High Seas Stowaway

“Do you feel feverish?” she said softly. “You are a bit warm. I should change your bandage.”

He felt the ripple of tension in her arm, as if she would pull away, and he reached up to gently grasp her wrist. To hold her touch to him, just for a moment more. It seemed so very long since he had touched a woman, inhaled her essence, felt her softness. It was a refuge, one he knew could not last.

A refuge in a mystery, for he still could read nothing of this woman!

“What is your name?” he said urgently, his hand tightening on her wrist. Here, wrapped in the velvet of an island night, alone with her, it seemed vital he know her name.

“I told you. I am Señora Montero.” Despite the Spanish name, the impeccable cadence of her Spanish words, he could hear a different accent lurking just beneath. A slight, unguarded music that was not there before, emerging only because she was tired.

It was almost like his own accent. Venetian, even after years of sailing the Spanish Main.

“What is your given name?” he asked.

She smoothed her touch along his cheek, her fingertips lightly skimming the line of his jaw. Feathering over his lips.

He captured the tip of her finger between his teeth, tasting her at last. She tasted of salt and flowers, like something deep and needful.

Her breath hissed, and he felt her shiver. In that moment, there was only the two of them wrapped in the secrecy of darkness. No past, no future. It mattered not at all who she really was.

The ache in his shoulder, too, was distant as he wrapped his good arm around her waist and drew her atop him. She also seemed caught in the dream-moment as she slid her body against his. Their lips met in a kiss, soft at first as they explored each other, the tastes and textures and feelings. Then she sighed against him, and the murmur of it, the whisper of her breath mingling with his, awakened something within him.

He touched her tongue with his, and a wave of heat enveloped them, a blue-white flash like the lightning of the storm. Their kiss was fast, artless with a primitive need, a blurry clash of mouths and bodies and sighs.

Through the humid rise of passion, Balthazar felt himself harden, felt her caress on his naked chest. He reached down and grasped the hem of her chemise, dragging the thin cloth over her legs, her hips. She was slender but strong, her thighs parting to straddle his hips and hold him her willing prisoner beneath her.

She moaned as his avid touch skimmed over the soft skin of her inner thigh, the arc of her hip. She cried out, her mouth torn from his as she arched up, her back supple as a bow. Balthazar, too, lurched up from the bed, his hands on her hips as his mouth slid from hers, along the line of her throat.

His tongue touched the frantic pulse at the base of her neck, and he felt her very life flowing into him. After facing death, the raging sea, the dagger, her warmth and lust were intoxicating. He kissed her collarbone, the slope of her shoulder, as he pushed her chemise back to bare one breast.

Her bosom was small but soft, the nipple a dusky disk that lengthened and hardened as he blew a gentle breath over its pouting flesh. He drew it deep into his mouth, suckling it hard as she gasped.

Her fingers drove deep into his hair, holding his mouth to her breast, her legs tight on his hips. Through the thin fabric of his hose he felt the damp heat of her womanhood.

“Balthazar!” she cried hoarsely. “I…”

Suddenly, like a cold wave, she pushed him away. As he fell back to the pillows, she scrambled off his body, her feet landing with a thud on the wooden floor. The ache of his wound came flooding back upon him as she spun around, as he lost her taste and warmth, the passion that came upon him so suddenly, so irresistibly.

He pushed himself up on his elbows, panting as he watched her draw the chemise back over her shoulders, hiding her beautiful breasts. She, too, was breathing hard, her shoulders trembling. She wrapped her arms around herself, until finally she gave one last shuddering breath and peered back at him over her shoulder. Her profile was as pale and pure as an ancient relief in the moonlight.

“You know my name,” he said. “And you speak with a Venetian accent.”

A bitter smile touched the corner of her mouth, still swollen with his kisses. “Of course I know who you are, Balthazar Grattiano. You are famous from Seville to Peru. The captain of the Calypso, the master of the seas—and of ladies’ bedchambers.”

He watched in tense silence as she wrapped a shawl over her shoulders and walked towards the door. There was no haste to her movements, only the taut line of her back, the soft sound of her rushing breath.

