Читать онлайн книгу «High Seas Stowaway» автора Amanda McCabe

High Seas Stowaway
Amanda McCabe
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesPirates, passion and danger on the high seas!Balthazar Grattiano, captain of the infamous ship Calypso and renowned seducer of women, has just walked into the one tavern in all of Hispaniola he should have avoided. For Bianca Simonetti, his sworn enemy, is the owner – and she has vengeance on her mind. But before she can take her revenge she is captured by this rogue’s kiss.Her only chance for retribution is to stow away on his ship for a passionate adventure which will either kill them – or bring them together once and for all! Special bonus story inside Shipwrecked and Seduced



A stowaway. Balthazar had not time to deal with such annoyances. Not now, when his thoughts were full of Bianca.
“Mendoza!” he shouted. “Turn back to Santo Domingo. We have a knave to set ashore.”

Balthazar reached down to grasp the lad by the collar of his doublet, knocking his cap askew. One long, dark brown curl escaped, falling along a startlingly graceful neck.

The stowaway shoved Balthazar’s hand away, standing up straight as he/she pulled off the cap. Bianca glared up at him, shaking her hair free over her shoulders.

“You cannot turn back, Captain Grattiano,” she said. “The wind is against you.”

As Balthazar stared at her in utter astonishment, he heard someone roar with laughter. “Looks like we have a new crew member, captain.”

“I can swab a deck or mend a rigging rope with the best of them,” Bianca declared. Her words were bold, but her eyes—her eyes still held that deep caution. That distance.

A distance that had suddenly grown much narrower.

Balthazar caught her against him, his lips coming down hungrily on hers as his crew broke into raucous cheers.
HIGH SEAS STOWAWAY
“Smell the salt spray, feel the deck beneath your feet
and hoist the Jolly Roger as McCabe takes you on an
entertaining, romantic ride.”
—RT BOOKreviews
A NOTORIOUS WOMAN
“Court intrigue, poison and murders fill this
Renaissance romance. The setting is beautiful…”
—RT BOOKreviews
A SINFUL ALLIANCE
“Scandal, seduction, spies, counter-spies, murder, love
and loyalty are skilfully woven into the tapestry of
the Tudor court. Richly detailed and brimming with
historical events and personages, McCabe’s tale weaves
together history and passion perfectly.”
—RT BOOKreviews

High Seas
Stowaway
By

Amanda McCabe



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Amanda McCabe wrote her first romance at the age of sixteen—a vast epic, starring all her friends as the characters, written secretly during algebra class.
She’s never since used algebra, but her books have been nominated for many awards, including the RITA
, Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice Award, and the Holt Medallion. She lives in Oklahoma, with a menagerie of two cats, a pug and a bossy miniature poodle, and loves dance classes, collecting cheesy travel souvenirs, and watching the Food Network—even though she doesn’t cook. Visit her at http://ammandamccabe.tripod.com and http://www.riskyregencies.blogspot.com
Previous novels by the same author:
TO CATCH A ROGUE
(#ulink_ac158d3d-5be8-56b0-ae11-82ef102e046b) TO DECEIVE A DUKE
(#ulink_ac158d3d-5be8-56b0-ae11-82ef102e046b) TO KISS A COUNT
(#ulink_ac158d3d-5be8-56b0-ae11-82ef102e046b) A NOTORIOUS WOMAN
(#ulink_e342eb6d-a86c-5c91-a68f-b899c92c5b17) A SINFUL ALLIANCE
(#ulink_e342eb6d-a86c-5c91-a68f-b899c92c5b17)
* (#ulink_860dc800-bcef-5565-9edf-8255f8026f47) Linked by character
^ (#ulink_860dc800-bcef-5565-9edf-8255f8026f47) Linked by character to HIGH SEAS STOWAWAY

