Across a Moonlit Sea (18 page)

In the calm that followed the battle, Dante had to admit, if only to himself, just how remarkable a feat they had accomplished. Had it not been for the Egret’s spirit and her captain’s slight madness, a victory over such a Goliath should not have been so swift or easy. Not just the Egret, but her entire crew had spirit and guts, and Dante found himself staring back at the afterdeck, his soul aching over the loss of the
Virago
, once again envying Jonas Spence his fine ship and crew.

One crew member in particular, he conceded with a wry smile.

Dante ran his hands through the blue-black waves of his hair, shaking a spray of water droplets free. He took his shirt from Billy and shrugged it over his big shoulders, then stood easy while the shorter man climbed atop a capstan and helped him into his doublet and sword belt. There was still a thin pall of smoke drifting over the decks of the Egret, cloaking the sun, making it appear small and pale in a colorless sky. Dante had to narrow his eyes to identify the figure he saw standing by the afterdeck rail, and, confirming it was Beau Spence, he thanked Cuthbert and made his way along the deck toward the stern, weaving a path through and around the men who were recovered enough to speculate excitedly among themselves over what plunder might be waiting for them on board the Spaniard.

The lion’s share, they knew, would go to the captain, who had financed the voyage himself and owed nothing to
investors. The remainder would be divided among the crewmen, and if it was a very rich prize, they would all be sailing home to England wealthy men.

When Dante mounted the ladder to the afterdeck, he saw Beau’s head turn slightly to acknowledge his arrival.

“I have dispatched a man below to check on your father, but I do not hold much hope of his being able to savor his victory just yet.”

She offered up a weary imitation of a smile and looked out over the rail again. “I am not even sure I have enough energy left to savor it. I think … if I had a bed beneath me right now, I could sleep until we reached Plymouth.”

Dante surprised himself with a thought of what
he
might want to do if she had a bed beneath her right now. The sun was behind them, bathing her head and shoulders in a golden light. Despite the dust coating her hair, it gleamed a rich auburn and the floating wisps betrayed a stubborn tendency to cling in soft, feminine curls against her temples and throat. Her one bare arm seemed at once too slender and exposed and he wanted to remove his own leather doublet and offer her the protection of its warmth.

“I also came to apologize,” he said after another long moment.

She turned and gave him an odd look. “What could you possibly have done that requires an apology? You saved the day, Captain Dante. You saved the ship, saved the crew, won the battle.”

“I should not have taken command so … arbitrarily.”

She frowned, as if the thought of anyone else taking command had not occurred to her, especially the thought that it might have been her place to do so. “Perhaps not,” she said consideringly, “but I am thankful you did. This was … not my first fight, you understand, but … it would have been my first command, and … I do not know if I
could have handled it. I have always had my father behind me, you see, and … well …” She paused and caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I just never gave a thought to what we would do or what it would be like without him. Foolish of me … I suppose.”

Her voice trailed away and Dante moved to the rail beside her.

“You have no reason to doubt yourself or your skills. In fact, I would offer a confession freely, mam’selle: Despite your father’s confidence in your abilities, I did not believe a woman’s place was at the helm of a ship going into battle.”

She smiled wryly and averted her eyes. “You made your belief quite obvious, Captain. You looked as though you had a gull’s egg stuck in your throat.”

“Aye, maybe so. But”—he tucked a finger beneath her chin, forcing her to turn and look at him—“I swallowed it quickly enough when I saw the way you handled yourself and this ship, I did not find you lacking in either skill or nerve.”

The praise was as honest and sincere as the smoky light that came into his eyes, and Beau felt an oddly satisfying flush of pride wash through her. She
had
done a good job. She
had
kept a level head even after weathering the shot that had almost blown Jonas Spence into the sea. She just hadn’t expected to hear it from a man who regularity executed such feats and would likely have kept a helmsman beside him who would act on his orders without hesitation or fault.