Or maybe it was his breath. He felt as if he had been climbing the rigging in a stiff wind for hours.

“My name is Bianca,” she said quietly. Then she vanished, closing the door behind her.

Balthazar groaned, collapsing back to the tumbled bed amid the smell of her soap, the salty essence of their lust. His body was still hot and hard, aching with the need to drive itself into her welcoming womanhood. His blood pounded in his ears, his shoulder throbbed.

And yet—Bianca? Who the hell was Bianca? He knew no one called…

Then, as if in a flash of fire, he remembered all too well. Bianca.

“Bianca Simonetti,” he muttered, pounding his fists into the yielding mattress. Of course. Yet another avenging spirit from the past.

Chapter Four

Bianca leaned back against the closed door, her hand pressed hard to her aching stomach. She had just kissed Balthazar Grattiano! Had let him put her breast in his mouth, straddled his near-naked body like a dockside whore. And, what was even worse, she had liked it.

Nay, more than liked it! The pleasure had been so deep, so hotly overwhelming, that she had forgotten who she was, who he was, where they were, even the terrible past. She had forgotten everything but the sensation of his lips on her skin, the hard steel of his penis under her hips. The raw need that had bound them together, tighter and tighter, until she vowed she would explode like her gun.

Bianca moaned, covering her flushed face with trembling hands. A man she had not seen for years, a man who had betrayed her friendship in the worst way, appeared again in her life, and what did she do? Kill him, take her long-delayed revenge? Nay, she nearly had sex with him in her very own bed!

Behind the closed door, she heard the squeak of floorboards, a muttered curse, as if Balthazar tried to get out of bed. Bianca ran down the narrow staircase, heedless of her bare feet, not even sure where she was going. The tavern was deserted in the pre-dawn gloom; the hot air still smelled of spilled ale and rum, greasy leftover stew and the acrid tang of gunpowder. The broken furniture from the fight, good now for nothing but kindling, was pushed back against the wall.

Bianca turned towards the kitchen at the back of the building. It was hotter in there, the fireplace banked and smoldering for the day’s cooking, but Delores still slept in her pallet by the hearth. Bianca slipped past her and out the door into the night.

It was nearly morning. A greyish-pink light tinged the edge of the thick blackness, and soon flickering lights would appear in the windows of the shops and houses. The bells would ring out for Mass from the half-finished cathedral on the plaza. The governor’s palace fortress, high on its hill above the rest of the town, slumbered behind its impenetrable stone walls, its vigilant cannons. It was silent now, yet soon enough would come to life and tend to its business, the business of every inhabitant of Santo Domingo—tending to the flotas, the treasure fleets that wended their way to Spain a few times a year.

Bianca gazed out over the town, so deceptively peaceful in the dawn. Santo Domingo had been her home for a long while now, longer than most of the European inhabitants. They could not bear the heat, the strange food, the insects and storms. Could not bear to be so far from the culture and comforts of Spain. They came only to make their fortunes, to serve the king and thus win a place at court. Then they made a dash back to Seville and Madrid, putting the strange witchcraft of the islands behind them.

But Bianca had come to love it. Oh, indeed there were times when she longed for Venice, but after so many years of wandering, of hardship and struggle, she had found a home of sorts in this rough port town on the Rio Ozama. She had built a business, one that prospered and required of her only honest hard work, and not the degradation of her body. The loss of her soul.

She gave a wry laugh. It was not always grand to haul unconscious drunkards out her door at three in the morning, to scrub sticky floors and negotiate with hard-bitten merchants for her rum and sugar and ale. There were certainly times, many of them, when she wanted to bash an obnoxious customer over the head with a cauldron and be done with it! To run screaming into the jungle, never to be seen again.

But there were also times when she could leave the jostling tavern behind and walk along the banks of the river. Could smell the salt breeze from the not-so-distant sea, tinged with the sweetness of greenery and exotic flowers. Could see the sky overhead, the purest, clearest blue, lit by a blinding yellow-white sun. Could absorb the natural beauty and peace into herself and hold it close to her heart.

