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  The captain had congratulated himself at the nickname he’d bestowed, and Kon preferred it to the use of his family’s noble name. It had become obvious during the short voyage that the pirate crew depended on each other to weather the many hardships of their occupation. It was vital for his survival he not be considered an outsider.

  It occurred to him to grab his shirt before going ashore, but the others climbed over the side without bothering, so he did the same, imitating the captain’s confident swagger as they progressed along the busy dock.

  He slowed his pace when they passed the largest and most elaborately decorated cog. Gold embellishments adorned many parts of the sides and railings. Unlike the one masted vessels, another spar stuck out over the bow, perhaps for a smaller sail.

  But what caught his eye and caused his heart to race was the stunningly beautiful woman standing with legs braced and hands on hips atop a platform at the front of the ship.

  Zara had learned from her father the importance of keeping a watchful eye on foreign vessels docking in the lagoon. Some brazen pirates had been known to sail into Venezia precisely to scout out their next victim.

  It was no easy task. The port teemed with trading vessels from the four corners of the earth from London to the Baltic, from the North Sea to Byzantium.

  She watched the new arrivals from the forecastle of the Nunziata, the flagship named for her late mother. An unfamiliar cog snared her attention.

  The garishly dressed seaman in the bright red shirt who swaggered off the vessel must be the captain, but he held her gaze for only a moment or two.

  It was the tall sailor following in his wake who intrigued her. He dwarfed his captain and was likely nothing more than an ordinary seaman, well-muscled, stripped to the waist and sweating. Yet there was something about his bearing, the set of his shoulders, the long, chestnut brown hair neatly tied back. He was swarthy, but she’d wager not Venetian. Men who spent any length of time toiling in the shipping trade had a lean, mean and hungry look. This man was more like a disciplined soldier than a pirate. She had little doubt the captain was a Dalmatian pirate. The reek of greed filled the air when he strode by, his all-seeing eyes on the goods being loaded onto her ship.

  The fascinating sailor also looked across at the Nunziata. She became uncomfortably hot and gripped the railing of the forecastle when she realized he wasn’t staring at the ship, but at her, his mouth agape. It wasn’t the first time a man had been taken aback by her male attire, but when an amused smile lit up his handsome face a peculiar sense of recognition tightened her throat. Yet she was certain she’d never seen him before. She would have remembered such a man. Intrigued by a common sailor, a foreigner! Ottavia would be outraged!

  Searching for an escape from his penetrating gaze, she looked away when three Fatimids appeared, herding a dozen or so chained captives destined for the market in Bari. She clenched her jaw, dismayed to see a young boy among the prisoners clad in ragged kaftans, though they were too light-skinned to be Arabs. However, at least this time there were no women. Slave-mongers were never to be trusted, especially ones who kept their faces hidden. It was a repugnant part of trade, but if Polani ships didn’t transport the wretches, somebody else would.

  When she turned back to the dock a few minutes later, Red-Shirt had walked on, but his crewman glared at her angrily, fists clenched, nostrils flared. His obvious fury left her strangely bereft. She wondered what had happened to change his demeanor, and why it mattered.

  HATCHING A PLAN

  Confused by the mixed emotions the striking woman had caused to swirl in his heart, Kon hurried after Drosik. Yet he was certain of what must be done. “I’ve found the ship,” he declared breathlessly.

  His captain eyed him curiously, then scanned the busy docks. “Which one?”

  “With the high platform front and rear, and the mast over the bow.”

  Drosik scratched his armpit and chuckled. “The fore and stern castles, you mean. See how the railing is made to look like the turret of a castle? The front mast is for an antemon.”

  Kon frowned at the unfamiliar word.

  “A headsail,” Drosik explained patiently. “Makes it easier to keep a steady course. You have a good nose for booty! The Nunziata is a ship of the Polani fleet. Or was it Zara Polani who caught your attention? She’s a beauty, eh? Mayhap you were right not to become a priest.”

