the valet to hold while she threaded a needle with
silk. “Truth be told, I did sew two fingers together once—quite by
accident, of course. The wounds were such that I could not tell
where one digit ended and the other began.”

Varian
swallowed hard. “Perhaps I will have more rum.”

“Just try not
to move. And if you feel the need to scream, warn me first so I do
not stab you in the eye.”

His chest rose
and fell through a deep breath. The muscles in his throat
constricted and his fingers curled slowly into a fist, remaining
that way as Juliet eased the torn flap of skin gently back into
place and began stitching the raw edges together with quick,
efficient strokes.

“‘Tis a good
thing it bled so much. The wound is clean and should heal without
too much trouble. Furthermore, the stitching follows your hair and
should only be visible within, oh, a hundred paces or so.”

The midnight
eyes opened and found hers only a couple of inches above his
face.

“Truthfully,”
she said, drawing the thread slowly up through the puckered flesh,
“it could have been much worse. You could have lost your eye, or
your ear... ” She worked for several more minutes, the tip of her
tongue stuck at the corner of her mouth in concentration. When she
was finished, she leaned back and frowned.

“What think
you, Mr. Beacom? Will his lordship’s sweet betrothed-to-be not find
such a scar dangerously attractive? God’s love, man, you can turn
your head forward and look now.”

One of Beacom’s
hazel eyes opened a slit, followed by the other.

“Oh. Oh!” He
leaned forward and almost smiled. “Verily, the captain speaks the
truth, your grace. The cut is near the hair and the stitches are as
fine as any I have seen on a silk gown.”

After returning
the needle and thread to the sewing box, Juliet replaced it in the
sea chest. When she came back to the berth several minutes later,
she carried a cloth soaked in some noxious tincture as well as a
small jar wrapped in oilcloth.

“Do you think,
Mr. Beacom, that you can find your way back to the galley? The cook
should have put some hot stew on to warm the men’s bellies and mine
is so empty it is rubbing on my backbone. There should be biscuits
too. And cheese. You might as well fetch a jug of ale while you are
about it, and some cold beef if there is any to be sliced.
Furthermore, just tell Cook his captain is ravenous, he’ll know
what to do.”

Beacom glanced
at Varian but did not wait for his assent this time before leaving
the cabin. Juliet took her seat again.

“This might
sting.” She pressed the warm, wet cloth over his cheek, holding it
there so long Varian thought his lungs would burst from the
pressure of holding back a scream. By the time the incredible
burning subsided, he was half sober and she had already shifted her
attention to his hand. It was his left, the same one that had had
the thumb wrenched out last night, and which now had angry red rope
skids on the palm and wrist.

She dipped two
fingers into the jar and scooped out a brown, viscous paste. It
smelled like the devil’s offal but the instant it touched his
burned palm, the pain cooled.

“It was a
foolish thing you did,” she said finally. “Especially in
wood-heeled shoes with silver buckles.”

The dark eyes
studied her face a moment before responding. “Is the boy all
right?”

“He was shaken
more than anything else. And you’ve impressed him enough that
you’ll likely not find yourself lacking a defender if someone
raises their hand and sniggers behind your back.”

“Including
you?”

“I mock you to
your face, sirrah, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I have
indeed,” the duke agreed dryly.

Studiously
avoiding his gaze, she turned her attention to his thumb, applying
more of the salve and massaging it gently around the swollen
joint.

“You’re lucky
this did not pop out again.”

“I would have
been luckier had it never come out in the first place.”