The Far Horizon Read online

  THE FAR HORIZON

  by Marsha Canham

  Copyright © Marsha Canham

  ISBN: 978-1-928075-05-9

  Published by Smashwords 2017.

  All rights presently reserved by the author.

  No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you are reading this ebook for free off an unauthorized (pirate) site, please consider the long hours the author has worked to produce this book.

  This novel is a work of fiction. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Marsha Canham.

  This book is dedicated to all the loyal fans who waited so patiently for Jonas Dante's story.

  Also to my family Jefferson, Michelle, Austin, Payton, and the many close friends who became afraid to ask those dreaded four words: Is it finished yet?

  Love you all dearly to the moon and back a thousand times.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Pigeon Cay, April 20, 1619

  It was the perfect night for treachery.

  The tropical breeze was gentle and sweet and entered through open doors like a baby's breath. Carrying the scent of frangipani blossoms, it washed away the heat of the long summer day. Simon and Isabeau Dante were fast asleep in their bedroom on the upper floor of the sprawling manor house. They had made love earlier and the bedding was askew. Half of the pillows had been tossed to the floor and never retrieved. Bare legs were twined together and, truth be known, the soft, contented snores came not from Simon's throat.

  In another wing of the house, Gabriel Dante and his wife Evangeline lay sleeping soundly, their year-old son in a cradle beside the bed. At the far end of the opposite wing, Juliet Dante St. Clare lay alone and restless, waking herself each time she attempted to roll onto a stomach that was eight months swollen with her second child. Each time she stirred, she punched the empty pillow beside her, cursing a husband who had sternly forbidden her to accompany him and her brother Jonas on their most recent voyage.

  Varian St. Clare was the Duke of Harrow and as such had several vast holdings in England which required his periodic attention. He made the tedious journey to London every two years combining his duties as a duke with delivering the king's share of tribute owed by the Dantes in exchange for Letters of Marque which gave royal permission for the privateers to lawfully sail the waters of the Caribbee and conduct trade with the various ports of call.

  Varian and Jonas had been absent from Pigeon Cay for nearly three months and anticipation was high to see their sails on the horizon within the next fortnight, hopefully in time for Varian to see his second child born.

  Asleep in a separate house some two hundred yards from the whitewashed manor was Geoffrey Pitt, his wife Christiana, and ten of their twelve children. Pitt had been Simon Dante's first mate and closest companion for nigh on thirty years. Most of his time these days was spent ashore designing and building sleek new ships that could maneuver with the precision of a gold timepiece, while carrying more guns and canvas than vessels of any other nation.

  Each ship in the Dante fleet was as deadly, swift, and fearsome as the Pirate Wolf himself—and with good reason. Simon Dante had been hunted for almost four decades. The price on his head was worth almost as much as a treasure ship filled with silver ducats. His two sons, Jonas and Gabriel—dubbed the Hell Twins by those unfortunate enough to be caught in their crossfire—were no less prized, as was his daughter, Juliet, whom the Spanish called la rosa de hierro… the Iron Rose which was also, by no coincidence, the name of her ship.

  The capture of any or all would ensure the financial comfort of countless future generations of whoever brought them to heel, dead or alive.

  The man known to the Spanish only as el cazador de lobo—the wolf hunter—was determined to do so. A blue-eyed chameleon who spoke seven languages fluently, he had easily passed as a stranded sailor in the pirate-infested stronghold of New Providence. From there, it was only a matter of time before one of the Dante ships had sailed into the harbor, and with a simple X, he had signed on as one of the crew.

  Getting on board one of the Dante ships had been easy; staying on board without being discovered was one of his greater challenges. Many spies and assassins had tried only to find themselves exposed and sent back to Havana in canvas bags missing their tongues or hands or feet.

  Having the patience to lay low, to win the crew's trust, to work up the ranks and prove oneself loyal and dedicated enough to earn a position of respect…that was the true mark of a supreme hunter. Smuggling notes and whispering messages to the crew of captured ships had become a necessary risk, but after three years, el cazador was so far above suspicion, he could have pinned the notes to the capitán's doublet and no one would have paid heed.

  As he patrolled the leeward peak of Pigeon Cay on this quiet night, he looked up at the moonless sky and drew a deep, cleansing breath.

  It was time.

  The plan he had worked so long to perfect was ready to set in motion. He glanced to the west, where he knew a squadron of forty-gun galleons lurked below the horizon, impatiently awaiting his signal to attack. Most of the Dante ships were in port—a rare occurrence but one directly related to the impending birth of a new Dante sapling. The only vessel missing was Jonas Dante's ship, the Tribute.

  Conditions could not be more advantageous with the wind out of the west and the atoll itself acting as a breaker to calm the waters in front of the passage. El cazador had passed along specific instructions, directions, and charts to guide the most novice helmsman through the reef and into the channel. Over the course of the past month he had been surreptitiously sabotaging as many of the cannon that he could safely reach.

