The Treasure of Valletta

Sconces donned each wall enveloping the room in a soft glow as the flames shook against a cool summer breeze, casting eerie shapes to dance along the dark wooden walls. Nestled in the shadows of the Cony Inn, Charles Huxley sat with ale in hand, his restless eyes wandering the rambunctious tavern with little mirth. Though his crew sprawled aimlessly throughout the pub, enjoying the food and wine, a frown tugged at the corners of Charles’s full lips, deepening the soft wrinkles that emphasized his sunbaked cheeks. Dallion Deverel. A name that hadn’t crossed his path in quite some time, though the animosity that hastened his pulse was still as fresh today as it was nigh ten years ago.

Straining his left ear, Charles took a slow sip of his brew as he attempted to pick up the hushed whispers of the men who sat huddled only an arm’s length away, their chapped lips and rotten teeth spilling information he would have happily paid a handsome sum for. From what he had gathered thus far, Dallion was on his way to Valletta, Malta. Though for what, Charles hadn’t the faintest idea. To his knowledge, there was nothing worthwhile in that damnable city. Aside from the daughter of the duke, news had spread far and wide her search for a husband. With a sneer, Charles shook his head of the notion. Dallion was a womanizer, though even that dolt would know he stood no chance in marrying the girl.

Returning his attention to that of his chattering friends, Charles took one last gulp of ale, their words now much softer than before as he tilted his chair on its legs in attempts to hear better.

It was then the two buccaneers seemed to notice Charles intrigue and quickly scurried to the opposite end of the inn, giving Charles a sidelong glance as they went. Unbothered by their sourness, Charles answered their glares with a smug smile, after all, he’d already learned all he needed. Dallion Deverel was heading to Valletta. And now, so was he.

At the mere thought of reaping his well-deserved vengeance on the bastard, a wicked grin unfurled on Charles’s lips. He had known it would only be a matter of time before Deverel slipped up, and now the opportunity was ripe for the taking, leaving Charles as giddy as a wench on her wedding day. After their initial discord, Dallion had slipped through Charles fingers with ease, as if he were sand. As if to trying to capture the bastard, Charles’s hand clenched reflexively, the knuckles of his tanned fingers now white as he attempted to qualm the rage the stirred within him. Dark brows knitted together as a look of contempt twisted Charles features. Damn him! He wouldn’t slip away this time, not when he was this damn close.

A slap on his shoulder reared Charles from his thoughts as the legs of his chair came down with a resounding bang, his blue eyes meeting with Wesley’s. A fine boy with striking auburn hair, cheeks reddened and maimed with freckles, making him appear more boy than man, and pale green eyes glazed over with drink. Though the lad was not much older than a score and five, Charles found him ambitious and withholding the skills befitted to lead his crew throughout the most dangerous of storms when needed. Lord knew Charles couldn’t count the numerous times Wesley had saved his ass from near death.

“Aye, cap’n. If’er lookin’ ta room, the missus has one available.” Speaking through hiccups, Wesley waggled a finger in Charles nose, his balance clumsy and foolish due to ale and breath rancid enough to make Charles nose scrunch with displeasure. Waving the boy off, Charles rose with ease to his feet. Years of drunken exploits making him a man outmatched against those foolish enough to dare challenge him to a game of Passatella.

“I thank ye’ Wes, I shall soon retire. Though before I do,” downing the remainder of the amber-gold liquid, Charle’s set the cup down with finality as he faced Wesley with a sly grin.

“Have the men prepare to set sail early morn’, we shan’t dally. Understand?” Without giving Wes even a moment to question his orders, Charles took the crooked stairs of the tavern two at a time, the old steps creaking and groaning beneath his weight as he made his way to the quaint room the lad had prepared.

Extinguishing the candle that laid on the nightstand beside the poorly made bed, Charles stripped himself of his clothes and wrapped himself in the thin cotton sheets that scratched his sensitive skin, sending a shiver up his spine. As his thoughts remained on the voyage he and his men were preparing to undertake. With a sigh of contentment, Charles allowed his body to seep into the hay stuff mattress, the scent of fresh linen filling his nostrils as he inhaled deeply. Aye, they’d be bound for Rome on the ’morrow. Though Charles had yet to learn the true agenda of the infamous Captain Deverel. It mattered not. He’d learn the rest soon enough.