The Black Buccaneer - Chapter - 34

The streets of Seville were alive with the sounds of trade, the scent of freshly baked bread, salt, and spice mixing in the warm air. Merchants bartered, sailors laughed, and noblemen walked in their fine coats, accompanied by women draped in silk and gold.

Among them, Henry Creed moved with ease. No one recognized him for who he truly was. As far as Spain was concerned, Henry Creed was just another wealthy merchant, selling tobacco, sugar, and exotic goods.

But today, Henry wasn’t interested in trade.

Today, his curiosity was fixed on Angelica Rivera.

Angelica had caught his eye the moment he saw her, walking alongside other young women from the convent.

She had a beauty that stood out, a grace that didn’t seem forced, but natural. She moved differently than the others—lighter on her feet, more aware of the world around her. There was something about her that didn’t fit the image of a woman bound for a life of devotion.

Henry wasn’t a fool. He had spent his life reading people, and Angelica?

She was no ordinary nun-in-training.

So, as any good merchant—or pirate—would do, he dug for information.

That night, Henry found himself at El Cazador, a well-known tavern where information flowed as freely as the wine.

Sitting across from him was Diego Vargas, a man with connections in every corner of Seville.

Henry leaned back in his chair, swirling his glass of aged Spanish wine. “Tell me, Diego. What do you know about the convent girls?”

Diego raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking an interest in nuns, Henry? Should I be worried?”

Henry smirked. “Just one. Angelica Rivera.”

Diego chuckled. “Ah. That one.”

Henry’s smirk widened. “She’s well-known?”

Diego nodded. “Not for the reasons you’d think. No one knows who her father is.”

Henry’s amusement faltered.

Diego continued, lowering his voice. “They say her father is a sea captain, but his name has never been spoken. No one knows what ship he sails, or where he comes from. Only that he is always at sea. He never returns to Seville, yet every few months, the convent receives a heavy purse of gold coins, enough to ensure that Angelica is well cared for.”

Henry tapped his fingers against the table, thinking.

A sea captain?

Mysterious. Unknown. Absent.

Henry had known many men like that. They were usually pirates.

And if that was true, then Angelica was the daughter of a man who lived outside the law.

Interesting.

Diego took a sip of his drink. “Her mother died when she was very young. She was raised in the convent her entire life. Never knew anything else. She’s practically an orphan.”

Henry glanced at the flames of the nearby lantern, watching them flicker.

No mother. A father who was a shadow on the sea. Raised in a world that wasn’t truly hers.

Yes. That explained a lot.

The next morning, Henry Creed dressed as a proper gentleman—fine coat, silk cravat, polished boots—and made his way to the convent gardens, where he knew the young women often tended to the plants.

And there she was.

Angelica.

She stood among the lavender and roses, her hands delicately tending to the plants, her face serene, lost in thought.

Henry approached casually, pretending to admire the flowers.

“A rare sight, to see a rose tending to other roses.”

Angelica’s head snapped up, her dark eyes locking onto him.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

Then, her brow furrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Henry smirked. “Neither should you.”

Her frown deepened. “This is my home.”

Henry tilted his head. “Is it? Or is it merely a place you’ve been put?”

Angelica’s lips parted slightly, a flicker of something—doubt? anger? curiosity?—crossing her face.

She turned away, returning to her work. “You should leave.”

Henry chuckled. “I was only admiring the beauty of Seville. And I must say, I have found the finest flower of them all.”

Angelica exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Flattery is wasted on me, señor. I am bound to God.”

Henry smirked. “Ah, but are you bound by faith, or by circumstance?”

She froze.

For just a second.

Then, with careful precision, she plucked a rose from the garden and placed it in her basket.

“This conversation is over,” she said firmly, turning her back on him.

Henry grinned.

She hadn’t walked away.

She had simply ended the conversation on her terms.

And that meant one thing.

She was intrigued.

Henry watched as she disappeared into the convent, a spark of excitement flickering in his chest.

“Oh, this will be fun.”

Sirius Black had lived many lifetimes in one.

He had fought battles across the Caribbean, stolen fortunes, outrun nations, and had more women in his bed than most men had in their entire bloodlines.

Women were an easy conquest, something he had learned long ago. He had charmed duchesses, seduced merchant’s wives, and spent countless nights in the arms of tavern girls.

And yet, Angelica Rivera was different.

It wasn’t just the chase. It wasn’t just the thrill of forbidden passion.

She had something… a fire, a purpose, a hunger for something more than just devotion.

And Sirius—Henry Creed—was a man who always recognized hunger.

Sirius was careful.

He didn’t pursue her directly—he never did.

Instead, he made it seem as if they were simply running into each other, as though fate itself was pulling them toward one another.

When she walked through the market, he was there, purchasing fine silks for his trade.

When she visited the port, he was there, overseeing the loading of his cargo.

When she wandered the gardens of the city, he was there, leaning against a tree, reading a book, as if he had simply decided that very moment to enjoy the scenery.

Every time, he greeted her with familiarity, and every time, she pretended not to be amused.

But he could see it—the way her eyes lingered longer than they should, the way she started asking him questions about the sea, the way her lips quirked into the ghost of a smile when he made a clever remark.

And when she finally began seeking him out, pretending as if it was just a chance encounter, Sirius knew she was his.

Angelica had grown up in a world of stone walls and prayers.

But she was no nun.

She dreamed of the sea, of adventure, of a world beyond the convent.

And more than anything, she wanted to find her father—the man who had never returned, the man who had sent her gold but never his presence.

“You’ve sailed across every ocean, haven’t you?” she asked one evening, as they stood at the edge of the docks, watching the sun sink into the sea.