Santo Domingo was rough, true, especially compared to Venice. Despite the fortress, the cathedral on the plaza, the substantial houses where only thirty years before there were just grass huts, it had the air of a temporary holding place. Of a land where the bonds of civility were thin indeed, and the threat of violent raids and rebellion hung heavy. Yet Bianca had lived in worse places, and she had found a refuge of sorts here.

But now that refuge was torn asunder. Balthazar Grattiano was here, in her very home. Bianca frowned. What was he doing here, so far from Venice? From his jewels and silks, his expensively beautiful courtesans. He did seem to be a ship’s captain now, one spoken of with awe, even in a hard place like this. One obviously respected by his men. Something shattering must have happened to him to bring him across the ocean, just as it had with her.

But what could it possibly have been? Balthazar Grattiano was a veritable prince in Venice, the sole heir to a wealthy and powerful, and ruthlessly cruel, father. He had no need for the riches of the New World, unless it was solely Grattiano greed. One kingdom was not enough.

If he could appear so suddenly in her life, would Ermano be next?

Bianca shivered, remembering her mother’s glazed, staring eyes. The blood, the dagger. The terrible fear that drove her to flee, to never see Venice again. Was it all beginning again?

She shook her head fiercely. “Nay! I will not let it,” she muttered. This was her home. She would not flee the Grattianos twice.

And she would discover what Balthazar did here. Then she would know how to act.

The pale pink light of dawn was spreading over the sky, banishing the dark of night and with it her cold flash of fear. She was not the frightened girl she had been then, alone without her mother and heartbroken at the betrayal of a handsome young man. She was a woman grown, and she would not allow the Grattianos to steal one more thing from her. Not her home, her pride or her due revenge.

Bianca sighed. Well—perhaps Balthazar could steal one more kiss from her. She was a woman, after all, and he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. But that was all, and it would only be on her terms.

She whirled around and hurried back into the kitchen, where Delores was yawning as she stirred the fire. The morning brought a new day’s hard work, and it couldn’t be disrupted by a beautiful ship’s captain lying wounded in her bed.

Unless he had managed to vanish from her life as quickly as he appeared. She could hear no stirrings abovestairs, but she went about gathering water, bandages and a bowl of the reheated stew anyway.

“Is he still here?” Delores asked.

“Of course,” Bianca answered. “He’s not in much of a condition to just be wandering off.” Though, wounded or not, he had been in fine condition when he kissed her, and caressed her naked hip.

Delores sighed. “How very beautiful he is, señora! It would have been terrible to see him killed last night.”

Aye, terrible for him to die before she could get answers—or kill him herself! “Beautiful or not, Delores, we don’t have time to be mooning over him,” Bianca said, suddenly deeply impatient with Balthazar, Delores, the world and especially herself. “We have too much work to do.”

Delores nodded, turning away from the now-blazing fire to start peeling and chopping cassava. Despite the fact that she did rather like to giggle over handsome sailors, Bianca had to admit Delores was a good worker who actually seemed to enjoy the workings of a tavern.

“Especially with all the people seeking refuge from the storm in town. I heard there was even a Spanish contessa at the fortress! But I think we need more meat, señora, if we’re to feed everyone,” Delores said. “I used the last in the stew.”

“I will go to market myself this morning, then,” Bianca answered. She suddenly felt a deep urge to run away. And if she could not go to the jungle, to the tangled interior of the island, she could at least go to the market on the plaza. The warm morning breeze would help clear her confused mind, and she would be away from Balthazar. “You keep an eye on our wounded customer.”

Delores brightened. “Oh, yes, señora!”

“Not too close an eye,” Bianca warned. She left Delores to her tasks, carrying the tray of water and bandages upstairs with her. She lingered outside the door, listening closely for any signs of movement. After what had happened last night, she wasn’t at all sure she could trust herself with Balthazar, even in the clear light of day.

Bianca scowled at the memory of the humid darkness, the feel of his sea-roughened hand on her naked skin. It seemed the armour she had built so carefully around herself, link by impenetrable link, over the long years was more vulnerable than she thought. But she couldn’t allow that to be. She couldn’t be vulnerable.

