Pirate Wolf Trilogy (65 page)

Jonas broke
first, taking advantage of a clever feint to open the attack.
Juliet deflected the initial series of parries with ease,
countering each with a lethal deftness that forced the much larger
Dante to scramble into a hasty retreat.

A second
prolonged engagement saw the two leaping catlike between the anchor
capstans, lunging over and around barrels and crates, pushing the
wall of roaring crewman back to the rail. The sound of steel
ringing off steel was accompanied by flashes of blue sparks and
grunts as both combatants were forced to think quick on their feet
as the strikes came faster, closer to their marks.

Sheer size
should have given Jonas the advantage of strength, but it became
shockingly evident that Juliet was far superior in skill. Her
ripostes were delivered in a blur, her attacks measured out in
precise quadrants. Her balancing arm rarely left the narrow indent
of her waist long enough to flutter the wing of her cape nor was
her hat ever in jeopardy of being dislodged. Every attempt her
brother made to break into a charge or overpower a thrust by brute
strength was met with an adroit twist or an acrobatic leap that put
her somehow behind him, above him, beside him, prodding his rump
with the tip of her blade. When he whirled around, she laughed,
offering deliberate openings and slashing them shut again with a
swiftness that left her opponent lunging ineffectually at vacant
space.

Varian’s
instincts rose to the surface, stinging with manly indignation each
time he saw Jonas miss a failed opportunity, or stagger back in a
clumsy retreat.

The
torment ended soon enough as Jonas was herded toward the open
gangway. With the offending codpiece hanging by a strip of cloth at
the crux of his thighs, the
coup de grace
was delivered and he was propelled, howling and cursing,
through the rail and out over open water.

A great cheer
went around the deck and Juliet—barely winded—spun on the balls of
her feet and brought the tip of her blade to a glittering rest
beneath the chin of Gabriel Dante. He responded with a casual
shrug, raising his hands to show he held no weapon.

“In no mood for
a swim tonight?”

“The water is a
tad chilly for my taste,” he said, sighing. “And this is a new
feather in my cap, dammit. I’ll not squander it on a brother’s
conceit.”

“I’d not
squander it either,” she said, examining the plume with interest.
“Though I may pluck it for my own if I am not accorded a properly
respectful greeting.”

Gabriel lowered
his hands, presented an elegant leg, and swept forward in a bow
that bent him gracefully in half. It also put him in the perfect
position to reach out and circle his arms around his sister’s upper
thighs as he was rising. With a maniacal roar of glee, he flung her
over his shoulder and used his forward momentum to carry them both
toward the side of the ship. A step away from tumbling her over the
rail and into the drink, the younger Dante was halted by the sight
of two new arrivals standing in the gangway.

The more
formidable of the scowling faces belonged to Simon Dante de
Tourville who stood with his arms crossed over his chest and his
eyebrow raised in askance. Less threatening but no less daunting
was the frowning visage of Isabeau Dante whose head was shaking
over the antics of their three adult siblings.

“Put me down
you sodding son of Beelzebub,” Juliet cried. “Put me down or so
help me I’ll skin your ballocks with my teeth and—”

Gabriel grinned
and swung around so that Juliet could see what had caused his
momentary burst of brotherly mercy.

Raising her
head, she shoved aside the curtain of hair that had tumbled over
her face. “Oh. Good evening, Father. Mother. Welcome aboard.”

CHAPTER
NINE

“You sail in
here a week overdue dragging a bloody great galleon on your heels
and that is all you have to say: Welcome aboard?”

Juliet squirmed
just enough to loosen Gabriel’s grip and slip off his shoulder. She
snatched her hat off the deck and resheathed her sword, then
offered up a wide smile. “Welcome aboard Father, Mother; I am very
happy to see you both.”

“We have been
worried, young miss,” Isabeau said, “and a sharp wit will earn you
no favors here. Where have you been? How in God’s name did you come
to be in possession of a damned warship?”

”It’s a very
long story, Mother, and—”

“We have time,”
Simon said, interrupting her in a voice that was as smooth as silk
yet sharp as a razor. It was a voice she knew better than to defy
but it brought a smile to her lips anyway.