  For the past five nights he had sent up a signal for the lurking Spanish war ships to hold fast but he had not sent it tonight. Instead, he had walked the perimeter of the crater, stopping to chat with each of the fourteen sentries and share a mouthful of sweet, strong rum from the pipe he carried. All fourteen had succumbed to the poison within seconds.

  Everything was ready.

  Everything was in motion.

  The devil could take Jonas Dante wherever he was.

  He would be too late to do anything other than mourn.

  PART ONE

  LONDON

  March 15, 1619

  Chapter One

  Jonas Dante would have stood out in a room crowded with nobles and courtiers even if he wasn't the only one with mud on his boots and a battered, sweat-stained tricorn on his head. A throwback in appearance and disposition to his grandfather, Jonas Spe
nce, Dante's hair was as fiery as his temper, his jaw was square, his eyes were the color of tarnished gold that could pierce through bullshit like a knife through lard.

  He was not concerned with appearances, shunning the quilted velvets and doublets embellished with gold thread that his younger brother preferred. His normal garb was a loose-fitting shirt and a weathered leather jerkin over plain breeches and tall black kneeboots. He did not even own a pair of buckled shoes. His tricorn had been through many a battle and he wore it proudly. It was wide-brimmed, cocked on three sides and topped with his one concession to flamboyance: a tall white ostrich plume pinned to one side of the triangle with a shockingly huge jewelled brooch made in the shape of a salamander.

  The brooch drew almost as much attention as the man himself, for the body of the beast was solid gold set with cabochon emeralds as dark as the sea. The glittering eyes were blue-white diamonds the size of thumbnails. The clawed feet gripped the side of the tricorn as if the creature was alive.

  The only other adornment he wore was a thick gold ring in his left earlobe—a sailor's way of paying for a decent funeral should he die far from home.

  Dante laughed often and took great delight in common pranks. He had little tolerance for fools and regarded anyone's authority other than his own to be a waste of breath and time. He was fearless at sea and bore such a commanding presence when on land that strangers instinctively gave him a wide berth.

  Conversely, women were drawn to him like metal shavings to a magnet. Especially women accustomed to stuffy, boring men who wore padded satin doublets and stiff lace ruffs around their necks, who drenched themselves in perfume and displayed more jewels on their person than their wives or mistresses. Jonas Dante dressed like a pirate, walked and talked like a pirate, and when a grateful wench hobbled weakly from his room, they knew they had been bedded by a pirate.

  Thus it happened, as he stood in the vaulted stone great hall of Wallbury Manor, his senses bored into a near stupor, Jonas found himself assessing the many women who sent him sly, inviting glances.

  He stood with his hands clasped lightly behind his back, a knee slightly jutted forward, and made no effort to keep his apathy concealed. He had sailed his ship, the Tribute, into Londontown four days ago, and most of the time since had been wasted arguing with excise men and greedy merchants. All told, he had been a fortnight in England, sailing port to port loading cargo for the return voyage home and he was anxious to leave the stench of civilization behind. He was a creature of the sea and open spaces. Any time spent crammed into rooms full of prancing men and simpering women was as foreign to him as it would be to a shark beached on shore.

  Standing alongside was his brother-in-law, Varian St. Clare, who had slipped easily back into his role as the elegant Duke of Harrow. Unlike Jonas, he was all velvet and lace and brocade and seemed to be enjoying himself catching up on politics and court intrigues, things that interested Dante not in the least. Half of Jonas's thoughts were back on board the Tribute, the other half were with his brother Gabriel who was probably blasting full broadsides somewhere along the Spanish Main while he, Jonas Dante, had to bear up under the restrictions of courtly etiquette and refrain from scratching his ballocks in public.

  Dante's inner musings were briefly interrupted by yet another pair of strolling females who snapped their fans open to catch his eye. Both married, he determined with a smirk. Both available and eager for a tumble with the dangerous privateer so that they might regale their friends with tales of how he had mercilessly ravaged them.

  God’s truth, they were worse predators than men... and worse liars in the aftermath. They flirted outrageously by night, and by day feigned shock and outrage to have been so callously used. This was not to say he was above taking what was being thrown at him. He made no claims to any monk-like qualities but he did prefer his women to come with fewer layers of clothing and not reek of stale perfume. He liked them ripe and lush and eager to play; he had little patience for teasing coquettish glances that led nowhere.

  The golden tiger eyes scanned the crowded hall again. Every hue of the rainbow was represented in silk or brocade. Jewels sparkled around throats and on bands woven into hair. The whiteness of the ladies’ skin was somewhat disconcerting as well, for the women on the islands of the Caribbee were either dark by blood or by exposure to sun and wind twelve months of the year. Even his mother, Isabeau, and his sister, Juliet, were as dark as the native Miskitas, the sun having banished any claim to insipid fashion.

  Warring against his aversion to layers of lace and furbelows was the knowledge that the Tribute, was due to sail on the morning tide and it would be six long weeks before he would set eyes, let alone anything else, on another female.