Prologue
Venice—1525
He was there.
Bianca Simonetti stared down from her narrow bedroom window, peeking through the merest crack in her curtain to the young man who stood on the narrow walkway far below. Though she could see little but his pearl-trimmed red velvet cap, the glossy fall of his dark hair on his shoulders, she knew it had to be him. Balthazar Grattiano.
For no one else in all her fifteen years had ever made her heart beat as he did. It pounded now in her breast, the rush of nervous blood loud in her ears. Her very fingertips and toes tingled with hot, nervous life whenever she just looked at him!
She knew that she was far from the only female in Venice he affected this way. His dark green-gold eyes, muscled shoulders and elaborate codpieces were the subject of many whispered, blushing confidences from patrician salons to two scudi brothels all over the city. Bianca heard much of it, for all those women, countesses and whores alike, came to her mother with their secret desires.
Maria Simonetti, long a widow with her own household, was the most gifted fortune-teller and tarot-card reader in Venice. She could not practise her trade openly, of course; Venice was not the strictly religious enclave Madrid was, but no one wanted to court charges of witchcraft. So, the lower stories of their house were let to a dressmaker and a wigmaker, while Maria told her fortunes in a back room, discreetly draped and curtained.
But everyone in the city knew, in their own unstated way, of Maria’s gifts. The women especially. They came seeking a glimpse of their future, assurances about their husbands or lovers or businesses. They came in tears, in hope, even sometimes in elation. And, very often, they came with anxious questions about Balthazar Grattiano. They never noticed Bianca, sitting so quietly in the shadows, and she heard them all.
Balthazar was handsome, one of the most handsome men in Venice. That was obvious just to look at him, of course. He was rich, the only son of the fabulously wealthy and powerful Ermano Grattiano. He was also now nineteen, of an age to marry, to take on the responsibilities of a patrician gentleman. Yet he did not seem inclined to do any such thing, preferring to spend his time with courtesans, gambling, drinking, or, most shocking of all, watching the ships being built at the Arsenal.
Bianca heard all this, heard the whispers of his great “inventiveness” in bed, his mystery and elusiveness. Heard the blushing pleas—would he one day marry her? Make her his exclusive mistress?
But Bianca knew more than his good looks, his riches, his sexual prowess. She looked into his luminous dark green eyes and saw a longing to match her own. A deep, endless pool of vast sadness.
She did not have her mother’s gifts. The cards were just painted pasteboard to her, the future a blank. But from her infancy she had been taught about people. Had seen them come and go in her mother’s house, heard their deepest fears and wishes, their goodness and their malevolence. She could read them, in her own prosaic way. When she first saw Balthazar, first looked into his beautiful eyes, she saw not the smug satisfaction expected of such a privileged young man. She saw only that sadness—and that swirling pool of anger.
In her everyday life, she would not expect to meet anyone like Balthazar Grattiano. They were not of the same status, and their lives did not overlap. Her mother did not mind Bianca listening to fortune-telling sessions. Maria was open about the realities of life, but she was also protective. Bianca was not allowed to go dancing with young men, or even to leave the house at night. Especially during this season of Carnival. She heard only about the masked, wine-fuelled parties from her mother’s visitors.
But Balthazar’s father, the powerful and fearsome Ermano Grattiano, had recently begun coming to the house, seeking card readings from her mother. Maria sent Bianca away when he was there, but she heard from the maidservant that Ermano, who had buried three wives, wished to marry again. He was passionately desirous to have more children, and was convinced Maria could tell him the right lady to bear those babes, convinced the cards would reveal his wife, his destiny.
Balthazar sometimes came with his father to these sessions, always waiting outside on the walkway. That was when Bianca first saw him, one day as she came home from the market. He leaned against the peeling stucco wall, wrapped in a rich fur-trimmed cloak, a book open in his hands.
Bianca, too, loved to read, a strange accomplishment for a young woman. She also learned languages, English and Spanish, and account-keeping, to run her own business one day. A bookseller on the Rialto sometimes loaned her volumes, yet never enough to satisfy her vast desire for knowledge. Her curiosity as to what such a handsome, well-dressed man was doing reading outside her house overcame her usual shyness, and she asked what the book was.
He glanced up at her, and that was when she saw it—that great sadness, that barely leashed fury against she knew not what. He never seemed to turn that anger on to her, though. Instead, he smiled, and showed her his volume on navigation, surprised she could read the Spanish words. After that, whenever Ermano would come to discover more about his destined bride, Bianca would slip down to talk to Balthazar, to see what he was reading, to talk about the strange glories of the world outside Venice. The wonders of England, Spain, France, Turkey—even the new islands beyond the seas.
Bianca had never heard anyone speak of such things, and she was fascinated by this new vista of great lands. Fascinated by Balthazar himself, by this tiny glimpse of wishes and dreams hidden so deep beneath a glittering and careless façade. By this burning desire to run away, to soar free into some unknown fate.
But it frightened her, too, this view outside her narrow existence. This strange, wondrous young man.
“Why,” she asked him once, “would you want to leave Venice? You have everything here.” She could not imagine then that anyone could desire more than riches and fame, an old family name, which Balthazar possessed in abundance. Could not imagine someone would desire more than Venice, which was all the world and more, a sparkling golden place on the water. She herself would surely one day marry and raise a family, help run her husband’s business, and be bound to her home and duties. Her only consolation was that it would be here, in Venice.
Balthazar—he had no need really to go out and seek his fortune, as those who travelled to the New World did. It lay at his very feet, wherever he walked. Money, glory, love. How could he want to leave it all?
But he merely smiled at her, that sweet, sad smile, his beautiful eyes old. So very old. “Come with me, Bianca,” he said, taking her hand. It was the first time he had touched her, his fingers cool and strong over hers. She shivered at the sudden rush of pleasure, the joy even such a casual, innocent caress had on her senses. She held so tightly to him, not caring where he led her. She would surely walk into the very flames of hell, if it was with him.
But he led her not into brimstone, only to the edge of the nearest canal, where his father’s gondola waited. People hurried past them: maids with their market baskets; serious patricians in their black robes, intent on affairs of state; satin-clad courtesans who smiled and giggled at Balthazar. Bianca saw, heard, none of them. It was as if she was wrapped in a silent, sundrenched spell. In the presence of Balthazar, his warmth, his clean, seawater scent, that blocked out the noise and fury of the everyday world.
“You see this water?” he said, gesturing to the canal below them.
Bianca nodded absently. Of course she saw the water! She walked past it every day on her errands. It was like every other canal in Venice. Smelly, perhaps, but unremarkable. A way to get around.
“No, really look at it,” Balthazar said, tugging on her hand, and she glanced down. The water was still with no gondolas passing to churn its waves, an iridescent swirl of blue, purple, green, a greasy black. A few bits of flotsam bobbed about, bottles, scraps of vegetables, a dead rat or two. Winter was coming on swiftly, and the usual sweet-sick smell was muted.
“What am I looking at?” Bianca whispered, making him laugh.
“We see here only the surface of the city,” he said. “The beautiful churches and palazzos, the jewels and silks, the riches that are the envy of the world. But beneath that beauty…”
Bianca watched the slow swirl of the water, the blend of dark rainbow colours that concealed garbage and decay deep beneath. “Dead bodies? Chamber pots?”
Balthazar glanced at her, his brow raised. The sunlight caught on the fine emerald in his ear, dazzling green-yellow set in elaborate filigree. The jewel was also a concealment. Balthazar, too, was like the waters of Venice, like the city itself—beauty masking dark depths.
“Exactly, Bianca,” he said quietly. “Death and decay. Dishonesty at every turn.”
“But can you really run from such things?” she asked, thinking of his books of travel and adventure, of new lands. “They are surely always with us. We are only ourselves, no matter where we go.”
“True enough,” he said. “We can only try to make amends, to find truth. To purify our own souls. Only then can we be free of what lies beneath, what we never dare reveal to the world. We can only seek the truth, at any price.”
The truth at any price. Balthazar fascinated her more than ever at that moment, but also scared her. For an instant it was as if she glimpsed his very soul, so dark and labyrinthine, as hidden as the waters’ depths. It was only a glimpse, a fleeting moment, before all was concealed again behind his smile. He held her hand even tighter in his and led her back home, gallantly kissing her fingertips before she fled back to the safety of her own chamber.
It had been many days since that last encounter, and Bianca had only glimpsed him for quick instants. It was truly Carnival now, and he was occupied with his own social obligations. Ceremonies and festivals, banquets, balls—lounging in velvet-cushioned gondolas with beautiful blonde courtesans. Bianca had seen him thus with the notorious Rosina Micelli, his head tipped back against the gold-embroidered cushions, eyes closed in decadent pleasure as Rosina whispered in his ear, her jewelled hand stroking his hair.
He and his father had not been back to Bianca’s home until today. Rumour had it that Ermano was courting the perfumer Julietta Bassano, and Balthazar was occupied at the brothels and gambling halls. Bianca peered down at him now from her window, unsure what to think or do.
Even though she had not spoken with him in days, she had thought of him at nearly every moment. Turned his cryptic words about decay and truth over and over in her mind until she was dizzy with it. She longed to ask him what he meant, craved one more privileged glimpse into his hidden heart. Wanted to show him her own.
Yet at the same time she wanted nothing more than to run from him! From those dangerous truths he offered like emeralds.
Bianca let the curtain fall back into place, turning to the small, precious looking glass on the wall. She was too thin, with curling dark brown hair that refused to lighten no matter how much lemon juice she applied. Her cheeks were hollowed, her eyes too large for her face, her shoulders bony, and she had no bosom to speak of. But now, as she thought of Balthazar Grattiano standing so close outside, her pale skin glowed pink, her brown eyes were bright.
Yes, he was a strange and frightening person, unpredictable, unreadable. Not like anyone else she had ever known. If she were wise, she would stay far away from him, from all the dangerous Grattianos. Yet Balthazar made her feel alive and excited; he was like the heat of the sun on a grey, drab day. And she was powerless to turn away from that wondrous light.
