Scoundrel - The Blades Of The Rose Part 18

The triangular sails of another, smaller caique came into view as they rounded one of the islands. This boat was anch.o.r.ed, dancing slow and somnolent upon the water. Fishing nets dried upon its decks. Two men sat upon upended crates, mending nets with fast, deft hands. They glanced up as Kallas steered closer. In the growing dusk, London could not make out their faces, whether they nodded in welcome or stared back with hard eyes.

Kallas waved his arm overhead, once. One of the fishermen repeated the gesture. He shouted something indistinct over his shoulder. Someone came above deck, wiping his hands on a rough cloth.

"We're coming alongside," Kallas called. "You, stay with the sails," he said to Bennett. He turned to London. "Prepare to anchor."

They sailed in slowly as she worked the jib and Bennett the main. Kallas brought them several boat lengths upwind from the other caique, and signaled to adjust the sails until they stopped moving. London began to lower the anchor. She felt the b.u.mp along the line as the anchor hit bottom, then paid out the line as the caique drifted backward. More leaps along the line as the anchor bounced along the sea floor, then the anchor dug in and the line tightened.

The caique now bobbed beside the fishing boat. Three men stood at its rail, watching.

"Set the anchor," Kallas said, but London already knew. She had been taught well. As soon as she did this, lines were thrown from one boat to the other. Kallas and Bennett secured them, then the men pulled until the hulls of the boats b.u.mped gently against each other. A flotilla.

Kallas turned to her. "You make a good sailor." His face was stone, but the praise was genuine.

Too tired and frayed to blush, London ducked her head in thanks. The captain's unadorned praise gave her more profound gratification than a finely crafted sonnet ever could. "I had a good teacher."

"What about me?" asked Bennett. "I'm a good sailor, too."

"And a wh.o.r.e for compliments," Kallas grunted, but he gave an echo of a smile.

"These aren't your usual waters, Kallas," said the eldest of the men on the fishing boat, his hair snowy and windblown, his hands gnarled. His accent marked him as a man who seldom left this corner of the sea. He turned jet eyes to London and Bennett, but addressed Kallas. "They your cargo?"

"My friends."

The three fishermen stared at Kallas's pa.s.sengers, and London was well aware of Bennett's proprietary hand at her waist, him drawing her close so that her hip touched his. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Even though he smiled, it was a smile of warning. Mine. You look or touch, you lose your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks. Mine. You look or touch, you lose your b.o.l.l.o.c.ks.

What primitive creatures were men. But perhaps that was why women kept them around, to remind themselves of their humble, animal beginnings.

And she wasn't Bennett's. She was no one's. Belonged to n.o.body. Only to herself, to give as she saw fit.

The older man answered to the name of Stathis Psaltou. "And my sons," he said, waving to the two men next to him. "Konstantinos," a thickset but agile fisherman with his father's face, "and Odysseas," the younger of the brothers, lankier yet still st.u.r.dy. The brothers both nodded, holding their caps in their hands. Their gazes would linger on London, then paddle away like sea turtles whenever Bennett glared at them.

"We've need of you, Stathis," Kallas said. "To undo a spell."

The old fisherman nodded. "Permission to come aboard?" he asked. He looked at Bennett. "Or will your English wolf bite my hand off?"

"I'll keep him chained," said Kallas.

"For now," added Bennett, smiling.

Stathis seemed to respect this. He nimbly jumped from one caique to the other. Impossible to know his age, only that he seemed as old as Poseidon and hale as a tempest.

"Below deck." Kallas waved Stathis toward the quarterdeck house.

As the old fisherman ambled away, London gripped Kallas's arm. "Can we trust him? And his sons?" The Heirs had much wealth and power at their disposal. It would not be difficult to find and turn men-if not to the Heirs' cause, then at least to provide might or information. London was certain it happened many, many times. Who knew what poison was concealed by a friendly smile, even here in the midst of the Aegean?

"We hold together, the brotherhood of seafarers," answered Kallas. "All of us have the same mother."

"But brothers can turn against one another."

"Don't fear, Lady Oracle." Kallas glanced at Stathis, who waited for them by the companionway. "I've saved that goat's life dozens of times, and he's saved mine. I drank wine with him when his sons first grew beards."

