The Iron Rose Read online

  For over twenty-five years the Pirate Wolf, Simon Dante, had been the plague of Spanish shipping. He had fought alongside Sir Francis Drake and been one of Elizabeth’s fearsome sea hawks who had helped defend England’s shores against invasion by the Spanish Armada. Having won glory, accolades, titles, and estates, Simon had taken away nothing but letters of marque signed by the queen, official sanctions to harass, capture, and plunder ships of hostile nations, which, in the West Indies, was mainly Spain.

  His wife, Isabeau Spence Dante, was the offspring of a red-haired giant of a pirate who had taught his daughter how to fire a cannon by the age of twelve and how to navigate a ship around the Horn before her twentieth birthday. Her maps and sea charts were prized by captains of every nationality who sailed on the ocean-sea, and to every cartographer in England, she was known as the Black Swan after the elegantly painted imprint that identified her work.

  The Black Swan had also been the name of the ship Simon Dante had given to Isabeau as a wedding gift. She had returned the favor by presenting him with a son, Jonas, nine months later. Another son, Gabriel, had followed within three years, and Juliet ten months after that. None of the three had shown a desire to be anywhere else but on the deck of a ship, and with parents like Simon and Isabeau Dante, it was no surprise they would grow to be a trio of magnificent thorns in the Spaniard’s side.

  All three had fought for and earned the right to sail at the helm of their own ships. Armed with twelve heavy culverins that fired thirty-two-pound shots, and eight twenty-four-pound demi-culverins, the Iron Rose had been presented to Juliet on her twentieth birthday. The fact that her captain was a woman held no less terror for foreign crews who sighted her sails on the horizon. Most ships ran up as many sheets as they could carry and fled before the wind, for to see the Iron Rose’s pyramid of canvas turning into the chase usually meant her brothers’ ships, the Tribute and the Valour, were not far off her beam. And woe betide the arrogant captain of any vessel who thought only to shake off the three pups pursuing him; chances were better than nine out of ten that the Pirate Wolf himself, Simon Dante, would have already circled his Avenger around to lie in wait off their bows.

  On this occasion, Juliet had been alone, intending to take the Iron Rose to sea only to test the strength of a new rudder design. She had been startled herself to emerge from a tropical squall and stumble across the two battling ships. At first she had thought the rumble of guns to be lingering thunder, but when the rain had passed and the mist had thinned, the lookouts had spied the Santo Domingo blasting the Argus into kindling.

  Now she had an enormous treasure, three hundred prisoners, and an eight-hundred-ton warship on her hands, none of which made her particularly happy at the moment.

  “Loftus agrees with my estimate,” she said, glancing at the Iron Rose’s helmsman, “that we are less than half a day’s sail from Guanahana Island.”

  “We have no friends there,” Crisp said, frowning.

  “No, but look you, between there and here”—she stabbed a finger at a small dot of black ink on the map she had spread on top of the binnacle—“is an atoll. We could tow the galleon at least that far and set the Spaniards ashore. Once we are rid of them, we can think about what to do with the rest of the cargo, whether to risk making a run for Pigeon Cay, or to off-load it somewhere and return for it later with Jonas and Gabriel to guard our backs.”

  Nathan could see by the look on her face that the second option was not an option at all, for she had as much of a rivalry with her brothers as an abiding love and affection. Nonetheless, he sighed and shook his head. “We’d be trying to find this atoll in full dark. How the devil do ye expect to make a dead reckoning of a sandy pimple the size of my toenail at night?”

  “I’ll find it. Unless you fancy standing on guard for the next forty-eight hours straight until we find a larger toenail in daylight, we’ve little other choice.”

  “We could just heave them over the side,” he grumbled. “It’s more than they would have done for us.”

  “We could, but it would still leave us with one other small problem.”

  “Only one?” He snorted. “Ye have yer father’s gift for understatement, lass.”

  “What do we do about the English crew? We can’t set them adrift on the same island as the Spaniards or they’ll end up either dead or chained to oars in the belly of some galleass. The closest port friendly to the British is at least a week away, which puts it a week beyond impossible. We’re overdue as it is.”

