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Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors‘ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. Captain Merric Copyright © 2011 by Rebecca Cohen Ghost of Jupiter Copyright © 2011 by Jana Denardo Officer and a Gentleman Pirate Copyright © 2011 by E.S. Douglas The Golden Galleon Copyright © 2011 by K.R. Foster Worth the Price © 2011 by Cornelia Grey Touched by the West Wind Copyright © 2011 by Ellen Holiday Objectivity Copyright © 2011 by K.J. Johnson Peter and the Lost Boys Copyright © 2011 by Juan Kenobi The Winds of Change Copyright © 2011 by Maggie Lee My Hand in Yours Copyright © 2011 by Emily Moreton Irish Red Copyright © 2011 by M.J. O‘Shea On the Wings of Lir Copyright © 2011 by Riley Shane From a Simmer to a Burn Copyright © 2011 by B. Snow Black John Copyright © 2011 by Piper Vaughn Rough Trade Copyright © 2011 by Cooper West Edited by Anne Regan Cover Art by Catt Ford Cover Design by Mara McKennen All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61372-124-7 Printed in the United States of America First Edition August 2011 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-125-4
TABLE OF CONTENTS Captain Merric by Rebecca Cohen ........................................................... 5 Touched by the West Wind by Ellen Holiday ........................................ 39 The Golden Galleon by K.R. Foster ....................................................... 56 My Hand in Yours by Emily Moreton .................................................... 69 Ghost of Jupiter by Jana Denardo ........................................................... 80 Officer and a Gentleman Pirate by E.S. Douglas.................................. 116 Objectivity by K.J. Johnson .................................................................. 133 Worth the Price by Cornelia Grey ........................................................ 161 Peter and the Lost Boys by Juan Kenobi .............................................. 193 Irish Red by M.J. O‘Shea...................................................................... 209 Black John by Piper Vaughn................................................................. 221 Rough Trade by Cooper West............................................................... 237 From a Simmer to a Burn by B. Snow .................................................. 267 On the Wings of Lir by Riley Shane..................................................... 299 The Winds of Change by Maggie Lee .................................................. 317
CAPTAIN MERRIC REBECCA COHEN
THE dead water held the ship in limbo. With no wind to fill her sails, HMS Expedience rocked gently, listing heavily to starboard, her belly significantly emptier from engaging the French days before. The rigging creaked wearily with each passing roll, and dark mutterings from the deckhands accompanied the rhythmic scrub of brush bristles against wood. Captain Daniel Horton squinted into the bright sunlight. Keeping one eye on the horizon, he watched uneasily as his second in command, Gilman, and two of the other senior officers gathered together on the port side of the main deck. Gilman, weathered by his years at sea, was gesticulating toward the rigging, his three-fingered hand pointing fiercely at a gaping hole in the crisscross of ropes. Jones, the tallest of the men, shook his head, a sneer crossing his smooth face that had yet to be damaged by combat. The third man, Nichols, stood still and silent. Daniel unthinkingly let his hand fall to the hilt of his sword. Nichols was a cold man, a man hardened by a series of campaigns, whose love was for the spoils of war—not for His Majesty‘s victory against the French. Daniel saw the moment Gilman realized he was being observed. The look of guilt—–no, self-preservation—gave him away. ―Captain,‖ he called. ―You‘ve seen the rigging?‖ Daniel descended the steps from the upper deck. He was taller and more imposing than his subordinates, and his presence caused Gilman and Jones to shuffle nervously. Only Nichols didn‘t move.
6 | REBECCA COHEN ―I am many things, Gilman, but blind isn‘t one of them. I know the state of my own ship.‖ ―Of course, sir,‖ said Gilman, his eyes flicking to where Daniel‘s hand rested on his sword. ―I‘ll have a couple of the younger lads help with repairs.‖ Gilman barked out a string of orders, and three of the men currently engaged in scrubbing the deck stood up and began their ascent of the main mast. ―I‘ll be in my quarters compiling the report for the Admiralty if you need me,‖ said Daniel. ―I‘d rather not be disturbed.‖ ―Understood, Captain,‖ said Gilman. Daniel turned away, but not before he saw the exchange of looks between his three senior officers. The sooner they returned to England the better. He jogged down the stairs that led below deck and into the darker recesses of his ship, passing Thomas the barber-surgeon, still wearing his blood-soaked leather apron. Daniel had long since lost the feeling of claustrophobia that had plagued him during his first few nights spent in the cramped belly of a ship; the smell of hundreds of men trapped together had once turned his stomach, the stale sweat and piss mingling to make an aroma unique to the way of life he‘d turned to. But that was mere background now—there were worse things to worry about than a little discomfort. Entering his cabin, he unbuckled his belt, throwing it and his sword onto the small bunk in the corner of the room; his service pistol joined them. Natural light from the small windows was enough for his current needs, although a few candles would be required later. He shrugged off his jacket and threw it next to his sword before taking a seat at the rickety table that served as a desk to the right of his bed. He selected the sharpest of his quills and a sheet of parchment, staring down at its blank surface for a moment before dipping the nib into a bottle of ink and scratching out the beginnings of his report. His words flew rapidly, line after line filling the page with descriptions of engaging the Royal Louis: the number of men dead or injured, the level of supplies, and the state of the ship. He chewed at the feather, wondering if now was the time to voice his concern about Gilman, Nichols, and Jones. Daniel froze as he heard movement in the corridor outside his door. There was a rattle of crockery, and he chastised himself for overreacting
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 7 to the general comings and goings of life on board. He returned to his report, deciding it would be better to record his concerns in general terms: how uneasy the crew had become, that there was the smell of insubordination in the ranks, but not to specify those he suspected to be the ringleaders. They‘d be back in port in a matter of days; despite her damaged state, Expedience would get them to St. Kitts, and there he could speak freely to his superiors. Engrossed in his writing, Daniel didn‘t notice the door‘s latch slowly rise or the door silently open. It was only when a floorboard creaked behind him that he became aware of the intruder. He jumped to his feet, spinning around to stare at the barrel of a cocked pistol held in the steady hand of Nichols; Gilman and Jones stood behind him, also armed. His eyes darted to his own weapon, tossed so carelessly away, out of reach. ―On your knees, Captain. Nice and slow, and you won‘t get hurt.‖ He slid carefully to his knees, not taking his eyes off Nichols, the malevolence radiating from him in waves. ―Very good. Seems you can take orders as well as you give them. Hands behind your back.‖ Daniel did as he was told. Gilman moved behind him and tied his wrists together with rope. ―I‘ll see you all hang for this.‖ ―Trust me, Captain, I‘ll be telling the Admiralty a very different story. They don‘t like deserters in Portsmouth,‖ said Nichols, his grin vicious. ―Even if they do find you, your word will count for nothing.‖ ―You‘ll have to kill me to stop me speaking,‖ Daniel said, defiant. ―Where would the fun be in that?‖ The loud crack from the butt of Gilman‘s pistol connecting with his skull was the last thing Daniel heard as he slumped forward, unconscious.
DANIEL blinked, staring up at the cloudless blue sky and the relentless sun. He sat up gingerly, the small boat rocking as he did so. The action made his head swim and his vision blur, and looking out across the ocean, the empty miles of sea stretching out before him, he doubted that
8 | REBECCA COHEN he would have much hope of rescue. But this was what Nichols wanted, his slow death at the hands of the elements. Abandoned out at sea, his ship no more than a speck on the horizon, and left with nothing, not even a skin of water. His head pounded angrily from the thirst that was already beginning to assert itself and from the pain where the butt of the pistol had connected; his stomach lurched with every wave, the boat far too small to offer any protection from being buffeted. He lay back down. There was nothing he could do but wait for the temperature to drop and his aches to fade. Unable to maintain his focus, his eyes drifted closed.
DANIEL spluttered, regaining consciousness as water hit his face. He tried to sit, but the foot on his chest kept him firmly in place, flat on his back, hands tied. He was surrounded by six men, but the glare of the overhead sun prevented him from getting a better look at their faces. However, one thing was for certain: they weren‘t wearing the uniforms of the British Navy. Bewildered, he at least realized he was onboard a ship, the gentle roll of the world and the sound of flapping sails unmistakable. Peering upward, he could see the mizzen wasn‘t the right configuration to be a frigate, and there were no flags proclaiming she sailed under the command of the French government. But, hanging high on the mast, there was the unmistakable emblem of a skull and crossed bones. Daniel let his head smack heavily back down on the deck, wondering what he‘d done wrong in his life to find himself in such a situation. With the French he might at least have been a potential prisoner of war, held somewhere he could attempt an escape from, but pirates…. He was a dead man. ―British pig,‖ he heard one say, his accent clearly Spanish. ―We should throw him overboard. There may be ships after him,‖ said another, and if Daniel was not mistaken, he could hear a trace of County Cork about him. ―Take him down to Merric. The captain‘s always been fond of a pretty Brit, and this one should entertain him nicely until he decides the bastard‘s fate,‖ said a third. He was more commanding, and Daniel thought he might be the first mate by the way he spoke. He was dragged across the deck by two of the pirates. His parched
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 9 brain and body were too confused to put up a fight, but he knew the name the men had mentioned. He‘d heard of Captain Merric. Every member of the fleet had a story to tell of the pirate who had swiped the jewels of Ambassador Swin‘s wife and fled with his son. Daniel had pursued Merric once or twice himself, but he‘d never caught him. Merric‘s ship was too fast, and despite the large bounty on his head, no one had information to sell. Even Swin‘s son had been curiously tightlipped when he was returned, unharmed. Hauled below deck, the loss of the bright sunlight temporarily blinded him, but his eyes adjusted as he was manhandled down dark corridors that smelled of gunpowder and expensive spices. They stopped outside a closed door, and one of his captors banged his fist heavily against it. ―Come,‖ was the reply. The door opened, and Daniel was thrown to the floor, landing so the first thing he saw of the infamous Captain Merric was the worn leather of his unpolished boots. Daniel struggled to his knees, looking up to get a view of the pirate. For a moment he thought the sun must have affected him more than he had realized, but the figure that stood before him was no illusion. The face was older but unmistakably that of the man he‘d thought had died over fifteen years ago. His frame had always been tall and broad, but the years at sea had made him stronger, and the sun had bleached his hair so it was much blonder than Daniel remembered, making his blue eyes even more striking. ―You‘re meant to be dead.‖ Daniel saw Merric‘s eyes widen in shock as he recognized his prisoner. ―You‘re not the first one to have said that, and certainly won‘t be the last to wish it.‖ ―We found him set adrift,‖ said one of Merric‘s men, the Irish one. ―What you want doing with him?‖ ―Leave him with me for now, Harris.‖ The other men left, Daniel hearing Harris say ―See, told you he liked ‘em pretty and British‖ as the door shut. Even before the door had fully closed, Daniel felt Merric kneel behind him and untie his wrists before pulling him to his feet, gripping
10 | REBECCA COHEN him tightly by his upper arms. ―How the hell have you ended up on my ship?‖ Daniel shoved him away. ―I don‘t answer to dead men.‖ ―Dead? You actually thought I was dead?‖ Merric looked momentarily taken aback, but he turned to the table behind him, pouring a flagon of water and handing it to Daniel. Daniel took the water and drank it down in three greedy swallows, his thirst greater than his anger. Merric refilled the mug, and Daniel drained it again. ―You did not receive my message?‖ ―I received nothing from you apart from empty promises and betrayal. James Merriston is dead—and will stay dead to me.‖ Merric shook his head. ―I will have some food brought up from the galley; then we will talk.‖ ―I have no wish to converse with a dead man.‖ ―Always so stubborn.‖ A rough hand pushed Daniel backward, and he stumbled, landing on a sturdy bed. ―For once you will do as you are told.‖ ―I am a captain in the British Navy; I will not be spoken—‖ ―You are my prisoner, Captain Horton, and you will do as I say.‖ Merric was already opening the door and sending orders before Daniel could deliver his dismissive reply. ―After the ship I was on was wrecked, I sent word back to England—to you—to have you join me,‖ Merric said, sitting next to Daniel. ―How convenient that no such message was received. How did you send it, James, in a bottle and hoped it would reach me on the current?‖ ―But I received your response. You made it very clear that my affections were not returned.‖ ―I….‖ Another knock, and the door opened. A young cabin boy peered hesitantly into the room. ―You decent, Captain?‖ ―Put the tray on the side, Blot, and then get out before I let my boot leather loose on your insolent hide.‖
