Dead Man's Kiss Page 8

  Fraco’s nostrils flared. “My disfigurement is a gift. One that gives me advantages. I just need a chance to prove...” He slammed the tinder box on the table in a fit of anger. “Should I report to the alcalde of abuse or disregard of any kind for any reason I decide, you and your men will hang.”

  “You threatening me, boy?”

  Fraco’s gaze slid to the flintlock’s barrel. “I suppose that would be up to you.”

  Daring, but desperate.

  Desperation could be a powerful ally—wind in the sails of motivation. Or a suicidal weakness—the leak in a boat. Montoya had something to prove. Alas, using Valeryn, nay, threatening him would get him killed.

  An image of a dark-haired wanton dove begging to spare her cousin flashed through his mind and soothed his twitchy finger.

  “As a proponent of diplomacy, I will consider your suggestion.” Valeryn stood and opened the right drawer of his desk. “’Twould be the least I can do given your generosity.”

  Bewilderment pinched Fraco’s features. “My what?”

  “You see, by this time tomorrow, my crew will be fat and spent on meat, wine and whores.”

  “Speak plain. What is your meaning?”

  He reached into the drawer and tossed the boot buckle onto the desk.

  Montoya hissed a Spanish curse.

  Valeryn, suppressing a smug grin, snatched up the iron key in the drawer. “Come along.” He waved his piece toward the door. “Back to the bilge with ya.”

  Squawking gulls circled overhead. Sea rats, Catalina often heard sailors call them. But to her they were fascinating birds with commendable adaptability to scavenging and surviving. Not unlike some people. Not unlike the pirates she had recently befriended.

  She looked to Big John and Benito standing just feet away as they haggled with the hawkers in their bumboats in the water below. The merchants peddled chickens, potatoes, fish and fruit while the men talked down the prices. For a moment, she wondered how the men would pay for the food. Until Big John flicked a small coin down to one of the hawkers. To the amusement of the pirates, the poor man nearly missed, reaching for the coin before it plopped into the water.

  The pirates were never far when she and Nalda ventured from their cabin, as if it were their orders to follow and protect them. They were always friendly. Cocklyn was the boisterous and chatty one of the group. Big John was watchful but with a hearty laugh. Benito, the nimble one, was quiet and not without a warm smile. And contrary to his crusty exterior, Henri was charming. Well perhaps not charming, but entertaining the way he guarded and drank his liquor like an impish little rascal. Sometimes the men shared with her harrowing stories of their adventures on their ship Rissa. But ’twas the stories involving their captain that intrigued her the most.

  The sunlight glittered off the water leading to the island ahead like a friendly welcome. Green palm trees and white sand lined the fringe of land where beach met the bay. What a glorious sight. The isle was not unlike any other. ’Twas the promise ahead that had Catalina in high spirits.

  Captain Barone had requested she accompany him to a tavern for a hot meal. Hunger alone would have her agree. Yet, she was all too aware ’twas his company she craved. She might never eat again just to be near him. Ridículo, indeed. But she had never felt the way she did when he held her close and set her world atilt with his possessive kiss. She had thought of nothing else since. She even dreamed of making love to him—riding upon him.

  Heat crept into her cheeks.

  One glance at Nalda beside her revealed the maid still wore her disapproving scowl. She shook her head, and puckered a reproachful purse to her mouth. The old woman didn’t need to read her mind to know what Catalina was thinking. She had intuitiveness that old women seemed to have. Well, that and the fact she caught Catalina woolgathering numerous times. Scolding her, warning her of the dangers a man, a criminal, would bring her and her family’s name. Catalina ignored her. Reveling in her wistful fantasies. Even when she had tried to speak in English, Catalina simply couldn’t pull away from her daydreams of the handsome pirate. And plotting. She was a tiny bit ashamed for trying to find ways to be with the captain without Nalda hovering near. But only a tiny bit.

  As for her primo, the days had been refreshing without his vexatious attitude and unsettling stares. She knew Fraco was safe and that was enough.

  Catalina spotted Big John walking away, picked up her skirts and chased after him. “Señor Big John,” she called.