  The hackles rose on Kon’s nape. He couldn’t deny the scandalously clad brunette had stirred his male interest, but his baser instincts had been roused years ago by the sight of the naked slave girl in Bari. That youthful folly had turned out to be a disaster.

  He’d renounced the religious life, but he’d also sworn never to lust after a woman again. It inevitably led to heartache. Even his happily married father had been devastated by the loss of his wife. “I’m not interested in women,” he assured his captain. “But I have an idea how to capture the Nunziata.”

  Drosik winked. “Best not tell the lads you don’t like women, Wolf. They might think…”

  Kon’s gut lurched. He’d known men in the imperial army who were drawn to other men, and they’d been shunned, or worse. He searched for a plausible explanation. “It’s not that I don’t like women, it’s…er…a religious belief, an oath.”

  Drosik shrugged, seemingly satisfied by this ludicrous notion. “Ever the priest, eh? What’s the plan?”

  Kon tried to gather his scattered thoughts. “I will get hired onto the crew of the Nunziata and ensure the ship is disabled when you attack.”

  It was a tenuous plan at best and he had no notion how he might sabotage a ship under sail without jeopardizing those aboard. There wasn’t much point trying to save the slaves if they drowned.

  “Brilliant,” his captain exclaimed, but then he frowned. “And what do you want in return for putting yourself in harm’s way?”

  Kon didn’t hesitate. “A guarantee the slaves will be released into my hands.”

  Drosik spat into his weathered palm and clasped Kon’s hand. “Agreed, but watch out for Zara. She’s a vixen.”

  His curiosity piqued, Kon wanted to know more. “It’s considered bad luck for a woman to be aboard a ship. I’m surprised her father allows it.”

  “Father’s dead. She has an older brother, but he’s an imbecile. She runs the whole fleet. One of the more prosperous.”

  Now he understood the male attire. It must be difficult for a woman to garner the respect of sailors, but she’d evidently done so, and he admired her for it.

  But she was a slave trader, and he couldn’t allow the chained men being herded onto her ship to be delivered to market.

  It was probable she’d do everything in her power to thwart his plot if she became aware of it, but he deemed it unlikely a woman would be aboard the ship when it sailed.

  A loud argument at the far end of the dock reached Zara’s ears over the usual din of the port. Brawls were common, but she was surprised to see the Dalmatian pirate and his crewman pushing and shoving each other. She was too far away to glean the reason for the altercation, but pitied the puny captain if it came to a serious exchange of blows.

  She should have been paying more attention to the loading, but the disagreement fascinated her. When the younger man raised his huge fists, the captain backed off and walked away in high dudgeon. Strange, but then who wouldn’t be intimidated by the impressive muscles?

  Her heart raced when the giant turned and strode towards her ship. Surely he wasn’t…didn’t expect…

  She clenched her hands at her sides when he came to a halt on the dock below and looked up. His broad smile sent tiny winged creatures fluttering in her belly. “Are you hiring sailors? I’m strong and I will work hard.”

  As she’d suspected, he wasn’t Venetian. The accent, Germanic she’d guess, only enhanced the deep timbre of his voice. She forced a reply from her parched throat, nodding in the direction of the now distant red shirt. “But you fight with men you are supposed to obey.”


  His eyes widened, but the smile remained. “He’s a cheat. Refused to pay me. You strike me as an honest captain.”

  For a man to readily believe she was in command of the Nunziata sent pride rushing through her veins, though an inner voice cautioned he was merely using flattery. “Every sailor knows women don’t captain ships,” she replied. She sounded too coy for her own liking, but it was strangely thrilling to spar with him. She sensed he was no ordinary seaman, more like a man of breeding down on his luck perhaps.

  His smile turned into a grin. “Can I apply to the real captain, then?”

  Every man who frequented the Venetian docks and valued his life and livelihood knew enough not to toy with Zara Polani, yet she rose willingly to the bait and matched his grin with a sly smile. “I will inform the real captain you are hired.”

  He scaled the gangplank with agile ease, took the steps of the forecastle two at a time, went down on one knee before her and reached for her hand. His actions caused other members of the crew to move to her aid, but strangely, she wasn’t afraid and waved them off.