"Those two look like they started shaving minutes after birth," muttered Bennett, glancing at the brothers.

"Not minutes. Months. So, yes, Stathis is trustworthy."

"Here," said the captain, once they were all below in the pa.s.sageway. He opened a cabin door, revealing with a lantern Athena on her bunk. Again, London's heart squeezed within her chest to see Athena completely still, like a flame shrinking before extinguishing completely.

Stathis went to Athena, pressing his ear to her chest. His thick, knotty fingers lightly touched the witch's face before he picked up her hand and turned it over so he could examine her palm. He grunted, then gently set Athena's hand back down beside her. Kallas, frowning with worry, searched the old fisherman's face for some expression, some indication of anxiety or relief, but Stathis kept himself removed.

From around his neck, Stathis pulled out a small charm that hung on a cord. A medallion of St. Nicholas oscillated slowly in the lamplight. Stathis stilled the medallion's movement, then held it over Athena's p.r.o.ne body. It twirled, then spun in helixes. Stathis gave another grunt, then replaced the cord around his neck.

"What does it mean?" London whispered.

The fisherman's lined face looked as ancient as centuries. "It means that you came to me just in time."

Laid out, Athena reminded London horribly of the funeral effigies she had seen in Westminster Abbey, a queen posed as though eternally slumbering, while her actual, physical remains moldered beneath layers of marble. The effect was only heightened by the scattering of small oil lamps around the deck of the ship, casting flickering, somber light over Athena's face. She almost expected the witch's skin would be cold. London had to touch Athena to a.s.sure herself her friend was warm and alive.

Kallas had carried Athena above deck, where London spread out several coa.r.s.e woolen blankets. Now, with Bennett at her side, she knelt next to Athena, Kallas facing them. Konstantinos and Odysseas kept to the shadows as their father walked to the rail of the boat with a wooden bucket, then lowered the bucket on a rope to the water, softly chanting.

Stathis spoke too lowly for London to hear the words tumbling from his mouth, but she heeded only Athena, the shallow rise and fall of the witch's chest, and feeling Bennett's hand engulfing her own. She drew steady a.s.surance from his touch, but, even so, there were some things he could not command or control-including the enchanted slumber that imprisoned Athena.

With easy, practiced movements, Stathis brought the filled bucket up. He set it onto the deck. Konstantinos hurried forward and handed his father a small, battered tin cup that looked as though it had quenched the thirsts of generations of seafaring men. Stathis whispered into the cup, again too quiet for London to hear specific words, yet she felt in them the swells of tides, the eternal rise and fall of oceans and the silent kingdom beneath the surface of the sea. The water within the cup blazed azure, spreading blue light across the old fisherman's face.

He strode across the deck and stood at Athena's head. He and Kallas shared a look, before Stathis drizzled some of the seawater onto Athena's brow.

For a moment, there was nothing. No movement. No sound. Only the waves surrounding the boats, splashing against the rocks of the nearby islands. Athena did not stir.

London's throat seized. Had the spell not worked? She tried to rise, but Bennett held her in place.

Then-Athena inhaled deeply. Her eyes opened. A flash of panic, followed by calm. London sagged against Bennett, felt his lean, muscled arm wrap in support around her shoulder. He was solid and true.

The witch turned her head, saw Kallas kneeling beside her.

"Why will you not rid yourself of me?" Athena asked Kallas, her voice a rasp.

London saw relief in the captain's fierce frown, relief he would deny if accused of it. "Too easy for you," he said.

She looked away from him. "Now I've proof how foolish you are." But she reached for his hand and, when it was given, gave it a gentle squeeze before letting go. The witch turned to London and Bennett. "Did my spell work?"

"The Heirs' ship was crippled," Bennett said, and the witch smiled at this. "They're far behind us."

Athena sighed, her smile fading. "You lost time because of me."

"We're Blades Blades, Athena," said Bennett. "This is what we do. It's why we're different from them."

Athena was silent for a moment. She nodded slightly. "Thank you, and," she said, gazing at Stathis, who had come around to stand at her feet, "blessings of the Virgin Warrior to you, sea mage."