  “The Frenchies would take ’em off our hands an’ trade us a few barrels o’ wine for our trouble.”

  “Yes, then they would turn around and sell them to the Spanish in exchange for trading privileges.”

  “Might I make so bold as to offer a suggestion, Captain?”

  Juliet and Crisp both looked around as Lieutenant Beck stepped up behind them. They had been aware of him pacing the deck below for some time, working up the nerve to approach.

  “Is there something you need, Lieutenant?” Juliet asked. “Something else we can do for your men?”

  “You have been exceptionally generous already, Captain. In fact, I was rather hoping there was something we could do for you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Well.” He clasped his hands behind his back and stood with his legs braced slightly apart. “It would appear to me that you have taken on somewhat more than you anticipated when you came to our rescue. This galleon, for instance. At a bare minimum, I estimate it will require a crew of seventy men to work the sails and keep her headed in the direction you wish to go—more if you should happen to cross the path of another enemy vessel. Your own ship carries a complement of how many? No. No, on second thought”—he held up a cautionary hand—“do not answer that; I should not want to be accused at any time of trying to prize information. My only intent is to establish that while your crew is more than adequate for sailing the one ship, it would be hard-pressed to manage two. You mention the possibility of towing the galleon, and I’m sure this would be feasible for a day or two, as long as the weather held steady and seas remained amenable. Of course, you also have the option of sinking the Spaniard, but she’s a grand ship, an even grander prize, and while I can only speculate as to its value to your family’s enterprise as a whole, I expect you would be loath to do such a thing if at all avoidable.”

  Crisp folded his arms over his chest and scowled. “Is it that ye like the sound of yer own voice, lad?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is there a point at the end of all this meandering?”

  “A point? Why yes. Yes, of course. The point would be that I am offering the services of myself and my men in whatever capacity you might require. We are, each and every one, fully trained to the tasks of setting sails, rigging lines, manning the guns, even pumping the bilges if that is necessary to keep this monstrosity afloat. It is, if I might say, one of many advantages our navy has over, say, the French or the Spanish. A Spanish gunner is trained only to fire a gun; he would not know how to set a sail if his life depended upon it.”

  “Ye’re offering to help us sail the Santo Domingo to a safe port?”

  “I have under my command fifty-two able-bodied seamen who have no wish to be stranded in the middle of the ocean with the bloody Spaniards, sir.” He looked at Juliet. “With respect, Captain.”

  She studied the unfortunately scarred face and decided she liked Lieutenant Jonathan Beck. He was earnest and outraged over the uncivilized behavior of the Spanish, grateful for his life and the lives of his men. But could she trust him? Having just boasted his knowledge of every aspect of a sailing ship, would he not be able to chart their course? Remember landmarks? Guess their position with reasonable accuracy from the sun and stars? Pigeon Cay was unique for a number of reasons, any one of which would identify it to someone familiar with the area. Moreover, she knew for a fact there was a reward of ten thousand gold doubloons on her father’s head. A spectacular fortune for a m
an who made a shilling a month in the service of his king.

  “Captain,” he said, reading the hesitation in her eyes. “I am not unaware of the success your father has had in keeping his whereabouts in these islands a well-guarded secret. You have my word as an officer in His Majesty’s Royal Navy that neither myself nor my men will jeopardize that secrecy in any way.”

  Juliet gave nothing away by her expression, but at length, she shared a long and searching look with Nathan Crisp. He, in turn, shrugged. “That’s why ye’re the captain. You make the decisions, I just do as I’m told.”

  “I could only wish,” she said dryly. “Very well, Lieutenant Beck, I accept your offer and your word of honor. As for your men, I am not unappreciative of the strain it might put on their loyalties once they are back in London. In fact”—one auburn eyebrow made a casual hook upward—“for each man who agrees to join my crew of his own free will—however temporarily—and signs articles stating as much, I’m prepared to offer them a full crew’s share when the prize is tallied.”