  “My thanks,” he said, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “You won’t regret it.”

  She relished the warmth of his lips, preening like a queen fawned upon by a handsome courtier. She squelched the tiny nagging worry that she may have made a serious mistake.

  Inhaling some unknown fragrance lingering on Zara Polani’s skin, Kon looked up into eyes as green as emeralds and deeply regretted the blatant lie. But surely a lie uttered in order to save others from a terrible fate was forgivable? Still, lying was against his nature. Perhaps there was a little of the god-fearing Kon left, deep down.

  Eyes fixed on the long, slender legs sheathed in male leggings and high boots, he had an insane urge to smother the elegant hand he held with kisses, mayhap suck a finger into his mouth. She’d deem him a pervert and have him thrown into the sea. And what in the name of all the saints had happened to his determination to ignore the temptations of the flesh?

  “Your name?”

  Her sultry voice sent gooseflesh marching up his spine. “Kon…Konrad,” he stammered. “Wolf. Konrad Wolf, but everyone calls me Kon.”

  She slowly extricated her hand from his grasp. “Welcome aboard, Kon.”

  His name on her lips was a blessing. As he got to his feet, his mind filled with absurd images of lying abed with her, naked, being welcomed aboard as he thrust into…

  Enough!

  “Wolves are dangerous beasts.”

  He flared his nostrils and puffed out his chest. “Ja, it’s short for…” Sanity returned. “It’s a Saxon name. An unpronounceable mouthful. You wouldn’t understand.”

  The emeralds darkened, then she averted her gaze to a tall man striding towards them. “Here comes Capitano Lupomari now. You will take your orders from him.”

  He watched her descend the gangplank, beguiled by the sway of her hips and the leggings clinging to her shapely bottom. The last time he’d seen wool of such fine quality…

  The plaintive keening of the child chained beneath the stern-castle reached his ears and strengthened his resolve.

  Zara Polani was his enemy, and best he not forget it.

  NIGHT

  Kon labored most of the day under the blazing sun, loading what he was instructed to load, and stowing it where he was told to stow it. It was heavy and dirty work, but after a while he fell into the rhythm.

  Zara Polani failed to reappear. He should have been relieved but instead was disappointed. He supposed she had other priorities to attend to and likely hadn’t given him a second thought. Why the notion bothered him was perplexing.

  He risked an occasional glance at the three armed Fatimids guarding the languishing captives. Their dark, unfathomable eyes only stared into nothingness and he imagined mouths twisted in sneering distrust behind their face wraps. The desolate memory of the enslaved woman he’d tried to free and the subsequent beating and humiliation he’d suffered in Bari twisted his gut.

  He learned from a fellow crewman the captain was pushing them hard because the ship was due to sail on the early morning tide.

  It was dark by the time they’d covered the cargo with animal skins and Lupomari declared the loading finished. Kon eagerly accepted the tumbler of liquid he was issued to quench his thirst. He gulped it down, discovering to his dismay it was watered wine of dubious vintage. He’d known he had no tolerance for spirits since suffering the after-effects of over-imbibing at Johann’s wedding years ago.

  Using the excuse of retrieving his only shirt from the Ragusa, he walked along the dock feeling light-headed and bumped into his pirate captain. Drosik grabbed his arm. “Are you drunk, Wolf?”

  Kon shook his head. “No. I drank wine too quickly after spending hours in the sun. I’ll be fine. We sail on the morning tide.”

  “I’d best get the Ragusa underway then. What’s your course?”

  Kon had only conjecture to go on. “Bari, I think.”

  Drosik rubbed his chin. “You’ll hug the coast of Italy in that case. I know the ideal place to launch our surprise attack. Damaging the rudder will be the best way for you to disable the ship.”

  Kon’s previous experience with sailing was plying the oars of a small rowboat on the Elbe with the help of one brother or another. He was fairly certain of where the rudder was, but as for disabling it? “I’ll figure it out,” he promised, wishing he was as confident as he tried to sound.