  Big John spun to face her and respectfully dipped his head. “Señorita.”

  “Where is the capitán?”

  “That be him there.” He pointed out into the blue bay to a small boat, followed by several other boats filled with women.

  The captain rowed up to the rope ladder hanging over the side of Amalia and helped two cheery girls up. They giggled as he held them by their petite waists until they managed the ladder themselves. Jealousy and disappointment sprouted through Catalina like a rampant weed.

  “Who are they?”

  “Laced mutton,” Big John said. He raised his eyebrows, appreciating a young brunette as she swung her legs over the gunwale, flipping her skirts immodestly high.

  Catalina frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “They be strumpets.”

  Nalda smugly snorted. Catalina’s mouth fell open.

  Big John studied her curiously, looking between her and her maid. A smirk passed upon his whiskered face. “Never you mind,” Big John said. “The doxies are for the crew. Keep ’em happy, ya see.”

  Another snort emitted from Nalda.

  Catalina gathered her pride and lifted her chin. “What the capitán and the men do behind closed doors is no business of mine.”

  “’Pologies, ma’am. But there won’t be many closed doors.”

  Catalina sputtered. “They’ll...out here...in the open...”

  “Ain’t much privacy on a ship.”

  “Except in the capitán’s quarters,” she retorted.

  What was wrong with her? Why was she acting like a sour child? Was her envy that obvious? Embarrassment heated her cheeks again.

  A guffaw spouted from Big John’s wide-mouthed grin. He opened his mouth to say something, but instead must have thought better of it, shaking his head. “The use of Capt’n’s quarters is forbidden.” He bowed his head. “’Scuse me, ladies.”

  He disappeared into the group of men crowding the ship’s new chirping guests.

  “I right,” Nalda proclaimed. “He no good.”

  The old woman may be right. And at least she tried her English words. Catalina would not discuss the captain otherwise. But she would not let Nalda think that Catalina agreed. Besides, she couldn’t bring herself to think any less of him. Men were men. They had needs. The captain had needs, long before she met him. Who was she to judge him for his baser urges? ’Twas silly to think that one or two kisses would change that. She had to push her hurt away.

  She was doing a fair job of it, too, until he appeared from the cluster and strode toward her.

  The thud of his boots upon the deck in long, purposeful strides pounded in her chest. A hint of a smile canted his lip, rising his cheek so his right eye seemed to narrow upon his prey. Her heart quickened.

  “Good afternoon, ladies. ’Tis a pleasure to see you both.”

  Nalda snorted. Catalina really must have a talk with her about that. The old woman was beginning to sound like a colicky nag.

  “To you, as well, Capitán.”

  “Are you ready to go ashore?”

  Confused, she said, “What, now?”

  “I am anxious to settle, dare I say, unfinished business to which requires my attention.” The mischievous light dancing in his golden eyes belied he referred to their last encounter in his cabin and the promise of “punishment”. If her heart beat any faster, she’d surely collapse from lack of oxygen. Why couldn’t she breathe normally?

  He would choose to go to shore with her over the company of who
res? “Do you not have matters to attend to here first?”

  He stared at her for a long beat, contemplating her meaning.

  She slid her gaze past him to the men grabbing, spinning, and carousing with the women layered in colorful skirts and gaudy beads. The captain threw a glance over his shoulder. He laughed heartily and Catalina’s breath hitched at his warm, easy smile. She could lose her head over the way his face came alive with genuine amusement, and that she was the reason.

  “Le Jardin ladies are renowned, true. Call it a gift to the men for their hardships.”

  Nalda spat to the floor. The captain paid no mind.

  Catalina would like to think buying prostitutes for the crew as inexcusability vulgar and unscrupulous. She knew better. Fraco had regaled stories of Tio Alvaro doing the same thing for his palace guards, mostly to shock her. She supposed she initially was shocked. But she quickly began to understand. ’Twas a means to keep men loyal. Money and women were powerful devices for powerful men. Wielded properly, and a man could own the world.

  Still, how had Captain Barone paid for the strumpets? “A gift you say.”

