Amanda McCabe - High Seas Stowaway

The bearded man nodded. “I’m quartermaster of the Calypso. ”

“Mendoza, what happened? My tavern is usually a peaceful enough place. The governor doesn’t appreciate those who come here to deliberately cause trouble.”

It was Balthazar who answered, his voice rough and taut with suppressed pain. “It was Diego Escobar,” he said. “He vowed he would find me, and so he did. I was a fool to let my guard down even for an instant.”

“I said we should have stayed aboard ship, captain,” Mendoza said gruffly.

“We’ve been aboard that poxy ship for weeks,” Balthazar said. “And, as the señora says, her tavern is usually peaceful.”

“Until you arrived,” Bianca answered.

“We will pay for the damages.”

“Yes, you will. Along with all the drink you consumed,” Bianca said. Delores came back with the cloths and a basin of water, and Bianca peeled back the sodden apron. The bleeding seemed to have slowed, and the edges of his torn shirt were dark brown and crusted.

Balthazar turned his penetrating stare to the men who hovered around. “And why, may I ask, didn’t you go after the knave?”

“We thought you were dead, captain,” one of them answered.

“Oh, so there was no need to hurry after my murderer, then,” Balthazar said. Bianca thought she heard a note of wry humour in his voice, beneath that pain, “if I’m not here to see him brought to justice.”

Another man tossed aside the would-be assassin’s cloak. “He just vanished, captain! Like a puff of smoke. Just like last time…”

“Mayhap the man is a wizard after all,” Balthazar muttered. Bianca swiped a wet cloth at the edges of his wound, and he arched up with a hiss. “Damn it, woman! Are you trying to kill me, too?”

“I am trying to help you,” Bianca said, pressing him back down. As his head rested again in her lap, a long strand of his hair fell over her hand, silken and binding. “Despite the trouble you have caused me. Infection takes hold fast in this climate; the wound must be covered.”

She glanced down at the floor beneath them, sticky with rum and sand. The toxic mixture would be sure to kill him as fast as any dagger-wielding madman. And, for some unfathomable reason, Bianca wasn’t quite ready to let him go.

Not until he gave her some answers.

“Help me carry him upstairs,” she told the men. “I can clean the wound better there.”

They hesitated, looking towards the captain for any orders. And Balthazar, in turn, gazed steadily at Bianca, as if he, too, sought answers. Finally, he nodded. “Do as she says,” he ordered. “And then get back to the ship to make sure the villain causes no trouble there.”

“But, captain,” Mendoza protested, “should we not stay watch here?”

A wry smile touched the corner of Balthazar’s lips. “Oh, I would vow I am protected enough by the señora and her harquebus. I’m sure that’s not her only weapon.”

“Indeed not,” Bianca murmured. She led the way up the narrow staircase to her living quarters, Delores following with the water and bandages. Balthazar let out one deep groan as his men lifted him, but was silent when they carried him to Bianca’s bed.

After the men reluctantly departed, and Delores was sent to bed, the silence grew thick and hot around them. Bianca’s bedchamber was small, a whitewashed chamber tucked beneath the eaves with room only for a bed, a small table and chair, and her husband’s old sea chest. Balthazar Grattiano, despite the fact that he lay flat on his back, seemed to fill the whole space with his overwhelmingly masculine presence.

Bianca felt more tense, more frightened, than she had in the midst of a threatened riot.

She drew in a deep breath, and was surrounded by the smell of the tropical night wind from the open window, the wax of the candles—and of Balthazar. He smelled of clean linen, leather, salt air, sweat, blood, and that dark, mysterious scent that was his alone. She remembered that scent all too well from years ago.

But she was not that infatuated girl, hanging about hoping for one glimpse of him as he passed by, for one whiff of his cologne. And he was obviously not that young man, either. So beautiful. So angry.

She carefully removed his boots and his leather jerkin and cut away his torn shirt, conscious at every moment of his steady gaze levelled on her. Oh, the beauty was still there, undeniably. As she smoothed the damp cloth over his wound, she couldn’t help but notice the lean, sculpted muscles of his torso, the smooth, gleaming skin a light golden colour, as if he worked on deck without his shirt. There were scars, too, pale, thin old ones, and one long, jagged pink cut along his ribs.

So, presumably, the anger was still there, too. That darkness that gave an edge to his angelic beauty, and once made her flee in fear.

But he was in her home now, in her very bed. At her mercy.

She traced the cloth from the wound along his collarbone, lightly over one brown, flat nipple, and down his chest over the light sprinkling of pale brown hair. He drew in a sharp breath, his rippled stomach muscles tightening, but he did not pull away. Did not even say anything. His skin seemed gilded in the candlelight, a taut line arcing down to the band of his hose.

Yes, he was still handsome, the most handsome man she had ever seen. Even after all her travels, she had never found a man to compare. But there was a hard edge to his beauty, a barely leashed violence. She would be a fool to give in again to his fatal allure.

Her gaze trailed the length of his black-clad legs, sprawled across her white sheets, the bulge of his codpiece, his lean hips. Yes, he was handsome, and she knew he was good in bed. All the whores in Venice had sung his praises, and that was long ago. He had now had years to hone his carnal skills to absolute perfection. And she was a widow, who had gone many months without a man in her bed. It was only natural she would be drawn to him now.

But only a fool would give in to lust for a villain. And she hoped she was no longer a fool.

Bianca snatched her hand away from his chest, from the warm rise and fall of his breath, the steady beat of his heart, and went back to the wound. Still he watched her in silence, always watching, as if he divined all her thoughts. Surely he was the wizard, and not the knife-wielding stranger!

She soaked a fresh cloth in rum and pressed it to Balthazar’s shoulder. His breath hissed, but he gave no other reaction to the sting.

“I will have to sew this up,” she muttered. “But you needn’t fear. I’ve done such things many times. You’ll have only the tiniest scar to add to your collection.”

As she turned to reach for her sewing box, he startled her by suddenly grabbing her wrist. She tried to yank away, but he held fast, his roughened fingers like a vise. He drew her closer, until she hovered over his bare body, unable to move or even look away. Her heart pounded in her breast, until she was sure it echoed like a drum in the silent room.

“I know you,” he said, his voice soft and low in contrast to the steel of his touch. “But from where?”

Bianca shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes. I have seen you before—and you knew my name.”

“Of course I know your name. Santo Domingo has been buzzing with talk of the arrival of the Calypso and her oh-so-daring captain.”

“That’s not it,” he insisted. But he let her go, falling back to the pillows as if exhausted. A fierce frown creased his brow. “Where have we met before? Who are you?”

“I am Señora Montero,” she answered. She opened her box and tried to thread a needle, despite her trembling hands. “And I am certain I would remember you if we had ever met before, captain. A tavern owner cannot afford to forget a face, especially if it belongs to a troublemaker!”