She stared at it silently. Finally, she said, "I'd like to read it."

He grinned. "There, that wasn't so difficult. You may have your book back." He extended it to her. At last, she gave him the smile he'd wanted as she reached for the book. Abruptly, he pulled it away. "When you tell me your name."

The look of surprise on her face quickly turned to anger. "Keep your book." She marched over to the trunk and slammed the lid shut. "And take these with you too. I'll not be baited. I'll not tell you a thing. My personal affairs are personal."

Dieu, if he was going to be at the receiving end of that amount of fire from her, he most certainly preferred it to be in bed.

He walked over to her, lifted her hand, and placed the book on her palm. "I'm not going to take any of the books away. They are yours. Enjoy them."

"Thank you," she murmured and pulled the book to her bosom. How he envied the leather volume.

"You cannot blame me for trying to learn more about you."

"Why not leave matters be?"

"I can't. I've never met a woman quite like you."

"Please," she scoffed.

"I find it most intriguing that you seem quite unaware of your own charms. It leaves me to wonder if it is genuine or merely part of your game. Any man would tell you that you look spectacular in that gown. You move about as though you were born into the upper circle of society, yet you show no interest in its trappings or in perhaps returning there. You leave me to my own imaginings. Sadly, I'm left to guess. Are you perhaps a princess from a faraway land, banished by your enemies to live out your days in the convent?" She looked away. He slipped his fingers beneath her chin and turned her face back to his. "Maybe you are no mortal woman at all. Are you an angel in truth? You certainly have the face and voice of one."

"Your suggestions are absurd."

"Then tell me the truth, chere."

"No."

"Because you cannot or because you will not?"

"I will not."

"Then I will have to try harder. However, make no mistake. I will learn your secrets. Do you think a lamb can outwit a fox?"

She removed his hand from her face. "I may be unfamiliar with foxes, but I do know that sheep bite."

He burst out laughing. "I'll consider myself duly warned." He crossed his arms over his chest, c.o.c.ked his head, and studied her for a moment. "Tell me, doesn't it fatigue you? Keeping yourself closed off the way you do? Not allowing anyone to get close enough to truly know you? Not even your best friend?"

"You spoke to Gabriella about me?"

"Yes. Do you keep the truth from her because you feel she cannot be trusted?"

"No. I trust Gabriella."

"No, you don't. You don't trust anyone. You keep everyone at a distance. You have forgotten how to live, chere. You're merely existing. And there is nothing worse than to live your life only half alive." He'd known it growing up. The lower cla.s.s struggled to exist. They never really lived.

He couldn't tell if his words. .h.i.t the mark. The wall was erected so tall and solid. She merely held his gaze for a moment before she said, "What about you, Simon? Do you live? Are you whom I should emulate in my life?"

Simon walked calmly to the door despite the visceral surge of bitterness that welled inside him-his usual reaction to any subject connected to the choices he'd made in his naval career and with Fouquet.

"Don't concern yourself with my life. You should contemplate your own. Look at those around you and see how they strive to improve theirs, Angelica. They want so much more out of life, whereas you want so much less."

He opened the door and walked out.

Standing on deck, Simon focused his gaze on the Spanish ships on the horizon. Recklessly, he toyed with the thought of defying Fouquet's demands for more riches, to pull back and let the ships pa.s.s-to h.e.l.l with Fouquet and his hold on them-but then Thomas came to mind, decimating his insurgent thoughts.

"Hold her steady," Simon ordered his commander.

"Yes, Captain."

As always, the information gathered by Thomas had been reliable. After two weeks at sea, La Estella Blanco was in view-as were the two galleons Thomas had advised would be escorting her for protection.

The Spanish ship wasn't part of the biannual convoys arriving from New Spain. La Estella Blanco was an additional treasure ship. Thomas had been shrewd enough to learn its secret date of arrival, privy to only a small circle of high-ranking, trusted individuals. There was the very real possibility that all three ships were laden with silver. In short, this was a large capture before them.

With Simon's ships outnumbering theirs six to three, he felt confident of a victory.

More wealth for Fouquet. Just the thought tortured his jaundiced soul. How many prizes had he captured for the Crown already?

Too many.