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 11 The boy barely managed to keep the smirk off his face as he placed the tray on the desk and left. Faced with food for the first time in days, Daniel accepted the dried beef and ship biscuits along with beer to wash it down. ―You really thought I‘d died?‖ ―The last time I heard from you was the night you sailed,‖ said Daniel. ―A few days later your father wrote to tell me of your death, and sent me a number of your books as a keepsake, since I‘d been such a good friend to you.‖ ―I swear to you that I sent word.‖ James was on his feet. With his height and build, he looked overly large in the small cabin. ―I let my pride get the better of me. I should have known you would not have dismissed me so easily.‖ Daniel shook his head. He‘d locked his emotions away years ago. The hardened exterior he‘d built had allowed him to climb the ranks with ease. With no compunction for the enemy and nothing to lose, he‘d fought his way through life, not caring for personal relationships or offers of friendship that wouldn‘t help advance his career. His reputation of being a bastard was well earned. But now the ghosts that drove him away to sea were no longer specters remembered in the gray hours of morning but standing before him, very much alive. ―I believe you,‖ he said eventually, surprising himself with the honesty of his answer. ―And it does not take a great mind to figure out what happened. My father suspected something; he‘d made enough comments about your poor influence on me, and it would not have been difficult for him to intercept a letter.‖ ―I should not have given up,‖ said James, returning to sit next to Daniel on the bed. James leaned closer, his eyes glinting with expectation. Daniel put a hand to his chest and pushed him away. ―What do you think you‘re doing?‖ ―I was going to kiss you.‖ ―I don‘t think so. From what your cabin boy said, you‘re in the habit of defiling your prisoners.‖ ―It‘s not like you‘re a virgin—I can attest to that myself.‖
12 | REBECCA COHEN ―This is not going to happen.‖ Daniel snorted at the look of disbelief on James‘s face. ―I‘ve heard about your reputation, Captain Merric, and I have no wish to be on your long list of conquests. You are going to return me to land, preferably somewhere close to a British port, and I‘m going to arrange to have my mutinous crew hanged.‖ ―But….‖ ―I‘m sorry, but while I‘m happy to see you‘re alive, I need to report to the Admiralty before I‘m the one who is accused of desertion.‖ James didn‘t appear to be deterred by Daniel‘s refusal; he smiled and slid a hand over Daniel‘s thigh. ―Forget about the navy. Join me here.‖ ―No.‖ Daniel very deliberately took James‘s hand and placed it on the bed. ―We have been granted a second chance,‖ said James, and Daniel had to admire his perseverance. ―We should accept it as the gift it is.‖ ―I have my duty, and even if I didn‘t, we‘re not the same boys as back then. The James Merriston I knew—the one I loved—was not a pirate.‖ James appeared to accept defeat, but he grinned as he stood. ―I will take you to shore, but we‘re not heading to any British port for now. Once we‘re done at our next destination, I will deliver you safely to St. Kitts. Until then you can enjoy the hospitality of the Opal.‖ ―I am sure wherever we are headed, I will be able to make my way back. You can leave me there.‖ James smirked. ―Oh, I don‘t think so. You wouldn‘t last five minutes where we‘re going. You‘ll be far better off under my protection.‖ ―More like I need protecting from you,‖ said Daniel, not amused by James‘s playful tone. ―I assure you I am more than capable of looking after myself. I have been for quite some time.‖ ―We‘re going to Plesmaya. The British Navy aren‘t exactly welcome there.‖ ―The pirates‘ playground,‖ Daniel groaned. ―And while we‘re on the subject of you not being welcome, my crew will not be happy you‘re on board—I can‘t be seen to be pandering to the British.‖ James‘s smile was just a little too wide for Daniel‘s comfort. ―And?‖
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 13 ―Let‘s just say they won‘t be expecting you to be getting much use of the guest quarters.‖ ―I am not your catamite.‖ ―Of course not.‖ ―James….‖ James laughed, and Daniel saw the twinkle in his eye. ―The rooms next to mine are free. I‘ll have Blot bring you a change of clothes and some water to wash in. You were always an excellent actor, Daniel. I‘m sure you can persuade the crew that there‘s a good reason for me to keep you around.‖ James grabbed his hand and hauled Daniel to his feet but didn‘t let him go. ―I gave you up once. I won‘t do so again.‖ ―You‘re wasting your time.‖ James winked. ―We‘ll see.‖
DANIEL would not have described his new cabin as basic, but it was by no means grand. Unlike the large bed in James‘s room, this cabin had a hammock stretched between two joists on the far wall. There was no window; instead the room was dimly lit by oil lamps, one on a table in the corner and another that hung from a bracket near the door. Left for him was a bowl of fresh water to wash in and a pile of clothes. Daniel stripped out of the clothes he‘d been wearing for days, his attention on the water, which was very welcome, a luxury he‘d rarely use in such a wasteful manner on board Expedience. Washing away the salt was refreshing, and the cooling nature of the water took away the tightness of his skin from the sunburn, even if it was only a temporary reprieve. Although he would not consider himself a vain man, he used the small looking glass on the side to see if his skin was peeling as badly as he feared, and was surprised to see it had survived better than his clothing. His long face was red in patches, his nose peeling, but apart from that, he looked no different than normal. True, he could do with a shave and a thong to tie his dark, lank hair back from his face, but his ordeal hadn‘t made him any gaunter than usual and his green eyes, although dry, had no worrying tinge of red around the eyeballs. He picked up the top item on the pile of clothes, noticing that everything he‘d been provided was black. The shirt was made of a soft
14 | REBECCA COHEN material, probably silk, impractical for an active role at sea, but then from what James had alluded to, Daniel‘s perceived role on this ship would have very little to do with his nautical abilities. Daniel slipped it over his head, the slippery material sliding over his skin in a way that none of his old linen shirts ever did. Next was a pair of cotton trousers, but as he pulled them on, he realized their cut was tighter than he usually preferred to wear. There was also a pair of boots to replace his old ones, which had been lost at some point between being dragged from his cabin on Expedience and ending up on board the Opal. The boots weren‘t a perfect fit, but they would suffice for now, and Daniel tucked his trousers into them and then his shirt into his trousers. With no wish to become further acquainted with the crew than necessary, Daniel clambered into the hammock. He hadn‘t slept in one for years, and certainly not since he‘d been awarded his captaincy, but he found it very easy to get comfortable and to allow the mesh cradle to support him. Exhausted from his ordeal, and his mind ragged from the shock of seeing James alive, Daniel succumbed to a deep sleep. The few hours of rest he managed were interrupted by Blot as the cabin boy shook the hammock violently to wake him. ―What?‖ asked Daniel. ―Captain says you‘re to come and eat with the senior crew.‖ ―Tell your captain he can fuck off,‖ he said, rolling over. ―Daren‘t be saying that to him. He‘s most insistent—I reckon he wants to show you off.‖ Daniel turned to stare at Blot over his shoulder. ―Are you always this impertinent?‖ ―Oh yes,‖ said Blot cheerfully. ―Best come along under your own will. He‘s been known to carry reluctant prisoners over his shoulder if they don‘t comply, and you don‘t seem the sort to like your pride being bruised.‖ Daniel sat up and swung himself out of the hammock. He didn‘t doubt Blot was telling the truth; James had been a stubborn bastard when he was younger, and Daniel didn‘t think pirate life would have altered that. Still, it irked that he was to be paraded around as a prize, and he had no intention of playing a subservient fool, damn James and his desire to boast to his crew.
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 15 He didn‘t reply to Blot‘s cheeky remarks, but followed the boy out of the cabin and through the corridors of the ship until they reached a room that led off the galley and was lit by lamps and candles. There were six long tables, but only one of them was occupied. James sat at the head of the table as if holding court, surrounded by nine other men. ―Ah, Captain Horton,‖ said James, getting to his feet, ―good of you to join us for our evening meal.‖ A few of the men snickered, and another laughed outright into the flagon he was drinking from. Daniel could see that a place set to James‘s left had been left unoccupied. Without answering, he walked over to the table and took the empty seat. Platters of food were brought out from the galley, exotic fruits and nuts, roast meats and fresh vegetables, all foodstuffs that were not readily available on Expedience, and by the way the men looked longingly at what was on offer, they weren‘t a daily occurrence aboard the Opal either. The men held back on serving themselves until James had taken his share and placed a few choice pieces on the plate in front of Daniel. ―Only the best for such an esteemed guest,‖ said James, raising his flagon and drinking to Daniel‘s health. ―It‘s not every day we dine with one of His Majesty‘s captains.‖ ―Guest? Is that what I am? I would‘ve thought prisoner was a better epitaph.‖ ―I do have some irons I could slap you in,‖ said James, ―but I‘d much prefer to play those sort of games away from the dinner table— wouldn‘t want to give my men indigestion, now would I?‖ ―I‘m sure your men‘s stomachs are stronger than that, but if they‘d like to see me try and gut you, then I‘d be more than willing to let them watch you try and shackle me.‖ The pirate opposite, a man with a puckered scar across his left cheek and a grin made of more gums than teeth, choked on the mouthful of beer he had taken, spluttering loudly. ―Got yerself a live ‘un there, Capt‘n,‖ said the man to Daniel‘s left. He was older than the others, maybe even in his sixties, which for a sailor was rare, and had a head of wild hair streaked with gray and piercing blue eyes that sparkled mischievously at James. ―You know I‘m always partial to a man with spirit, Liam.‖
16 | REBECCA COHEN ―I fear even you may have met yer match with this one. I‘d be keeping a knife under my pillow if I were you.‖ ―Oh I‘m sure, one way or another, Daniel will learn how to behave himself,‖ said James, motioning the rest of the men to eat. Liam picked up a date from a platter and bit into it, pulling a face of pure pleasure. ―Most of ‘em do—eventually.‖ Daniel decided he wasn‘t going to be drawn further into James‘s games, and instead concentrated on the food in front of him, finishing off the roast hog and pieces of fresh fruit and ignoring James as he bragged about a wild night locked in a cellar with a barrel of port and a pair of non-identical twins. The food almost made up for the company, and finding the beer as palatable, Daniel managed to endure the meal and James‘s proprietary touches. James‘s hand rested on his thigh, a solid weight that Daniel allowed, knowing that James wanted him to react, and he had no intention of giving him the satisfaction. The banter between James and his crew appeared genuine, and there was a small part of Daniel that wondered how a pirate could garner such loyalty where Daniel himself had failed. They talked of raiding parties and selling looted goods with no worry that he was there, that he could report back to the Admiralty with details of their crimes. ―We should do another silk run,‖ said the Spaniard, whose name was Carlos. ―Your new friend looks good in it.‖ ―He looks even better out of it,‖ said James. ―That‘s not something you‘ll have the opportunity of witnessing.‖ Daniel stood up abruptly. ―I will return to my room.‖ James‘s hand shot out and grabbed Daniel‘s wrist. ―Sit down.‖ The table fell quiet, the eyes of every man now watching, waiting for Daniel‘s response. James‘s grip tightened around his wrist, his eyes narrowing in warning. Daniel sat down. ―Good, you‘re beginning to learn your place.‖ Daniel balled his fists in his lap, ignoring the jeers from the men. James‘s hand returned tentatively back onto his thigh, almost apologetically.
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 17 ―I think, gentleman,‖ said James, ―that it is time for me and my guest to retire. Come on, Daniel. I will escort you back to your room.‖ A round of catcalls and wolf whistles accompanied them as they left the dining area, James‘s hand on the small of Daniel‘s back as he guided him through the ship to the captain‘s quarters. ―Share a nightcap with me?‖ asked James. ―Do I have a choice?‖ ―Port or brandy?‖ Once inside the cabin, the door shut, James poured two large measures of brandy from a decanter on his desk and handed one to James. ―I had to do that.‖ ―Of course you did.‖ ―Those men would happily slit your throat and throw you overboard without a second thought. It was necessary for them to believe you were under my control.‖ ―From what I saw, they would‘ve followed your orders without you having to resort to reducing me to your pet.‖ James snorted. ―Don‘t let the dinner table camaraderie fool you, Daniel. There‘s no loyalty or devotion on the Opal; our truce is held together by gold and my willingness to share equally any prize we take. My head stays on my shoulders and my body at the helm because I am worth more to them alive than dead.‖ ―Not all grog and treasure chests; you do surprise me, James.‖ ―And yet I‘m still on my ship.‖ Daniel slammed the glass of brandy down on the table. ―You can keep your ship, Merric. I hope you enjoy sleeping with one eye open and guard your neck in the night.‖ He pushed past James, heading back to his cabin.
THE ringing of the ship‘s bell cut through the layers of his sleep-soft mind; flailing in his hammock, Daniel landed in an undignified heap on the floor. The dull thuds in the corridor told him the crew were heading to the deck, and without a second thought he was out of his cabin and heading topside.