Folding
her arms across her chest in a fair imitation of the man glowering
down at her, Juliet relayed with brusque efficiency the details of
incident involving the demise of the
Argus
and the attack on the
Santo Domingo
.

“We took
advantage of the Spaniard’s distraction long enough to come up on
her blind side, board her, and take command,” she said, finishing
the tale in a silence so complete one would have thought the crew
was hearing it for the first time.

“
You
boarded her?” Isabeau Dante’s amber eyes narrowed. “An armed
Spanish galleon three times the size of the
Iron Rose
and you simply sallied forth and boarded
her?”

“Hell no, Cap’n
Beau,” came an anonymous voice from somewhere in the crowd. “We
peppered her good, first. Swept the decks clear o’ all them
tin-breasted wogs an’ grappled to her tighter ‘n a whore’s fist.
Then the cap’n tells us “up an’ over” and up we goes an’ over to
the last man. We’d do it again, too, if’n she asked us.”

A murmur of
general assent rippled across the deck, but it only whitened the
lines around Isabeau’s mouth. She was certainly no stranger to the
risks of engaging any ship in battle—the empty sleeve that hung at
her side was proof of that. She also knew her daughter all too well
and could be fairly certain that whatever account Juliet or any of
her loyal crew gave of the action, it would not be one tenth as
terrifying and perilous as the reality had been.

Simon Dante was
also searching the faces of the crew, stalling here and there when
one of them was too slow to erase a cocky grin. He tipped his head
and peered up at the masts, noting the fresh timbers that braced
the broken foremast, the newly spliced lines of rigging, the
repaired sheets of sail.

“We were also
caught in a storm yesterday,” Juliet added. “We took some small
damage there too.”

The crystalline
blue eyes settled upon his daughter.

“
You were
aware, were you not,” he said slowly, “of the identity of
the
Santo
Domingo
before you
decided to interfere? You knew her compliments and firepower? You
knew that no one in full possession of their wits would consider
challenging her on their own, regardless of how distracted the
galleon was with a kill.”

Juliet’s
reply was as calm as the steadiness of her gaze. “I took offense
that the
Argus
had
surrendered yet the Spaniard did not withdraw her guns. She was, in
fact, preparing to hull the Englishman, to sink her and leave no
witnesses behind.”

“And because of
this indignation, you threw yourself, your crew, and your ship in
the path of completely unwarranted peril?”

“No. I tried to
imagine what you would have done in a similar situation.”

Simon Dante
narrowed his eyes. A full count of ten passed before he responded.
“Yes, but I am generally thought to be a madman and I had higher
hopes for my children.”

“If that was
the case, my love,” Isabeau muttered under her breath, “you need
only look at Jonas and Gabriel to know how miserably you failed
before Juliet ever set foot on a deck.”

The black brows
crushed together and the great pirate lord glared down at his wife.
The silence stretched for another fistful of heartbeats before the
sound of a chuckle began to rumble up his throat. It turned into
full-bored laughter as he threw his head back and half cursed, half
praised his fortune in finding himself with such a family as
this.

His broad
shoulders were still shaking as he plucked Juliet’s newly re-seated
hat off her head again and tossed it in the air, a signal for the
pent-up cheering in a hundred throats to erupt and erupt again
until the ship was engulfed in a clamorous roar. Meanwhile Juliet
was swept into the circle of her father’s arms, lifted and spun
until she was dizzy and laughing too hard herself to even beg to be
set down. It was the cue for two hefty seamen to roll a big barrel
of rum onto the deck, to knock out the bung and fill the eager cups
and pannikins that were shoved under the umber stream.

Elbowed to the
side and all but forgotten in the celebrations, Varian St. Clare
stood with Beacom by the rail.

“
What do
you think of this then, Harold? I expect the word
unique
will find its definition
strained to the bounds by all the members of the Dante
family.”

“
I think
they are
all
quite mad,
your grace. Quite unequivocally mad and the sooner we are free of
these wretched corsairs, the safer our throats will be at
night.”