Soon enough, he would be gone completely from her workaday orbit. No matter what he said about freedom and truth, about the wide new world, he would have to marry a fine patrician lady and take on his own responsibilities. Take his fearsome father’s place of great power and influence. There was no escaping one’s true place in life, for either Balthazar or her.
She had to seize the few moments left, when she could see him, talk to him. Maybe even touch his hand again. Such beautiful, fleeting seconds would have to last her for a long time, once she was married to a respectable tradesman with no dark depths to his soul. No mossy green eyes that burned her very heart with their intensity.
Bianca smoothed her brown curls back, securing them as best she could with combs and pins. She discarded her apron, wishing she had time to change into something finer than her blue-striped work dress. But there was not a moment to lose, if she wanted to speak with Balthazar before his father finished hearing the message of the cards.
She spun around and dashed out of her room, hurrying down the back staircase. The house was quiet today, as their tenants were off to watch a play in the Piazza San Marco and the servants were at market. From her mother’s small room at the end of the corridor, Bianca could hear the hum of voices. Her mother’s tone was low and soothing, as it always was. Ermano Grattiano’s was strained, argumentative, angry. So foolish of him. Didn’t he know by now one could never quarrel with the cards?
Bianca snatched a blue wool cloak from its peg by the door and slipped outside, not bothering to change from her thin house slippers. Balthazar was still there, leaning against the wall. He did not read today, just watched the quiet walkway, his handsome face unreadable, his arms folded over his chest, as if he was deep in thought.
But perhaps his air of indifferent mystery was merely a product of too much Carnival, Bianca thought wryly. Of too much dancing and wine and debauchery. Their dressmaker tenant had told her all about a grand masked ball at the Piazza San Marco that had gone on until dawn. No doubt Balthazar had been there, too, with Rosina Micelli.
She longed to ask him about it all, to ask if the distant revelry she listened to from her window was as glorious fun as it seemed. Ask if he loved Rosina, or one of the other blonde courtesans. But she could not. She just leaned next to the wall beside him, and eventually he silently held out his hand to her. She slid her fingers into his cool, ungloved clasp, feeling the weight of his jewelled rings against her skin, the tenuous silken thread that was their connection.
“Do you not want your cards read, as your father does?” she asked.
Balthazar laughed harshly. “My father is a great fool, always thinking his future will change simply because he wills it so.”
“You don’t think we can change our future?”
“Nothing ever really changes, does it, Bianca? We all go on in the same way, day after day, trapped. I don’t need the cards to tell me what my life holds.”
Bianca gazed up at him in silence, at the smooth, perfect beauty of his face that concealed so much pain. Perhaps he was right not to see what the cards revealed about him, just as her mother was right not to tell Bianca’s fortune no matter how much she begged. Hope in the unknown future was sometimes all poor mortals had.
“What of the world in your books?” she asked.
“What of it?”
“Surely the future is anything but predictable there. Especially in those Spanish lands over the sea. It’s a new world, is it not, where a person could be or do anything. Discover a life that is wondrous strange, and old ways have no place. We—you—could be whatever you wanted. Not even the cards could say what.”
He smiled at her. “No more Balthazar Grattiano?”
“No more Venice, even.”
“It sounds a dream-world indeed.”
“Of course. But is it not there, in your books? Others have seen it, written about it. Why couldn’t we?” Bianca felt her excitement growing, expanding like a silken banner in the wind as she thought of it all. Of new, unknown shores. Her old fear burned away at the thought of no more Venetian society, no more strictures, even as she knew it was impossible.
Balthazar laid a gentle hand on her cheek, his smile rueful as he gazed down at her. “You are a dreamer, then, my practical Bianca.”
“Are you not as well?” she said, leaning into the warmth of his touch. The revelry of the sound of her name in his voice—“my Bianca.” “If you don’t wish to dream, to dare, why do you read all those books? Why do you study ships and the sea? If you truly think there is no other life than this, no chance to make a change, why bother? Why not just follow your father’s ways of thinking and being?”
His smile darkened at the edges, his touch falling away from her. “I am not like my father.”
Bianca knew that. Balthazar did not have his father’s air of easy contempt towards his inferiors, of assured, comfortable confidence. She saw Balthazar’s great struggle against all the feared Grattiano name meant, even if he did not speak his anger aloud. But before she could open her mouth to tell him so, to assure him she understood, the door to her house opened with a resounding crash.
She and Balthazar sprang apart as Ermano stormed out. Bianca eased back into the shadows for fear he would notice her, and turn that icy glare of his pale green eyes on to her. If Balthazar’s touch held the warmth of the summer sun, his father carried naught but the freeze of deepest winter. A killing chill.
She raised the hood of her cloak over her hair, watching Ermano warily. His bearded face was white with fury, as it always was after a reading of the cards. The gods of fortune had failed him yet again. His gaze scanned the walkway, and he gestured to Balthazar, not even looking directly at his son.
“Come, Balthazar,” he said tonelessly. “Let us leave the stench of this hovel behind us. I have had enough of its foulness.”
As he turned to stride towards the canal and his waiting gondola, his ermine-lined cloak swung back to reveal his white brocade doublet. Bianca let out an involuntary gasp, pressing her fingers hard to her lips to hold back the sound.
One of the fine sleeves was stained with crimson blood.
Balthazar’s face, too, turned pale. As white and still as an indifferent marble statue.
“Balthazar!” his father called imperiously. “Come, I do not have all day for you to dally with the maidservants. I have an errand at Signora Bassano’s shop.”
The words seemed to galvanise Balthazar to action. He wrenched one of the rings from his fingers, a large ruby surrounded by pearls. He pressed it, along with a bag of coins, into Bianca’s frozen hand.
“Just in case you need it,” he whispered in her ear. “Remember the new world, Bianca.”
Then he, too, was gone, and she was alone in the shadows of her house. She stared down at the ring, at the stone as dark red as the telltale blood on Ermano’s sleeve. The silence around her was heavy, deafening, a living, palpable thing. It was as if she was the only breathing thing left on the street. In the whole decaying city.
Surely that blood could not mean what her horrified imagination conjured. Surely it was just some bizarre ritual involving chicken hearts or goat livers, as she read about secretly in her mother’s forbidden books.
But she could not dismiss the whispered tales she heard of Ermano Grattiano, of his cold ruthlessness. Of the danger to anyone who became involved with him.
Bianca felt a haze of dreamlike unreality settle around her, like a drugging fog. She slipped the ring on to her finger and crept into the house, even as all her instincts screamed at her to run away. Whatever waited for her, she could not hide from it for ever.
The soft soles of her slippers made only a whisper of sound on the tiled floors as she tiptoed down the narrow, darkened corridor. Her mother’s work room, where she met with those seeking her counsel, was at the end, the doorway concealed by a heavy velvet curtain.
Before she even stepped through that portal, Bianca could smell it. The sticky, coppery tang of blood. The miasma of vanished life.
She eased back the curtain, peering into the little chamber. Silvery incense smoke still hung in the air, its sweetness blending sickeningly with the blood, the remnants of Ermano’s bergamot cologne, the tang of spilled wine. Atop the round table was a jumble of cards, goblets tipped on their sides. The stools were knocked askew on the floor.
And Bianca could see her mother’s foot behind the purple tablecloth, the torn hem of her white gown.
Still caught in that stick web of dreams, the piercing numbness of ice, Bianca stumbled around the table and the broken stools. Her mother lay in a crumpled heap on the tiles, her eyes wide and staring, glasslike, into nothingness. Her long, dark brown hair spread around her, matted by the blood from the gaping wound at her breast.
The wound caused by the dagger still poised there in her body, its emerald-set hilt glinting in the gloom and smoke. The dagger Bianca had seen often enough in the sheath at Ermano’s waist.
She knelt slowly next to her mother, reaching out to lightly touch the cold hand. Bianca could see it all in her mind, as horrifyingly sharp as if she had witnessed it herself rather than mooning over Balthazar Grattiano outside, listening to his faradiddle about truth and new lives. She saw Ermano in a rage when the cards would not tell him what he wanted, saw him destroy the instrument of his frustration—her mother. Then he just walked away.
Bianca remembered the rumours. Ermano Grattiano destroyed who and what he chose, anyone who thwarted or angered him. It was even said that, years ago, he had murdered his own mistress, the beautiful Veronica Rinaldi. He never paid for his crimes, of course, and anyone who tried to hold him accountable, who even witnessed his evil deeds, soon vanished themselves.
Bianca stared in horrible fascination at that dagger. Ermano would surely be back for it, if nothing else. It was too valuable, too distinctive. He would be back to clean up his deed. Or he would send Balthazar to do it for him.
Had Balthazar just been using her, then? Using their ruse of friendship to help his father in this evil scheme? Betraying her feelings for him?
A sudden spasm of bone-deep grief and fear seized Bianca, banishing that distant, numb dream, those last hopes. Her hand tightened on her mother’s, and a ragged sob escaped her lips. Her mother was dead, at the hands of a terrible, and terribly powerful, villain. And she, Bianca, was trapped. If she stayed, if she confronted the Grattianos and took the revenge her heart cried out for, then surely she would also end up dead. A dagger in the heart, and then tossed into the canal to rot alone in the swirling waters.
Who would avenge her mother then? Who would see that justice came to the Grattianos, if she was dead?
As Bianca knelt there beside her mother’s body, it was as if the sheltered girl she had been fell away like a warm cocoon, a concealing shawl that held her apart from the cruel world. A wall of new ice encased her heart, hardening her, steeling her resolve. Ermano might have killed her mother, while she was distracted by the all-too-handsome Balthazar. But they would not destroy her. Instead she would be the instrument of their destruction.
This was one crime of theirs that would not go unpunished. She was just a girl now, but that would not always be so. She knew what she had to do, come what may.
Bianca dragged the purple cloth from the table, scattering cards and goblets, and used it to cover Maria’s body. Then she hurried to a small carved chest in the corner, rummaging through the linens and boxes of incense until she found the bag of coins her mother always secreted there. Those, along with that the treacherous Balthazar gave her, would see her away from Venice, to a place of safety where she could study and plan. No doubt Balthazar had pressed the ring and money on her as some sort of salve for his guilt, or perhaps as a silencing bribe.
But she would use it to keep herself away from the Grattianos—and to help with their downfall one day.
For she would be back, somehow, and when she was it would be Grattiano blood that would flow at last.