  “I did not say who by.” His grin grew a fraction. Puzzling. “Come. Henri and Cocklyn should be waiting for us by now in the jolly.”

  “Oh? Will they be joining us?” She hoped he hadn’t heard the disappointment in her voice. She wanted so to be alone with him.

  He led the way across the deck to the ladder. “Nay. They will be securing provisions for the rest of our journey.”

  What had the men been loading onto the ship all afternoon? She’d heard the loud thumping, banging and rolling from her cabin. Though there were a few crates on the main deck, ’twasn’t as much as the earlier noise suggested. She figured drums and boxes had been loaded into the decks below through the main hatch.

  “Supplies,” he answered.

  “Pardon me for asking...” They paused at the railing. She peered over to the little boat bobbing in the water. Inside waited Henri, his arms crossed over his barrel chest, and Cocklyn at the oars. “’Twas my understanding Tio Alvaro gave you no money. How did you—”

  “A generous benefactor.” The captain held out a hand to help her over and onto the rope ladder, obviously done with her questioning.

  The rope creaked and gave under her weight. It’d been many years since she climbed a rope ladder. She’d been agile as a child, climbing trees and hiding from her studies in brambles, the barn loft, or in crannies of the nearby rock formations. But now she wasn’t as sure of herself.

  “Careful, lass. Easy does it. Don’t catch your lovely dress.”

  Captain Barone’s comforting words floated down to her. She was a bit giddy he noticed the red dress with pink brocade and silk flowers. She had brought it for an occasion such as this, and hoped he’d take notice. But then she realized he was making fun of her last attempt at climbing down a ladder. She looked up, and as expected, he was grinning. Of course, his silly grin may be because of the view she provided of her bust. Oddly, his approval swelled her pride. In no time she was sitting in the boat.

  Nalda swatted at the captain’s attempt to help. None too grateful, the old maid climbed down, cursing all the way. Henri squawked at Nalda to sit down. Nalda harped back with a Spanish insult that would have had the mannikin sputtering. Those two hardly knew one another, but they acted like an old married couple. ’Twould be a draw on who’d kill the other first.

  Catalina stifled a giggle. Nalda was a prickly termagant, but she meant well. Her loyalty and heart were that of a mother’s. And like her mother, Catalina loved Nalda. Perhaps because that was what children were supposed to do—love a parent. But just as she didn’t want her mother’s insistence on societal duties, she didn’t want Nalda’s chaperoning. Nor her interference. If only she could get rid of her, just for a while. Privacy with Captain Barone, free of distraction, without the maid’s grunts and groans, and her never-ending, vast array of reproachful expressions would be nice.

  Captain Barone hopped into the boat nary moving the vessel at all. “See us to shore, Mr. Cocklyn. The ladies need not lay eyes on the debauchery.”

  “Got a few men already headin’ to the chandler,” Henri said. “We should have the boys loadin’ stores within the glass.”

  “Very good,” the captain said.

  Chandler? Catalina saw her chance. “Why doesn’t Nalda join you? She has an amazing knack for picking the freshest vegetables and roots.”

  Henri ruffled. “I don’t need no—”

  “That sounds like a splendid idea.” Captain Barone’s gaze didn’t waiver from Catalina.

  “But Capt’n!”

  Captain Barone pointed a finger at Nalda and then to Henri. “Nalda will accompany you, lads. End of discussion.”

  It worked. Captain Barone wanted to be alone with her as much as she wanted to be alone with him.

  Upon realizing what was unfolding, Nalda’s eyes widened, her wrinkly brow smoothed out in surprise, ticking off glances between Henri, the captain and Catalina.

  Henri and Nalda glowered, both looking off in opposite directions. Cocklyn pretended to be invisible, quietly rowing to shore. And Captain Barone...the lecherous, delicious rake, winked at her.

  Her heart leapt, a thousand butterflies swarmed in her stomach. Getting him alone, she could talk freely, be herself without the constraints of someone regulating conversation. Without a guardian to temper words and emotions. Catalina craved both from the captain. She’d become completely enamored by him. If history repeated itself, she had fallen into a dangerous trap she, herself, had created. She must rein herself in, lest she get into trouble again. Problem was, she didn’t want to.