“Perhaps I should have been more cautious with an unfamiliar ship,” he admitted, reading the concern in her eyes. “I did not know if the Egret’s beam was sound enough to take the strain and should have heeded your warning.”

“If you had,” she said evenly, “we would likely not be
standing here waiting for the signal to board a treasure ship.”

Their eyes remained locked together a moment longer, a moment wherein his touch became almost a caress under her chin, and the urge to take her in his arms and hold her washed through him like a slow fire.

“Mam’selle,” he murmured, “since it appears I cannot win you over with immeasurable amounts of flattery, might I try with my limited knowledge of physicking?”

A small frown knitted her brows together and did not ease until she followed his gaze down to where her hands rested on the deck rail. Both palms were burned from the coarse jute cables; the heel of the left was scraped enough to be leaking blood.

“’Tis nothing,” she said quickly, trying to put them out of sight. He was even quicker, however, in reaching down and capturing her wrists.

“Nothing a simpleton would not have the sense to seek help for,” he quoted wryly, “until they become infected and you find you cannot bend your hands or touch anything through the pain. Can you move them at all? Make a fist?”

“Of course I can,” she said, and showed him. The discomfort was minor, but he insisted on leading her over to a bucket of seawater and plunging her hands in the brine.

He kept a firm hold on her wrists, fighting her shock as well as her stubbornness as he did so. He held them long enough to weather the stream of curses that started off as strong as the stinging in her palms and faded, after a time, to disgruntled mutters.

“Better?”

“I was better before.”

“I’ll have Lucifer blend up one of his special decoctions to rub into them tonight. It will make your hands a little rough for dancing, but the skin will heal faster.”

She was not the least amused by his attempted wit and her eyes flashed upward. Dante grinned handsomely and although he did see the faint hint of a blush glow through the grime on her cheeks, she did not falter or look away in discomfort. It was rare enough to find a man willing to meet and hold his gaze for more than a few seconds without faltering. With women he was more accustomed to admiring the sweep of their lashes and wondering what it was about his feet that could possibly hold their interest for such long stretches at a time. Unless of course, it was their intent to seduce him, which he did not, for the smallest instant, believe was anywhere in Beau Spence’s repertoire of tricks.

He was, in fact, becoming convinced she had no tricks at all. If she had a thought, she either spoke it aloud or wore it brazenly on her face. And those eyes, by Christ. They were starting to get under his skin, distinctly affecting the way the blood flowed through his veins.

“What are you staring at?”

He met the challenge in her voice with a crooked smile. “You,” he said simply. Then to cover himself, he added in a more matter-of-fact tone, “Your mouth, actually. You have a rather nasty cut on the corner.”

The moist, pink tip of her tongue came out to find it and Dante was thankful it was still daylight and there were men working all around them.

“Because if you were thinking of kissing me again,” she warned, “I have my filletting knife handy.”

He covered his bemusement with a frown. “The thought had not even entered my mind. I am intrigued, however, to know why you would suppose it would.”

“Because it obviously entered your mind a few minutes ago.”

“It did?” His frown deepened.

“Right over there,” she charged, indicating the tiller, “—after we cleared the galleon.”

“Ahh.” His brow cleared and his mouth curved upward at one corner. “That kiss. Surely you do not take offense at a harmless little peck on the cheek.”

“It was not a peck, it was a kiss. Nor was it on the cheek; it was squarely on the mouth.”

“A matter of poor aim, I promise you. And it was not a real kiss, not by any measure. It was more an expression of relief, or gratitude, like a handshake. Or a snapping of the fingers to show approval. Or a cheer of ‘huzzah’ to show enthusiasm.”

“It was a kiss,” she maintained flatly. “And the devil will explain you the difference if you ever dare to do it again.”

“If I ever dare do it again, I promise I will take greater pains to show
you
the difference between a peck of friendship and a kiss. And speaking of the devil,” he said, “our Spanish friends will be expecting to see Satan himself stalk through the gangway.”

“Then they will not be disappointed when they see you,” she retorted.