18 | REBECCA COHEN He emerged onto the main deck into a mêlée of men heading toward the rigging and shouts of staccato orders from James. The night was clear, the weather calm, and there was no sign of damage to the ship, so Daniel was at a loss to understand what had whipped the crew into such a frantic state. He peered out to sea, turning a full 360 degrees. The moon provided enough light for him to see, but he couldn‘t identify anything that could be a pursuing ship or an enemy on the brink of boarding. Daniel ran to join James on the wheel deck. ―What‘s going on?‖ ―We‘re too close to the reef. We were farther along the coast than I thought we‘d be, and we‘re in danger of running aground.‖ The men in the rigging were trimming the sails on the orders of the boatswain, who in turn was looking to James for direction. Running to the side of the ship, Daniel could just make out the break patterns of the waves. He recognized the shape of the headland, visible in dark relief on the horizon, and knew exactly where they were. ―You need to get her starboard. Any further port and she‘ll hit the outlying rocks.‖ James didn‘t move the wheel he tightly gripped. ―For God‘s sake, James, you used to trust me over anyone else on something like this—I‘m not trying to wreck your ship. I want to survive tonight without having to swim to land. Now turn the damn ship to starboard—hard!‖ James nodded once and pulled hard on the wheel. Daniel glanced at the sail, relieved to see the wind was in the right direction and strong enough to propel the ship. The Opal lurched violently with the sudden turn, and Daniel could see James fighting with the wheel. He raced to James‘s side, and together they steadied the wheel. There was a cry from the rigging as a man lost his footing and came crashing downward but was saved from hitting the deck by a coil of rope that had caught around his foot. The ship heaved again, and she began to move. ―The rocks here extend out farther than you think—we need to go the long way ‘round if you want your keel in one piece,‖ Daniel said to James, both clinging on to the wheel. James merely grunted in reply, then sent out a torrent of orders to his crew, making sure they could capitalize on the direction of the wind. The Opal protested with a loud creak of her rigging, but she began to
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 19 turn, moving away from the dangerous rocks. Minutes ticked slowly by as, inch by inch, the ship moved to a safe direction. ―We should be fine now,‖ said Daniel, releasing the wheel and stepping away from James. ―You‘ll need to adjust your course.‖ ―How did you know?‖ ―Know?‖ ―The rocks—they‘re not on the charts.‖ ―I know these waters better than anyone, and the corrected charts for this area are in my cabin on Expedience. They‘re one of the reasons I‘m in the Caribbean; I‘m not just here to chase pirates and kill Frenchmen.‖ With the danger past, James ordered Brillack to take the wheel and sent additional lookouts up to the crow‘s nest as a precaution. He pulled a chart from his belt where it had been rolled up and stowed for safekeeping. Unrolling it, James showed it to Daniel. ―Can you help me update this?‖ Daniel took the map. Compared to some of the versions he had seen, it was fairly detailed, but there were several places which were different in reality than what was depicted. ―Why should I?‖ ―To stop us all from being killed.‖ ―I‘ll be off this ship in a few days; what do I care what happens to a bunch of pirates?‖ James glowered at him, but Daniel wasn‘t intimidated. ―What‘s in it for me?‖ ―What do you want?‖ ―No repeat of what happened at dinner. I‘m not your new toy.‖ ―That remains to be seen.‖ ―Then I suggest you and your ship enjoy the hidden reefs and outcrops.‖ Daniel smirked as James growled. ―Fine. You have my word.‖ With little care, Daniel rolled up the chart. ―Excellent. I will update these for you tomorrow—don‘t expect me to leave my cabin until they‘re finished.‖
20 | REBECCA COHEN
DANIEL had always enjoyed cartography. The art of ensuring a chart was detailed and correct was time-consuming work, and it meant he had an excuse to avoid the rest of the crew for most of the day. His chart-correcting skills had proven him to be an excellent navigator, with a comprehensive knowledge of the region and the ability to decode the mysteries of even the sparsest of maps, but it didn‘t mean the men thought of him as anything more than James‘s bed warmer. And, like the other treasure James had collected, some of the crew were keen to have their share. Brillack was one of the most obvious, standing too close to him as he explained the new regions on the map to James and some of his crew, but he had seen the hungry looks of other men as well, and it was very disconcerting. Escaping from the captain‘s ready room after the map discussion, Daniel headed back to his cabin. As he rounded a corner, he was shoved forward. He stumbled and landed on the floor. Turning, he saw Carlos grinning as he stood over him. The Spaniard helped him to his feet, crowding Daniel‘s personal space. ―You should watch where you are going,‖ he said, his hand resting on Daniel‘s waist. ―You should watch where you put your hands,‖ said Daniel, moving sideways to put some distance between them. ―The captain may like you coy, but I don‘t have his patience.‖ Daniel was about to shove Carlos away when James rounded the corner, affecting a look of deep loathing when he saw how close Carlos was standing to Daniel. ―What exactly is going on here?‖ ―I thought I‘d show our English friend some of my famous Spanish hospitality.‖ James grabbed Carlos by the collar and pushed him forcefully into the wall. ―Hands off.‖ Carlos frowned. ―You‘re not one to be so protective of your whores.‖ ―Don‘t make me tell you again, Carlos; this one is out of bounds. And make sure the other men know that Captain Horton is not for general consumption.‖
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 21 Blot came running down the corridor, and all three men turned to stare at the boy, whose cheeks were flushed with excitement. ―It‘s the Mirabelle, Captain, and she‘s in reach.‖ Their disagreement immediately forgotten, Carlos and James hurried topside, leaving Daniel to stare after them. He looked at the smiling Blot. ―The Mirabelle?‖ ―Trading vessel,‖ said Blot, already racing away. ―Captain‘s been after her for weeks.‖ Daniel crinkled his brow in confusion, but only for a second as he realized what was about to happen. He emerged on deck minutes later to see James examining a sailing ship on the horizon through an ornate brass telescope. ―You are not going to raid that ship,‖ said Daniel. James lowered the telescope. ―That‘s exactly what we‘re going to do.‖ ―I won‘t let you.‖ ―Daniel, I love your tenacity, but really, what can you do to stop us?‖ Daniel gaped a moment, staring around the deck for some sort of inspiration. ―I—‖ ―Either go below deck or keep out of the way—don‘t want you getting skewered.‖ James squeezed Daniel‘s shoulder. ―I certainly don‘t want any harm to come to your attractive person.‖ James marched away to talk to Brillack, leaving Daniel spluttering insults to himself unheeded. The Opal began to pick up speed, the sails full with a fortunate wind, driving her toward a smaller ship which sat heavy in the water. The crew were excited, the men calling out to go faster, climbing up the rigging and the side of the ship to get a better look at their target. ―Her belly‘s full, Captain,‖ said Carlos, delighted. ―I wonder where she‘s been.‖ James slapped Carlos on the back. ―We‘ll find out soon enough.‖ Watching Carlos and James, Daniel thought that if he hadn‘t witnessed James‘s actions below deck minutes before, there would be no way of knowing that the two men had almost come to blows. They grinned, a look too intimate to be something shared by normal crewmates, and Daniel couldn‘t help the anger that burned inside him at
22 | REBECCA COHEN James‘s seemingly fickle behavior. The Opal was devouring the distance between herself and the Mirabelle, closing down on her prey with ease. They were almost upon her. He could see the Mirabelle’s crew begin to load their weapons. James jumped up on the side of the ship, grabbing a rope to steady himself as he did. At least twenty other men followed his lead while several others took their place on the upper deck, one line of men with loaded muskets and another behind them busy loading the next set of weapons. There was a sound of wood scraping as the cannon ports opened, and James let out the cry: ―Fire at will!‖ The Opal rolled at the discharge of her guns, and the smell of gunpowder filled Daniel‘s nostrils. As they swung out on ropes to board the Mirabelle, the pirates yelled curses and shrill war cries, landing with swords held high and the musket fire overhead giving them cover from the crew of the Mirabelle. Daniel watched as James discharged both his pistols into the foray and drew his sword, battling his way through the spirited defense with Brillack and Carlos at his back until he reached the quarterdeck. His men were making short work of the Mirabelle’s crew, many of whom were throwing their weapons aside and kneeling in surrender rather than continuing to fight. James had cornered the Mirabelle’s captain, sword to his throat, and Daniel had to remind himself that he should not be willing a pirate intent on robbing a trading ship to survive in one piece. But James, he would admit, lived up to the dashing and romantic cliché of every pirate written, and he was beginning to understand why no one was willing to aid the British in his capture. The Mirabelle surrendered. Her crew were rounded up and forced to kneel on the deck. There were a small number of casualties, but not as many as Daniel would have expected, and James was ordering his men to search the hold. Within minutes gangplanks were in place, and the Mirabelle’s cargo was being transferred to the Opal. Case after case passed along a line of men. Daniel couldn‘t tell what was in them, but some were heavy, judging by the grimaces some of the pirates wore. Along with the cases were numerous urns and bulging sacks. James stood proudly over the defeated captain, directing his men with a smile so blinding it almost
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 23 hurt Daniel to look at him. The smile reminded him so fiercely of his younger days, the time spent exploring low taverns in Portsmouth in the evening and each other‘s bodies in the middle of the night. The raid a success and the crew of the Mirabelle subdued, James ordered his men back aboard the Opal. Everyone was jubilant, breaking out bottles of pilfered rum and wine and raising toasts to their captain. James laughed and joked with Carlos and Brillack as they set sail, leaving the Mirabelle adrift, the whole crew upbeat and boisterous. ―Now, gentlemen,‖ said James, taking a swig from a bottle of wine, ―time to celebrate. To Plesmaya.‖
THE stories that surrounded Plesmaya were so outlandish that Daniel had always believed them to be more myth than truth; the tales of easy men and women, of gambling and drinking all day and night were intermixed with stories of brawls and honor killings. He‘d never been, the British Navy declaring it a no-go area after a number of aborted raids, and the attempts by the navy to clear the area of pirates had only added to the legend. As the Opal weighed anchor a mile off the golden sands of the small island, Daniel growled in irritation as James playfully smacked his ass, saying, ―More of a paradise than Eden, Daniel.‖ He‘d not been given the option to stay on board, despite his protests that he‘d be spotted straightaway as one the King‘s men. James had merely laughed and promised to protect his virtue before all but dragging him into a small rowing boat. Daniel sat next to James and Brillack as the rowing boat weaved around the other ships moored off the headland. From James‘s fond remarks, it was clear that he recognized at least three of the ships. They cut through the waves due to the vigor of the men in charge of the oars, evidently as keen as their captain to reach the shore. They were heading toward a secluded beach away from the main trading routes, its white sand inviting. Daniel could see the bonfires raging, men and women dancing around the flames, and behind them large sand dunes where occasionally men could be seen sliding down the slopes. Once in shallow water, James heaved himself over the side of the boat and dragged Daniel with him. Without being given the chance to gain his balance, he toppled over, landing in the water with a loud splash and pirates‘ laughter.
24 | REBECCA COHEN ―Daniel,‖ said James, once he‘d stopped laughing, ―if you‘re that eager to get out of your clothes, none of us would mind—there‘s no need to go swimming in your Sunday best.‖ Daniel struggled to his feet and, without answering, waded toward the beach. James splashed along with him. ―Oh, come on, I‘m just teasing. You‘ll be dry in no time under this sun. Do you remember that time in Portsmouth?‖ ―What? When you ended up in the brine after mistiming a simple maneuver?‖ ―Hardly simple; it was a great nautical feat, and if I remember, it took me hours to get dry.‖ ―Portsmouth in November is not renowned for its warm climate.‖ ―I could have caught my death.‖ ―I doubt that, and I seem to remember helping—‖ He stopped talking, not wishing to encourage James further, but it appeared it was too late for that. ―Oh, yes… that was the afternoon you first allowed me inside.‖ Daniel was saved from further reminiscence by the whoop of excitement as James‘s men raced past them. James had taken the hint and chased after his men, but as Daniel watched them run ashore, he suddenly realized he wasn‘t happy that James had been so easy to dismiss. James had been greeted warmly by an attractive blond man in his late forties, and as Daniel finally set foot on dry land again, he noticed the newcomer was staring in his direction and that James‘s expression was hard, even angry. ―Daniel,‖ said James. ―I want to show you my home.‖ James gave him no room to argue, already leading him away from the beach toward a small town not far in the distance. ―You‘ve already been recognized as a navy man,‖ he said, almost hissing, ―and although your neck is safe, you won‘t like what I have heard about your crew.‖ ―What?‖ Daniel stopped on the rough path, resisting James‘s urges to continue. ―Walk and talk, Daniel. I know you can do it.‖ ―Not until you tell me what is going on.‖
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 25 James sighed dramatically but, seeing Daniel wouldn‘t budge, started to explain. ―I asked Philippe for news of the British. You‘ve not exactly been forthcoming on what actually happened, but what he heard was that the pirate-hating bastard who was the captain of HMS Expedience was killed while engaging the French.‖ ―Killed?‖ ―Yes. The new captain, Nichols, produced a body.‖ The hatred for his ex-subordinate left him speechless. Daniel clamped his jaw shut, angry at both Nichols and his own impotency. ―Come on,‖ said James, gently coaxing Daniel along the path, ―we‘ll go to my house.‖ The beauty of the surroundings was lost on Daniel. He ignored the local fauna; the wild grasses passed without notice as they swayed in the sea breeze. The sweet smell of large colorful flowers didn‘t catch his attention, and the glorious weather could have been tropical storms for all Daniel cared. They entered the narrow lanes made up of taverns and hostels that crowded together and provided all the entertainment a pirate might need. Whores—young, old, male, female—hung around on every street corner, offering a good time for a modest outlay. Brawling men spilled out of inns, swinging their fist and crying for vengeance. Daniel dodged out of the way of a large bald man who was screaming he had been tricked out of his money, clutching a fistful of playing cards, all of them aces. Daniel was happy to leave the heaving streets behind, letting James lead him to a large house on the outskirts of the rambling town. James‘s home was more like a small mansion, a scaled-down version of one of the Merriston family‘s properties back in England. Its white front and grand staircase were ornate and screamed of wealth, and only then did Daniel understand how lucrative a career as a pirate actually was. ―Welcome to my home, Captain Horton.‖ A butler in livery greeted them at the main door, and James requested tea in the library. ―Tea in the library?‖ asked Daniel. ―Hardly a barrel of rum on a dead man‘s chest.‖ James snorted with amusement, leading Daniel into the library. ―There‘s nothing wrong with a little civilization now and again.‖
26 | REBECCA COHEN Daniel sat in a wingback chair positioned in front of a wall-toceiling bookcase. The butler delivered and served the tea with minimal fuss, leaving James and Daniel alone once more. ―You‘re looking well for a dead man,‖ said James, watching Daniel carefully. ―A different turn in the tale than I expected. Nichols had told me I‘d be the one facing mutiny charges.‖ ―But they are difficult to concoct. Your whole crew would need to corroborate a story like that, not just the handful of men that it would‘ve taken to throw you in a rowing boat. A body damaged from cannon fire could be anyone.‖ Daniel knew James was right. ―I must get back to St. Kitts immediately; send word back to England—to my father.‖ ―I promised I‘d get you there, but my men have earned their shore leave. You won‘t get there any faster, so just take a few days to recuperate.‖ ―But—‖ ―A few days here will do you the world of good.‖ Daniel could see there would be no arguing with James. Even if he left, he had no means of transport, no faster way of getting back to St. Kitts. ―Perhaps you are right.‖ James smiled fondly. ―Good. Let my staff take care of you. Take a nap, and then this evening I‘ll show you my favorite tavern.‖
THE tavern didn‘t have a name, and to Daniel it didn‘t look any different from any of the others in the center of the town. He‘d had to duck his head to clear the doorway, and due to its low ceiling, he was only just able to stand to his full height and avoid the beams. The minute James stepped through the door, there had been a roar of welcome. At a table in the corner away from the bar were Brillack and a handful of the other men from the Opal, and James managed to steer them both through the crowds toward them. Brillack poured Daniel a measure of rum from a jug and immediately dealt him into their card game. James sat down, busy talking and laughing with the other patrons in the bar.
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 27 ―You‘ll get nothing out of him tonight,‖ said Brillack, nodding in James‘s direction. ―Best play some cards and have a drink.‖ After losing several hands and drinking far more than would be advisable, Daniel could see that there was still no respite from James‘s throng of admirers. A young barkeep placed a flagon of foaming ale in front of James, his hips canting in invitation, and James‘s appreciative gaze traveled the length of the young man‘s body. Pushing away from the table, James patted his thighs, and the barkeep settled happily onto James‘s lap, leaning in to capture James‘s mouth in a deep, messy kiss. Daniel seethed. Almost unthinkingly, he got to his feet and stalked over to James, stopping to stand over him. ―A word.‖ James broke the kiss and looked up at Daniel with a mixture of smugness and taunting. ―If you don‘t mind, I‘m in the middle of something.‖ ―Now.‖ Daniel saw James‘s hand stroke up the back of the young man, who rested his head on James‘s shoulder and stared at Daniel with resentment. ―Then go ahead.‖ ―Outside,‖ said Daniel, his eyes narrowing even further as James gently pushed the young man off his lap, giving him another messy kiss. Daniel grabbed James by his upper arm and hauled him to his feet, pulling him out of the bar into the evening air. Uncaring of passersby, Daniel pinned James to the wooden side of the bar with a sharp shove, his forearm across James‘s chest, holding him in place. He leaned forward, their faces mere inches apart. ―What do you think you‘re doing?‖ James had the audacity to smile. He raised an eyebrow. ―I‘m enjoying myself, Daniel. Just because you‘re not interested in sex doesn‘t mean the rest of us need to be celibate.‖ Daniel violently pushed himself away. ―Fuck you, James. Your insincerity appalls me.‖ James‘s arms closed around him in an instant. The move surprised him, and, unable to prevent it, he toppled backward, landing heavily with James sprawling above him.