The old fisherman's face broke into a weathered smile, lines fanning across it like a chart mapping the sea. "I'll take no thanks, land witch. The waters take life and give it with the same hands."

With a soft groan, Athena struggled to raise herself. She gave another slight nod of grat.i.tude when London helped her rise to sitting.

"This is why I do not perform such powerful spells," the witch grumbled. "It is awful to lose control of oneself."

"What can I get you?" London asked, dabbing at her friend's damp forehead.

Athena's patrician brow creased with a small frown, as if finding something strange within her own mind. "I have a powerful craving for...quince spoon sweets."

"Then you'll have some," said Stathis. He turned to his sons, but Odysseas and Konstantinos were already jumping from one caique to the other. He beamed. "Good boys."

Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with irrepressible joy, London glanced at Bennett. Their eyes held, sharing in the moment. He took London's free hand, his own large and warm and exactly what she needed. She felt her heart soar up toward the top of the mainsail mast. Nothing could stop her ascent into the silken night.

Night was held back by lanterns and bottles of wine, dark as the sea, and apricots like little suns, pa.s.sed from hand to hand. Everyone sat in a circle upon the deck of Kallas's caique, joined in an unadorned feast. There were bowls of steaming, fragrant fish stew, handed out by Stathis, the magnanimous emperor. Cubes of salty feta. Tiny fried anchovies. No bread, but none was needed. And, as Athena had hoped, a thick gla.s.s jar of syrupy preserved quince, glyko kythoni glyko kythoni, presented by one of the shy brothers. A small, dented spoon stuck into the rose-hued preserves, and everyone in turn ate a spoonful before handing it off to their neighbor. Ancient, timeless hospitality. The world united, if only for a moment, with a shared sweet.

Athena sat propped against the quarterdeck house, wrapped in a blanket, her natural coloring gradually returning. When she stuck a spoon of preserves into her mouth, she closed her eyes and sighed with pleasure. Bennett nudged London sitting beside him. He directed her gaze to Kallas, at the brief longing that pa.s.sed over the captain's face before busying himself with packing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.

London saw and shared a small, secret smile with Bennett. Meeting the warmth of her eyes, he felt a kick of l.u.s.t, pure and uncomplicated. Since Athena's awakening, life returned to the caique, to everyone, and London especially.

As Konstantinos and Odysseas, at their father's urging, produced stringed bouzouki and played the wild, spinning music of the islands, everyone clapping along accompaniment, Bennett watched London. In the soft evening breeze, her unbound hair became dark gold satin, the strands already lightening from the sun. Her ladylike pallor, too, was disappearing. Throughout her skin and gleaming in her eyes, vitality bloomed.

Who the h.e.l.l would shut her away, lock her in a cabinet like a waxwork figure kept from the sunlight? This This is where she belonged, sitting on the deck of a Greek cargo caique, singing along to songs about dashing pirates and dark-eyed girls. is where she belonged, sitting on the deck of a Greek cargo caique, singing along to songs about dashing pirates and dark-eyed girls.

Bennett didn't try to hide his grin. Why should he? Athena was well. The Heirs' ship was debilitated. It was night on the Aegean, his belly was full, and a beautiful woman sat beside him, lifting her voice in song. A beautiful woman who would soon share his bed. He wanted her. Badly. He could wait. He liked the waiting. It was part of the dance, and he loved to dance.

Metaphorically, anyway. Stathis pulled Kallas to his feet, and the two sailors stood side by side, resting their arms on each other's shoulders. They waved to Bennett as the music turned almost manic.

"The pentozali pentozali," Kallas said. "The dance of men." He puffed out his chest, knocking a fist into it.

"Don't know the steps," said Bennett.

"We'll show you."

He glanced over at London. Wreathed in a smile, she motioned him forward with a wave of her fingertips. "Show me your manly dancing."

With a cheerful shrug, Bennett got to his feet and joined Kallas and the old fisherman. Kallas clapped a hand on Bennett's shoulder, and he did the same, so they formed a line. Several minutes were spent trying to decode the hieroglyphics of their feet, intricate steps in beats of five. He was clumsy at first, but laughed and, after several more gulps of wine, felt himself move into the dance. It was l.u.s.ty and muscular, leaps and footwork, and soon Bennett had thrown off his jacket and waistcoat, a healthy and wonderful mist of perspiration covering him. Kallas and Stathis tried to outdo each other, jumping like stags. No wonder it was the dance of men. Only someone as reckless, or ridiculous, as a man would attempt it.