“What I meant was, your father would have met their every expectation, but since he is in no condition to go anywhere—”

“You think the honor should fall to you?”

He sighed and lifted one of her hands out of the water, inspecting the palm closely for embedded rope fibers. “As opposed to you? Yes, I do.”

“Another outpouring of confidence in my abilities?” she asked sourly.

He saw a piece of cloth lying nearby and tore off a strip to bind around her hand. “Have you ever negotiated for prize monies before?”

It took a moment for the answer to grate through her teeth.
“No.”

“Are you at all familiar with the order of command and authority on board a Spanish treasure ship?”

“I cannot say I have ever cared.”

“Well, you should, if only to save you from insulting the wrong man. The feathered peacocks you see in their velvets and armor are the hidalgos—nobles and sons of nobles who were likely given command of the ship in return for some favor they have done the King. They know very little, if anything, about the actual sailing of a ship, but they like to strut about the decks, brandishing their swords and wishing death upon all the heretics of the world.

“Helping them drink wine, pray, and count their gold ducats are the priests, who know even less about currents and weather gauges, but who strut right alongside the captain-general, exhorting him to follow God’s counsel rather than the advice of any of the real sailors on board. One of the reasons I encouraged your father to attack was because the hidalgos and priests would be in such a sweat trying to outmaneuver each other and dazzle their captain-general with their brilliance, the sailors on board—well down in the ranks of authority and the only men who would know what their vessel was capable of doing—would be standing there with their hands tied, unable to act without orders, unable to mount any kind of defense whether it was tactically sound or not. The captain in charge of these sailors would have to watch his men being blown to hell while listening to the priests vow they were all going to glory in the righteous service of their most Catholic king.”

Beau’s eyes widened in surprise. “You sound as if you feel sorry for them. You pound hell out of them, destroy their ship, force their surrender … and now you feel
sorry
for them?”

Dante ignored her sarcasm. “The captain, were he to believe he had been defeated by a woman, would probably reach for the nearest sword and throw himself on it. The captain-general, on the other hand, would be too appalled to even deign to address you, and even if he did, whatever he said would be so insulting or so patronizing, I would likely be angered into killing him.”

“You … would kill a man for me?” she asked haltingly.

“I would kill any man who insulted a member of my crew, wouldn’t you?”

She lowered her lashes quickly. “Of course. Of course I would.”

Dante finished bandaging the first hand and drew the second out of the water, bathing it with enough gentleness to send her lip curling between her teeth and a spray of gooseflesh rippling down her arms. She could not fathom what it was about the man that made her skin hot and her throat close like a trap every time he offered a glib compliment. The fact he was standing so close, touching her, made it even worse. Her chest was constricted so tightly, she was forced to breathe through her mouth. Her blood was pounding through her temples and her feet were rooted to the spot like sticks simply because he was showing concern for her wounds, tending them himself.

She searched his face for an answer, studying the rugged squareness of his jaw, the bold straight line of his nose, the pale blue-gray of his eyes. It was indeed absurd for a man to have eyes like that, with lashes so long and thick, they lay on his cheek like silk crescents when they were lowered. And when they were raised, as they were now, the very blackness of them made his eyes dominate his face in such a way, she could not have looked away had she wanted to. She should have been mortified that he caught her inspecting him so closely and she would have been,
she supposed, if her senses had not suddenly deserted her completely.

She had only had one lover—Nate Hawethorne—in all her twenty years. The son of an earl, he had paid Spence handsomely for the opportunity to sail on the Egret during one of her voyages to the Indies. He had been looking for adventure and excitement, and his enthusiasm for the romance of the sea had been contagious. Beau had lost her virginity on a beach in the Azores, and while she had felt warm and trembly when they were in each other’s arms, it was not what she would have called an earth-shattering experience. It was … warm and trembly, with a lot of sweat and stickiness to clean up afterward—mostly his.

A single glance from Simon Dante roused far more stunning responses in her body, disturbing in their intensity, unsettling in their discovery.