All appeared silent behind the door, the heavy quiet of early morning. She slipped into the room, finding Balthazar sound asleep in her bed. It had not been a quiet sleep; the bedclothes were tossed and tangled, his arms thrown wide as if he fought a battle in his dreams.

She remembered his shouts and murmurs in the night, the monsters in his nightmares. She set the tray down on the table and tiptoed to the bed, gazing down at him in search of any sign of dangerous fever. A fierce frown creased his brow, but he seemed to sleep deeply. The wound had seeped through the bandage, a reddish-brown colour untainted by yellow infection.

She carefully smoothed the tangled hair back from his sun-browned face, watching the glint of light on the small gold hoop in his ear. She remembered the pearls and diamonds he had worn in Venice, the riches that set off his fine looks to such perfection.

Bianca glanced at the clothes tossed over her chair, the leather jerkin, the torn shirt and scuffed high boots. The fine silks, too, had been cast away with the jewels.

“What have you been doing all these years, Balthazar Grattiano?” she whispered. “And what in St Iago’s name are you doing here?”

He groaned in his sleep, rolling away from her on to his side. Bianca drew the sheet up around him, careful not to wake him. Much as she wanted, needed, answers to her questions, she couldn’t face him again quite yet. Not until she had repaired that chink in her heart’s armour.

She quickly washed her face and brushed out her hair, confining the unruly curls in a knitted caul. She dressed in a plain brown bodice and skirt of light wool, and a pair of sturdy boots. She was certainly no fine lady of Venice, she thought as she studied herself in the looking glass, tying on a wide-brimmed straw hat. Balthazar would surely never have kissed her if he saw her now, as she truly was! But she would do for the market.

And when she returned, hopefully she could also know what to do about that man sleeping in her bed.

Chapter Five

Bianca hurried out of the tavern, her basket over her arm, and turned towards the town’s central plaza. The street of her establishment, and indeed most of the streets of Santa Domingo, were narrow, closely packed with houses and shops, but they were cobbled like those of any European city. In the morning light, the yellow stones and red brick of the buildings gleamed, and the air was cool and clear with the tang of salt. Only later, when the sun rose overhead, would the thick heat set in and the shutters of the houses be drawn closed.

She descended the sloping streets, answering the greetings of her neighbours as they opened their shops for business. Later she would have to stop at the bakery, and look in at the office of her sugar supplier, who brought in goods from the inner-island plantations. But for now she was intent on her errand. The cathedral bells had rung out long ago, and soon the plaza would be crowded and the best meat and vegetables gone.

At last she emerged from the maze of streets into the open, central part of town. Santo Domingo was built atop a hill, to give a natural defensive position against any who would try to attack. The governor’s fortress, the storehouse of treasure and seat of the cabildo, sat at the highest point, locked behind thick walls and guarded walkways. There was no sign of any Spanish contessa there this morning, though, as Delores claimed. As Bianca gained the ramparts, she could see the ragged, green-black mountains that hid the island’s jungle interior, which she had never visited. A soft breeze swept down from the lush mountains, carrying her on her way.

She hurried past the gallows, blessedly empty of swinging bodies today, and found herself gazing down at the harbour. The mouth of the Rio Ozama formed a natural port, with anchorage for dozens of ships. Usually, unless the flota was in on its way to Spain, there were not so many vessels as that. But the storm had driven many to seek shelter. The sapphire-blue waters were crowded with a forest of masts, the ships’ decks crawling with the rush of activity. From her place on the ramparts, Bianca could hear an indistinct chorus of shouts and sea ditties.

She paused to stare down at the crowd of vessels, wondering which one was the famous Calypso. They had said the mainmast was damaged, but many of the ships were undergoing such repairs. Surely such a one would stand out, like the flagship of a mighty fleet. It would bear the mark of magic.

Yet she saw no such thing, only the usual caravels and carracks, tiny pinnaces, weary after the storm. As she watched men climbing the riggings, swabbing down the decks, she remembered her voyages with Juan Montero. The endless creaks of a vessel at sea, the wide open vistas of the shimmering water. It had not been an easy life, but the freedom of it all, the vast mystery—oh, it had been glorious!