  With a lusty goal firmly in mind, he revised his requirements and sent his gaze roving around the vast great hall again.

  ~~

  Lady Bellanna Wrexworth-Harper had dressed with special care that evening. Her gown was exquisite, made from the finest French brocaded silk. The creamy half-moons of her breasts had been plumped and pushed high by the constricting snugness of the stomacher which also shaped her waist into a slender, elongated vee. Her sleeves were long and tight to the elbow, belling from the wrists in a froth of lace and silk ribbons.

  Her hair had been tortured by irons into a mass of glossy black curls. A delicate smudge of kohl made the startling violet-blue of her eyes dominant in a face that was oval shaped with a natural creamy complexion that required no mercury washes or powders to correct any flaws. Lush, full lips had been subtly rouged. The sculpted black wings of her eyebrows needed no clipped mouse-hairs to thicken them. She wore no jewellery. No rings, no bracelets; nothing sparkled at her ears.

  There was nothing to divert the gaze of an admirer from where she wanted it to be.

  Alone, she studied herself in one of the mirrors hanging in the ladies' resting-room. She practised her many varied smiles, each geared toward the emotion she wished to evoke: the sweetly innocent smile; the hesitantly curved smile accompanied by down-turned eyes; the shy, vulnerable smile with the slight tremble in the chin that never failed to make a man shift his weight from one foot to the other. Her most effective was the seductive come-hither smile, with slightly moist, slightly pouting lips that had won her proposals as well as propositions.

  She raised a hand and splayed the fingers, studying them impassively a moment before fluttering them so quickly that she felt, rather than saw the blur of movement. In her fingers she now held the shiny gold cross she wore tucked beneath the edge of her bodice. She had not a religious bone in her body... not unless she needed to call upon God's help to get her out of a sticky situation... but the cross, undoubtedly stolen, had belonged to her father, and she had carried it as a good luck charm for the past decade.

  Bella stared at her reflection, reliving an old memory. She had been taken to Newgate Prison at her father's request, that he might say goodbye to his little daughter. As a child of eight, the towering gray stone walls and iron spikes had terrified her. She could still, a decade later, close her eyes and recall the stench of the unwashed bodies, the filth, the rats, the pitiful cries.

  The day after her father had been hung as a thief on the gallows at Tyburn, her mother, Francis Baker, had thrown herself into the Thames and drowned.

  Bella shook off the memories before more could flood in. She could not afford to be distracted now. After smoothing her hands down the stiffness of the embroidered stomacher, she skimmed her fingertips over the pocket cleverly hidden in the folds of her skirt. Her smile was wry when she felt the presence of a diamond bracelet, a silver chain, and a ruby brooch, the latter plucked off the doublet of some arrogant buffoon who had leaned too close in order to whisper a lewd invitation in her ear. He had reeked of wine and her rebuff had only sent him stumbling undaunted to the next comely female.

  After a final adjustment to an unruly curl Bella was ready to return to the great hall. The usual cloud of butterflies were quivering in her belly but t
hey had been fluttering all evening. Her father had once warned her that if the butterflies were ever absent, take heed and run... advice he had apparently not followed himself... for a thief’s best friend was his gut and if his gut grew complacent, the hangman’s noose would not be far behind.

  Even so, the butterflies seemed more restless than usual tonight. Her instincts were finely honed and seldom failed to alert her to danger. The back of her neck was tingling as if some unseen hand was dragging a feather across it. Her whole body, in fact, seemed to be tingling and while she was not overly given to believing in superstitions, it was the Ides of March, an ominous date to be sure, and she reasoned that perhaps she had taken enough risks for one evening. The profits from the bracelet and the brooch alone should sustain her for a while. She would return to the hall, enjoy the minstrels and the food for a short time, then slip quietly away.

  She blew out a breath, touched a curl at the nape of her neck, and chided herself softly as she turned to the door. Her long skirts rustled over the floor as she exited the resting-room and hummed a tuneless little ditty as her glass heels clicked down the hallway.

  She had not been absent from the bustle of the crowded hall for more than twenty minutes or so— the drawbacks of being strapped and laced into garments that took the assistance of two servants to loosen, lift, and guide a bare bottom over the proper receptacle for relief. It was scarcely past midnight and the reception hall was bustling with guests. Women flitted around like peacocks. Men looking equally as extravagant strutting after them in brocaded doublets and slashed silk trunk hose, bowing and winking and puffing up their chests like roosters each time a smile was returned.

  Bella paused beside the entrance to the cavernous room. Her eyes narrowed momentarily in the brighter lights of the hundreds of candles that burned in the myriad sconces and candelabras scattered the length and breadth of the hall. Lord Parker Seville had spared no expense. The stone walls were draped in colorful bunting, minstrels strummed in the upper gallery; tables across both ends of the room sagged with food and sweets and refreshments. There were nearly as many servants as guests milling around, refilling glasses, answering to every crook of a finger.