28 | REBECCA COHEN There was no mistaking the intent that shone in James‘s eyes. ―It seems you still have the spark of passion in you. I was beginning to fear that fire in your belly had been extinguished.‖ Daniel struggled, trying to wriggle free from underneath James, but the other man held him firm. ―Let me go.‖ ―I don‘t think so. You‘ve rebuffed my advances time and time again, but the minute I show interest in someone else, your hackles rise so quickly that I can almost smell your desire.‖ ―You‘re delusional,‖ said Daniel, still trying to escape, but James used his heavier frame to keep Daniel in place and captured Daniel‘s flailing arms, pinning them above his head. ―I don‘t think I am.‖ The words were softly spoken, almost whispered into his ear, and Daniel couldn‘t stop his traitorous cock from responding to having James above him, his breaths ghosting across Daniel‘s overheating skin. James pulled back ever so slightly so their gazes met. Daniel didn‘t resist the soft lips that met his, didn‘t struggle as James kissed him, sense memory bringing back the encounters of his youth. James knew how to kiss, all lips and a coaxing tongue that left Daniel powerless to do anything but allow James access and to return the kiss. They pulled apart, panting slightly. ―Not here,‖ said Daniel, conscious they were only a few feet from the main thoroughfare and only moments away from giving the locals an erotically charged show. James nodded, rolled off, and they rose to their feet. ―Home.‖ Daniel didn‘t argue and let himself be guided back down the narrow path to James‘s house. Again he paid no attention to the white sands or the exotic smells and plants along the way, his sole focus on James‘s hot hand that had wormed its way under his shirt and rested on his waist. No one who passed them could mistake what was happening, James‘s arm wrapped possessively around him, their gait determined, almost falling over each other to get back to the house. They crashed through the front door, and Daniel let out an undignified squawk as he was lifted off his feet and thrown over James‘s shoulder. ―Put me down, James Merriston. I am not some wench for you to manhandle.‖ ―Calm yourself, Daniel,‖ said James playfully, racing up the
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 29 staircase, taking the steps two at a time. ―This is solely for expedience—I know you‘re no woman.‖ Deciding that struggling further would just risk them both falling down the stairs, Daniel stopped thrashing. ―Doesn‘t mean I have to like it—I‘ll get you back for this.‖ ―Now that sounds like the kind of promise I‘d like you to keep.‖ Daniel let out an annoyed oomph as he landed heavily on James‘s large, soft bed. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching with a mixture of arousal and amusement as James stripped off his shirt, then hopped on one leg, then the other to remove his boots. But all thought of humor fled as James straightened and stalked naked toward the bed, his shirt and trousers abandoned on the floor. With his broad shoulders and muscled chest smattered with blond hair, the sight of James made Daniel‘s mouth water. The small voice in the back of his head finally silenced, Daniel sank back into the mattress, opening his arms wide in invitation. James crawled over the bed, his knees on either side of Daniel‘s thighs. The rough calluses on James‘s fingers made Daniel gasp as they skirted over his skin, pulling his shirttails out of his trousers and pushing the shirt up over his chest as if desperate to touch him. James made what sounded like a frustrated growl as he attempted to unbutton Daniel‘s shirt, the sound of ripping fabric and displaced buttons bouncing off the wooden floor following moments later as James‘s impatience got the better of him. The fingers were replaced by lips as James kissed his way from Daniel‘s navel to his neck, stopping to worship each of Daniel‘s ribs en route, licking a wet stripe over each nipple and blowing a warm stream of air across the damp skin. Daniel moaned in appreciation, unable to maintain his disinterested mask any longer as James peeled away his trousers. He dragged James close and kissed him fiercely; hot, wet and desperate, as if he might never get the chance to kiss the man again. Daniel allowed his hands to roam the expanse of golden skin on James‘s back, his body thrumming at the idea of letting himself have what he‘d thought had been lost forever. James had died, but now here, in the humidity of Plesmaya, the memories of the encounters from his youth could be reenacted. He could allow himself the pleasures of having
30 | REBECCA COHEN James back in his bed. Regret, if he allowed himself such a meaningless emotion, could wait until tomorrow. James sat back, his stare not predatory but observant, as if cataloguing all the changes that had happened since the last time they had been naked together. With another lover Daniel would‘ve found such an examination unbearable, happier to indulge in sex in the dark or under the covers on the rare occasions he indulged. But with James he had no such concerns; the gentle exploration of his hands made Daniel‘s body sing, made him want to grant James access to everywhere. From the nightstand, James removed a vial which, when uncorked, released a pleasant floral aroma. James upended it, pouring a generous quantity of glistening oil over his fingers. A moment passed as their eyes met, James asking a silent question and Daniel answering with the merest of nods. And then James‘s fingers were at his entrance, teasing and playful, working him open. It had been a while, and after the initial discomfort he welcomed James‘s fingers, gasping as James‘s other hand fastened around his cock, pumping slowly. James crawled forward, leaning over him, and pressed their mouths together in a strangely gentle kiss. With great care, he guided his cock inside Daniel, taking his time, maximizing their mutual enjoyment. Daniel tilted his hips and took him deep, hands on James‘s ass to guide him, encouraging him to move once he was fully seated. There was no mistaking that James‘s technique had developed over the years; no longer the fumbling teen, he was assured and commanding. He set the pace hard and deep, as if he instinctively knew what Daniel needed. Their bodies moved together, a glorious rhythm which made Daniel gasp and writhe, his orgasm hitting him like a crashing wave without another touch to his cock. James came with a growl and one deep, final thrust.
THE morning sunlight poured through the balcony door, bathing the room in a golden glow, and the sea breeze cooled the room. Daniel‘s eyelids flittered open as he became vaguely aware that he was being stroked. He turned over onto his back and saw James‘s forehead crumple. James traced a finger down the faded scar on Daniel‘s leg. ―This is my fault.‖
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 31 ―Hardly,‖ Daniel said. ―Bloody Spaniard got away from me.‖ ―That‘s not what I meant. If I hadn‘t gone, you‘d have been safe on land.‖ Daniel turned toward James. ―I‘ve been at sea over half my life, and despite what drove me there, I don‘t regret that.‖ ―You should have been at home.‖ ―I‘m the youngest son of a baron, James. I was destined for the navy, and my father‘s connections certainly helped my career. But the choices were always limited to going to sea or joining the clergy, and I think we‘ve established I‘d be terrible at the moral aspect of the latter.‖ ―Still….‖ ―You talk rubbish. Just because you are two years older does not make you a driving influence behind my decisions. I was already at the naval academy when we met; I‘d been in Portsmouth since I was sixteen. The life I chose was inevitable.‖ ―We both know that‘s not true. The masters thought you a strategist, not a sailor.‖ ―Quiet.‖ Daniel kissed him. ―What‘s past is past.‖ James smiled. ―Now we can have the future I‘d planned.‖ Daniel knew that was impossible, and although a part of him wanted to stay, the rest of him knew he could never really settle here. ―I have to go back.‖ ―I thought this might happen,‖ said James, with no hint of anger, and he dropped a kiss onto Daniel‘s shoulder. ―You have unfinished business.‖ ―I‘m no pirate, James. I made my pledge, and no matter how much I want you, I can‘t break that. I need to—‖ James silenced him with a kiss, deep and exploratory. They broke apart, and Daniel buried his head in the crook of James‘s neck. ―We are both dead men, Daniel; we can be free here. I have more money than I could ever spend. We could build a home here.‖ Daniel pulled back. The offer was tempting. ―You know I can‘t stay here, don‘t you? Even though we didn‘t part on the best of terms, I can‘t let my father believe I‘m dead.‖
32 | REBECCA COHEN ―Of course I do, but do not ask me to be happy about your decision. We can sail for St. Kitts in a few days, once we‘ve restocked.‖
USUALLY he slept better at sea, but as he lay next to James, the Opal’s gentle rocking did nothing to help Daniel sleep. James had drifted off a few hours earlier, both of them sated after an energetic round of lovemaking, but Daniel lay awake in the darkness, listening to his lover‘s gentle snores. He‘d half expected the passion to have waned once the initial reconnection had occurred, for them both to have put aside their youthful dreams, but the more time he had spent with James the harder his heart ached. ―Can‘t sleep?‖ asked James. ―I thought you were.‖ ―You‘re thinking too loudly, woke me up.‖ ―Sorry.‖ James moved behind him and wrapped his arms around Daniel‘s chest. ―We‘ll need to put you ashore soon.‖ Daniel leaned back and enjoyed the embrace. ―I know.‖ ―Whatever happens, Daniel, this isn‘t the end.‖ The ship‘s bell tolled, and they slid out of James‘s bed, clothes pulled on between kisses and gentle caresses, but neither man spoke. They walked side by side to the deck, the crew readying the small boat for Daniel to row to the shore and then walk around the cape to the naval base. ―Time to go,‖ said James. Daniel nodded and climbed into the rowing boat. Six of the crew lowered him into the water. He couldn‘t bring himself to speak, not able to guarantee his voice would be steady. With a final salute, James cast away the lines. The moonlight was patchy due to the cloud cover, making the Opal a dark silhouette as Daniel rowed to shore. He watched as her sail billowed and caught the wind, taking her and James further and further away.
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 33
THE decision had been a difficult one. But in the end, Daniel had felt he had no other choice than to leave the navy. The Admiralty was adamant that he wouldn‘t get another ship to captain, meaning he could either take the demotion and the desk job in Portsmouth or leave. The idea of watching other men go off to sea while he sat and stagnated was something he knew he couldn‘t live with. His loyalty was not in question; his ability to command was. A man back from the dead or the victim of a mutiny was not the type they were willing to trust to a new crew. The only solace he could take was that Nichols, Jones, and Gilman had swung from the scaffold as their punishment. The difference in the climate had never been so obvious than during the carriage ride from the Admiralty to his father‘s Buckinghamshire estate a few weeks after his arrival. The icy sheets of rain had been relentless, and the carriage had given little protection from the bitter wind of the miserable English winter. The skies were heavy and gray and nothing like the endless brilliant blue he had become accustomed to in his last few months at sea. His father came out to meet him as he alighted from the carriage. He was momentarily surprised as he found himself swept up into a brief hug, his father withdrawing quickly, his eyes watery with emotion. ―My boy,‖ said Lord Arthur Horton, ―a true miracle to see you returned home.‖ Daniel was led inside with talk of his elder brothers returning for the weekend to celebrate his homecoming and his mother‘s absolute desperation to see him. The initial excitement to be at home ran its course, and although he was happy to see his parents, the weeks that followed filled Daniel with little joy. He was troubled by his lack of gainful employment, which left him far too much time to brood, and it was only when he took on some of the business of the estate overseen by his father that he started to settle into his role of English gentleman. Spring brought with it the new season in London, and his mother‘s less than subtle hints that he should perhaps start looking for a wife. ―You do realize I am only attending this ridiculous dance in order to appease Mother?‖ Daniel said to his brother Marcus as the carriage drew up outside Willington House in Chelsea. Marcus laughed harshly as he disembarked. ―Of course I do. You‘ve
34 | REBECCA COHEN less interest in being here than me.‖ ―At least you had the prospect of a title when you were courting Emily. I, even if I wished for a wife, have nothing that could sway a lady.‖ ―I would not concern yourself unduly, Daniel. I doubt our presence will even be noted, not with the miraculous return of Lord Merriston— your escape from a mutiny is nothing in comparison with his reappearance in London after fifteen years.‖ Daniel slipped down the steps of the carriage, tumbling awkwardly and landing on his hands and knees. ―Heaven‘s sake, Daniel, what is wrong with you? If you can‘t exit a carriage on two feet, how the hell did you manage at sea?‖ ―I lost my footing—it‘s hardly a crime.‖ Daniel got to his feet, brushing away the dirt from his breeches. ―I hadn‘t heard James was back.‖ ―James? Oh, Merriston. You knew him at Portsmouth? I remember something about him being at the College before he headed to the Caribbean.‖ ―We were friends.‖ ―Then no doubt he will be happy to see a friendly face among the throngs of young women and their eager mothers.‖ Lord Bellingham, an aging businessman with an unattached daughter, welcomed them to his home. Marcus was called back to discuss something that had happened at the Exchange, and Daniel followed the other guests into the ballroom, accepting a glass of wine from a footman. Keen to be left alone, he took a place at the far wall to watch London‘s finest dance the evening away in a mass of lace and satin. Daniel had just procured a third glass of an excellent hock when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. ―Never thought of you as a wallflower.‖ The wine splashed over his hand as he nearly dropped his glass. ―James!‖ And it was James, not Captain Merric. His hair tied neatly back, dressed fashionably and scrubbed clean of the sea, James looked like he had never left, a perfect model of an English gentleman.
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 35 ―I said I‘d see you again.‖ ―Yes, but….‖ ―The weather is mild,‖ said James. ―Perhaps we should enjoy the garden?‖ Daniel‘s momentary confusion evaporated as he understood James‘s meaning. ―An excellent idea.‖ They left the ballroom through a pair of open doors and onto a terrace where a number of guests were also enjoying the warmth of the evening sunshine. Daniel followed James as he crossed an immaculately kept lawn and entered a small rose garden. The house and the other guests now out of sight, James rounded on Daniel and placed a hand on his cheek. ―It‘s so good to see you.‖ Daniel smiled and kissed him, a restrained kiss knowing that there was no way he could allow himself the passion he craved out in the open. ―I can‘t believe you‘re here.‖ ―It was time to come home,‖ said James. ―You could have warned me.‖ James‘s grin was devilish. ―You wanted lavender-scented love letters wrapped in pink ribbon? Oh, Daniel, how being landlocked has changed you.‖ ―Continue in that manner and you might as well go back to the Caribbean.‖ ―I‘ll have you know that I had no intention of returning to England, but you ruined my plan.‖ ―What?‖ James ran his hand over Daniel‘s hair. ―You were supposed to come back to the Caribbean with a new ship. I was ready to board her and kidnap you for my own nefarious purposes. But no, you had to quit the navy.‖ ―You heard about that?‖ ―I‘m not exactly a patient man, James. After about a month and you‘d not returned, I decided to find out where you were. I know the right people and have enough money that I can find out pretty much anything I want to.‖
36 | REBECCA COHEN ―So you meant to carry me off and do all sort of terrible things to my person? Maybe if I‘d known I wouldn‘t have been so quick to make my decision.‖ ―A minor flaw in what was otherwise a sound and reasonable plan.‖ ―Idiot,‖ said Daniel, but there was no heat in the insult, his smile warm and generous. James kissed him, his hand firm on the back of Daniel‘s neck. ―Because of your inability to do as expected, I had no choice but to come home to England.‖ ―And how, may I ask, have you explained your return to your father?‖ ―A terrible tale of heartache and misery,‖ said James. ―The desperately attractive young lord finds himself washed ashore with no memory apart from his Christian name. Only thanks to the dashing and kind Captain Merric who takes him under his wing does he manage to survive. Then a few months ago, he takes a blow to the head and he remembers everything.‖ Daniel laughed. ―A fine tale, indeed. You should write it down, and the ladies of the ton would clamber to read it.‖ ―Perhaps, but I have had quite enough attention from the ladies,‖ James said with a wry smile. ―So, Daniel, I am home. I have no wife or commitments and a house in London too large for just me and my staff. What do you say? Join me, and we can be two upstanding bachelors of the city?‖ The smell of James‘s expensive French cologne and having him close again after their months apart set his blood on fire. There were so many arguments against James‘s suggestion. Their subterfuge, if seen through, would end in disgrace so great they would have to flee to the continent, but he couldn‘t bring himself to say no. ―When?‖ James‘s hand squeezed his hip. ―As soon as you can. We‘ve lost too long already.‖ There was a giggle from nearby, and reluctantly they stepped apart as a young man with a pretty girl on his arm strolled into the rose garden. ―We should go back inside,‖ said James once the couple had passed.