Too many good men under his command had perished. Too vivid were his memories of their dying screams rising from their mutilated bodies, limbs shot away by cannons, bodies torn open by swords or impaled by the large splinters of wood torn off from the ship's masts by the cannon blasts. Too many bodies lay within the dark cold ocean depths.

For what? A country that was dying-decay prevalent in each of its social cla.s.ses? For a king who spent his time on vice rather than on his kingdom and its people?

Simon's men knew the risks involved with each potential capture, yet they risked everything because they believed in him. If they only knew that he didn't believe in himself anymore. His self-confidence had been, until recently, steadfast in every challenge he encountered. Unfaltering in every endeavor he undertook. Never in his entire adult life had he vacillated, even for an instant, from his intended target.

Or from his dream of promotion to the upper cla.s.s and a respected officer's commission in the realm's official navy-rather than the mere supplement he and his ships were now.

Abandoning that dream was a small price to pay for his involvement with Fouquet.

For the part Simon had played in the suffering and deaths that had occurred.

What he was forced to do now felt so wrong. This valuable capture would only aid in Fouquet's success as Superintendent of Finance, giving him more power and prestige.

Simon clenched his teeth to keep from growling out loud.

The deck was prepared for battle.

The men were in place.

The cannons were ready. They awaited his order to begin firing.

The usual stillness settled on them. The last moments of serenity before the chaos.

During the dwindling minutes of peace, before the blood and gore began, his mind drifted to Angelica. Normally, he didn't permit women on board his ships when the business of ship battles and capture were at hand. However, with La Estella Blanco and its escort outnumbered two to one, he knew there was very little risk to them. La Estella Blanco would go down.

If only it would be as easy to bring down Nicolas Fouquet.

How would Angelica react when the cannons began to blast?

What would she think of the things he'd done in the name of the king, in order to climb the social ladder that had placed him at the bottom at birth? Or of the extent of the destruction and devastation he'd caused?

Why should he care what she thought of him?

It grated on his frayed nerves that throughout each day he was aware of her, down below in her cabin. He hadn't set eyes on her since the second day of the voyage, and yet here she was in his thoughts. At the worst possible time.

Another roar of the cannons rocked the ship, sending shock waves of mortal terror through Angelica. She'd lost track of how many rounds had been fired at them and how many had been fired at the enemy. Suzette and Marta sat with her on the edge of the bed in her cabin, waiting for the battle-that had begun an eternity ago-to end.

Another round of guns erupted. Petrified, Suzette squeezed her hand painfully.

Three more blasts in quick succession reverberated around them, their terrifying booms leaving Angelica's ears ringing in the aftermath. Suzette shrieked and covered her ears, but the sound was drowned out by more cannon fire.

"Battle is part of war," Marta had explained only moments before the calamity began. She had looked relatively calm until the thunder of the cannons commenced.

Angelica's heart hammered wildly. Concern for Simon and Gabriella consumed her; thoughts of their welfare tormented her with each blast she heard.

The men moved rapidly on the deck above. Images of carnage filled her mind. And sickened her stomach. She thought of Simon up there. Was he hurt? Dying? Dead? She wanted him to be safe, to survive, unharmed.

Another round of fire shook the vessel. Wood splintered, then crashed onto the deck above. Her heart dropped to her stomach; she tensed with fright. Once all this was over, once she could see with her own eyes that Simon and Gabriella were safe and uninjured, she would kill him herself for putting them through this.

The battle raged on, round after round, making the ship tremble, shaking Angelica's flagging courage. She shut her eyes and covered her ears, just like Marta and Suzette. Engulfed in the h.e.l.lish noise, she lost all sense of time. All she could do was pray that they would come out of this alive, that the ships would withstand all that the enemy could fire at them.

There were two more quick blasts in the distance, then a sudden round of cheers on deck.

"It's over!" Suzette exclaimed. Jumping to her feet, she clasped her hands together. "Please G.o.d, let Paul be safe." Angelica knew Suzette had a tendre for the shy young man, always trying to engage him in conversation.

Marta made the sign of the cross, relief etched on her face.

Angelica wished she felt as tranquil as Marta looked. Were Simon and Gabriella all right? She wasn't about to wait for someone to stroll belowdecks hours from now with the answer. She needed to know. Now.

The quiet on deck was as chilling as the battle.