“If you intend
to insult us, sir, you might at least use the correct term.”

Every last drop
of blood drained from Beacom’s face as he slowly swivelled his head
and saw Simon Dante standing beside him.

“Corsairs are
Saracens and ply their trade in the Mediterranean,” Dante explained
casually. “Here in the Caribbee, you might find boucan-eaters and
pirates, filibusters and freebooters, but never the other. We
brethren are very territorial, you know.”

Beacom’s mouth
trembled then began to flap like a beached fish. No sounds came
from his throat and after a moment, his eyes rolled to the back of
his head and he slowly crumpled into a heap on the deck.

Dante looked
down, then pursed his lips. “Does he do that often?”

“Fairly
regularly,” Varian sighed.

“And he belongs
to you?”

“He is my
manservant, yes.”

Up to
that moment, Varian had been content to merely observe and study
his quarry. To be sure, the man known as the
pirata lobo
was awe-inspiring in a ruthless, wolf-like
way, boasting the powerfully muscled arms and shoulders of a man
half his age. It was also plain to see where Juliet Dante had
inherited her ability to cut a man to the bone on a single glance,
for Simon Dante’s eyes were so penetrating they felt like needles
stabbing all the way to the back of the skull.

Hair as black
as ink showed but a few silvery threads. It hung well below his
shoulders in gleaming waves, with a dozen tiny braids woven at the
temples to hold it back from his forehead. The wink of a thick gold
loop in his ear did nothing to lessen the impression that he was a
man poised on the very fine line that stretched between privateer
and pirate. His wife presented no less of a striking figure with
her dark auburn hair and tigress eyes. The fact she was missing an
arm had come as somewhat of a surprise to Varian, but it was plain
to see she had not allowed the loss to cripple her. Such an injury
suffered by a member of the English nobility—and by virtue of her
marriage to Simon Dante, Isabeau was a countess—would have meant
permanent exile behind closed doors.

One of Simon
Dante’s black eyebrows assumed a decided upward slant. “My daughter
tells me you are an envoy from the king. How is the sanctimonious
Scottish bastard? Juliet mentioned he sent a crate of bibles in the
hopes of saving our souls, but they were lost with your ship.”

Varian shot a
glance in Juliet’s direction. She was standing a few feet away, her
mouth trembling with amusement. Seeing the two of them together,
father and daughter, Varian could see that she had inherited more
than just the unusual silvery-blue color of his eyes.

“His Majesty
sends his compliments.”

“I am sure he
does.”

The duke
waited, but since it appeared no one else was going to step forth
and make introductions, he did so himself. “Varian St. Clare, your
servant, sir.”

He was midway
through a courteous bow when Juliet hooked her arm around her
father’s elbow.

“He is being
modest, Father,” she said. “He is a duke. A bone fide member of the
House of Lords—unless my education was lacking—sent by the king to
stamp his noble foot and demand you cease molesting the Spanish
trade routes.”

Simon offered
up a crooked grin. “I suppose we should not be too surprised. It
has been what, four? five? months since the last envoy sought to
convert us from our corrupt ways?” He paused and took note of the
bruises on Varian’s face, the row of knotted threads that followed
his hairline. “I trust you’ve not been overly harsh on the poor
fellow.”

“Indeed, no
Father. I have been the soul of hospitality. I have fed him and
clothed him, even invited him to share my bed.”

Dante’s gaze
flicked between the two of them and Varian gasped with shock. “I
assure you, Comte, nothing improper occurred at any time! It was
simply—”

The
pirate wolf held up his hand. “Please. I have not been addressed as
the Comte de Tourville for a good many years. And if you had
attempted something improper, I expect it would be more than your
head she would have cracked open. Ahh, here is young Johnny Boy
with refills. You will join me in a cup of rum to toast the safe
return of our
Iron Rose
?”

Without waiting
for an answer, Simon Dante extended his cup. Johnny Boy scooped a
wooden ladle into the bucket he was carrying and filled it, then
splashed some in an extra cup which he offered to Varian. Simon
touched his cup to his daughter’s then waited expectantly for the
Englishman to do likewise.