Chapter One
Santo Domingo on the island of Hispaniola—1532
It was a quiet evening in Santa Domingo. But Bianca knew very well that would not last long.
She stood behind the high counter along the back wall of her tavern, rinsing pottery goblets and keeping a close eye on her customers. It was mostly the usual crowd, sailors and merchants biding their time as they bought supplies, loaded their cargoes, and waited for the convoys that would bear them back to Spain. A few of the men were headed in the opposite direction, from Maracaibo or Cartagena towards the mines of Peru.
They were all focused on the riches they hoped awaited them, the gold and pearls and emeralds, and drank their ale and rum with a tense, watchful air.
Bianca had been hearing disquieting whispers, though, and she was sure they had something to do with the ship that had limped into port today. Its battered sails and broken mainmast were like an omen in a town that was far too superstitious already.
But the more frightened the men were, the more they drank, and thus the more coin they spent in her establishment. Bianca was all in favour of that, as long as things didn’t turn nasty. It had taken her a sennight to clean up after the last fight, and those were days she could ill afford to lose. She had to pay her servants, her suppliers—and she didn’t intend to end up on the streets. Not again.
She narrowed her gaze as she studied the room. It wasn’t vast or grand, nothing like the gilded palazzos of Venice still so vivid in her memory. It was just a long, low chamber, the walls freshly whitewashed after the last repairs. The wooden beams overhead were dark with smoke, hung with bunches of dried herbs in a vain attempt to drive away the stench of rum and wool-clad bodies in the island heat. The uneven planks of the floor were warped and sticky, covered by close-packed tables and benches.
Si, humble it might be, but it was hers. A small accomplishment, perhaps, compared to the great feats of fortune hunting she heard every day here in Santo Domingo. But it was something.
Bianca stored the last of the goblets behind the counter, checking to make sure her pistol was tucked there still. Quiet as it was, she still didn’t trust that strange, heavy tension in the air. It was almost like the atmosphere that hung over the island just before a storm broke, taut and still. Something was afoot. Santo Domingo had been peaceful enough as they waited for the arrival of the next Seville-bound flota, but perhaps there was a raid coming.
She frowned as she remembered the last battle here with French pirates, Jean Florin and his men hanging at the mouth of the harbour as she and her late husband Juan had arrived. But that was years ago. The French had seen the folly of their actions, and ceased to harry the mighty Spanish fleets and their fortified ports. It couldn’t be that. Then what was it?
Bianca glanced towards Delores, who was stirring the stew pot over the fire and humming to herself. The maid wouldn’t know; she was a good worker, but cared mostly for flirting with the sailors. But Bianca knew who would have all the gossip, who knew everything that happened from Puerto Rico to Peru. And he was sitting right over by the wall.
She poured out a generous portion of her most expensive beverage, a punch made of rum, sugar and nutmeg, and carried it over to Señor de Alameda, aide to Governor de Feuonmayor.
Alameda was a quiet, watchful man of around thirty years old, not one to cause a fuss, yet still a regular visitor at the tavern. She suspected he was a spy of sorts, and heard more of his news at the docks than he did in the governor’s fortress. Also, he was diddling Delores. Not that Bianca cared. His escudos were good, he caused her no trouble, and he sometimes passed on titbits of valuable information.
She placed the goblet before him and sat down across the small table, wiping her hands on her apron. “I hope all is well with the governor, Señor de Alameda,” she said.
He glanced at her from his inscrutable black eyes, giving her a polite smile. “Ah, Señora Montero. Your company is indeed a rare pleasure. And, yes, the governor is quite well. Much occupied with the expansion of the cathedral.”
“Hmm. Then that cannot be what is amiss.”
Alameda took a slow sip of his drink. How very Spanish he was! Nothing ever given away. So polite, so careful, so dangerous. “Amiss?”
“I have lived in this town long enough to know when trouble is in the air,” she said. “And I have an interest in what happens. Business is better when all is peaceful and prosperous.”
He laughed ruefully. “That is undeniable, señora. A peaceful island where we can all go about our business is better for everyone. Our churches and storehouses unmolested, our shipping free of pirates…”
Bianca turned suddenly cold, despite the warm breeze from the windows, carrying the smell of the lush green island from the mountains out to the sea. She remembered those rotting bodies twisting in the wind, the smoldering shells of houses and the desecrated icons. Reports of torture, rape, murder. “Pirates? Is that the trouble?”
Alameda glanced away. “Señora Montero, pirates are always a menace in this part of the world, are they not? Desperate villains who seek to steal from the King and the Church. Surely you know that as well as anyone, for was your late husband not a sailor? But they are not an immediate threat to Santo Domingo. Quite the opposite.”
The tavern door blew open, admitting a rowdy group amid shouts and coarse laughter. Delores could see to them for now, but Bianca knew she would soon have to go back to work. The time for conversation was short; she had to find out what was happening. In Santo Domingo, knowledge was power. “What do you mean, Señor Alameda?” she said impatiently.
He nodded. Like any primero player, he knew when it was time to show his hand. “I have heard reports that the Calypso has made its way into our port.”
Whatever Bianca expected to hear, it was not that. She gave a startled laugh. “The Calypso? Have your spies started seeing fantasy vessels, then?”
The Calypso, captained by a man of near-supernatural navigational skills, was whispered about in the tavern when the rum was freely flowing: undefeatable in battle, so fleet it could outrun any storm, said to have sailed to the very edge of the earth and returned bearing unimaginable riches. Even Juan, her salty old navigator of a husband, had been awed by the tales. They had the aura of ancient, golden myths.
But Bianca had long ago given up on myths and heroes.
“The Calypso is real enough,” Alameda said.
“And her captain? The man they say could navigate his way out of hell itself? And steal the devil’s treasure while he’s at it.”
Alameda laughed. “He is real, too, though I doubt he has seen the underworld.”
“There is hell enough on earth, especially for a man who sails the seas for his living.”
“True, Señora Montero. Just don’t let Father Yanez hear you speak so. None of us have chosen an easy path so far from home, not even someone as wealthy as the captain of the Calypso.”
Bianca glanced towards the counter, where Delores was pouring rum and dishing out stew. “If the Calypso is so very grand, why have I never seen it? I have been in Santo Domingo for a fair number of years. I thought I knew every vessel that plies its way between Peru and Seville.”
Alameda shrugged. “I’ve heard tell Havana is his port of choice, and too that he has his own hidden island somewhere between here and Jamaica. He is servant to no one; he certainly does not answer to Governor de Fuenmayor. Perhaps not even to the king.”
A man who was servant to no one. Now Bianca knew he was a myth. And a most intriguing one. “Then who does he answer to?”
“That, Señora Montero, is something I would very much like to know. I’d pay a great deal to anyone with more information on the captain of the Calypso.”
“You know so much already.”
“Me? I am merely a functionary. I seek only to mind my own business, make my fortune so I can quietly retire in Andalucia. Away from this cursed place.”
And amen to that, Bianca thought, swatting at a mosquito. But much as she, too, sometimes longed to escape, dreamed of Venice and a long-lost home, she knew this was her place now. A place always fraught with dangers. “I would vow you are more than that, señor. Does the governor not rely on you?”
“You are too kind.”
“In fact, I would vow you know everything that happens on Hispaniola. Even to the furthest estancia up-island.” The noise of the tavern grew, spiralling louder and louder as more new arrivals poured in. “Such as why the Calypso would suddenly be calling at Santo Domingo.”
“That is simple enough. I hear there was a great battle off the coast of Puerto Rico.”
“A battle?”
“Between the Calypso and a pirate vessel. The villains were driven away, but the Calypso’s mainmast was damaged. It was made worse when she was caught in that storm in the Mona Passage a few days ago.” His gaze swept over the room. “The storm that has made Santo Domingo so very crowded of late. So many newcomers to our fair city, many of them seeking shelter at the governor’s fortress.”
“So, the Calypso has come into port for repairs?” Bianca laughed. “Not so mythical after all. I would have thought anyone who could steal the devil’s treasure could magically repair his own mainmast, even in the midst of a storm.”
“Oh, señora, I would not dismiss him so quickly.” Alameda laid a few coins on the table and rose to his feet. “Now I must be on my way. I have a conundrum of my own waiting at the fortress, though one I am rather looking forward to returning to. I thank you for the drink, and for the conversation. As always, it has been most enlightening.”
Bianca pocketed the coins as she watched him leave, his fine clothes quickly obscured by the crowd of rougher, rowdier patrons. He might be enlightened, yet she was more puzzled than ever. What was it about this one ship and her mysterious captain that seemed to have all of Santo Domingo balanced on a knife’s edge?
She made her way back to the counter, searching each face to see if one could belong to the unknown captain. Most of them were people she knew, sailors who usually called at her tavern when they were in port. They came to celebrate, to spend their newfound treasure, or to mourn losses at sea, bury their sorrows in her rum. The coin seemed plentiful enough tonight, but she also saw apprehension on their sunburned faces.
She glanced beneath the counter to make sure the pistol was still there. She didn’t usually care for firearms; they were too unpredictable, too apt to fire off at the wrong moment. Just like the inhabitants of this town. But when havoc threatened, there was nothing like a great deal of smoke and noise to disperse it.
Bianca took over pouring out the drink, sending Delores to wait on the tables. The room was crowded indeed now, every chair filled, men lined up along the walls. The windows were all open to let in the warm tropical breeze, but it wasn’t quite enough to banish the heat. The smell of rum and wool and Delores’s stew.
Bianca lifted the loose curls off the nape of her neck, the wild tendrils that always escaped their pins and clung damply to her skin. For some reason—perhaps Alameda’s words of “home”—she couldn’t be rid of the images of Venice in her mind. Cool, white rooms, their tall doors open to terraces over the canals. The sound of music in the air, masked faces around every corner. There had been danger aplenty there, too. No one knew that better than Bianca. But there was also great beauty.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and for that one instant she stood again outside her mother’s house. A girl full of foolish hopes and dreams, gazing up at the face of—
No! She slammed a goblet down on the counter, opening her eyes to the hot, noisy reality of the tavern. She would not think of that again, of Venice and Balthazar Grattiano. They were gone. This was all that mattered now. His betrayal had led to so much grief and hardship. To her life on her own.
She had work to do.
As she sent Delores off with another tray of drinks, a man appeared at the counter. Bianca stared at him curiously. He was not one of those regular customers. Indeed, she was certain she had never seen him before. He was tall, with the lean, muscled frame of someone accustomed to climbing rigging, but he was also thin, almost—hollow.
Despite the heat, he wore a hooded cloak, his face cast half in shadow. But Bianca could see enough to tell he was quite handsome, or would be if he shaved off his tangled black beard. His sun-darkened face, all gaunt angles, and his brown eyes were almost elegant, in a haunted way. Drawn with taut lines of some deep-seated sorrow. He gazed at her wearily.
For a moment, she wondered if he was a wraith, summoned by her own unhappy memories. A spirit, perhaps flown from the decks of that half-myth the Calypso. But then he gave her a whisper of a smile, and her strange fancies vanished. He was just a man, though certainly a very odd one. Even for Santo Domingo.
“Rum, por favour, señora,” he said, his voice deep and rusty.
Bianca poured out a generous measure of the thick brown liquid into a pottery goblet, sliding it to him over the scarred wood of the counter. “You are new to Santo Domingo, yes?”
“It has been some time since I last visited,” he answered, after he neatly drained the liquor. She poured out more. “This place was owned by Señor Valdez then.”
“It has been a time. I bought it from Valdez more than a year ago, before he went back to Spain.”
“A year ago,” he muttered, as if that was an unfathomable length of time. Perhaps it was. Lives did change in only a moment, after all.
She found herself unaccountably curious about this wraith. People came and went on this island, all of them intent on their own business, most of them running from something. Just like Bianca herself.
“Was your ship damaged in the storm?” she asked. Perhaps he was even a crew member of the Calypso. That would explain why she had never seen him before. A mysterious wraith from a mythical ship.
He nodded shortly, holding out his goblet for yet more rum. “I will not be here for long, señora.”
Here in Santo Domingo? In her tavern? In the mortal world? It was obvious he wasn’t in a talking mood, so she just poured.
“Oh, señora!” Delores cried, hurrying behind the counter to refill her tray. The noise was almost deafening now. “They say the Calypso is in port! And that her captain defeated a vast fleet of pirates and repaired the mainmast in a storm with his own hands…”
When Bianca turned back to the counter, the cloaked man was gone. She saw only a glimpse of his back, as he headed towards a small table in the shadowed corner.