  CHAPTER 8

  Within minutes, they were on shore. The air assaulted her with odors of fish slime and earth. The captain ushered her quickly through the dusty streets to a tavern. ’Twas a small port bustling with fishermen and carts of clams, sugar cane, and cotton. In the distance, Catalina spotted cattle grazing on the lone hill below a gleaming white plantation house. Her impression was the people of the small town were a cohabitation of miscreants and honest business folk with a common goal of gaining a foothold in the Caribbean shipping commerce. Yet, there were enough unsavory faces in the crowds to encourage her to keep pace with the captain.

  They settled in at a table in the back of the moderately-sized tavern. Nearly every seat was filled. Catalina guessed the nameless building was the only alehouse in the port.

  Captain Barone ordered bowls of fish soup, and a trencher of shellfish and sliced mangos. Water for her, stout ale for himself. Warm rich spices tickled her nose and her stomach growled in response.

  He chuckled.

  Oh my. He heard that? “Excuse me.”

  “Nay, I’m terribly sorry it took this long to bring you here to dine.” He motioned to the serving girl for another cup of ale. “’Twas wretched of me to make you starve.”

  “Nonsense.” She waved off the statement. “You had our safety in mind, as a good captain should. You made the right decision. Besides, we didn’t starve.”

  “Kind of you to say.” He didn’t seem to believe her, though she wasn’t sure which part, starving or being a good captain.

  He pointed to the food before her. “Eat.”

  The food was delicious—salty and fresh. The fruit added just the right amount of sweet flavor, balancing out the fishy tang. She finished the dish rather quickly. Hardly any words were spoken between them. Perhaps that was because her voracious appetite had her shoveling her food quicker than what was polite. But the captain didn’t seem to notice. He ate heartily, as well. And it didn’t bother her that he watched her intently, studied her as she would a curious creature.

  Until she let out a small but ghastly belch.

  Thank goodness her mother wasn’t there. ’Twasn’t that she was a constant disappointment to her mother. ’Twas that she would have been right to be mortified. What an embarrassment.

  Captain Barone laughed, n
odding. “My sentiments, my lady. The meal was very good.”

  She stumbled over herself. “I’m terribly sorry. That was so unexpected. Rude.”

  “In some countries, belching is a compliment to the cook.”

  “Really?” Relief sank in. “Is that true here?”

  “Nay,” he said. “But somewhere.”

  A deluge of embarrassment flooded back. He laughed, the thick timbre dammed her humiliation. He wasn’t judging her, or ridiculing her for her slip of decorum. She was completely at ease with him. “Wretch,” she teased.

  “’Tis true.”

  She melted each time he winked at her like that.

  “Captain Barone, is it?”

  A tall man dressed in layers of gauzy white and flanked by two burly, armed men stood in the middle of the tavern. The intimidating companions slid into chairs, their dark, hooded eyes glued to the captain, as the tall man strode to their table.

  Captain Barone slowly dropped his hand below the tabletop, likely to palm his flintlock. Did he expect trouble?

  “It is a delight to finally put a face to the legend I have heard so much about.” The man’s smile, framed by a deep, cut, pointy beard, was as fake as his sentiment.

  “Sorry, friend. Do I know you?”

  The man splayed his hand to his chest in a contrite gesture. “Ah, but where are my manners? I am Pierre Gui Hébert.” He bowed just enough to border politeness. “I own proprietorship of Île à Vache.”

  “I wasn’t aware the King of France had an interest in such an insignificant island,” Valeryn replied.

  “But I assure you, monsieur, he does. Such as this piece of offal was once the hiding spot of Captain Morgan.”

  The captain’s face was hard as stone, his expression without a single crack. “So I have heard.”

  “Men like Morgan cause problems for the king’s relations on Haiti.”

  There was a subtle flare to the captain’s nostrils. To Catalina, ’twas an obvious attempt to not take the hook Señor Hébert baited.

  “Men like Morgan? You refer to pirates? Or perhaps to the deceptive practices of the merchants whose greed pollutes and monopolizes trade, raising armies to terrorize people and attack trade ships.”