CAPTAIN MERRIC | 37 ―Yes, before my brother comes to find me.‖ ―My home is your home, Daniel. Come as soon as you are able.‖ They walked back to the house, and Daniel thought they had done so just in time as more guests had left the house and were exploring the grounds. As they reentered the ballroom, a voice called out, ―Merriston, you old dog!‖ A portly gentleman with a bald pate and cheeks flushed from a life of drinking port beckoned James over. ―I‘d better go—he‘s an old friend of the family.‖ Daniel watched as James sauntered away. Life had never been boring with James Merriston around when they were younger, and now they had a lifetime together ahead of them. He could hardly wait.
38 | REBECCA COHEN
REBECCA COHEN is a Brit abroad. Having swapped the Thames for the Rhine, she has left London behind and now lives with her husband in Basel, Switzerland. She can often be found with a pen in one hand and a cocktail in the other. Visit Rebecca‘s blog at http://rebecca-cohen.livejournal.com.
TOUCHED BY THE WEST WIND ELLEN HOLIDAY
ASK me again why I love the sea. I‘ll give you a different answer each time. I have a million of them. On one day, perhaps, I might mention the darkness of it, the churning white of the waves beneath us when we have a good clip going and how, when I look over the railing, I see froth over dark beer, the most intoxicating drug you can imagine. Ask me another day, and I might speak of the coarseness of the ropes beneath my callused hands, how every mark on my body is from a different adventure. Ask me yet again, and I will tell you it‘s the smell of the brine, the feeling that when I look at the calm horizon, I‘m gazing back in time into the world before it was formed, before the good Lord stretched out his hands and made land rise from the darkness of the waters. Ask me again, and I will tell you about Bren. Bren is barely older than I, but he‘s been on the sea his entire life. Instead of growing up cloistered by the claustrophobic gaze of a mother who feared any exposure to sea air might make her poor son sickly, he was an orphan, abandoned by his mother aboard the deck of the Bandit nineteen years ago with nary a note of explanation. Were it not for the captain‘s good will, he might have been thrown to the waves. But no, he was raised here, a sea rat from the moment he was old enough to hoist a rigging. He moves among ropes and ladders as easily as though they were solid ground, and when he turns into the breeze, his lips turned up
40 | ELLEN HOLIDAY and his eyes fluttering closed, I sometimes think he might just be a zephyr himself, the child of the West Wind come to light aboard our humble vessel. I‘ve told him this, and he laughed. ―Thomas, I swear,‖ he said. ―Your books will someday drive you barmy. That tripe‘s got no business aboard a boat of any sort, let alone one bearing a black flag.‖ ―At least it isn‘t the Bible,‖ I countered, and he threw back his head and laughed, strands of black hair whipping around his face. ―Thank goodness indeed for small favors, Tom!‖ he said, clapping me on the back, and the warm print of his fingers remained with me thereafter. I curled into my bunk later with the memory of that impression warming me, feeling at once secure and frightened, addled by the touch of a creature neither human nor mythical. Bren‘s disdain for my books isn‘t absolute. When we‘re becalmed or spending long nights below deck for fear the winds will blow us to kingdom come, he‘ll often ask me for one of those old stories. A candle burns bright near my bedside, its glow more distinct than the dull glow of the kerosene lamps, and I reach for an ancient legend of the Greeks or the Norse. Bren is fond of the Iliad. He laughed loudly, smacking his broad hands together, when I first read him the opening spat between the soldiers. ―These Greek swear as well as sailors do,‖ he declared, his face rosy and warm with laughter, and I thought that should the candle blow out, I could easily read by the light of his flush. Yes, ask me again why I love the sea, and I will tell you that warm nights below deck, my voice raised in the tradition of the fine actors of our day, with Bren‘s eyes bright with interest—these are the things that make sailing with a pirate vessel sublime. I must admit, I find no romance in the dirty work that we do. The Bandit is as its name suggests: not a bloodthirsty band of blackguards but merely robbers, assaulting vessels for their gold and not for their lives. For that reason, we board ships masked, and though we must shoot to kill to protect our livelihoods, we don‘t take any joy in it. I myself hang back at the wheel during our raids, ready to steer us away should calamity befall us. From our quarry we sail then to the outcast island of a group of aborigines, among whom lives the wealthy M. Gaulle. He‘s a Frenchman, a fence, and he pays well for the trinkets we supply him.
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With coin in hand, we sail back to port, enter town, and buy up the supplies and all else we need for our next journey. Sometimes, when we‘ve done well, I‘ll have the extra funds to take in a play or buy a new book or two before we set sail again. I convinced Bren, one time, to join me at a play. It was Shakespeare, a comedic romp with mistaken identities, forlorn lovers, and singing clowns, and Bren was bored to tears. I must admit I was surprised. He‘d always been so enthralled by the readings I did for him. I‘d thought he might have the taste for theater without knowing it, without being able to read the books himself. But he yawned, rolled his eyes, and leaned over at me to whisper in my ear, ―Tom, this is foolishness.‖ Perhaps I should have taken him to see a tragedy instead. I asked him later why it was he enjoyed my readings but not those of professional actors who had honed their craft. He rolled his eyes and reddened, blowing air out the side of his mouth. ―That is—‖ he said before breaking off, his eyes wandering to the spire of a church we were passing by. When I pressed again, he remained evasive. So unlike Bren was this—so counter to the blunt, fresh honesty that made him such a joy—that I resolved to test him. On the sly, just before we set out again, I bought a copy of that play, tucking it into my satchel along with the other purchases I‘d made as we boarded in preparation for our next voyage. For the first several nights, I did nothing, waiting for the memory of the play to disappear from his mind. And indeed, in those days he too seemed to be avoiding my presence. His feet slipped easily through the rungs of the ladder, his eyes remained fixed on the horizon, and the wind tousled his dirty hair like the caress of a loved one. The West Wind, I thought, caressing his son. The thought made me laugh, and it eased the sudden, poignant ache in my stomach I‘d begun to feel in Bren‘s presence. When had it started, this peculiar feeling? I thought perhaps I‘d always lived with it, but lately it was intensifying, making my chest ache and my fingers burn with untold want whenever I saw him. I found my eyes following the line of his muscles as he worked a rope or repaired a sail, each ripple of the tight, tanned flesh hurting me deeper and deeper inside, until I thought I might double over and need to be taken below. I turned away, looked out to sea, and tried to inhale the cleansing
42 | ELLEN HOLIDAY air of the ocean, to concentrate on the sky and the waves and anything that wasn‘t the movement of Bren‘s body, the way his teeth grazed along his lower lip when he concentrated. Something had been born in me, I thought then, that could not be quelled. Like a layer of honey, it lay thick along my insides, slowing me, making every step acutely painful. At every step Bren‘s image dogged me until I was afraid of that moment of testing him, afraid that I might find myself the one tested. I prayed that the winds not leave us room for long nights together deep in the bunks, where the other crewmen could not see. Where I might be tempted to reach out and do something for which there was no precedent, no excuse. But the winds have their own master, and they do not listen to my prayers. And that, again, is a reason I love the sea. It takes me into these moments when I cannot turn back, but simply must sail out the storms with the fierce resolve of a warrior. I‘ve learned well from my pirate brethren. And when that moment came, I faced it. We sighted a vessel on our fifth night out to sea and resolved to board it. As was usual, I stayed behind on the deck as our ship‘s band armed and masked themselves and prepared to loot the ship. Bren had donned a mask and hood through which only his eyes gleamed and a few strands of wild dark hair protruded. He had a cutlass by his side, the blade curving silver and dangerous through the twilight dimness. ―Shall I bring you back a pocket watch?‖ he said, his voice muffled beneath the mask. ―Or perhaps a pretty jewel for your neck?‖ He winked at me, kneeling to wind a cord of rope round his waist. ―Bring yourself back to me,‖ I replied, ―in one piece. That‘s all I ask.‖ Bren laughed. Even from beneath the mask, his smile stretched wide and pleased. ―I‘m grateful,‖ he said. ―Thanks to you, even being an orphan, I know what it is to have a mother.‖ ―Bren!‖ I laid a fist into his arm, light but solid. He winced. ―Good blow,‖ he said. ―That‘ll bruise.‖ I glowered at him. ―I‘m not, I won‘t be, your mother.‖ ―It‘s a good thing, too.‖ He rubbed his arm. ―I‘d break your heart.‖ His gloved fingers landed atop my head, patting it gently, and for a moment his eyes just bored into mine. He was breaking my heart already. The vessel tried to outrun us, but we had a good wind at our backs,
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and before long we‘d brought the Bandit alongside her. On deck along with the sailors and crew were a number of well-dressed passengers, men decorated with military insignias, some even with muskets at their sides. I bit my lip, watching warily from my post behind the wheel. It was the moment of uncertainty that always came—what if we boarded a ship that was a match for us? What if we took losses? It had happened before— poor Bones, a scrappy fighter who‘d caught a bullet meant for the captain, and Silvio, who‘d been tossed over the railing by a mountain of a guard—but not often. I still wasn‘t used to it, and I never wanted to see it happen again. I raised my spyglass to follow the battle, trying to keep my hands from trembling. The captain and his deputies kept the men on deck busy in a clash of swords and shouts, as Bren and the others let down their ropes and shimmied down the side of the boat into the portholes. Screams came up from the cabins where they entered, and I lowered the aim of my glass, trying to see into the tiny windows, but it was futile. Once the crew above deck had been disarmed, our band began to emerge from within the ship, laden with gold and jewels, one with a lady‘s tiara perched atop his head. I laughed aloud to see him, then again when he nearly lost it to the ocean as he leaped between their deck and ours. Then came Bren. He was clutching his arm, staggering, his eyes thin slits beneath his hood. His shoulder hung slack, and from his fingertips dripped a steady trail of blood behind him. I gave a cry, and my heart sped up into my throat. Bren was hurt. Bren. Bren was hurt, and there wasn‘t a thing I could do. My fingers clutched the brass of my spyglass, and the words whirled endlessly in my mind. That fool. He couldn‘t even come back in one piece as I‘d asked of him. And as I watched, as my horror and my aching heart drowned out all my good sense, I saw a man behind him peek out from behind a mast. And aim a musket. I felt the scream rip from my throat before I even heard it. A flash—a noise—and why had I not gone aboard, why was I not there to leap in front of him, to be the one to protect him? I could do nothing, I could only stand here and watch through my foolish spyglass as a musket ball whirred through the air at point-blank range and— Bren was still standing. The captain had grabbed the man‘s arm,
44 | ELLEN HOLIDAY forcing it down. The musket had shot through the planks of the deck. I could tell through my spyglass that the captain was speaking, but beneath his mask it was unclear just what he was saying. Whatever it was, though, it made the passenger who‘d taken aim at Bren tremble. Bren himself found his bearings and began to retreat toward our boat. I ran down from the wheel to greet him. We locked eyes, and he tore off his mask to call my name. His face was white, and I could see as he stumbled into my arms how badly his arm had been wrenched, how deep was the cut of the knife that had let loose the flow of blood still dripping onto the deck between our shoes. ―You should have heard it, Tom,‖ he said weakly. ―Captain… he said to ‘im, ‗Don‘t touch my son…‘.‖ And then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he was falling, limp, into my arms. I hoisted him over my shoulder and brought him below deck. I was no doctor, but I could tell he wouldn‘t be using that arm for a good time. I set it as best I could, then returned above deck. I had a post to maintain and mates to support. As much as my heart remained with Bren in the cabin, I had a place to be. But as we reboarded and broke away from the vessel, soaring soft and swift into the night, I saw in my mind‘s eye only that broken stagger, the apology in his eyes, and the lurch of my heart into my gut at the momentary thought I would lose him. Bren had taken hold of my heart and clenched it deep within his fist, and I knew irrevocably then that what I felt was greater and deeper than the horizon. In the morning, when we were alone again on a glassy sea and the sun was furnace bright above us, Bren related to me the tale. A bit of hard luck, he said, and bad timing—the man had gotten to the knife before Bren could draw his sword, and before Bren struck him, he‘d managed to drive the knife into the heart of the bruise I‘d given him. He had hauled the man‘s body to the side, head spinning with fear and pain, and it was then that he felt the sick grinding of bone and known he‘d wrenched it out of place. Between the pain and the excitement, he said, he‘d misjudged his own strength, and paid dearly for it. ―I‘m sorry for my part in it,‖ I told him, ―but it serves you right, saying such to me. I don‘t slit men‘s throats, Bren, but I‘m still a man, and I‘m certainly not your mother.‖ ―Right,‖ he said, his voice rueful. ―I‘ll not forget that again.‖
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There was something drained in his speech that jarred me. ―Bren? You‘re not feverish, are you?‖ He shook his head. ―I‘m going to lift the sail.‖ ―You can‘t use that arm!‖ I protested, but he had sprinted across the deck, and if he could hear me, he showed no sign of it. I could have told him what came next: one mighty haul and he was reeling, grabbing his wounded arm, green with pain and crying out, staggering. He fell back against the deck, cursing, and forced himself up to give it another go. This time, the others wouldn‘t allow him, and they pushed him back to the railing. Discouraged, surly, he curled up there, bad arm clutched to his chest, good one curled about his knees, watching and glaring at the activity that surrounded him. My task at that moment was toting the last bit of our take down to the cargo bays. We would be sailing now for M. Gaulle‘s island palace, where he would sort it and give us our coin. On the way up, I found a length of sturdy cloth and thought to make a sling for Bren‘s injured arm. Back on deck, I came to crouch before him and bid him stay still while I wrapped the cloth around his torso. ―I feel like a weakling,‖ he said. I tied the corners of the cloth tight behind his neck. ―Fear not, Bren; you‘re many things, but a weakling is not one of them.‖ He lowered his eyes. ―Why so glum?‖ I asked. ―Tis hardly the first time you‘ve been wounded.‖ ―The first in a long time, though,‖ he said. I reflected on it, and he was right—he‘d told me of the times he‘d broken bones as a child, when he‘d been laid out in bad shape in the captain‘s cabin, forced to lie in bed for weeks on end. But I wasn‘t there, still a prisoner of my mother‘s house, and he often said that had I been there, he‘d have forced me to sit by his bedside and read him every book in my possession. Somehow the image of Bren, young and laid up in the captain‘s chambers, had become as much a part of my memory as my own dreary upbringing. But as long as I‘d known him, he‘d been untouchable, spry and strong. The cut of this seafarer‘s knife must have gone deeper than merely nicking his bone. ―I envy you, Tom,‖ he said abruptly. My brow furrowed. ―How‘s that?‖
