Shipwrecked and Seduced. Amanda McCabe

sea, the stormy waves sucking them down and down, into the black depths.

      For an instant she could think of nothing. The water hit her like a hundred swords. But then she heard a voice in her head. Not God or the saints, but her father. A sailor who had died when she was a child.

      “Never fear the water, Maria mia,” he said, from somewhere deep in her memory. “Work with it—make it your friend. Move through the waves, kicking your legs and moving your arms, like a frog. Let yourself just float free.”

      Maria wrenched herself free of the heavy cloak, kicking up toward the faint light above her head. She broke free, into the violent world of foamy waves, driving rain, the splintered wreckage of the ship.

      The screams of the dying.

      Gulping in a deep breath, she kept kicking, kept moving, until she could latch on to a large floating plank. She dragged herself up onto its surface, wrapping her arms tightly around its rough length, and holding on as the sea raged around her.

      She felt the emerald cross press against her breastbone. “Help me,” she whispered. “Please, I want to live!”

      Chapter Two

      Carlos de Alameda stalked along the battlements of the fortress of Santo Domingo, staring out at the night- blanketed town. All seemed peaceful now. Deceptively so, for he knew all too well how quickly the wind shifted here in the New World.

      The town of Santo Domingo, a bulwark against the untamed jungle at the center of the island of Hispaniola, was built high atop a hill, to give it a natural defensive position against the enemies of Spain. The governor’s fortress, the storehouse of the greatest treasure and seat of the royal government, sat at its very highest point. Built of thick gray stone, it was secure behind locked gates and guarded walkways.

      But from the battlements, Carlos could see everything. Could see the dark mountains that hid the jungles; could see the river below, its muddy banks holding up the gallows. Empty for now, but surely not for long.

      The terrible storm in the Mona Passage had swept all manner of vessels into Santo Domingo’s sheltered port, there at the mouth of the Rio Ozama. The waters, purple-black in the night, were packed with a veritable forest of masts. And when the port was this crowded, with all sorts of men, trouble was certain to follow.

      When it struck, it would be Carlos’s job to fix it. To keep His Majesty’s treasure, and the citizens of the town, safe from villains, thieves and liars. The dregs of the sea.

      His title was merely that of assistant to Governor de Feuonmayor, but in truth he was much more. The governor was too occupied with building his grand cathedral, Santa Maria La Menor, with making Santo Domingo a beautiful, suitably Spanish city. It was Carlos who was (very) well paid to be King Charles’s eyes and ears in the New World. To make sure his subjects were loyal, and the wealth of the New World made it in safety back to Spain.

      It was never easy. Never less than dangerous. But he was good at it. And the secrecy of his job made it all the more effective. No one suspected that he, quiet, subdued in dress, always knew what was happening in Hispaniola and all the islands, and the marauders were always caught out in their greed and deceit.

      It had not been a simple journey to move from being the son of an ancient, noble, but poor Andalusian family, of a father who was nearly completely disgraced, to this. To being a very wealthy spy, to forging a new life, a new respect for his name, in these rough islands. His mother’s brother might have gotten him the assistant’s position in the first place, but he had made more of it than it ever should have been.

      And he had done it with ruthless determination. Soon enough, he would return to Spain in honor, to restore fully his family’s estates and make a fine marriage. The Alamedas would rise again, and no New World pirate would stop him.

      Yet he had to remain ever vigilant. Especially now, with all the flotsam the storm had driven in.

      He stared down over the town, at the houses and taverns lit up in the night. He had gone earlier to Señora Montero’s tavern, where all the latest gossip of Santo Domingo could always be heard. The talk was of the storm, of course, of ships lost at sea, of miraculous recoveries. Of the arrival of the near- mythical vessel the Calypso, and her legendary Venetian captain, Señor Grattiano.

      Carlos did not believe half the tales of Grattiano, of course—legends sprang up like weeds in the fervid humidity of the islands. But as long as he kept the peace, the Venetian captain was welcome to repair his ship in the harbor.

      Other vessels, though, were not so welcome. Carlos had ordered extra guards on the storehouses, extra torches along the battlements to keep the dark at bay.

      The talk at the tavern was only the usual tonight, but he was always prepared. He could have stayed longer, could have taken up Señora Montero’s maid Delores on her offer of a warm bed. He had bedded Delores before, and she was a pretty, willing woman. A distraction from his job. But somehow, tonight, he could not be distracted.

      There had been no word at all on the fate of the ship the Santa Theresa. That news only added to the taut sense that something was afoot out there in the darkness. Something was about to happen.

      Carlos reached for his spyglass, focusing it on the port below. All afternoon, the decks had been crawling with activity. Now they were silent, as all their crews had come ashore to find comfort and pleasure after the storm’s travails.

      But one ship, the Reyezuelo, still burned torches along its deck. Her captain had not yet been to the fortress to present his credentials. What was happening there?

      “Señor de Alameda,” a voice said from the doorway.

      Carlos turned to see one of the servants watching him timidly. They all knew better than to interrupt his rounds on the battlements, except for matters of great import. “What is it?”

      “Governor de Feuonmayor begs that you come down to the great hall, señor. There are some—interesting visitors, and he seeks your assistance.”

      Carlos nodded shortly. Was this, then, the trouble he was expecting tonight? He set aside his spyglass, following the man down the narrow, torchlit stairs and into the main wing of the fortress.

      Despite the fine tapestries on the stone walls, the carved chests and tables from Spain, there was no disguising the martial nature of the building. There were few windows piercing the thick walls, no warm light in the chilly air. No softening feminine laughter. But Carlos liked it well enough. It gave the illusion of strength and security, which served his task better than a fine palace ever could.

      And if he sometimes missed that gentle laughter, the scent of flowered perfume—well, that was the price he paid.

      He hurried into the grand hall, a vast space hung with the king’s standard along with an arsenal of weapons. The hall was sometimes used for receptions and banquets, but tonight the tables and silver-laden buffets were pushed back against the walls. The only people gathered there were the governor and a few of his servants, along with three men clad in sailor’s garb.

      And a woman, laid out on a stretcher made from canvas sail.

      Carlos frowned as he moved closer to the silent group. The woman appeared to be dead. She was very pale, her skin a translucent white against her tangled dark hair. She wore only a stained and torn white chemise—and a heavy emerald cross on a gold chain.

      He examined her more closely. That cross was a finely crafted and very expensive piece, and the woman who wore it seemed quite young. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, her brows like wren’s wings against her marble brow.

      Such a great pity, for one so young and pretty to be gone, he thought. But why was she here?

      Then he saw the gentle rise of her breath beneath the tattered chemise, the faint beat of her pulse in the vulnerable hollow at the base of her neck.

      “What is this?” Carlos asked, glancing sharply at the governor, the sailors.

      Feuonmayor, clad in his fine brocade dressing