London and Athena clapped when the pentozali pentozali was done. Bennett took his bow, grabbed a bottle of wine, then drifted toward the rail at the boat's stern to watch the evening sea and cool off a little. He'd barely been able to stop himself from hauling London up, savaging her mouth with his, then dragging her below deck and f.u.c.king them both senseless, waiting be d.a.m.ned. His blood was high. He'd skirted danger today, found a clue to a Source, seen London deliciously wet and eyeing him with desire. All inducements to a good, strong s.h.a.g. But, even though she had separated herself from the world of English society, she was a lady, and deserved better. was done. Bennett took his bow, grabbed a bottle of wine, then drifted toward the rail at the boat's stern to watch the evening sea and cool off a little. He'd barely been able to stop himself from hauling London up, savaging her mouth with his, then dragging her below deck and f.u.c.king them both senseless, waiting be d.a.m.ned. His blood was high. He'd skirted danger today, found a clue to a Source, seen London deliciously wet and eyeing him with desire. All inducements to a good, strong s.h.a.g. But, even though she had separated herself from the world of English society, she was a lady, and deserved better.

For now, anyway, he thought to himself with a smile. If she wanted to treat him him like a trollop, well, he had no complaints with that. like a trollop, well, he had no complaints with that.

Even with the sounds of music and talk at his back, he heard London approaching. Or rather, he felt felt it, felt her nearing, a subtle shift within his body that was aware of her at all times. it, felt her nearing, a subtle shift within his body that was aware of her at all times.

She leaned against the railing beside him, bracing her elbows upon it and staring out at the liquid ebony water. The sky was a lighter indigo, scattered with stars.

He rested his hip against the rail and faced her. She held his interest a h.e.l.l of a lot more than the view. He drew a swallow of wine from the bottle, then pressed it into her hand when she reached for it.

There was something profoundly wonderful about watching a genteel young woman take a l.u.s.ty swig of wine directly from the bottle, putting her mouth exactly where his had been. A princess in the vineyards, the hem of her silk gown stained with grapes and mud. He liked to watch her draw from the bottle, her lips at the opening, the movements of her slim throat as she swallowed.

In companionable, but charged, silence, they shared the wine. It tasted of the blood of t.i.tans, rich with earth, heating and cooling at the same time. He let it roll over his tongue as he stared at London's lips, full and red.

He continued to watch those delectable lips as she said, "Wonderful dancing."

"My Greek ancestors are stomping their feet with approval," he murmured.

She raised her brow in surprise. "And here I thought you were English through and through."

"One-eighth Greek, on my mother's side."

"Ah." She nodded sagely. "That explains it. I believe there are women in England who would pay fortunes to see you dance."

"Only England?"

"The Continent, too. Including Greece. Oh, probably the Americas, as well."

"But not Asia or Africa."

"We can't let them know about you. Otherwise there would be global anarchy. Nations of screaming, rampaging women."

He reached for her, needing her mouth, but she edged back.

She shook her head. "No-I'm a little drunk. I want my mind clear when I kiss you." He saw that she swayed a bit more than the rocking of the boat.

Bennett took the bottle from her. "Start sobering up. Quickly."

London stared out at the undulating water, the reflection of the waxing moon, drawing evening air into her lungs in a slow, sensual inhalation. "If we were alone, I'd say we should throw off our clothes and go for a night swim."

"Chemise?"

"No chemise."

"Jesus." His c.o.c.k felt like a hungry beast, heavy and insistent as it pulsed against the front of his trousers. "Don't say things like that then tell me not to kiss you or touch you. b.l.o.o.d.y unfair."

"Sorry," she said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. The little witch.

He tried to distract himself. "How'd you learn to swim? Most well-bred young ladies don't know how. Indecorous."

"Oh, yes. Too much improper motion." She reached up and pushed her hair back from her face, the movement causing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to rise and press against the bodice of her dress.