  The Lord would help him.

  He cursed inwardly, exasperated that his thoughts still drifted heavenward. There would be no divine intervention since God didn’t exist. Success depended on him alone.

  He walked purposefully back along the dock, boarded the Nunziata and found a spot among the other snoring crew members sprawled in the hull. Still thirsty, he toyed with the idea of offering to bring water to the slaves, but the Fatimid guards would never allow him near their precious cargo. He covered his ears, tucked his knees to his chest and surrendered to exhaustion.

  Zara stared up at the high ceiling of her chamber. Even in the darkness the gold leaf embellishments glowed. Too hot, she kicked off the fine linen sheets and let out a long slow breath of frustration. Try as she might to drift into sleep, the handsome Saxon kept surfacing in her thoughts.

  Wolf.

  He claimed it was short for his real name, but what might it be? His bearing set him apart from any common sailor. His Italian was charmingly accented, but he spoke her language with ease and was obviously educated. He wasn’t a man of the sea. Why did he want to work aboard her ship? It was hard to believe he might be a pirate, but had he truly abandoned the Dalmatian?

  She tried to imagine what her father would think of him, but came to the strange realization he would have taken a liking to Konrad Wolf.

  It was bothersome.

  Resigned to a sleepless night, she got out of the big bed and called her maid to help her prepare for the coming day. “Tell the guard to summon my escort,” she told the yawning girl when she arrived. “I am going to the docks.”

  “But it is still dark, mia signora,” Flavia protested.

  “Tuttavia,” she insisted. “I will go nevertheless, after I pray in the chapel.”

  For years, the march south from Termoli to Bari with the imperial army had haunted Kon’s dreams and it seemed tonight on board the Nunziata would be no different. He became restless as the memory of miles and miles of dusty roads once again disturbed his sleep and he tumbled into the familiar nightmare.

  But suddenly, the dream changed and he was marching in water up to his neck but couldn’t make headway. Duke Heinrich’s sneering face surfaced out of the waves, berating him for setting a bad example by drowning in front of his men.

  A ship emerged out of a thick fog, carved on its prow the figurehead of a golden goddess. She sang an alluring siren’s song. “I can save you from the depths of loneliness and despair.”

  “Help me,” he pleaded. “I must get back to the Elbe.”

 
She held out an elegant hand. “Who calls to me? Who are you?”

  “If only I knew,” he choked in reply.

  The ship sailed on into the mist and he was once again marching to Bari and the inevitable destiny awaiting him in the slave market.

  FIGUREHEAD

  It was still dark when Kon was prodded awake. He bumped his head hard on a rowing thwart as he scrambled to his feet. A millet biscuit was thrust into one hand, a mug of ale into the other. Ravenous, he bit into the biscuit and nigh on broke his teeth.

  Sniggering laughter greeted his grunt of pain. “Dip it in the ale,” someone yelled.

  He followed the suggestion and managed to chew and swallow the resulting tasteless mush. Rubbing his bruised head, he sipped the ale, but was soon obliged to guzzle it down when all hands were summoned to grab a pole and help shove off.

  Flickering torches left on the docks by the night-watch cast an eerie glow on the confusion as men scurried here and there, responding to Lupomari’s barked commands. The captain wanted to outpace other ships which were preparing to leave on the tide. Kon wondered if the Ragusa was among them. The captives had only spent one night aboard the vessel, yet the stink of human misery emanating from beneath the stern-castle was pungent, overpowering the usual nauseating reek of the docks.

  Dawn in the Venetian lagoon stood in sharp contrast to his youth in Saxony when his beloved mother’s voice had roused him and his siblings out of their comfortable beds. A lifetime ago. He could never go back.

  Pushed into a rowing thwart, he flexed his stiff fingers before gripping the rough wood of the oar. This was the reality of his life now. The Nunziata was a much bigger cog than Drosik’s. Rowing her out of the lagoon would take the combined effort of twenty men and he’d be expected to do his part.