46 | ELLEN HOLIDAY ―Well.‖ Bren‘s foot had started to waggle, sliding under a piece of rope that lay limp on the deck and lifting it. It was an oddly mesmerizing motion. ―I‘ve only ever known this boat. But you were born and raised on land. You had an education. You can pick up a book and ride all those letters into another world. I can‘t do that. My mind is too filled with practical things. Without the use of my arms and legs, all I have is this endless sea to look on. But you can see Greek soldiers and ancient gods on a page that‘s only white and black scratchings to me.‖ He smiled sadly. ―D‘you know just how enviable that is, Thomas Bay? I wonder.‖ I was surprised he remembered my surname. My mother was Delilah Bay, the woman who‘d kept me locked up until I‘d grown old and rebellious enough to run away to the harbor and stow away on a little ship whose name was the Bandit. But then again, Bren‘d always known me best, out of everyone on that ship, the captain and the bosun and the dozen or so sea rats who ran the day-to-day, the cooks and the launderer and the old man whose sole job it was to put out the lanterns at night—out of everyone, for me it all stopped and started with Bren. He was the ship itself, the spirit of it, and the wind that moved it. And I loved him as I did the ship, as I did the ocean. More than that, even. I loved him in a way I was just starting to understand. ―‘S not so great, books,‖ I said, my voice starting with a bit of a tremble. ―Thing about books is, you go into those worlds, then you come back wanting them to be real. You want things you can‘t have, like to fight a dragon, or to… to find a princess in a tower, or to be blessed with the powers of the old gods, and you can‘t, because they aren‘t real.‖ Bren watched my face carefully, and when I stopped speaking, when my lip turned down despite me, he lifted up his fingertips to tuck it up again. ―Some things you can have,‖ he said. ―Some things are real, and you just think you can‘t have ‘em. What‘s a dragon but a big lizard? Bet you could find one and spike it through if we sailed south. Then we could eat it for dinner.‖ I laughed. He had a way of making everything seem possible. ―And who needs a princess in a tower? You‘ve got all the time in the world when we‘re on shore to win the favor of any girl who catches your eye.‖ It had never occurred to me to look for a girl whose favor I‘d want
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to win. Embarrassed, I finished up the sling and tightened it, avoiding his eyes. ―And the powers of the old gods?‖ Bren smiled in a way that made the world feel full of sunshine. ―Why, Tom,‖ he said, ―just because it‘s never happened before doesn‘t mean it could never be.‖ I stared at the round lips, watching the mystifying words take shape, and at once I was brought in as though an anchor pulled from the depths. My mouth tingled with a touch I had yet to feel, and my vision was blurring beneath a flutter of eyelashes. I very nearly thought I saw Bren‘s eyes close; I know I felt his hand land on my shoulder and hold there, a leaden weight. There was neither air nor time between us. I was under a spell. ―Bluebeard‘s bones!‖ A call from above. A skinny pirate with a weathered face, a man we knew as Exeter, was letting down the sails. Bren jumped to his feet. ―What is it, Ex?‖ ―Blasted wind‘s died! Can‘t you feel it? Nary a motion in the air.‖ Bren lifted his face to the side, frowned, turned the other way. ―Blast!‖ he declared, then hurried to the rigging to help Exeter with the sail, pulling away the sling I‘d so carefully fitted to him. In another moment, he was crying out in pain, and he reeled and turned away, clutching his arm. I should have stopped him, should have shouted at him for disregarding the sling, but I too had forgotten myself in shock. How very near we‘d come to the kiss of lovers! In full view of Exeter and the others on deck! How could I have forgotten myself so completely? I wandered back to the bunk in a dizzy haze of uselessness. Had they called for my help, I might not have noticed, but what could I do, row the ship as though it were a Viking longboat? Not on my best day, and today I was thoroughly distracted. The kiss of lovers. Had I even before considered that it was possible to have desire for a man the way the poets of old did for their women? And yet, it was the best explanation for the distraction that had been pulling at me for Lord knew how long. And it explained, too, the tight, poignant feeling that lingered in my gut lately, the stiffness that had beset me. I knew what that organ was for, but aside from easing the tension and helping me to sleep on a hot
48 | ELLEN HOLIDAY night, I‘d found no use for it. I‘d never before tied that feeling to the desire for another person. Now, I thought, I knew at last what I wanted. I had no idea, though, if Bren wanted it too. I now had more than one test to give him. The wind remained dead throughout the day, and even from the depths of the crew quarters, the stillness touched my bones. I was warm now with the anticipation as well as the dead seas. Bren was above deck, despite his injury, doubtless trying to find some way to help. I imagined Bren, the foundling son of the West Wind, pleading in vain with his invisible father to breathe, if only once, and send us on our way. With every moment the boat did not rock to life, I knew, the odds became greater and greater that Bren would come below exhausted and frustrated. He took the losses of the ship as his own losses, and my heart hurt for him. When he returned, though, there was a wistfulness in his eyes, and instead of collapsing on his own bunk, he came to mine and clasped my hands. He looked possessed, desperate. ―Read to me, Tom,‖ he said. ―Take me to one of your worlds.‖ I nodded, reached for my satchel of books, and pulled out the Shakespeare. There was something in his tone that told me not to ask more. He lit the candle by my bedside, and I flipped through it until I found the speech I‘d marked before. My voice rose tremulously, barely above a whisper as I read. “If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.” ―That‘s from the play,‖ he said, a smile lighting his face for the first time in hours. ―That was that nonsense the old fool was saying.‖ I nodded. ―You‘ve passed my test, Bren. I wasn‘t about to let you dislike Shakespeare simply because you found the play dull. But if it‘s still nonsense to you, I‘ll absolve you of reading further. I can‘t say I agree with your taste, but—‖ Normally he‘d find my prank amusing. He‘d laugh, his cheeks filling with cheer, and declare I should have more faith in him. But tonight he shook his head. ―Go on.‖
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―Are you sure?‖ I said, startled. ―If you don‘t like it, Bren, it‘s really all right. I have others—‖ ―I like it when you read it,‖ he said. His fingers came to rest on the back of my hand, stroking gently. Warmth pooled in my lap, and I shifted on the bunk. ―That fool on the stage trumpeted out those words like he was calling an alert. But you read it as though just to me.‖ I had to laugh. ―That‘s because I am reading it just to you.‖ His fingers slid around my wrist, tightened. I could feel him exhale onto my face. ―Please,‖ he said. The candle flickered. For a moment all I could see were his lips. There was no more page, no more searching eyes—just a mouth that called out to me, pulled me in like a cord of strong rope. I licked my own lips, swallowed hard, and cast my eyes upon the page once more. “That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound, That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more: ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou, That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea...” I stopped. Bren‘s hand had curved around my jaw. His hand was a soft cup into which I could have poured like so much liquid, chin sinking into his palm. His lips trembled, formed around words that I could not hear. ―Bren?‖ I was surprised I could get the words out. ―You‘re dear to me,‖ he said. ―I love you like you were my own brother. Y‘know that, don‘t you?‖ The confession bowled me over. I sat on the bed, transfixed. The book fell from my fingertips and landed jaggedly on my lap, a corner biting into my thigh. ―‘Course… ‘course I know,‖ I whispered.
50 | ELLEN HOLIDAY ―Y‘know I‘d never mean to hurt you, right? Right, Thomas, you know that?‖ ―Bren,‖ I said, ―you‘re scaring me. Has something happened? Did something—‖ He shook his head. ―Nothing, no. I‘m sorry. I just… I fear myself, I fear what I might do—‖ He looked away. His whole body was trembling. I grabbed his face in both hands, mirroring his own grip. I forced him to face me. ―What might you do, Bren?‖ And then it occurred to us both how close we were. Hands on each other‘s faces, sitting a scant inch apart, lit by one dim candle. In the dark, secret hole of the bunks, where no one wished or cared to see. I knew then just what he might do. It was the same thing I‘d been yearning to do without even knowing it. The desire was there, bright and keen, in his eyes. I heard my own heart take a single skittish beat. His lips leaped to claim mine, the salt and brine of the sea on them soaking deep into my skin, sliding into my mouth, and I drank of him deeply. He trembled, but for his fear I had double the desire; as he shook, I took control, folding him into my arms, pulling his chest up against my own, taking him in, giving him cover for the desires that were, I knew now, wracking both of us with equal passion. It was a wondrous moment. Bren, with all his strength, all his carefree attitude and strong body, was melting in my arms, leaning on me, depending on me to steer the runaway ship of our feelings before it dashed us both on the rocks. And more wondrous, I was willing to take that on. Happy to pull him close, to run my lips against his, to taste his mouth with my tongue. He held on tight, his fingers clutching at my collar, for a long moment after we parted, breathing heavily into my neck. ―It‘s—it‘s not possible,‖ he breathed. ―It‘s not natural. I‘ve never seen—‖ ―Bren,‖ I whispered, possessed of some confidence I could not trace the origins of. I leaned in, kissed his cheeks, his jaw. ―What if you‘ve never seen it? Does that mean it could never be?‖ His eyes went round and hollow. I could see the beginnings of a smile starting to break onto his face.
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My hands found their way into his coal black hair, threading through the tangled, sea-starched strands. I spoke his name, again and again, obsessively, dotting kisses down his neck, pausing at the hollow of his throat to lick it. He made a small noise above me, and his fingers tightened at my collar. I lifted my lips to his ear and whispered my confession then. ―For all that you love me, Bren, I love you more—and not just as a brother.‖ He took in a breath. His good arm slid from my collar to my side, then around my waist. ―I don‘t fear this,‖ I went on. ―I didn‘t know it was possible, but… I don‘t fear it. I want—Bren, I crave—‖ My lips pressed up against his ear. I couldn‘t see his smile, but I felt it. It broke across his face as suddenly as a gust of wind breaks across the calm sea, rippling the waters, changing everything from stunned silence into movement, into life. ―Tom,‖ he said, once, a groan, and then his mouth found mine again. Lacking the use of one arm, Bren couldn‘t move my body as he wished, but that was all right; I was more than happy to make up for that. It was a thrill, even, to summon up my own strength and push him down onto the cot where we sat, to slide one leg across both of his until I could kneel above him, look down at him, sweat-soaked shirt and breeches clinging to his skin. My fingers trembled. I‘d seen him in the nude plenty of times, but this was different. This time I‘d have free rein to explore his body, map it with my fingers, and the excitement very nearly did me in. I leaned over him, kissed his mouth, and the feeling of him hard against me then ripped a groan from my lips. I couldn‘t help rocking into that desperate heat, and his groan echoed mine, the most exquisite harmony. When my fingers began to undo his buttons, he struggled to help, but his injury proved restrictive. Helpless, he gasped up at me and panted, his chest rising and falling under my fingers. ―You too,‖ he insisted, his hand fumbling at my shirt, then falling to my hip, spiraling warmth into me through my bones. ―Greedy,‖ I said and grinned at him, and in that moment I was so very aware that it was still us, still Tom and Bren, the two boys who rose and fell together on the waves, whose companionship had blossomed
52 | ELLEN HOLIDAY into something more but was still there, still steadfast. My heart swelled with the love I felt. For the sake of that companionship, I stilled my curious fingers long enough to remove my own shirt before leaning down to embrace him. And oh, how glad I was that I did. The slide of our skin together, sticky and hot as we were, was something deliriously good. His muscles burned heat into mine; our mouths caught together, lingered, and we were breathing ragged gasps into each other‘s mouths. Beside us the candle flickered dimly, the sole witness to our exploration. Bren‘s fingers played up my spine, nimble as a pianist‘s, and I bore down on him, grinding our cocks together, an intuitive movement no one had taught me, of which I had no knowledge. It simply felt right, felt like the extension of the frenetic embraces and pushing together of our upper bodies. I ached then for the release I‘d always found so purposeless, and I grunted, hands hardening over Bren‘s arms, holding him down as I reared up and shifted against him to find the best possible way to bring that rush of red hot sensation. Yes, like this I could feel it, like this I could reach that peak; I was lost in the chafing heat, not caring if it hurt, not caring what happened tomorrow, if I never moved again, so long as I didn‘t stop moving right then. I might have kept grinding there, finding my way to the end and then collapsing, had Bren not shifted his weight in the wrong direction, bringing a cry of pain from him that stilled me. ―Bren,‖ I whispered, scrambling up and off him. ―Bren, did I hurt you? Are you—‖ He looped his good hand up around the nape of my neck and pulled me in. From man I was pulled right back to boy, panting and starstruck in the light of his steady gaze. ―What?‖ He smiled, and his hand trailed down my neck to my chest, my stomach, then closed over the hard ridge in my breeches. I gasped and made a noise with no dignity or sense to it. The feel of his hand, that warm, beautiful piece of him, closing over me was overwhelming in a way even our desperate grinding had not been. I swallowed hard, my eyes wide open as he sat up, guiding me to sit as well, and worked the button and rope on my breeches until they opened and billowed out like dispersing clouds.