As the night went on, some of the men passed out on the floor and were dragged out by their comrades, only to be replaced by new, thirstier patrons. More men from ships seeking repairs after the storm. But Bianca did not glimpse the wraith-man again, busy as she was pouring the rum and ale and mixing more punch.
Matters seemed to have reached a crescendo of laughter and incoherent, drunken shouts when the door opened once more. Not with a great bang, as with more desperate men in search of liquid oblivion, but slowly. Quietly. Yet still everyone turned to look.
Bianca straightened from wiping spilled ale on the counter, pushing her hair back from her brow. She tensed at the sudden watchful air in the room, the way the great noise fell to a murmur—like the waves of the sea just before a storm hit.
This, then, was surely the trouble that had been coming all night.
She turned to the door. A man stood there, framed in the night-darkness. Not alone—there were six or seven others arrayed behind him. But he was all she could see.
He was tall, probably taller than any other man in the tavern as he had to duck his head through the doorway. Like the strange cloaked man, he had the lean frame of a man who had spent his life balanced on a pitching deck and climbing swaying rigging. His chest and legs were supple beneath his black leather jerkin and hose, a tall pair of worn black leather boots. She glimpsed powerful, bronzed forearms revealed by the turned-back sleeves of his white shirt. A man of action, then, of the sea and all its dangers.
His hair, a long, straight curtain of sun-streaked light brown, fell to his shoulders, bound back from his face with a black silk scarf.
And that face…
She knew it well. Too well. Bianca clutched at the edge of the counter, certain now that she had to be dreaming. For that face, despite the fact that it was a bit older, the skin browned by the tropical sun and the sea’s salt spray, belonged to Balthazar Grattiano.
The one man she had vowed to kill if she ever saw him again.

