Pirate Wolf Trilogy (59 page)

CHAPTER
SIX

The
weather held to occasional gusts through the night, but the dawn
came up gunmetal gray with seas high enough to send gouts of green
spume over the deck rails. A wide, growling swath of black
thunderclouds was circling in the western sky, and while the
Iron Rose
could easily have piled on more
sail and outrun the storm, the galleon could not. Compounding the
stubbornness of Spanish shipwrights who refused to alter the design
of vessels that were square-rigged and could only go where the wind
took them, they insisted upon building huge castles fore and
aft—towering wooden decks that severely hampered speed and made the
already top-heavy ships unstable in bad weather.

Juliet would be
damned, however, if she lost such a grand prize to the wind and the
sea.

“Lash down
everything that is not already nailed or tied, Mr. Crisp. We’re in
for a sweet one.” She lowered her spyglass and squinted up at the
roiling mass of cloud. “We did both say it had been too easy, did
we not?”

Nathan blew out
an oath and went aft, shouting orders at the men as he passed.

A jagged fork
of lightening cracked open the clouds and Juliet counted the
seconds before the sound reached them. Travelling at roughly one
league every three seconds, she guessed the blow was four leagues
away and swirling in on them fast. The wind was cold and damp; it
snatched off hats and rattled deadeyes. It changed direction
sharply from one minute to the next, making the sails overhead boom
like cannon.

Apart from the
men assigned to stand by the lines, the crew remained below. Gun
captains checked that the culverins were tied down, the ports
sealed against water coming inboard, and wax plugs were fitted into
the noses and priming holes of the guns. The powder barrels were
secured and the several hundred balls of shot were safely confined
in the magazine. The pumps were oiled and manned. Lanterns that had
not been lit during the night remained cold, for the greatest
hazard on board a ship was fire; even the coals in the galley were
smothered to guard against any accidental spillage.

Juliet
tracked the approaching storm from the quarterdeck, her feet braced
wide to counter the rolls and dips the
Iron Rose
took riding from one swell to the next. She had
her bandana knotted snugly around her forehead to keep her hair
from lashing into her eyes, but strands were constantly being torn
loose, making her look and feel like Medusa.

One stony
figure who undoubtedly shared her impression stood down in the
belly of the main deck, his hands clutching the rail, his face
turned out to the sea. Juliet had been surprised to see the Duke of
Harrow venturing out in such heavy weather. She was frankly
surprised to see him at all, dressed as he was in a rough-spun
shirt and canvas galligaskins, neither very clean nor anywhere near
a proper fit.

The shirt,
which might have been loose on the wiry frame of an average sized
seaman, was tight across the shoulders and absent any laces so that
it gaped open across his chest. The breeches were similarity
stretched at the seams and so threadbare she wondered how safe they
would be if he had to bend over in haste. In combination with the
fine, silver-buckled shoes that were the only personal items
salvaged in the rescue, he made a somewhat comical figure and she
suspected it was sheer stubbornness that had brought him topside at
all.

She had not
seen him since the incident in her cabin, had not troubled herself
to inquire which locker Johnny Boy had elected to transform into
his cabin. She only knew her berth was empty when she fallen into
it sometime after midnight.

A rare
twinge of guilt prickled Juliet’s conscience as she studied him. It
was possible she had consumed a tad too much rum last night and her
reaction to his touching her
might
have been slightly out of proportion to the actual crime.
She had been startled, more than anything else, when he’d pulled
her to her feet, for she had just been wondering, not half a moment
before, what it would be like to have all that naked flesh pressed
up against her body. The knife had been in her hand before she knew
it, after which of course, there could be no backing down.
Especially not after he accused her of having an unfair
advantage.

