Across a Moonlit Sea (12 page)

Spence caught him up under one arm. Beau, who was closer than Pitt and reacted instinctively, propped him by the other.

“Indies Gold,” Jonas said, wobbling none too steadily on his own feet. “Knocks yer ballocks down to yer toes if yer not used to it—or if ye haven’t had any solid food in yer belly.”

“I’m sure he will thank you for the excuses,” Beau muttered, struggling to hold her balance under the weight of the muscular shoulder and arm. “If not the swollen head and rancid tongue he’ll have come morning.”

“Now, daughter—Christ, he’s a heavy bastard—show some Christian charity. Ye heard all he said, did ye not? Fer all his bluster, he’s a brave man. An’ ye know yerself t’would be a worthy challenge to see if we could catch up with the cowardly whoreson bastard.”

Beau glared at her father and could see he had already absolved Dante de Tourville of any blame for his churlish behavior.

“You might call it brave to face six ships alone,” she pointed out. “I would call it reckless and foolhardy. As for chasing after Victor Bloodstone …”

Dante’s dark head swung loosely around, seeking her voice. His face was hanging between his shoulders, level with her chest, and as he opened his mouth it pressed against the soft cushion of her breast.

“A woman at the helm of a ship,” he muttered. “Another
at the helm of England’s destiny. What next, I wonder. Petticoats in the yardarms and breeches in the kitchen?”

Beau cursed and jerked away, leaving Geoffrey Pitt to scramble and catch his captain before both Dante and Jonas Spence found themselves in a heap on the floor.

“You’d best get this drunken lout to bed before he feels my knife on his vitals again,” she directed Pitt crisply. “And tell him from me that he is to touch nothing—
absolutely nothing
—in my cabin or when I do run him up Bloodstone’s arse, it will be from the spout of one of his own damned cannon.”

“I … will be most happy to convey your message.”

“You may convey this as well,” she said, throwing the blur of steel that was her stiletto, embedding the point in the tabletop. “Unless my eyes deceive me, there are creatures in his beard and in his hair. They had best not find their way into my bed or belongings, or I will come for him myself and scrape him bald. What is more, there is a bar of lye soap on the gallery ledge. You might consider using it yourself, Mister Pitt, unless you share your captain’s affection for his own filth.”

“Er … not at all, Mistress Spence. But in Simon’s defense it must be said we were hardly concerned with cleanliness.”

She planted her hands on her hips and glowered. “I am not anyone’s mistress, Mister Pitt. On board this ship, I am just Beau. Or Mister Spence, if your tongue has trouble with simpler things.”

“The simpler the better,” he avowed, refusing to take offense at her tone. “For I would indeed have trouble addressing you as Mister.”

Beau cocked an eyebrow warily, wondering if he was mocking her or if he was truly so magnificent a fool as to
think a charming smile and twinkling green eyes would make him seem less of an ogre than his black-souled captain.

Mocking, she decided, and with a parting curse she scowled her way out of the cabin.

Balancing Dante on one shoulder and carrying a lit taper in his free hand, Pitt shuffled into the dark cabin next door. He propped De Tourville against the wall and searched out a lantern, glancing around as he did so, wary of disturbing the slightest mote of dust. Not that there appeared to be any to disturb. The cabin was neat and clean, devoid of the mustiness and clutter that warmed the atmosphere in Spence’s cabin. The walls were bare planking, the berth was high and narrow and looked as comfortable as a coffin. Most of the free space was taken up by a large chart table positioned to catch the best light from the gallery windows. There was a storage bin holding rolled charts and maps, a bookcase neatly stacked with volumes held in place with leather strapping, a sea chest, and a small desk weighted down under various navigational instruments.

Dante’s eyes opened a slit. He was not entirely drunk, which Pitt had already deduced, but neither was he completely without a strong whirling sensation in his head.

“You have that disapproving look in your eye again,” he said to Pitt.

“It was a cheap way to end an argument. Were you afraid she was winning?”

Dante swore and rubbed his temples. “I was not in the mood to justify myself to a woman.”

“No? You seemed to be in the mood for something. Your tongue was sharper than I’ve seen it in a long time.”

“I said nothing she did not deserve.”

“Mmmm. Just enough to stir her blood into helping you
chase Victor Bloodstone to ground. Do you think she can do it? Do you really think she can pilot this ship?”

“If she can’t, she’ll find herself accidentally fallen over the side one dark night.”

“Your usual subtle solution,” Pitt remarked dryly. “Of course you could always try something a little less drastic and work some of your immeasurable charm on her.”

“To what end, pray?”

“Well, she is a female and soft in all the right places.”

“I have no desire to bed a she-cat.”

“When did your tastes become so refined? Unless you have suffered some holy revelation, you are normally content to bed everything that walks and breathes.”

Dante glared at Pitt, then the door. “Haven’t you a canvas sling waiting for you somewhere?”

Pitt grinned, nonplussed. He acknowledged his dismissal with a tug on a tawny forelock, then set the stiletto on the desk in plain view. “I presume you would prefer to slit your own throat rather than tempt someone else to do it?”

Dante snarled and looked for something handy to throw, but Pitt was already gone, his laughter muffled by the closing door.

 D
ante de Tourville slept, unmoving, for almost seventy-two hours. He slept through a heavy squall, replete with thunder and lightning. He slept through the crash of several dozen tin plates that flew out of Cook’s arms when he was startled by the sight of Clarence the cat leaping out at him from a dark corner of the passageway just outside the door of the cabin.