Chapter Two
Bianca held on to the counter, watching in wary silence as Balthazar and his men made their way through the room. The crowd seemed to part for them, like Moses and the Red Sea; the roar of sound faded to whispers, crackling like summer lightning. She shivered as she watched them take their seats at a suddenly empty table near the window.
For an instant the humid taverna faded, and she was a girl again, standing on the walkway outside her house as she listened with rapt fascination to Balthazar Grattiano talking of ships and navigation, of the wide, wondrous world to be found outside Venice. Talking of glorious freedom.
He had gained his freedom, it seemed, for here he was, in the New World, thousands of miles from his privileged Venetian realm. But she was still locked in her prison. It went with her wherever she turned.
“Is it really him, señora?” she heard Delores say. The awed whisper dragged her back from Venice to the rough wooden floor of her taverna.
“Him, Delores?” Him—the devil?
“The captain of the Calypso! I had heard tell he was here, in Santo Domingo, but I did not believe it.” Delores sighed. “He is certainly most handsome.”
“Whatever he might be, he is a customer,” Bianca said, with a brisk calm she was far from feeling. She thrust a tray into Delores’s trembling hands and proceeded to fill it with goblets of punch. “And hopefully a thirsty one. Go on now.”
She leaned against the counter, watching as the maid sashayed across the room to Balthazar’s table. As she laid out the drinks, Balthazar glanced up at her with a sensual half-smile.
If Bianca had harboured any doubts at all that this was not Balthazar Grattiano, that smile banished them. It was the same charming smile she remembered, alluring, beautiful, carving deep dimples in his cheek that made a woman long to touch them with her fingertip. To kiss them, to feel the rough silk of his sun-bronzed skin under her tongue.
A lovely, sex-laden smile—with a strange, empty sadness behind it.
He was older, yes, just as she was. Hardened by the sea and the harsh sun. Yet still Balthazar Grattiano, the love of every woman in Venice.
And still just as irresistible to women, Bianca thought wryly as she watched Delores giggling. Most of the men who came to the tavern Delores turned away with a saucy word. She was faithful in her way to Alameda. But she seemed in no hurry to leave Balthazar’s side.
Bianca didn’t have much time to worry about Balthazar and his charm, though. A fresh crowd of customers came in, wanting their rum, and she was kept busy again. Slowly, inexorably, the noise level grew once more as a game of dice commenced. The throng closed around Balthazar, blocking him from her view.
From her view, perhaps, but not from her thoughts. She was all too aware of his presence, of the sparkling tension within her. He was near her again, after all this time! The man she had once been so infatuated with; the man whose father killed her mother.
And what was she, Bianca, going to do about it now?
As she rinsed more goblets, she thought of the Calypso, that “legendary” ship said to be able to cross the Atlantic in three weeks. To be impervious to attack and storms. And Balthazar was her captain? How had he gone from his life of luxury in glittering, sophisticated Venice to being such a great seaman, the captain of his own vessel and the scourge of the seas?
She laughed with disbelief. Perhaps his father had bought him the ship, and hired a mage to ring it round with spells. Ermano Grattiano had always seemed enthralled with the occult.
As she set the clean goblets out on the counter, she caught a blur of movement from the corner of her eye. Somehow that flash, out of the kaleidoscope of the room, caught her attention. She turned just in time to see the mysterious cloaked stranger from earlier. The hood was still drawn up, concealing his face, but he moved with a stealthy, swift purpose. As Bianca watched, bemused, he drew a thin, lethally sharp dagger from beneath his sleeve.
Her stomach lurched. Violence was a constant threat in Santo Domingo, quarrels threatening to break out at any second, over any tiny slight, and spill out like a river of blood into the cobbled streets. A place so far from the civilities and comforts of home, a place so full of treasure and rum and rivalry—yes, danger was a constant. Hot tempers flared under the hotter sun. But not in her taverna. She had seen enough violence to last her a lifetime.
The cloaked man vanished into the milling crowd. Every nerve in her body tense, Bianca reached for her pistol. As she hurried around the counter, Delores let out a high-pitched shriek.
And the dreaded pandemonium broke out.
Men’s shouts, the crash of crockery and splinter of wood added to the cacophony of Delores’s screams. Bianca shoved her way through the thick crowd, sensing their readiness to join in any fight, even one not of their own making. One man drew a blade from his boot, but Bianca kicked it away, pushing him out of her path.
“Get out of my way, you poxy whoresons!” she shouted. “I’ll not have this in my tavern.”
Some of the men around her fell away, yet she still heard curses and crashes from the central knot of the trouble. At last she shoved through to see Balthazar’s table overturned amidst shattered pottery and spilled rum. Delores was still shrieking, and Balthazar’s men dashed around shouting, swords drawn as if to menace any who stood in their way. One of the men held the wraith’s ripped cloak, though the man himself had utterly vanished.
And Balthazar—he lay on the floor, his left shoulder bleeding from a dagger wound as his men closed ranks around him.
It would almost be comical, if it wasn’t so very dangerous. And threatening to become even more so, as Delores’s screams and the men’s bellowed threats and clashes of steel grew ever louder, like a match tossed on to dry timbers.
Bianca knew words would do no good. She had no hope of even making herself heard. So she pointed the gun at the ceiling, braced herself and released the matchlock.
The exploding recoil nearly knocked her from her feet. Whitewash from the blasted hole rained down on them as the explosion reverberated deafeningly. Thick clouds of acrid smoke billowed in the suddenly silent air.
“I told you I’ll not have riots in my place of business,” she said calmly. “Now, everyone get out. Unless you mean to make yourselves useful and clean up this mess.”
She swung the pistol in a wide arc, and most of the would-be brawlers fled, leaving the door swinging in the breeze. Soon only Delores and the men from the Calypso were left.
Bianca shoved the gun at one of them and knelt down beside Balthazar, ripping off her apron to press it against the wound. It was not terribly deep, but she could tell from a cursory glance that it would need cleaning and stitching. A mere few inches lower and the blade would have found his heart.
She was not the only one who hated Balthazar, then.
One of the men leaned over her, his bearded face peering down intently at the captain. “Is he dead, señora?”
Before Bianca could answer, Balthazar opened his eyes and growled, “Of course I am not dead, Mendoza. My hide is tough enough to resist such a puny blade and bad aim.”
“Not so puny as all that,” Bianca said, lifting her wadded apron to peer at the wound. “It’s caused enough bleeding. You are fortunate the man’s aim was off, Captain Grattiano, or I’d have to deal with a corpse in my tavern.”
He stared up at her with his moss-green eyes, his gaze sharp and steady, as if he sought to peer into her very soul. “How do you know my name?”
Bianca had no answer for him. She tore her gaze from his, shifting him so his head rested on the lap of her grey wool gown. The apron was becoming soaked, and Delores’s sobbing was so loud Bianca could scarcely think.
“Oh, shut up, Delores!” she cried. “Go fetch me some water and some clean rags for bandages. Now! And you—Mendoza, is it?”
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!”
He gave a harsh laugh. “I would vow you know much about troublemakers, señora.”
“And I would vow you know much about women,” she said, knotting the end of her thread. “No doubt you have me confused with a female of your acquaintance in some other port. Perhaps you are growing feverish and delusional.”
“Perhaps I am. Everything seems very—confused. But I will remember soon enough, señora. A ship’s captain also cannot afford to forget a face.”
Bianca held a goblet of rum laced with an herbal sleeping potion to his lips. “Remember later, then, but drink this now. It will dull the pain.”
He drank readily enough, his lean body growing so relaxed and pliant he did not even move as she sank the needle into his flesh. She just wished she could be so steady, could remove herself from the acute awareness of his body heat, his every breath. At last she finished, tying off her thread before she dared glance at his face.
He seemed to be asleep, the harsh lines of his face relaxed so he seemed young again. She was free at last from those all-seeing green eyes, even if only for a moment.
Bianca threw herself into the chair, burying her face in her hands. She longed to cry, to shout out the confusion of this strange night that had borne Balthazar Grattiano back into her life! Yet she was bound in silence, in the tangle of the past come suddenly into the present.
She went to the window, pushing the casement further open to catch more of the night breeze. The sky was a heavy purple-black, dark clouds obscuring the moon and stars, blown in by that storm that damaged Balthazar’s ship. Santo Domingo was quiet enough now, in the hours before dawn. Only a few houses near the banks of the Rio Ozama were lit from within. The governor’s fortress, high on its hill overlooking the town, was a blank, silent behemoth.
Soon, the streets would come to life. She would have to face cooking, and cleaning up the mess downstairs. She would have to face the man in her bed. But for now it was as if she was alone in the world. Alone with Balthazar Grattiano.
Bianca rubbed wearily at her aching neck, turning to the small looking glass hanging on the wall. She almost laughed aloud at the sight that greeted her in its silvery reflection. How could Balthazar possibly recognise her, when she hardly recognised herself? Her curling brown hair stuck every way from its pins, tangled and wild. Her cheeks were a hectic red, her eyes lined with purplish shadows. Her grey wool dress, never fashionable in the first place, was stained with Balthazar’s blood.
She unlaced the simple bodice and tossed it with her skirt over the chair, standing before the glass in only her chemise and stays. As she brushed out her hair, yanking at the stubborn tangles, she knew that Balthazar would not long think he had her confused with some past dalliance. He had always preferred blondes with lush bosoms and full, pink lips. And she—well, she was a thin, dark tavern owner. Any meagre attractions she had as a girl in Venice were surely coarsened by a life of hard work on a tropical island.
Not that it mattered, of course. Balthazar and she would have their reckoning soon enough. And then it wouldn’t matter a bit what he thought of her bosom, or she his codpiece. For now, she was almost too weary to think of anything at all.
Bianca loosened her front-laced stays and slipped into bed, as far from Balthazar as she could get on the very edge of the mattress. She wrapped a blanket tightly around herself, but even as she fell into slumber she could feel his heat, reaching out to wrap seductively around all her senses…