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I was fully naked for him then, breeches and stockings and shirt gone, and as he pressed ardent kisses across my shoulders and chest, I could scarce breathe for the wild whips of lightning scorching me. When I did breathe, I expelled it in a moan. Gently his hand stroked me, wrapping a tight ring of fingers around me and sliding up and down, twisting, expert, practiced, artless. It should not have been a surprise to me that he knew how to draw out pleasure—like me, he‘d lain in his bunk and breathed fast and sharp to get the pangs of longing out—but now the idea was no longer benign. I pictured Bren alone, overheated, sighing as good feelings wracked his body, and it sent me even further into mindlessness. I reached out, eager to reciprocate, and his lips met mine in a busy tangle-clash of a kiss. We were likely making sounds now that the others could hear, were they awake. It no longer mattered. It was all we could do not to shout aloud. He gasped, and his fingers slid to a halt as I inched his breeches down, exposed him. The fine red crest of his cock was messy, damp, and when my fingers slid over the wet stuff, he moaned loudly through gritted teeth. ―Bren,‖ I whispered, mouth puffing soft breath into his. ―Bren, oh God.‖ ―Love you, Tom,‖ he was whispering back. ―So, so much.‖ A thousand short kisses, lips puckering and smacking and parting. tongues licking over each other‘s mouths. His fingers nimble and now sticky on my cockhead too. The divine, soft sound of his breaths, the rise and fall of his chest next to mine. Our nakedness, mirroring each other, together, closer and closer together. At last, when I could stand it no more, I pulled hard on his shoulder, flattening him below me. We were still tumbling together to the cot when my release hit me, and I shouted, spurting hot white over the tanned stretch of his stomach, feeling as though stars were blazing before my eyes. A moment later I felt him pulse in my hand, and then we were both crying out, both breaking into a thousand pieces, clinging together, falling through the darkness. I felt weightless and weighted, heavy and airy at once. My limbs seemed to float, skin against Bren‘s skin in the barest of a feathery touch. Yet the bulk of me sank down into the tiny cot with lazy insistence. The groan I gave was contented.
54 | ELLEN HOLIDAY After a moment, Bren cleared his throat to speak. ―I feel,‖ he said, ―as though I‘ve been moved. I‘m here, and it‘s you, but everything‘s gone different somehow.‖ I laughed and pressed a kiss to his chest. ―Perhaps we‘ve gone into that other world,‖ I said. ―Perhaps when we go above deck, there‘ll be dragons.‖ ―If there are dragons, we should stay below deck,‖ he quipped, and I laughed again. But Bren had gone still, and his fingers touched my lips, his body alive, arched like a cat‘s. ―Listen.‖ I quieted. A creak from above, the sound of the masts moving. And our cot, still as our lazy bodies a moment ago, was starting to shift beneath us. ―The wind,‖ he said, and the dying candle painted the dimples that sank into his cheeks as he smiled. ―Aye,‖ I said, and then, because I could, ―or dragons.‖ ―Tom!‖ He very nearly rolled me off my own cot. I fought back against the shove, barreling my body into his, and as we laughed, alight with a newborn love as fresh and heady as sea air, the boat began to pitch further, until the regular roll of the waves had returned. Somewhere above, a shout of joy came up from the gang on deck. We were in motion once again. I thought then not of dragons but of the power of the old gods. I had seen them, and Bren was right, they existed after all—within him. His zephyr‘s magic had stirred us back to life. And that I will believe to my dying day. And so, if you ask me one more time why I love the sea, I may tell you this: Once, in still waters, I was touched by the West Wind. And ever since, he has been at my back.
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ELLEN HOLIDAY started writing at the age of five and never stopped. Her passion has always been for romance, for the magic moment when words are no longer needed, breath stops, and the whole world consists of two souls connecting. Writing that moment, and all the madness surrounding it in every situation, remains her passion every day of her life. She works in Washington, D.C., where the mix of history, beauty, and politics keeps her constantly intrigued, and lives just west of the city with her husband, with whom she shares a love of science fiction, gaming, and all things geeky. They also share plenty of romantic moments of their own. Ellen Holiday can be contacted at
[email protected].
THE GOLDEN GALLEON K.R. FOSTER
FLYNN Olsen glared at his cell phone, but it didn‘t stop ringing. The blasted contraption hadn‘t been quiet for almost ten minutes now, even though he ignored each incoming call. It fell silent for a moment, then buzzed and skittered across the coffee table his feet were propped on. That would make the thirteenth voicemail, assuming he hadn‘t lost track, of course. A blessed lack of noise. Finally! Leaning back against the comfortable couch, Flynn turned the page of his book. He had waited months for the newest Jonathan Froste novel, and nothing was going to—Ring! Ring! ―All right, damn it!‖ Slamming the book shut, the thump sounding louder than the phone, Flynn set it down on the coffee table as he swung his bare feet to the carpet. If he hadn‘t promised his partner to always leave the thing on, he would‘ve turned it off or thrown it at the wall already. Flynn pressed the talk button and snarled, ―It‘s Sunday!‖ Sunday was his only official day off; he hated interruptions on Sunday. ―I know, but we‘re packed.‖ ―It‘s Sunday,‖ he repeated, as if that would cause the restaurant he was assistant manager of to miraculously empty and leave him to his book.
THE GOLDEN GALLEON | 57 ―I know, Flynn!‖ The bustle and yelling voices of the kitchen staff could be heard over the phone line, even though the kitchen was on the other side of the office he and Jason used to make their calls. ―I need two shipwrecks and a jolly roger!‖ Flynn gritted his teeth. Days like this didn‘t happen often, despite how popular their restaurant was. The Golden Galleon had been his and Jason‘s dream ever since college; it was doing well. However, as expected, it took a great deal of time to run a successful restaurant. Especially one in a big city that was popular with rich clientele. He stared longingly at the black and white photo of the woman crying blood on the book jacket, and then resigned himself to forfeiting what little remained of his free time. ―Yeah, all right.‖ He scrubbed a hand through his short hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp. ―I‘ll be there as soon as I can.‖ Jason sighed. ―Thanks, Flynn.‖ ―You owe me big time for this,‖ he muttered before cutting off the call. Flynn stood and stalked down the hall to his and Jason‘s bedroom. As first mate of The Golden Galleon, his uniform wasn‘t as elaborate as Jason‘s, but it was more detailed than those the waiters, waitresses, and hostesses wore. The butter-soft black breeches slid up his legs with the ease of long practice. A toothy smile consumed his face when he remembered how difficult it had first been to don them; they were skintight and stuck to his skin like leather pants. The knee-high black boots came next—solid and worn from years of use. His shirt was white with flowing, puffy sleeves and cut low in the front. After fastening the wide belt with its massive brass buckle, Flynn grabbed a black and silver bandana and stalked into the bathroom. He smoothed his auburn hair away from his face and tied it beneath the swath of fabric. ―Oh, I hate this part.‖ He made mocking faces at himself in the mirror above the sink as he expertly drew eyeliner around his startling blue eyes. Makeup was for girls. It was a truly stupid decision on his and Jason‘s part to include it in the dress code.
58 | K.R. FOSTER As he stomped down the hallway to the front door, his phone began ringing again. Flynn rolled his eyes and snatched it off the coffee table. He flipped it open, said, ―I‘m really coming,‖ and then snapped it shut. His exasperation and annoyance shifted to slight amusement. Jason hated when he did that. Then again, he didn‘t like when Jason called back to check on his progress; he had only forgotten and become absorbed in a book one time. Too bad Jason wasn‘t the type of man who would let a person forget such instances. Teasing was one of his less attractive qualities, of which there were many. If Flynn didn‘t love Jason, he would‘ve punched him years ago. After scooping his keys off the table beside the front door, he left the apartment and locked it behind him. Whistling jauntily, he strolled over and poked the elevator button; the doors dinged open immediately. The ride down to the garage of their apartment complex took a little over a minute, but it felt like ages. Time always seemed to drag on forever when he wasn‘t doing as he wished on his day off. ―Ninety-nine bottles of rum on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of rum…‖ he sang as he unlocked and slid into the red Toyota. He dropped his cell on the passenger seat, buckled his seatbelt, and then shoved the key in the ignition. The damn car started! There went his excuse to stay home. Sighing, Flynn pulled out of the garage and into traffic. It was just after eight in the evening, so traffic wasn‘t all that bad. The Sunday crowd at The Golden Galleon was usually tapering off a bit by this point. They tended to get slammed between four and eight when most people had their evening meal. It had been months since he‘d had no choice but to go help supervise the crew on a Sunday. He tried not to resent them for it. Several of their waiters had graduated from college in the last few months and moved away. They were hard boots to fill; regular waiting experience didn‘t mean much in their restaurant, because performing experience was equally important. They didn‘t have waiters and waitresses, but cabin boys and wenches. About twenty minutes later, Flynn turned into the staff parking lot at The Golden Galleon and pulled into his spot. He grabbed his phone
THE GOLDEN GALLEON | 59 and then got out of the car. There were, admittedly, a decent amount of cars in the lot, but it wasn‘t jam-packed. His footsteps rang loudly against the concrete as he stared at his restaurant. Miniature anchors framed either side of a wooden sign that read ―The Golden Galleon.‖ The O‘s were doubloons and the L‘s were peg legs. All the windows were round, just like portholes, and the paint job resembled real wooden planks. Flynn curled his fingers around the door handle and tugged it open. His eyes narrowed at the sight that met him: the overflow seating area was empty. Grinding his teeth together, he stalked toward the wooden desk the hostesses used to greet the guests. It was currently occupied by two women in low-cut blouses and flowing skirts. They wore large, gold hoop earrings and bright lipstick. ―Fighting Flynn, it‘s your day off, sir!‖ said Alissa. The shocked look on her face told Flynn all he needed to know—the restaurant wasn‘t slammed tonight. ―I know, wench,‖ he ground out. She brightened at the title like a true theater major; Alissa saw her job as just another role to play. ―Then why‘re you here, sir?‖ Sara asked as she shoved a long lock of blonde hair over her shoulder. ―I thought that book you‘ve been waiting for finally came out.‖ ―It did.‖ He wished for a pistol so that he could shoot Jason in the foot. Jason knew how much he had been looking forward to a quiet night off—reading and relaxation. ―The captain called me in.‖ ―Whatever for, First Mate Flynn? We‘re not that busy.‖ ―To amuse him, apparently.‖ He hooked his hands around his thick belt and glanced around, assuring himself that everything was as it should be. Hooks sprouted from the walls, holding lanterns to light up each booth. The various miniature pirate ships in glass bottles were recessed in the walls above the tables, colored lights giving them a ghostly feel. The sound of splashing water had him craning his neck. In the middle of the restaurant was a shallow pool of water that held colorful fish. A wooden board jutted partway over the water, resembling a gangplank that guests were asked not to walk. He didn‘t want to imagine the conniption fit their insurance company would throw if a customer got injured on it.
60 | K.R. FOSTER Once a month they held a show with fake swords and a volunteer waiter who got caught planning a mutiny against Captain Lane. This month‘s event had taken place last night; One-Eyed Pete had tried to poison the captain‘s rum. ―Do you want me to fetch the captain, sir?‖ asked Alissa. ―No! I‘m just going to take a nap. The captain can fetch me himself if he wants me that badly.‖ Flynn stretched and stepped behind the wooden hostess desk. A long, cushioned bench extended out of the wall, and he lounged back on it, arms folded behind his head. He tossed his cell phone and keys to Alissa, who caught them and placed them in one of the drawers. The wenches tittered. ―Can I get you supper, sir?‖ As soon as the word passed Sara‘s lips, Flynn‘s stomach rumbled. He always forgot to eat while he was reading, telling himself he would go get something after this chapter. ―This chapter‖ inevitably became ―one more‖ and so on. ―Thank you, wench. Supper would be lovely.‖ ―What would you like?‖ What did he want? A burger? A steak? Chicken? ―Peg Leg Paul says the cannonball platter is especially good tonight, sir.‖ He didn‘t want spaghetti and meatballs. ―No.‖ Alissa smiled down at him. ―Might I suggest the treasure chest, Fighting Flynn?‖ Hmm, the appetizer combination plate was delicious, but he wasn‘t in the mood for deep fried green beans, mozzarella sticks, or buffalo wings, and those comprised half the plate. ―No.‖ ―Mast and sails?‖ ―Seaweed salad?‖ Not the garden salad; he‘d had that yesterday for lunch. His fingers curled and tugged lightly on his hair beneath the bandana. Steak and potatoes did sound good… but he wasn‘t sure he felt like using silverware. This was his day off, damn it! He was supposed to be unconscionably lazy. That left finger food. Burger and onion rings, then. ―I‘ll take an eye patch, well-done, with a side of doubloons.‖ ―An eye patch, well-done, with a side of doubloons,‖ repeated
THE GOLDEN GALLEON | 61 Alissa. Her theater major ensured she had sharp memorization skills and was one of the main reasons they had hired her. If she weren‘t so slender, he would‘ve bet a pile of gold—not that he actually had a pile of gold, because he didn‘t—that she would be their highest grossing waitress. As it was, she had tried and failed to carry their heavy, wooden serving trays. ―Right.‖ ―Would you like deep blue sea or parrot‘s piss with that, sir?‖ Sara asked. ―Parrot‘s piss,‖ Flynn said. Lemonade was better than water every day of the year, especially lemonade made with real lemons. ―I‘ll go let the cook know,‖ Alissa said before walking around the desk and out of sight. ―You and the captain have a row?‖ Sara asked worriedly. Her empathy was one of the reasons they had hired her—that and her openmindedness. He and Jason didn‘t want any stupid bigots working for them. If an applicant couldn‘t handle their homosexuality, they weren‘t hired onto the crew. ―No. I don‘t know what his problem is,‖ he grumbled. He let Jason have Wednesdays all to himself, damn it! Every healthy relationship required some time apart. He hadn‘t gotten sick of Jason in six years, and he didn‘t expect it to happen any time soon. ―It‘s a good book too.‖ If he had been by himself, he would‘ve cursed. Pirates cursed, but not in front of customers. That was one of their ironclad rules. ―I know!‖ The smirk on Sara‘s face was wicked enough to belong to a demon. ―I can‘t believe that he killed off—‖ Flynn jumped up and slapped a hand over her painted lips, eyes narrowed in a cutting glare. ―If you spoil Forget-Me-Never, I will fire you.‖ He wasn‘t joking. Jonathan Froste was the only author who continuously surprised him; a gift like that was to be cherished. She gave his rough palm a wet, smacking kiss. Flynn wrinkled his nose and wiped the lipstick onto his pants. ―Cute. Real cute.‖ ―Don‘t let the captain hear you say that,‖ Alissa said as she clomped back around the desk in her three-inch heels. ―Lane‘s the jealous type.‖ ―Oh, you have no idea,‖ Flynn mumbled.