“Señora Montero?” she heard someone say, the words jolting her from her daydream of the high seas. She turned to see Mendoza, Balthazar’s quartermaster, hurrying towards her.

“Ah—Señor Mendoza, yes?” she said.

“Yes, indeed. I was just on my way to your tavern. How fares the captain?”

“Well enough. He was sleeping when I left, and has no sign of fever. My maidservant is watching over him.”

A smile actually broke across Mendoza’s glum, rough countenance, glowing through his thick beard. “That is excellent news, señora! The men will be relieved to hear it. They have been praying for the captain through the night.”

“Have they?” Bianca said. “No doubt they fear to lose their wages and their posts, if the captain were to die.”

Mendoza looked startled. “Not at all, señora. The men will be paid no matter what, and there is always a berth for an honest sailor in the Velazquez fleet. But there’s no other captain we’d be as proud to serve under as Balthazar Grattiano.”

Bianca gazed down at the bustling port, remembering the near-mythic tales she heard whispered of the Calypso and her captain. “He cannot have been a captain for long,” she murmured.

“Nay, he first went to sea near seven years ago, apprentice to the navigator on the Elena Maria,” Mendoza said. “He bought the Calypso two years ago, and his crew has followed him ever since. With a fair wind, he can see us to Spain in three weeks.”

“Three weeks?” Bianca said, startled. “He must be a magician.”

Mendoza laughed. “So some people say. But it’s only if charts and astrolabes be magic. He can steer a ship through any storm, too. He’s one hell of a sailor, señora. The crew would follow him anywhere.”

“Not everyone, so it would seem. What of that man who tried to kill him in my tavern?”

A dark scowl obliterated Mendoza’s grin. “Diego Escobar.”

“Was that his name, then? Who is he? Why did he want to kill your captain?” Bianca thought of the cloaked man, of the dead darkness in his eyes. Had he, too, lost something precious to the Grattianos? She could well believe that an entire crew of men would follow Balthazar; his charisma had been such in Venice, too. But she could also believe that someone sought revenge for some insult or crime.

“He was a navigating officer, come aboard a year or so ago from Vera Cruz,” Mendoza said, his tone reluctant, as if she forced the tale from him. “He and the captain were friends, until…”

“Until what?” Bianca urged impatiently, taut with suspense.

“’Twas a woman.”

“Oh.” Of course. A woman. Somehow, Bianca was rather disappointed it should be something so sordid, so ordinary. “No doubt some doxy this Diego thought was his, until she transferred her affections to the captain.”

“No, no, señora! It was not like that.”

It was always like that. Bianca saw it in her tavern every week, and cleaned up after it, too. But she gave Mendoza an encouraging smile, hoping he would continue with his tale. “Then how was it, pray tell?”

“Diego had a wife, a native woman he met before he joined the Calypso. Esperanza. We all knew about her, but we didn’t think anything of it. Lots of the men…” His voice trailed away, as if he was embarrassed to speak of such things with a European woman.

“Lots of the men have sex with native women, with their wives back in Spain all unknowing,” Bianca said.

“Yes,” Mendoza answered, still obviously uncomfortable to be gossiping about such things with her. Yet she found she could not let him squirm free. She had to know what happened.

“But Diego married the woman, in the church in Havana,” he went on. “She had been baptised and everything. Afterwards, we put out to sea, heading to Peru for a shipment of silver. That was when it happened, a few days out of Cuba.”

“What happened?” Bianca whispered.

“The captain found that Diego had his wife aboard, in the hold. She was pregnant, and ill.”

Bianca could imagine. The ceaseless pitch and roll of the waves, the dank stink of the hold. It was surely no place for a pregnant woman. “What was he thinking of?” she muttered.

“It was like he’d gone moon-mad, señora,” Mendoza said. “The captain insisted on setting the woman ashore, but Diego argued. Threatened, even. But Captain Grattiano wouldn’t hear him. He made to turn back to Cuba, even as we lost precious time, and he left her there with a nurse, in a house of her own.”

For once, Bianca thought Balthazar was quite right. “What else could he have done?”

“Naught, of course. But she died anyway, poor soul, and her baby, too. Diego vowed to kill the captain, to have revenge for what he had done.”