From where she
stood on the quarterdeck, she could not see his face. He did not
seem the least interested in glancing her way either, which was
rather like dragging a line baited with fresh red meat in front of
a shark. She had one foot on the ladderway when the sky rumbled,
the wind abruptly dropped off, and the underbellies of the clouds
lit up with an ungodly green glow.

~~~

In the sudden,
unearthly silence, Varian glanced upward and held his breath.
Fiery, brush-like discharges of static were crackling and snapping
from the mastheads and yards. Bright orange in color, they were
like little bolts of lightning playing across the skeleton of the
ship, leaping from spar to spar, travelling down the masts and
setting the air hissing overhead.

“Most seamen
have a superstitious fear of St. Elmo’s Fire,” Juliet said quietly.
“They believe that anyone who dares to let the light fall on his
face will be dead within a day.”

Varian lowered
his gaze grudgingly from the dancing lights. His hair had been
blown about his face and clung to his cheek and throat where two
day’s worth of dark stubble snagged the strands.

“I have heard
of the phenomenon, but never seen it.”

Juliet tilted
her head up, but the flickers of light were already beginning to
fade.

“You are not
superstitious?” he asked.

“About some
things, yes. I would never begin a voyage on a Friday, for
instance, nor would I bring a black cat on board. I also have the
caul of a newborn babe hanging in my cabin and I never set sail
without pouring a fine bottle of wine on the gundecks for luck.
Mind, since the most dreaded curse on the high seas is supposedly
having a woman on board, I tend to be more sceptical than your
average tar-boy.”

“And here I was
advised on very good authority before departing London that gales
and high winds would subside if a naked woman stood on deck.”

“Which is why
most figureheads are of naked women. Nevertheless, you might want
to take yourself below,” she advised, blinking as a fat drop of
rain splashed her cheek. “I have no intentions of stripping down,
and the wind can toss you about like a child’s toy if you haven’t a
good pair of sea legs beneath you.”

“Thank you,
Captain.” Beacom said, peering around from behind his master’s
broad shoulder. “I was about to suggest that very thing to his
grace: To retire below until this unpleasantness passes.”

“Whereas I was
thinking a bit of rain, a brisk bit of wind might make for a
stimulating change,” Varian said tautly.

“
Suit
yourself,” Juliet said. “But if you end up riding a wave
briskly
over the rail, we won’t be
turning about to fish you out.”

Beacom made a
sound in his throat, but Varian merely offered a small bow to
acknowledge the advice, then turned to stare out across the boiling
seas again.

“Stimulating?”
Beacom waited until Juliet had returned to the quarterdeck before
he questioned his master’s sanity. “As stimulating as the storm we
encountered off the Canaries on the voyage south?”

Varian’s dark
eyebrow twitched at the memory, for the gale that had battered them
for four days and five nights had left the two men so weak from
seasickness they would have welcomed a swift death at the end of a
spiked bludgeon. Even so, the wench had thrown down a subtle
gauntlet. Were he to retreat below now, with his thumb throbbing a
reminder that she had lorded her superiority over him once already,
it would suggest his legs were made of less stern stuff than her
own.

“Go below if
you wish,” he said, squinting against the beads of rain. “I choose
to remain here a few minutes longer.”

The few turned
into ten, and by then the blackest of the clouds were directly
overhead, the wind was lashing across the deck and rain was pelting
down like needles. Varian was satisfied he had made his point.

With Beacom’s
teeth chattering too badly to express his gratitude, the two men
began to make their way across the deck, but before they were
safely through the hatchway, the planking shifted under their feet.
The ship seemed to rise up beneath them, careening perilously to
one side, tossing both Varian and Beacom hard against the base of
the mast. Dazed, they could only brace themselves as a solid green
wall of seawater crashed over the deck, beating down on them with
enough force to carry them across the deck and flatten them against
the bulkhead. The ship righted itself, then rolled in the opposite
direction, sending Beacom skidding and sliding across the wet
planking almost back to the rail.

Varian cursed
and went after him, managing to grasp hold of a bony arm and drag