Chapter Three
It was the old dream again, the one that Balthazar always thought long-buried until it rose up to haunt him. Like a monster of the deep—Here Be Serpents. Here lay the past.
A vast storm raged, silver lightning flashing overhead from the bowels of black, roiling clouds. Cold, jagged whitecapped waves broke across the bow; the screaming wind drove past the bare masts, flying the caravel through the air as if it was naught but a child’s toy. Rain beat on the deck’s planks, hard enough to bruise. The ceaseless pitching of the sea, the driving rain, the howling dread of his men who feared to be swallowed by the sea—Balthazar saw it all again. Like a painting of the judgements of hell come to life before his very eyes.
Yet still he dragged on the rudder, trying desperately to steer the ship away from her certain death, even as he knew in his heart that all his efforts were in vain. All he had worked for, all the men who trusted and followed him, were doomed.
It seemed a fitting end. For had he not spent all his life fighting against the dark inevitable? Against his own tainted blood, his sins. And all for naught.
His muscles ached as he strained against the rudder. He would not let it win! Not the sea, that pitiless mistress. Not the black emptiness that always threatened to swallow him. Salvation lay ahead, if he could just fight hard enough. But as he felt at last the blessed yielding of the rudder under his slippery grasp, a terrible sound split the sulphurous air. The crack and splinter of wood.
Balthazar shook the wet strands of hair from his eyes, staring up at the damaged mainmast of his ship. It listed, wavering in the gale. Soon, all too soon, it would crash to the deck, driving a hole through the wounded ship that would take them all to the bottom.
And atop the mast perched his father. Ermano Grattiano, dead these seven years by Balthazar’s own hand, clung to the splintered wood like a demented bat from hell, his black cloak and white mane of hair flying wildly in the wind. Even from that distance, his green eyes glowed, and he held out his bejewelled hand beckoningly.
“I told you that one day you would be mine, Balthazar,” he shouted, his voice clear and ringing over the howl of the storm. “We are one flesh and blood; you cannot escape me. You have killed my body, but I will always be with you!”
Balthazar shouted out his own fury. In his burning anger, he climbed the slippery, tumbling mast, not feeling the cold or pain. He was intent only on destroying the evil within himself, once and for all.
But Ermano only flew higher, ever distant, ever beyond reach. At last the mast fell entirely, sending Balthazar plummeting towards the battered deck—and certain death.
But he did not land in the cold sea. The waves did not rise up to claim him at last. He fell back on to a soft bed, amid a tangle of sheets and blankets.
He opened his eyes, staring wildly up at the dark wooden beams bisecting a whitewashed ceiling. The stench of lightning was banished by a warm, soft breeze from an open window.
This was not his cabin aboard the Calypso. There was no constant pitch and sway of waves, no watch bells or shouts from the deck. For a moment, he could not remember what had happened, he was still caught in the nightmare. In the storm, which had been all too real. And his father, who lived now only in his mind.
He tried to roll to his side, and the sudden stabbing pain in his shoulder reminded him. They had come ashore in Santo Domingo, seeking comfort after their travails in the Mona Passage. The battle with Diego Escobar and his pirate lot, the storm that damaged the mast and crippled them. They sought warm, dry beds, drink, food free of rot and weevils. Perhaps a pretty woman. What he had found was Diego, and his dagger.
“Damn the man’s eyes!” Balthazar cursed, as hot needles of pain shot down his arm. Diego had fought them on the seas, where Balthazar was greater and Diego knew he had no chance of victory. So, he had crept to Hispaniola and waited like a spider for his moment.
Ermano Grattiano might indeed be dead, but there was never any shortage of villains waiting to take his place. Diego was proving to be one of the more determined. Revenge was a potent motivation for anyone; it could even drive a man to piracy and murder. Balthazar knew all too well about revenge.
As he lay back on the bed, the rest of the night came flooding back to him in waves of vivid colour and noise. The flashing dagger, the shouts and commotion of running feet and utter confusion. The explosion. And the woman who peered down at him, her brown eyes filled with sparkling anger, concern and…
And what? He, who had spent years at sea and in rough ports learning to read men as if they were nautical charts because his fortune, his very life, depended on knowing their nefarious plans and deepest desires, could not read her face at all. Her eyes were a beautiful veil, opaque as fine Seville lace. Perhaps her life, too, balanced on knowing the thoughts of others while always hiding her own.
What had she read of him, as she stared down at him in that cacophonous tavern? As she tended his wound so carefully? And where, by all the gods where, had he seen her before?
Suddenly, there was a soft rustle of sheets, and that face was above him as she leaned over him. She must have been sleeping beside him in the bed, for her hair was loose, a river of wild curls over her shoulders, and she wore only a thin white chemise. The candles had burned out, and she was lit by the faint, chalky moonlight streaming from the open window.
He frowned as he stared up at her, studying her in the shadows. That sense of recognition was still there, but it was like a dream that faded with the dawn. The more he grasped for it, the more elusive it was. Yet it was still there, as tantalising as a Venetian perfume.
She was not beautiful, not like the courtesans of his youth, or like Marguerite, Nicolai Ostrovsky’s French wife. Golden, charming creatures of light and air. This woman, his physician tonight, had a thin face with high, sharp cheekbones, a long nose, full lips, and brows like silken raven’s wings. She obviously did not hide from the tropical sun, for her cheeks and nose were scattered with freckles. Her slim hands, slightly rough from work, had been calm and quick as they tended to him.
Not a pampered lady, then, but not a dockside whore either. He had surely never tupped her, or danced with her at some Venetian ball. But still that feeling persisted. She was not a stranger.
She reached out and gently touched his brow with one of those hands, her fingers cool and steady. The sleeve of the chemise fell back to reveal a thin wrist unadorned by any jewelled bracelets or rings. She smelled of clean water and soap, of ale and some rich tropical flower. Sweet and exotic, strange and familiar, all at once, like the islands themselves.
She smoothed back his tangled hair, her touch resting lightly on his cheek. His rough beard, the product of long days at sea, surely abraded her skin, yet she did not draw away. Her dark eyes watched him, gleaming like obsidian in the night.
And Balthazar felt the most unaccountable, irresistible urge to turn his face into her touch, to kiss the soft inside of her wrist, just where her lifeblood beat so strongly. To taste the palm of her hand with his tongue, until she gasped and that veil was torn away. Until she showed him her true self.
But he merely watched her, warily waiting to see what she would do.
“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.”
“And he happened to catch up with him in my tavern.” Bianca shook her head at the madness of it all. The whole blood-soaked scene had not been for money or position, then, but for love. The greatest insanity of all.
“Captain Grattiano will pay for any damage, señora,” Mendoza hastened to say. “We’re all very grateful for what you’ve done.”
“You shouldn’t thank me yet,” she said. “Go, see to your captain. I must finish my marketing.”
“Of course, señora.”
As they parted, Mendoza on his way to the tavern and Bianca turning towards the steps that led down to the plaza, she suddenly called back, “Señor Mendoza!”
“Yes, señora?”
“Which ship is the Calypso?”
He pointed towards a vessel in a small, sheltered cove, somewhat apart from the other vessels. “’Tis that one. The repairs are nearly finished, you see. As soon as the captain can travel, we’ll be setting off.”
“Setting off for where?”
Mendoza smiled again. “For home, at last! It’s been an age since we saw Vista Linda.”
Vista Linda. Home. Where would that be? But before she could ask him, the quartermaster set off, whistling a sea chanty into the breeze. Bianca turned again towards the plaza, more puzzled than ever.
Her mother had always dealt in the uncertainties of life, the mysteries. Love, death, changes in fortune—she could glimpse it all. Bianca preferred the realities. Work, companionship, a cosy fire, a goblet of good wine. Things she could see, quantify. Despite all the allure of the vast, wide sea, of adventure and freedom, she knew that such things did not last.
Balthazar Grattiano was like the sea. Changeable, stormy, ever beautiful and intriguing. And, like the sea, he could swallow up all she had, all she was, in a moment. A person had to be tough, cruel even, to survive in this New World, and the Grattianos had never been noted for their gentle benevolence. Why, then, had Balthazar bothered to turn back to Havana for the safety of a woman? And what had he done to make his crew so devoted they would follow him there so willingly?
Well, most of them followed. Bianca shivered as she remembered that man, Diego, and his dead eyes.
Those thoughts all swirled around in her head, indecipherable as a dream and twice as confusing, as she entered the main plaza of Santo Domingo. At one end of the cobbled square rose the cathedral, Santa Maria La Menor. Unfinished, it was still grand and imposing, gleaming a pure white in the harsh morning light. The doors stood open, beckoning the faithful into the cool, shadowy gloom, where they could lay their sins before the gilded altar.
Bianca turned away from the solitary splendour of the church to the bustle and noise of the market. At the centre of the plaza was a raised stone cross, and around this were arrayed the tables and booths of farmers and merchants. Every week they took the long journey from their inner-island estancias and smallholds to ply their wares to town dwellers.
Bianca surveyed the fruits and vegetables: brilliant oranges, lemons and guava, mounds of starchy cassava. There were barrels of sugar, left from what had not been exported from the island’s thirty-four mills, jars of molasses for rum, and small buckets of precious spices. But these were not what she wanted. She examined the beef from the cattle stations, the pork from the wild pigs who ran free all through the mountains. Her patrons liked familiar, Spanish sorts of food, and these would make the hearty stews and roasts she sold so well.
As she paid for her purchases, she remembered Venice, and the tales her mother told of banquets in the grand palazzos. The long, damask-draped tables covered with platters of chicken amarosa, trout and leeks with lemon sauce, capon, plump strawberries, bright Majolica bowls overflowing with sweetmeats, goblets of fine wines. The hundreds of wax candles casting a warm glow over the silver and gold plate, the satins and jewels of the patrician diners. It all sounded like a fairy story to her, as far from their simple home on a back alleyway as the gods on Olympus!
And how much further it was from here, an entire world away. There was no capon for her simple table, just pork haunch and roasted cassava. Rum and ale in place of wine.
“Did you hear, Señora Montero?” one of the merchants asked, as she examined his vegetables. “One of the storehouses was robbed last night! I hope there are no pirates abroad again.”
“Especially with a contessa at the fortress,” his wife added. “They say she is Señor de Alameda’s special guest…”
Bianca made appropriate noises about how shocking it was, but she walked away still distracted by her own thoughts. She had not remembered home in a very long time. It did her no good to remember, as this place was her life, her reality, now. The bittersweet, jewel-like beauty of Venice was lost to her, just as her mother was. Just as the coins from the storehouse were lost to “pirates”.
It was surely Balthazar who made her think of it now. Who made her so very confused and uncertain. Who made her…
Who made her wish she had baked peacock to offer him instead of stew. She should not care one whit what the man ate, where he went, or what he did. What he had done these last seven years.
She should dump the stew over his handsome head and push him out her door.
Bianca had to laugh at the vision of Balthazar with dark, greasy broth dripping down his face. No matter what happened to him in these last long years, surely it had never been anything so undignified as that.
As she turned back towards the tavern, the heavy basket balanced on her hip, she remembered what Mendoza had said. It had been nearly seven years since Balthazar went to sea. Thus he must have left Venice soon after she herself fled. Why was that?
Ah, yet another mystery. Surely enough of them surrounded Balthazar to fill that now-empty storehouse. She was a patient woman; she would discover all in time, and then she would know how to act. But for now she had work to do. The sun was high in the cloudless sky, and the hours were getting away from her.
She couldn’t allow even Balthazar Grattiano to interfere with her business.
Yet as she hurried along the ramparts, now crowded with people out to gossip about the thefts, she couldn’t help but glance towards the cove where the Calypso sheltered. It was not a large ship, she noticed. A midsize caravel, perhaps seventy feet long and twenty-five feet wide. Once her mainmast was repaired, it would have the square-rigged mainmast and foremast, and a lateen-rigged countermizzen just aft the mizzen.
It was not a conspicuously rich or impressive vessel, especially marked with storm damage as she was, but, after her years with Juan, Bianca could see the true worth of any ship. “The best ships that sail the seas,” Juan used to call caravels, and this one was a beauty. Lightly built, versatile, it could go anywhere, even sail in crosswinds with a skilled captain at her rudder. With a stern rudder, and those lateen sails, it would be very responsive—especially at the hands of someone like Balthazar.
Bianca had no doubt that Balthazar was a skilled captain indeed, as capable of charming a ship as he was of charming a woman.
But Bianca was determined not to be charmed. Not this time. Not ever again.