  Beck opened his mouth to protest, then clamped it shut again. Signing articles of privateering while still legally bound to the English navy was equivalent to desertion and the penalty for that was death. In effect, it would turn them into pirates, and for an officer to sanction such an agreement was tantamount to mutiny, treason, freebooting, and whatever other charge the navy council would throw at him if it ever came to light.

  As a deterrent, however, going on account would certainly guarantee the silence of any man who signed. They had all heard the whispers concerning the cargo the Santo Domingo carried in her holds, and for sailors—half of whom had been pressed into service—even a tenth of a crewman’s share would represent more than they could earn in a dozen lifetimes. A full share would likely be beyond any of their wildest dreamings.

  “I would naturally have to put it to the men,” he said, his eyes narrowing with new respect for the captain’s cleverness. “But I can foresee no immediate impediment.”

  Juliet held out her hand. “In that case, welcome to my crew, Mr. Beck.”

  He was an inch away from extending his hand to seal the relationship when he blew out a puff of air and curled his fingers into a ball. “On second thought, there, ah, might be one slight impediment.”

  Juliet retracted her hand and rested it on the hilt of her sword. “And that would be … ?”

  “That would be Varian St. Clare, his grace the Duke of Harrow. While I am not privileged to know his business in these waters, I do know he came aboard carrying documents that bore the king’s seal. He is no common sailor, nor is he under my command. The bond I extend for my men would therefore have to exclude his grace and if his grace is excluded then I cannot guarantee the willingness of my men to sign your articles. In other words—”

  “No need to hit us on the head with a truncheon, lad,” Crisp said. “We see the way the boat is driftin’.”

  “Where is he now?” Juliet asked wearily, beginning to regret ever seeing a flash of purple velvet.

  Crisp tilted his head. “We had him shifted over to the Iron Rose, like ye ordered.”

  “I did? Oh yes, I guess I did. And these documents he brought aboard?” Juliet inquired of the lieutenant. “You have no idea what they might be? Or where they might be?”

  Beck glanced inadvertently over the rail as if he could see where the Argus rested on the bottom of the ocean. “I expect they are with the rest of the captain’s papers, for I believe he entrusted them into Captain Macleod’s care.”

  Juliet exchanged the smallest flicker of a glance with Crisp. “It would seem, then, the solution is obvious. You and your men, Mr. Beck, will remain on board the Santo Domingo under Mr. Loftus’s command and his grace the duke will remain in ignorant bliss on board the Iron Rose. We need three days of fair wind and clear sailing, sir, and for that I promise a share of the prize as well as passage to the nearest British port after the Santo Domingo is in a safe anchorage.”

  Lieutenant Beck brought himself to attention. “In that case, Captain, I shall put the news to the men and we can begin to make ourselves useful at once.”

  She smiled. “See that you have that cut on your forehead tended first or you’ll bleed to death and be no use to me at all.”

  Beck flashed a grin, the first she had seen since he had departed the Argus. It took ten years off the lieutenant’s face and made his disfigurement all the more unfortunate.

  When he was gone, she turned to Crisp and forestalled any objections that might be forming on his tongue.

  “When we come within sight of the Cay, we will invite Mr. Beck and his crewmen to go belowdecks.”

  “A full crew’s share?”

  “They deserve it. They played as big a part in bringing the Santo Domingo to her knees as we did. And you saw the holds, Nathan. We can afford a little catholic charity.”

  He offered up a grunt. “I still say ye should just heave this lot overboard. It would save us all a deal of trouble.”

  Juliet followed his gaze to the huddled groups of Spaniards. Capitán Aquayo and his officers had been spared the indignity of being tethered together, but they were under heavy guard in the stern. Most of the light was fading from the sky, but Juliet had no trouble locating the one pair of piercing black eyes that had not stopped staring in her direction since she and Nathan had climbed to the tall forecastle deck.