"Captain?" the commander inquired, awaiting Simon's command.

The crew stood by for the final order: the order to send the fireship. The small vessel would finish off La Estella Blanco by setting her ablaze.

Outnumbered and outgunned, the three Spanish ships had had little chance of escaping their fate. While the other two Spanish ships, already stripped of their cargo, were burning, grappling irons had been tossed onto La Estella Blanco.

Climbing onto the rigging, the men had leaped across once the ships were close together. The fighting continued with guns and swords until they'd finally subdued the Spaniards.

Simon looked at the bounty of silver from La Estella Blanco now resting on the deck of his ship, then cast a glance at the misbegotten Spanish vessel. His stomach fisted. To give the order meant certain death for its crew-a fate already shared by their comrades on the other two burning ships. Yet more wasted lives for profit.

It was what he was supposed to do. What was expected of him.

You have no choice here.

To spare the enemy was treason. He and all who served under him would be labeled pirates by France, punishable by death. He wasn't afraid to die. Death was a part of his reality-he could be killed or captured at any time. However, his men were another matter altogether. He wouldn't sacrifice their lives just to demonstrate his outrage at Fouquet and Louis.

He clenched his jaw and gave the commander the nod to begin the sinking of La Estella Blanco.

The grappling hooks were removed in haste, and La Estella Blanco was set free.

It didn't take long before the vessel was on fire. The few men still alive on the unfortunate ship jumped into the sea to escape the lapping flames, trading one type of death for another.

The angry flames burned before Simon's eyes.

Thomas, I pray I give you sufficient honor this day. Rest in peace knowing your wife and child shall want for nothing for as long as I live. Simon turned away with a heavy heart then winced. His shoulder was injured, a minor thing that had been caused by a flying piece of wood from the broken mast. So absorbed in battle, in shouting orders, his eyes stinging from the smoke, he'd barely felt it when it happened. He'd simply yanked the piece out and carried on. His shirt was soiled by gunpowder and his own blood.

Simon looked down at his hands. They were slick with the blood of others. He wiped them on his breeches, but it didn't remove the sickening sight from his mind.

Fallen men were being gathered for medical a.s.sessment. The rest stood around the captured silver prize. Expected to show the men how pleased he was at a successful capture, he readied himself for a convincing performance and approached his purser and commander, mindful of the blood and debris covering the deck. The silver was inventoried before the entire crew, with the ship's purser dutifully recording the amount of precious metal captured. The repeated cheers from his men as well as the echoed jubilation from his other ships thankfully drowned out the haunting cries from the men of La Estella Blanco and its sister ships.

Just then a flash of pale blue skirts caught the corner of his eye. He looked up. His stomach dropped when he saw Angelica on deck staring at the burning ships, at the devastation around her. Torn sails, pieces of wood, and bodies littered the deck and the sea.

Dieu. The very last thing he wanted was for her to see this.

Chapter Ten.

Simon watched as Angelica turned toward him, her hand clutching the rail, ignoring Marta and Suzette, who were trying to urge her back belowdecks. She looked pale and overwhelmed by the battle she'd heard and the aftermath she saw. The horror in her eyes as she took in the gruesome scene was unmistakable.

It took a moment to find his voice. He murmured to his commander to continue, then approached her. The self-loathing he'd been feeling wasn't nearly as bad as having her see what he was capable of.

Forced to step around some of the injured lying on the deck, and Toussaint, who was busy examining them, he finally reached his green-eyed beauty.

"I'm sorry, Captain. But the mademoiselle is worried about her friend," Marta said.

Angelica stepped closer to him. "You're injured."

"It's nothing," he said. "My ships are fine." He nodded toward Domenico's ship nearby. "Gabriella is fine."

She glanced toward the ship. The sun's rays on her chestnut tresses created lovely reddish highlights in her hair. For an instant, he was overcome with the urge to pull her near, bury his face in those soft, curly locks, and envelop himself in her, shutting out the horrific scene he'd witnessed more times in his life than he could count.

But he was never more mindful of his blood-soiled hands.

It was absurd, completely ludicrous, actually, but he wanted her to understand, even when he couldn't accept his own actions.

And he was completely at a loss as to why the opinion of this one woman should mean anything to him at all.