“And so you see,” Alonzo Velázquez explained when he reached the end of the tale he’d recounted many times, “our ancestor was a famous Spanish marauder who gave the Pirates of Britannia a run for their money.”

His guests chuckled politely, as they always did, and raised their sherry glasses. “To Santiago Fernández,” they exclaimed. “Leader of the Demonios del Mar.”

It wasn’t every Spanish nobleman who boasted openly of pirate ancestors, but Alonzo Velázquez de Vallirana y La Granada was probably the richest man in Sevilla, founding owner of a profitable shipping company trading with Spanish colonies in the Americas.

Claiming not to care a whit for public opinion, he never failed to mention that his eldest son had been named for the infamous pirate king who’d lived three hundred years before. Like Fernández, Santiago Velázquez had indeed spent most of his life at sea, plying back and forth across the Atlantic in his favorite ship, the Santa María.

While enjoying the old tales, and proud of his family’s long seafaring history, Santiago considered himself more of a rogue than a pirate. Was he to blame that beautiful women lusted after handsome sea captains, especially ones who stood to inherit a fortune?

Sometimes it was difficult to keep track of his paramours. He had obviously offended Salomé Mendoza when he’d escorted his current ladylove into his father’s house earlier in the evening. She’d slapped his face and stormed off as if they had some sort of permanent arrangement, which he certainly was unaware of. He racked his brain for something he might have said or done to give her the wrong impression, but couldn’t think of anything.

Over the years he’d more or less abandoned the youthful notion of someday finding what his father had enjoyed with his late mother—a great love. And Salomé definitely wasn’t a woman he’d want to spend his life with. Beautiful, yes, but also conniving and given to fits of rage. He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d become involved with her in the first place, and resolved to be more careful in future.

Hours later, when all the guests had left, and his younger brothers and sisters had retired, he and his father sat in the salon, sharing a glass or two of Cuban rum.

“I apologize for the scene earlier,” he said, genuinely sorry for Salomé’s outburst. His father went to great lengths to ensure his social gatherings went off without a hitch. Instead, the humiliating slap would be the main topic of gossip among Sevilla’s social elite.

“It will pass,” his father replied. “Everyone knows Salomé takes after her mother.”

It was a gentle reminder that he was expected to exercise better judgement. It was never wise to alienate families of equal social rank.

He drained his glass, rose from his chair and bade his father goodnight. “Hopefully, one day I will acquire your wisdom, Papa,” he said before taking his leave.

Santiago shrugged off the hand shaking him awake. He opened one eye. Why was his valet waking him in the middle of the night? “It’s still dark, go away, Roberto.”

“Wake up, Santi.”

He rolled over, startled when he saw his father’s worried face, rendered all the more haggard by the flickering flame of the candle he held. “What’s wrong?”

“You must go to your ship. Salomé has accused you.”

He rubbed his eyes and sat up. “Of what?”

His father sat on the edge of the bed. “Sexual deviance,” he murmured.

Santiago snorted. He considered himself creative in his lovemaking, but deviant? “She’s off her head,” he replied with a yawn. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. She’ll calm down.”

“The constables were already here.”

“Constables?”

“From the Suprema.”

He was tempted to laugh. “What on earth could she accuse me of that would interest the Inquisition?”

“Sodomy and homosexuality.”

His blood ran cold. Few men of his age accused of homosexuality escaped the noose, most of them tortured into confessing. Only boys deemed to have been sodomized unwillingly were punished with a whipping. “But you know this isn’t true,” he exclaimed.

“True or not, you must flee. Sail to Cuba. Lie low. I will send word when it’s safe to come home.”

He felt the weight of a heavy bag on his legs, and the thunk of a large amount of coin. He looked up at the tears streaming down his father’s face and his heart broke.

“Take this and go now, my son. I have diverted them, but they will be back.”

Two hours later, the Santa María was sailing down the Guadalquivir, after a hurried and gut-wrenching farewell. His valet had sobbed almost as much as his wailing sisters. His white-faced brothers had been unable to speak. His father had struggled unsuccessfully not to break down, finally mumbling a reassurance that his sainted mother would watch over him.

While supplies were being loaded in Cádiz, he explained to the crew that the ship wouldn’t be making the return voyage. They could either stay in Cádiz, return to Spain in another of his father’s ships or start a new life in the Americas with him. It was gratifying that the majority chose to sail with him, not surprising after he distributed some of his father’s coin as an incentive. As he sailed away from his beloved country and everyone he loved and cherished, he doubted his broken heart would ever mend. Never again would he allow a woman to destroy his life.