What finally brought Dante awake, and grudgingly so, was the soft sound of a footstep moving stealthily across the cabin floor. That and the aromatic vapors rising off a platter laden with hot broth, a large slab of boiled fish, and the ship’s staple, beans and rice. The finely chiseled nostrils flared and the long black lashes shivered open. He suffered a few moments of disorientation before he remembered where he was, that he was not just imagining a real berth beneath him and a cabin not smashed to utter chaos around him.

He judged it to be sometime in the late afternoon, for the room was flooded with harsh beams of sunlight. The gallery windows were mullioned, each palm-sized diamond
framed in lead and flaring with points of brilliant light that seared the back of Dante’s eyeballs like burning sulphur. He closed them almost immediately, not all the way, allowing himself a narrow slit through which to see who or what had disturbed him.

It was a who and he had to blink again, not believing what his eyes were seeing. It was the girl, standing at the chart table, frowning over some calculations while she casually munched on portions of the meal intended for the occupant of the cabin. In her other hand she held a square of rough toweling that she was using to dry her newly washed hair.

Dante did not move or do anything to betray the fact he was awake. Instead, he took the opportunity to study Beau Spence while her guard was down. Her hair was longer than the braid implied. Full and thick with natural waves, it spread in a dark auburn mass halfway down her back. With the light pouring through the windows behind her, the driest curls glistened with threads of gold and red, forming a soft halo around her head. Her face was dominated by the large, expressive eyes and a mouth that never should have known a coarse phrase or a sullen scowl. The light was also strong enough to betray the slender body beneath the oversized shirt and breeches. Some vague memory of feeling one of those pert breasts pillowed against his mouth brought a crooked smile to his lips and a faint surge of hot blood through his veins.

She glanced up from the chart table and Dante closed his eyes. He was at a distinct disadvantage with the light blinding him. He also had a wad of blankets tangled around his ankles—the only part of him not naked and open to full disclosure.

“So, Captain Dante, your man did not take me at my word,” she murmured, advancing slowly toward the bed.
“You loll about for three days in
my
cabin, in
my
bed, and no one thought to delouse you.”

She wiped the crumbs and grease off her hand and tossed the toweling aside. Passing by the desk, she picked up the stiletto she had given to Pitt, along with the oblong whetstone, and began slowly honing the edge of the blade to razor sharpness.

Dante saw the blot of her shadow crowding over him and it took a commendable effort on his part not to open his eyes or visibly brace himself for what might come next. He recalled Pitt’s words, that he might prefer to slit his own throat than tempt someone else to do it. Beau Spence would be the last one he would trust his jugular to, but he forced his breathing to remain slow and shallow, forced his hands to remain flat on his belly and not clenched by his sides.

At the same time the soft drift of freshly washed hair piqued his senses. Because he dared not open his eyes, he was left staring inwardly at the unwanted picture that had impressed itself on his brain the first day—the one of her lying naked across the top of his desk, her hair spread in glossy disarray beneath them, her body arching to receive him, her amber eyes full of flame and fire, heavy lidded with passion.

The sound of the knife scraping over the whetstone rescued him from the dangerous abyss of his imagination and he risked opening one eye a sliver. She was just standing there, her hand moving by rote to sharpen the already wickedly keen edge of the blade while her gaze roved freely over the immodest sprawl of his body. Dante was not particularily vain about the breadth of his shoulders or the well-thewed musculature of his arms and legs; the sea was a demanding mistress, tolerating neither fools nor weaklings lightly. His lack of vanity did not necessarily include
other parts of his anatomy, which he knew to be as formidable in size and substance as the rest of him, and it amused him to think of the little pirate wench fainting into a heap by the bed.

The grinding stopped and Dante saw Beau drag her eyes up to her own arm, where she tested the keenness of the blade’s edge on a patch of her own fine hairs. Far from fainting, she set the whetstone aside and advanced toward the bed again, her brow creased in a frown of concentration.

She leaned forward and Dante tensed his muscles as he felt the edge of the knife press beneath the crest of his cheekbone. A slow, steady descent scraped a clean path through the heavy black bearding, a second widened the path to his ear.

She stopped to clean the blade just as one silvery-blue eye slitted open. “I trust you are not just throwing that on the floor. I have been given quite specific orders not to make a mess in here.”

Beau nearly dropped the knife as she jerked back. “Christ Jesus! How long have you been awake?”

“Long enough,” he answered vaguely, and lifted a hand to wipe a smear of grease off her chin. “Did you enjoy my meal?”

She drew further back, out of reach of his long arm. “It is a crime to let good food go to waste. You have already slept your way through enough meals to fatten ten men.”

Dante pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Did I hear you say I have been asleep for three days?”

“Two full days and an hour or so shy of the third,” she obliged, glancing out the windows. “The sun is almost touching the horizon now.”

“Three days,” he muttered, massaging his temple with
a thumb and forefinger.
“Merde!
My head feels as if it has a thousand drummers inside.”

“No small surprise, considering what you drank as your last meal.”

He glared up at her. “How are the rest of my men?”

“They are well-fed and well-rested.”

“And Lucifer? He has not killed anyone yet?”

“Is he likely to do so?”

“His moods can be … somewhat unpredictable.”

“Between being with Mister Pitt during the day and sleeping across your door at night, he seems to be well-enough behaved. He does not talk much, does he?”

“He does not talk at all since the Spaniards cut out his tongue.” He ran his fingers through his hair, then down onto the cleanly shaved stripe on his jaw. “Did it not occur to you to ask if I wanted a bare chin?”

“If you didn’t, you should have scrubbed out the vermin before you collapsed in my bed.”

He grinned carelessly. “Since you started the job, would you care to finish it?”

She glanced sidelong at the faint stirring in his groin. “No, thank you. You appear to be enjoying the attention too much.”

Still grinning, he reached down and drew the blankets up over his hips. “Forgive me if I have insulted your sensibilities.”