  Juliet’s shots had blown away the bottom halves of the maestre’s ears, the lead balls cutting so close to his face they had left red scorch marks on his cheeks. The right lobe had been severed cleanly, the left had hung by a shred of flesh until his angry, groping fingers had found it and torn it off. His head was now swathed in strips of blood-stained linen that left little more than his eyes free to vow revenge.

  “Might also have been for the best if ye’d just shot the bastard clean through instead o’ toyin’ with his affections,” Crisp noted dryly.

  “Ah, but this way he’ll remember me each time he looks in the mirror.”

  “I’ve a feelin’ he’ll remember ye anyway, lass. With or without the ear bobbin’.”

  Chapter Three

  Varian St. Clare groaned the groan of a dying man and forced himself to roll his head toward the source of light that glowed red through his eyelids. His mouth was coated with a sour fur, his tongue was so swollen it felt like it might burst. His head was pounding, his ears were ringing incessantly, and whoever it was who had the nerve to be talking and laughing nearby would be shot the instant he could lay a hand to a pistol.

  He groped in the vicinity of his waist, finding nothing but skin. He ran his fingers over the ridge of his hipbone and dragged them across the hard surface of his belly, skimming upward as he felt more flesh, hair, and a thumping heartbeat beneath his breastbone.

  He was alive, though he was still not certain if that was cause for celebration.

  He was also stark naked, covered by a thin, scratchy blanket. No sooner had he determined this, then more battered senses came into play, making him aware of a burning sensation on his left buttock. That, combined with the pungent smell of brimstone, made him brace himself before he dared open one dark blue eye.

  Half expecting to find himself surrounded by sulfurous flames, attended by a hoard of leering, grinning demons, he peered through the merest slit of his lashes.

  He was not in hell, nor was he on board the Argus. He had been in Captain Macleod’s great cabin on many occasions and this, with its huge brass wheel suspended from the ceiling, was not the smallest part familiar.

  He opened his eyes wider and his search for explanations ranged farther afield. Most of the cabin was in heavy shadow, for although there was a lantern suspended from every spoke of the brass wheel, only one was lit, casting its soot up to smudge a ceiling thick with lampblack. There was no way of telling if it was day or night; heavy sheets of canvas had been hung over the bank of windows that spanned the rear wall of the cabin.

  A glint of metal drew his eye to th
e leaded crosspieces on a wire-fronted bookcase, then to another beside it lined with shelves that held an impressive array of pistols and powder flasks. The two cases appeared to be the only extravagance in a room fitted with an enormous desk, a chair, and a small washing stand nailed to the floorboards. The bed he was lying on was little more than a shelf set into the bulkhead. The mattress was barely wide enough to accommodate his shoulders and so thin he might as well have been stretched out flat on a board.

  Moreover, he was not alone in this strange and spartan cabin.

  Beacom was seated on a narrow bench at the end of the bed, his head drooping forward so far his chin touched his chest. Bowed over the desk were two men, one of whom was studying a map and scratching notations on the border while the other man watched, nodding occasionally to himself as if mentally comparing the jotted computations with those he had apparently made himself. He was short and burly with a face like a terrier chewing a mouthful of wasps. The one doing the jottings was taller, leaner, and wore a faded blue bandana over a single long auburn braid that hung halfway down his back.

  A memory stabbed through the pain in his skull and took Varian back into the heat of battle where he recalled seeing the same lad with the blue bandana cornered against the rail by three Spaniards. The boy had been holding his own, wielding a sword like a brilliant young master, and Varian had only felt the need to intercede when an arquebusier thought to take unfair advantage.

  He remembered that much. He also remembered leaping back on board the Argus in time to be blown to hell and gone when the deck had exploded beneath his feet. After that … nothing but flashes and glimpses. Something about a dagger. The ship going down. The boy again.

  There had been something odd about the way he spoke, too. Something about the way he looked …

  Varian’s experienced eye traveled along the lad’s slender form and hovered over the rounded curve of the hip, the tightly molded moleskin breeches, the crux of the thighs where there was neither a bulge nor a codpiece allowing ready access to one.