Page 12 of Breath From the Sea
Chapter Four
“Just how many bloody galleons are going to interrupt our journey?” Titus growled.
Grenville grunted, knowing it best not to respond.
“What should have only taken a few damned hours is lasting all day.” Titus slammed his hand down on the rail, approaching the merchant vessel that was sailing at a swift clip in their direction. “This is bloody familiar.” He grumbled the last and then bit down ferociously on the apple he’d been eating.
He was duty bound to at least issue a greeting to the ship as it sailed for England.TheLionheartshould have already landed at Calais. The crew should have disembarked. He should have been sipping an ale and eating a meat pie at the port tavern he enjoyed, whilst deciding which wench to pleasure for the evening. Dammit if the business with Lady Antónia hadn’t delayed them, and then he’d waited until the irksome pirates were out of sight on their way back to Ireland before continuing on his way toward France, circling more eastward in the second attempt to keep the pirates from following if they dared.
And every blasted minute he was reminded of Antónia’s kiss. A sudden salty gust, a mist on the air, even the taste of the bloody apple. He flung it out to sea. Hell and damnation, but he wanted to kiss her again.
“Raise the sails and steer us starboard,” Titus ordered. “Ready the guns in case our luck strikes once more and we are facing pirates.”
The closer they got, the more suspicious Titus became. The ship looked very familiar. A lot like theLady Hook. But he could see the name on the bow wasLittle Dove. The men on the ship were large, but they were dressed plainly. Still…
“Remain cautious,” Titus told his crew.
They pulled alongside the other ship, tossing grappling hooks to tie the ships together. A large man doffed his cap.
“Ho, there!” he called in an accent Titus couldn’t place. Returning his cap to his head in just a way that lay shadow over his dirty face, the bloke said, “Would ye be willin’ to ‘elp us out, Cap’n?”
Titus, hands on his hip, finger tapping his sword hilt, replied, “Where are you headed?”
“We’re a bit lost m’afraid. Supposed to be at Cape Comorin in t’weeks.”
“You’re a long way from India,” Titus drawled. “Where did you come from?”
“South Wales.” The man stiffened slightly when he said it.
Odd. But he just didn’t strike Titus as a man from Wales. “Must be going in circles,” Titus drawled out.
“Aye. Could ye point us in the right way?”
“Mhmm.” Titus pointed southward. “You should have stayed in the Atlantic sailing south around the African continent to the Indian Ocean. You swung upward here and you’re in the English Channel.”
“English Channel.” The merchant captain doffed his cap and scratched his head, looking at his men, an overly exaggerated, perplexed expression on his face.
Titus didn’t know whether to consider this entertaining or if he just wanted to knock the man into the water and tell him to have a pleasant day. “Have you never sailed to India before now?”
“Aye, plenty o’ times.” He shifted a little, putting his cap back in place.
“Then how did you end up here?” Titus worked hard to keep his voice sounding genuine, not giving away his awareness of their ruse, whatever that ruse may be.
“Well… ’Tis a long story, Cap’n. Ye, see, I ate a bad pottage. Tore my guts up something fierce.”
Titus listened as the man went into great detail regarding his stomach ailment. The men aboard his ship stiff as they listened, biting their lips in their attempts not to laugh. Even his own crew was suppressing laughter, a few covering their mouths with their hands and pretending to cough.
The water lapped at the sides of their ships and overhead the clouds that had been nonexistent started to crowd the blue sky. They needed to get moving, else it would begin to storm before they reached Calais. They’d not be able to dock if the winds were blowing fierce and he wasn’t in the mood to anchor in the Channel to ride it out. But the bloke continued on and on about the bad pottage and how he wished every ship came with a privy like the one back in his manor home in South Wales.
Titus finally cleared his throat, interrupting. “Well, I thank you for sharing such a… detailed story with us, though it wasn’t necessary. Sounds like you need a better cook.”
“Truth be told, he was well into the pot, too.”
Titus grunted. “What cargo do you carry?” Duty required him to inspect. The queen would expect him to check all merchants sailing, and he should review their itinerary, to be sure they were on the up and up. If they were exporting, she’d want a portion of the profits, and she’d like to know what it was. If they were importing, she’d want to charge a tariff. From what Titus had gleaned over the years, the Welsh weren’t much for exporting. They were a country of drovers, cattlemen. What could they want with India? If they were importing, Her Majesty would want to see the goods were taxed.
TheWelshcaptain’s mouth dropped open long enough for Titus to garner he was left unprepared to answer.Bloody hell. He didn’t want to go aboard theLittle Dove. He wanted to be on his bloody way!
Titus blew out an annoyed breath, prepared to tell the man he was coming aboard, when the merchant opened his mouth.