Chapter Six
Balthazar eased the clean shirt over his head, gritting his teeth against the ache in his shoulder. It was surely a mere scratch to other wounds he had received; it didn’t even bleed now, after Bianca’s careful ministrations.
Ah, yes. Bianca Simonetti. Bianca Montero now, it seemed. Balthazar laced up the shirt, remembering the girl he had known in Venice. She had been pretty enough then, if too thin and simply dressed. She had smiled at him shyly, hardly daring to look at him directly when he would come to her mother’s house with his father. But he had liked her. Her intelligent conversation, her questions about his books on navigation and geography, made those irksome visits enjoyable. He even came to look forward to the times his father would insist he accompany him to those silly tarot readings, for it meant he could talk to Bianca.
He knew women aplenty in Venice, women of great beauty and practised charm. Bianca Simonetti had neither, but her dark eyes were fascinating, her mind full of curiosity and longing that matched his own. She listened to what he said, truly listened, unlike anyone else ever had. And she made him think in turn, with questions and observations he had never considered.
But then she had vanished—she and her mother dead, they had said. And his own life had exploded in one fiery night. He had been forced to make a new existence on the high seas. Over the years of exploring new lands, Bianca Simonetti had become a memory. A regret—one among so many.
Once she told him her name, he could see the girl in the woman’s face, in those brown eyes, now so hard and wary. She, too, had made her own existence. And now their lives had intersected again, and she had saved him.
Balthazar glanced around the bedchamber. It was larger than his cabin aboard the Calypso, but not by much. There was room only for the bed, a table and chair, and a scarred old sea chest. The walls were whitewashed, and there was one shuttered window, half-open to let in the morning breeze, but no rugs or paintings. No velvet cushions or ivory boxes.
The tavern downstairs was also simple and serviceable, though cleaner than most he had seen in the islands. Whatever had happened to her in these last years, she obviously worked hard for her livelihood. The eager, curious girl he remembered was gone, the light in her extraordinary eyes dimmed by a cautious, simmering anger.
Until they had been alone in the dark of the night.
Balthazar went to peer out the window. The town of Santo Domingo spread out before him under the sun, a sea of yellow, white and red that arced down to the harbour and up the hillsides. It could almost have been any seaside settlement in Spain, with its dark red roofs, the bell tower of the new cathedral, and the forest of masts crowding the sheltered port. But just at the edge of town, at the very boundary of a tenuous civilisation, the dark jungle waited.
Santo Domingo had not been Balthazar’s first choice of a haven. It was too settled now. His years of sailing the seas, of being his own master, had made him too fond of solitude. Of the rougher, wilder ways of the smaller, further-flung islands, like his own Vista Linda. There no one cared about his past, his family name. Almost everyone else had secrets to hide, secrets even darker than his own. He earned any respect on his own terms, as Captain Grattiano.
Even though he had a licence to trade in Santo Domingo, the administrative capital of the Spanish Antilles, Balthazar preferred other ports for his trade. Only the damage to the Calypso forced him here, but now he was glad they had come. For here he had found Bianca.
Most of his youth he had tried to forget, to drown under the salt waves of his new life, but there had been brighter flashes of light in Venice. Bianca Simonetti was one of them. Utterly unlike any other woman he knew, she was not one of the silent, haughty patrician ladies his father urged him to marry. Or like the beautiful, artificial courtesans he spent so much time with. He liked her intelligence, true, but he had also wanted to kiss her on those long afternoons outside her mother’s house. To sense the awakening of her hot sensuality and know it was his alone.
She had wanted him, too. He saw the flush of her cheeks, the quickening of the pulse that beat at the base of her slender throat. But she was young, and innocent. For all his careless debauchery, something in him could not bear to dim that glow inside of her, those idealistic dreams that he himself had never known.
He had been old and damaged. Bright innocence could never survive in his father’s house. Only by striving to equal Ermano in cunning and cruelty had Balthazar lived at all, but it had made his heart twisted. Bianca was not like that. She was a small, shimmering pearl, its perfection tucked away in a dark casket where only he could see it.
Balthazar thought of the woman who kissed him last night. She had Bianca’s dark eyes, her lush lips, but the bright hope had vanished. Was the girl he once knew hidden there, somewhere deep beneath the hard, cool surface?
As he watched out the window, he saw her coming up the street, a heavy basket over her arm. A wide-brimmed hat shielded her face, but he was familiar with her body now, with the shift and warmth of it against his, and he recognised it in the way she moved. She wore a plain brown gown, the square neckline revealing the edge of a white chemise and a modest expanse of sun-browned skin. She wore no jewels, and he wondered what she would look like in loops of pearls, chains of emeralds.
And nothing else. Aye, he thought with a smile, chains of jewels framing her bare breasts. Looping down past her navel, her flat belly, just touching her womanhood.
Bianca stretched backwards, her hand at the small of her back as she wiped her boots at the doorstep. Even the prosaic movement had an unconscious grace to it, but also weariness. He wondered again what had brought her here, to this life in a Santo Domingo tavern.
She pulled off her hat and wiped her wrist over her brow. As she tucked a loose curl back into her knitted caul, she glanced up and her gaze met Balthazar’s. For a mere instant, her expression was unguarded, her eyes wide and startled as a doe. She seemed younger in that moment, unsure and vulnerable.
Then her armoured visor dropped back into place, an unreadable mask. She gave him a brusque nod and hurried through the door.
Balthazar turned from the window, finishing the lacings of his shirt. Mendoza had brought the clean clothes and toiletries from his cabin, and promised to bring more men back the next day to fetch him to the Calypso. For once, his crew dared to override his orders and refused to let him walk Santo Domingo alone. Diego Escobar had not been apprehended, nor had he come near the ship. He was still out there, filled with that seething, murderous fury.
Nor was he the only one, Balthazar thought as he heard Bianca’s light footsteps on the creaking stairs. The innocent desire from years ago might be vanished from her eyes, but he had seen there something he knew all too well.
Anger. Simmering anger directed right at him.
She opened the door with just a soft click, no ferocious slams or bangs. She did not look at him, just hung her hat up on a peg and turned to the small looking glass. Her cheeks were flushed a pale shell-pink over her high cheekbones, the only sign of emotion.
She tucked her loose curls back into the net, and he remembered how her hair had looked last night. Long and tumbled over her shoulders, a mass of wild dark curls.
“You are awake,” she said. “And dressed, too. You must be feeling better.”
“Mendoza brought provisions from my ship,” he answered, as cautious as she. “I won’t trespass on your hospitality much longer, Señora Montero.”

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