him back to the safety of the hatchway. Above them on the
quarterdeck, Juliet was shouting orders to the helmsman, who was
doubled over the whipstaff, his hair streaming horizontally into
the wind. One moment he was there, his full weight pressed into
keeping the rudder on course, the next he was gone, flung against
the rail and only saved from being swept overboard by the length of
cable bound around his waist.

“Your grace!”
Beacom was screaming, hauling on his arm, but Varian could not
move, could scarcely see more than a few feet in front of him. He
tried to scrape the salt water out of his eyes, but everything
remained a blur. He could not see Juliet Dante. If she was still up
on the quarterdeck, she was obscured by the sheets of driving
rain.

If she was
still there.

A
thunderous crack, startled Varian’s gaze higher as a bolt of
lightening struck the top of the foremast. The jagged white streak
seemed to hang in the air a moment before dissolving into a
fountain of brilliant red sparks, some of which showered the heads
of the crewmen who were working the lines. Weakened in the battle
with the
Santo Domingo
,
the top of the mast fractured in two under the fiery strike and a
ten foot section came crashing down toward the deck, the shroud
lines popping and snapping as it fell. The broken length of oak
cannonaded into the planking close enough to where Varian was
standing to lash his face with spray.

“
Your grace,
I beg you: you must come below!”

Beacom’s voice
was frantic, but Varian’s attention was dragged back to the
quarterdeck. There was still no sign of Juliet. The helmsman was on
all fours, his face bloodied where his forehead had hit the rail.
Varian shook off Beacom’s clutching hands and ran to the bottom of
the ladderway. He vaulted up the steps two at a time and saw her.
She was on the starboard side of the quarterdeck attempting to
climb into the shrouds.

At first he
could not see why she would be doing such an insane thing, but then
he looked higher and saw the boy with the peg leg hanging upside
down from the rat lines. A cable was looped around his good ankle,
and Varian guessed that when the mast had come down, the line had
been pulled taut and jerked the boy off his feet and up into the
tangle of rigging. He hung there helpless, being swung to and fro
with the movement of the ship, coming ominously closer to the base
of the mast on each swing.

Doubled over
against the force of the wind, Varian made his way across the open
quarterdeck. He reached Juliet’s side just as another mountainous
green wave crashed over the bow, nearly flinging them both down on
the deck. He circled an arm around her waist and another around the
four-stranded lanyard lines, and held them both against the shrouds
until the wave passed.

Unfettered
lines snaked treacherously underfoot and the broken section of mast
continued to pull on the rigging with each plunge and toss of the
ship, snapping shearing poles, popping the chain-plates out of the
gunwale and freeing more cables to whip over their heads. Varian
heard Juliet shout something in his ear, but his mouth and nose
streamed salt water, his hair was plastered flat to his skull and
he turned the wrong way just as the end of a rope whipped across
his cheek like a cat o nine tail.

The painful
sting added to his blindness and almost made him miss Johnny Boy as
he swung toward the shrouds. Varian reached up to grasp a flailing
hand but he misjudged the distance by half an arm’s length and
realized he had to climb higher to reach him. Pushing Juliet to one
side, he put a foot to the rail and hoisted himself up into the
shroud lines. He caught his balance in time to see the next wave
before it struck and turned his head to avoid the worst of it, but
when he shook his head to clear the water out of his hair and eyes,
the loose cable lashed him again. With a curse, he caught the end
and looped it several times around his wrist which was, he
acknowledged too late, probably the most foolish thing he could
have done.

The ship
plunged into a trough and the yard around which the rope was bound
swung forward with the motion, carrying Varian with it. He was
yanked off the shrouds and found himself in the same perilous
situation as the boy he had come to save. The two made brief
contact as they swung in opposite directions, then St. Clare was
bounced out and around the far side of the shroud. Being
considerably heavier, with much more rope at play, he was sent
spinning out over the side like a whirligig and for a full ten
seconds, there was nothing under his flailing feet but empty air
and churning water.