Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans Book 4) - Julie Ann Walker Page 0,1
were busy sawing the limbs from the felled tree.
Bartolome had always thought English a distasteful language. So harsh. So hacking. But one word was worse than the rest.
Privateers.
It was a fancy term for pirates. Bloodthirsty, treasure-hungry savages who hid their thievery and murder behind their letters of marque, documents bestowed by their government giving them the legal authority to attack enemy ships, press the foreign sailors into service, and loot whatever booty they could find.
And they are hunting for us.
“She be deep in Davy Jones’s locker!” the man continued, grunting as he jiggled the last drop of putrid piss from his diseased member. “Else she be found by now! We should head toward New Granada! I heard tell there be easy targets there!”
“Ye want t’ be the one t’ tell the captain that, ye daft bugger?” the one with the blunderbuss laugh called back, shaking his head.
The Englishman muttered something under his breath before turning to rejoin his mates on the edge of the beach. When he had gone some distance, Bartolome let out a slow, ragged breath and watched the three men finish cleaning the branches off the tree before dragging it across the sand toward their skiff. The whole time his mind raced through the pitiful options left to him.
He had hoped King Philip would send ships from Havana to search for the Santa Cristina and her missing crew. Every day of the past two weeks he had scanned the oceans through the magnifying lens of his spyglass, yearning to see a ship flying the Spanish flag. But none had appeared. Now he knew why.
English pirates are swarming the seas like locusts.
The thought of what Spain’s enemies could do with the great ship’s treasure had Bartolome’s empty stomach swirling as if he had sucked down bad grog. Then he felt Rosario at his side. The midshipman hitched his chin toward the English sailors rowing across the lagoon. “What did they say, Captain?” Rosario asked.
When Bartolome told him, Rosario’s eyes rounded. “’Tis still possible for rescue,” he insisted. “We just have to remain patient, remain hidden.”
“I know.”
“But very soon the summer storms will be upon us. The winds will ravage this island and the seas around it, spreading the treasure and making salvage futile.”
“I know that too.” A pit of dread took root in Bartolome’s belly.
Rosario placed a hand on his forearm. “Then what are we to do, Captain?”
Bartolome swallowed, the task before him daunting. But if twenty years at sea had taught him anything, it was that all things were possible through determination, hard work, and the help of God. “We find a way to raise the treasure ourselves,” he said, his jaw stony with resolve. “And then we bury it.”
Chapter 1
Present day
4:12 p.m.…
Brando “Bran” Pallidino blinked and reread the email in his inbox for the third time.
Hi, Bran!
This Thursday night I’m chaperoning those three scholarship recipients I told you about on a camping and snorkeling trip to the Dry Tortugas. The park is pretty close to Wayfarer Island, right? Any chance you could sail over? The students would love to hear about your search for the Santa Cristina. And I’d love to see you!
Maddy
Thanks to the hellacious storm that had blown through the Straits of Florida over the weekend and knocked the satellite dish off the roof of the rickety two-story island house, this was the first time Bran had been able to check his email in nearly five days. Which meant Thursday was today. And Maddy Powers, the woman he’d met three months ago on a mission he should have never been on, the same woman who since then had filled his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night, was a mere fifteen nautical miles away.
So close…
The memory of the kiss he’d stolen right before he hopped overboard from her father’s yacht blazed through his brain. Soft lips. Sweet breath. An eager tongue that stroked his until—
Oh, eh! Was that his heart beating a rhythm to do a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade proud? Were those his ears buzzing? Was the idiot in his pants swelling with the memory? To his dismay, the answer was yes to all questions.
Funny how he could remain cool as the proverbial cucumber when he was forced to assemble an M4 in the dark under heavy fire. But put him within spitting distance of one miniscule, sassy-mouthed Texas-tornado-of-a-blond and he turned into a total chump.
Madison “Maddy” Powers…
Even her name was enough to have butterflies fluttering drunkenly inside his stomach.