Sirius smirked, resting his hand on his cutlass. “Most of them. Some say the world is too vast to be truly conquered. I say they just lack the will.”

Angelica looked out at the waves, a wistful expression in her dark eyes.

“Then maybe you can help me find him. My father. He is out there, somewhere.”

Sirius tilted his head, watching her closely.

“A father who leaves his daughter in the hands of a convent, yet sends gold for her care?” He let out a short chuckle. “Sounds to me like a man tied to the sea. A man who doesn’t want to be found.”

Angelica’s jaw tightened, her hands clenching at her sides. “Then I’ll find him anyway.”

Sirius liked that answer.

It showed she had fire.

It wasn’t long before Angelica fell completely into his world.

She no longer hesitated when she saw him. She sought him out.

She listened to his stories of the sea, of distant lands, of battles fought and won, and of fortunes stolen from the hands of kings.

And when she asked him, “Take me with you. Let me see the world.”

He knew she was already halfway his.

The first time he kissed her, she didn’t pull away.

She let him.

The first time he touched her, she trembled, but she didn’t say no.

And the first time he took her to bed, she surrendered to him like the tides surrender to the moon.

But unlike all the others, unlike the women who were merely another conquest, Sirius found that he didn’t want to let her go.

Sleeping with her became a nightly ritual, but it wasn’t just about the pleasure—it was about her presence.

The warmth of her beside him. The way she looked at him with curiosity and defiance, rather than the adoration of a naïve girl.

For the first time in years, maybe centuries, he found himself wanting more than just a night.

And when Angelica whispered in the dark, "I want to sail with you. Wherever you go. I want to see the world."

Sirius knew he wouldn’t say no.

Not to her.

Sirius Black had stayed in Seville longer than he ever intended.

But in those two months, everything had changed.

The once innocent Angelica Rivera, who spent her days tending to the convent’s gardens, was now Angelica Rivera, the lover of Henry Creed.

And everyone in Seville knew it.

It wasn’t just the whispers that followed them through the streets.

It was the way people stared when they passed.

It was the way men looked at Henry—with envy or contempt, depending on whether they wished they were him or wished they could kill him.

It was the way the nuns at the convent spoke Angelica’s name in hushed tones, a mixture of disgust, disappointment, and fear in their voices.

Because by now, it wasn’t just a rumor.

It was fact.

Angelica had been seen entering Henry’s room at the inn—seen leaving in the morning with her hair tousled, her cheeks flushed.

And more than that, people had heard them.

Sirius had never been a man who cared for discretion, and Angelica?

She had been caged for far too long.

Now, she was free, and she did not hold back.

And in the end, the convent had no choice but to cast her out.

Angelica didn’t hesitate.

She moved in with Henry immediately, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Sirius?

For once, he didn’t push her away.

They fell into a new rhythm, something deeper than just desire.

By day, Angelica roamed the streets of Seville, purchasing fine dresses with Henry’s gold, growing accustomed to a life of luxury that was now hers.

By night, she lay in his bed, curled against his body, whispering about the things she dreamed of seeing—the sea, the islands, the stars above the ocean.

And Sirius, who had never allowed any woman into his world like this, found that he didn’t mind.

But even as Sirius played the part of a devoted lover, he never forgot who he was.

Whenever Angelica was asleep, he slipped out into the night, disappearing into the magical world.

He went to hidden shops, collected rare potion ingredients, and bought the latest magical books from European alchemists.

Because while Angelica believed she was falling in love with a mortal man, the truth was…

Sirius Black had lived for centuries.

And he was not done learning.

The magic of Europe was constantly evolving, and he refused to be left behind.

He would be more powerful than any wizard who had come before him.

And no woman—not even Angelica Rivera—would ever change that.

Two months after arriving in Seville, Sirius knew it was time to leave.

He had spent enough time pretending to be a settled man.

He had allowed himself to enjoy comfort, but he was not a man made for one place.

And Angelica?

She was eager to leave as well.

She had packed what little she owned, excitement gleaming in her eyes.

As they walked through the streets one last time, people stared.

The men of Seville whispered behind their hands.

The women glared, some in jealousy, others in judgment.

The nuns from the convent crossed themselves, as if Angelica’s very presence tainted the ground she walked on.

But Angelica didn’t care.

She was leaving, and she was never coming back.

When they finally arrived at the docks, Henry’s ship, The Sea Whisper, was waiting.

The crew bowed their heads slightly as Henry approached, acknowledging him with respect.

Angelica stepped aboard, her eyes wide with wonder, her hands brushing against the wooden railing as if she was touching something sacred.

Henry stood behind her, watching.

“You’re not afraid?” he asked.

She turned to him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“No. I was never meant to stay in Seville. I was always meant to be at sea.”

Henry smirked. “Good answer.”

And with that, they set sail toward Port Royal.

The moment they hit the open sea, Angelica was no longer just a passenger.

Henry had expected her to stay in the captain’s quarters, to enjoy the luxury of being the captain’s woman.

But Angelica had other ideas.

She wanted to learn.

Everything.

How to navigate. How to sail. How to fight.

And Henry, surprisingly, was more than happy to teach her.

“If you’re going to be on my ship, you’re not going to be dead weight,” he told her one evening, handing her a cutlass.

Angelica took it without hesitation, gripping it tightly.

“Good. I’d hate to be useless.”

Henry chuckled. “Then let’s see what you’ve got.”

From that day forward, their nights were spent in two ways—either in the captain’s quarters, tangled in sheets, or on the deck, locked in combat, swords clashing under the moonlight.

Angelica was a fast learner.

She had her father’s blood, after all—whoever he was.