62 | K.R. FOSTER ―Really?‖ She folded her arms beneath her chest, shoving her breasts even higher; he feared they might spill from the loose, offshoulder blouse. ―I seem to remember him barring O‘Reilly from the restaurant for weeks after he wrote his number on a napkin and slid it in your pocket.‖ He couldn‘t exactly argue with that, seeing as it was true. ―And he wouldn‘t let Laura Samuels have shipwrecks for a month after she grabbed your‖—she glanced over her shoulder, but no one was anywhere near them—―bits.‖ Laura was one of their regulars and loved the shipwreck dessert: an amalgamation of brownies, cookies, ice cream, and candy. She had fondled his ass on a dare, had even made sure to ask his permission first. Flynn figured Jason was really upset that he had given her the go-ahead, because he knew Flynn wasn‘t the least bit interested in women. He rubbed the back of his neck and felt his cheeks heating. ―Yeah, there was that.‖ ―And when that new waiter offered to blow you in the privy, he—‖ ―All right!‖ he snapped. ―Clearly, you have more than an idea.‖ Flynn supposed the evidence looked more incriminating when it was piled all together than when it was separated over time. The girls giggled at him. ―Can‘t blame the captain, though. If you were mine, I wouldn‘t want to share either,‖ Sara said before winking with great over-exaggeration. ―I‘m glad you agree with my point of view, Miss Sara. I can‘t abide crew members who think for themselves.‖ Flynn winced in unison with Alissa and Sara. Sighing, he let his eyes meander away from the scuffmark on his right boot. His gaze collided with Jason‘s broad shoulders and chest. The Golden Galleon‘s captain was stocky, muscled, with a neck that was just a smidgeon too short. His arms and legs were long, and his hands were thick and wide. The lengthy, weather-beaten jacket he wore over a shirt almost identical to Flynn‘s lent an air of maturity and experience to him. His nose had been broken three times, and his chin was sharp. The grand, feathered hat on his head hung down and shielded his eyes. His hands rested on the butts of two fake pistols that slotted through his belt as he stood, legs braced apart and lips tugged down in a fierce scowl.
THE GOLDEN GALLEON | 63 ―I‘ve been waiting for you,‖ Jason said. I hate waiting went unspoken between them. They both disliked a lack of punctuality in themselves and others. ―I figured as much.‖ Flynn stretched his arms and arched his back, turning his head to hide the smirk that formed when Jason‘s eyes devoured him. They were always starving for each other, even when they had just finished. Besides, Jason deserved to be punished after dragging him away from his book and pajamas and their quiet apartment. ―Why have I been waiting?‖ ―Why have you been waiting?‖ ―Why didn‘t you come to the office immediately upon your arrival?‖ ―Why did you lie to me to get me here?‖ Jason‘s eyes flashed beneath the brim of the battered hat. ―Because I—‖ He stopped and snarled, hands fisting the pistol butts. Snorting, Alissa rolled her eyes and stepped between them. She pointed a long, red fingernail at Jason. ―Captain, you called Flynn and lied to him to get him to come in because you‘re bored and lonely.‖ When he would‘ve contested that, she shushed him. She turned and pointed that same finger at Flynn. ―You gave up your day off because you love the captain more than whatever masterpiece Jonathan Froste has written now.‖ Sara placed a hand over her plump lips and snickered. Flynn scowled. Of course, he loved reading too, but books were only a short escape from real life—a vacation without actually going anywhere. Jason was who he came home to. ―Now stop being stubborn, Fighting Flynn. Be a good first mate and attend to your captain.‖ She waggled her eyebrows at him, causing him to groan loudly as Sara bit her lip to keep from bursting into laughter. Thoroughly chastised, Flynn swung his boots onto the wood flooring and got to his feet. He spread his arms wide and pasted a beaming grin on his face. ―Jason, I‘m here! Sorry for the delay. Traffic was a bitch! What can I do to help?‖ Jason‘s lips twitched. ―I need you in the office.‖ ―But my supper‘s not here yet!‖ Flynn protested. He was really hungry.
64 | K.R. FOSTER ―Now, Flynn!‖ Jason‘s voice dropped an octave and got all gravelly. He didn‘t take that tone often; Flynn loved it when he did. It made his breeches uncomfortably tight, because that tone was attached directly to his cock. ―I‘m coming, Captain,‖ he purred. He winked at the girls when they snorted. ―Hold supper until the captain‘s finished with me, wenches.‖ ―Aye aye, sir!‖ they chorused. Flynn and Jason wended their way through the tables, smiling and waving at regular guests but not stopping to speak with anyone. Each step Jason took was purposeful and heightened Flynn‘s curiosity and arousal. His eyes had shone with a wicked light. Something was up. Jason opened the door to their office and barked, ―In!‖ After they both entered the spacious room, Jason closed the door behind them. The click of the lock could barely be heard over the loudness of Flynn‘s breathing, his attention immediately claimed by the object standing in the middle of the office. ―Where did you find it?‖ he asked reverently. His cock was so hard that he was shocked it didn‘t slice through the cloth constraining it like a cutlass piercing flesh. ―I had it custom made.‖ Flynn stepped forward, eyes riveted on the wooden sculpture. They had hunted for one of these for ages with no luck. ―Must‘ve been expensive.‖ ―It‘s worth every penny,‖ Jason said, voice gruff. ―Oh, I don‘t doubt that.‖ Flynn‘s fingers trailed over the smooth wood. It had been sanded to perfection; not a single inch of it was rough or splintery. Jason stepped up behind him and rubbed his hard cock against Flynn‘s ass. Flynn pushed back, and they both moaned. ―Worth abandoning your day off for?‖ asked Jason. His breath wisped along the shell of Flynn‘s ear and sent shivers serenading down his spine. ―Hell yes!‖ His head fell back as Jason began nibbling his neck, teeth teasing the straining tendons. ―You‘re forgiven,‖ he added. Sex fantasies trumped novels—always. Even people with amnesia knew that. After taking a step back, Jason drew one of his pistols and poked it into Flynn‘s lower back. ―Flynn Olsen, also known as Fighting Flynn and First Mate Flynn, you are hereby charged with piracy, plundering, pillaging, and unlawfully lusting after your captain‘s cock. How do you plead?‖
THE GOLDEN GALLEON | 65 ―Oh, Captain,‖ Flynn drawled as he forced his ass backward and rubbed it against the steel-hard length behind him, ―I am completely and utterly guilty.‖ ―I know,‖ Jason whispered against his ear before straightening. ―Therefore, I sentence you to half an hour in the stocks.‖ Flynn shivered as Jason lifted the top bar of the stocks, and he willingly put his hands and neck in the carved grooves. His breathing sped up as Jason settled the top over him and locked it in place. A booted foot kicked his legs farther apart, and then metal cuffs were being closed around his ankles over the tops of his boots. Groaning, he hung his head as much as he could. When Jason‘s hands went to work at his belt buckle and pants, Flynn had to fight back his orgasm. He knew they shouldn‘t be doing this here. The Golden Galleon was a restaurant, their livelihood, and the Health Department would throw a hissy fit if there was evidence of sex occurring inside a food establishment. At that moment, he just didn‘t give a flying fuck. Only Sara and Alissa had any idea of what they might possibly be doing, and neither girl would dare to say anything. The Golden Galleon provided a fun and safe work environment that paid good wages. Rich clients tipped well. It wasn‘t something most people would willingly forfeit. ―I‘ve been thinking about this all day,‖ Jason admitted as he peeled Flynn‘s pants down just enough to reveal his bare ass. He slid one blunt finger down Flynn‘s crack, dipping it inside the hole that was still slightly loose from their morning activities. Thank fuck he hadn‘t known about this, or else Flynn would‘ve been useless right now. He would‘ve spent all day jacking off to thoughts of being fucked like this: open and helpless. ―Oh?‖ he managed to gasp out. Jason fingered his prostate and grunted when Flynn pressed back, desperately seeking more contact. ―I love it when you submit to me, Flynn. When you prove that you belong to me.‖ Jason pushed a second finger inside with the first and bit Flynn‘s earlobe. ―When you give it all up for me, I want nothing more than to stuff my cock inside you and keep it there forever.‖
66 | K.R. FOSTER Flynn emitted a keening whine at that, ejaculate dripping from his slit and running in a rivulet down his thigh. The muscles in his shoulders bunched, and he both hated and loved that he couldn‘t thrust back farther and force the invading digits deeper. ―Does that sound good, mate?‖ Flynn moaned, eyes rolling into the back of his head as Jason‘s fingers prodded his prostate. ―Well, does it?‖ Nodding as well as he could in the stocks, Flynn cursed his tongue for falling mute at a time like this. It sounded brilliant. He wanted that, wanted Jason, and had ever since they first started dating seriously back in college. The sound of metal scraping against metal and a leather belt sliding through pant loops echoed through the room. Flynn could barely hear it; his heartbeat was so loud in his ears that he might as well be deaf to everything else in the world. The belt hit the floor. As clothing rustled behind him, he whined needily in the back of his throat. Jason‘s cockhead brushed across his left ass check; it was damp and all-too-ready, from the feel of things. Good. He didn‘t know how much longer he could wait. ―Is this what you want?‖ Jason‘s erection dragged down his crack, catching for a moment on his loosened hole before skipping down to kiss his balls. Flynn nodded as best he could and groaned his assent. ―Sure ‘bout that, mate? Can ye ‘andle it?‖ The smarmy accent almost sent him over the edge, but Jason was quick to fist the base of his erection and squeeze, staving off his release a while longer. ―Yes,‖ Flynn finally bit out, sounding as if he had been mauled by a pride of lions. ―That‘s all your captain needed to hear, love.‖ Then Jason‘s massive hands were spreading his cheeks wide, and the thick length stopped bumping his hole and pushed right into it. Something that only vaguely resembled a human voice slaughtered its way from his throat as Jason impaled him in one slow thrust. The sound was stifled by Jason‘s hand.
THE GOLDEN GALLEON | 67 Once Jason‘s balls met his ass, the inevitable question came. ―You all right?‖ ―Yes,‖ Flynn hissed. Thankfully, Jason took him at his word and didn‘t stop to ask him any other questions. The cock in his ass filled him as wonderfully as always—each stroke stabbing his prostate and sending semen dripping from his cock. Fiery pleasure flash-flooded through his veins, undammed and unstoppable. ―All mine,‖ Jason said after a particularly rough thrust. Teeth and lips assaulted Flynn‘s back and neck, but he didn‘t mind in the least. He loved being marked. He needed somewhere to belong, and his somewhere happened to be a someone—Jason. Just as Jason needed someone who was his and his alone. Parents were liars: sharing sucked balls. Flynn‘s brain shorted out after that thought, because he was coming. He shot his load all over the smooth wood, his chest, his pants; he made a fucking mess, is what he did. But that was nothing compared to the mess Jason made when he arched his hips, slammed deep, climaxed, and then continued fucking through his own semen as it poured out of Flynn‘s ass and down his legs. In fact, Jason kept moving as if he could permanently stuff his essence inside of Flynn. He might as well tattoo Captain Jason Lane was here or Property of Captain Jason Lane on Flynn‘s ass. Except that neither of them were into tattoos. That made Jason‘s primal claiming more effective and powerful. Every muscle in Flynn‘s back, chest, and arms was screaming from the strain when Jason collapsed against him and finally fell still. Even though the annoying tingly feeling was setting in, he didn‘t object. Just as he had submitted to being chained to the stocks, Flynn had shackled himself to Jason—his lover and pirate captain. He could only assume that Jason had future plans for the stocks. Whether they were placed out on the restaurant‘s main floor or not didn‘t matter, because Flynn already knew that he would be the only one with the pleasure of being imprisoned by them. He was, after all, the captain‘s favorite and willing prisoner.
68 | K.R. FOSTER
K.R. FOSTER has wanted to be a published author since the age of twelve. That goal was brought into focus when she became the features editor of her school paper and graduated at the top of her class. K.R. enjoys every part of the writing process and edits stories for other writers frequently. She lives in the Northwestern United States with her sister, staying indoors so much that her room‘s often referred to as a ―cave.‖ K.R. is very open-minded and engages in debate and deep conversation whenever possible. You can contact her at
[email protected].
MY HAND IN YOURS EMILY MORETON
LIVING on the coast, most of the sea people were fishermen, sailing out in the early morning on a summoned wind and drifting back in with the waves. I‘d see them going out as I was walking home at the end of a night of keeping the peace, crossing the cliff top to my cottage. Maybe I should have seen the ship, though powers know none of the cliff guardians spotted anything. First I knew was a man dressed head to toe in black but for the red bandana in his equally dark hair, his booted feet crossed at the ankle as he reclined against the wall of my cottage. His eyes were closed, his face turned up to the sun. He was certainly the best thing I‘d seen in more days than I could count. ―Can I help you?‖ He rolled his head down to look at me, a gold tooth glinting as he smiled. ―You‘re the town peacekeeper, they tell me.‖ ―And you are?‖ ―A man looking for you.‖ ―Someone else has duty now.‖ He smiled again, full of charm and innuendo. ―Maybe I‘m not looking for you to keep any peace.‖ That sounded more promising than any other plans I had for my day. That said, everyone knew better than to break their wards by inviting a stranger into their home, and peacekeepers knew better than most. ―You have a name, at least?‖ ―Not one that you‘ll know.‖
70 | EMILY MORETON I couldn‘t help the way my eyes tracked his body, head to foot. He was a man who knew how to dress to draw the eye, or so he seemed to me. ―That would be why I asked.‖ ―Why don‘t you tell me yours first?‖ ―You don‘t know it? Being as how you know where I live and what I do.‖ His eyebrow quirked, amusement written all over his features. Even knowing it was likely at my expense, I couldn‘t stop a return smile. ―No man can know everything,‖ he said. ―Though I would surely say I know a deal about most things.‖ More and more promising. ―Jack Tanner.‖ I stepped closer to offer him my hand and saw a pistol hanging from his belt where I‘d missed it before. Not that they weren‘t permitted, but few people carried them, mostly relying on magic and other means of defense. Unless he didn‘t carry it for defense. ―A pleasure to meet you, Jack Tanner.‖ He took my hand in his, which was firm and dry, callused in interesting places. Maybe best not to think of that with his hand still around mine. ―Roberts.‖ ―No first name?‖ ―Some call me Rob. Or Robbie, but not so many with that.‖ We were still holding hands, and he seemed no more inclined to let go than I was. ―So, now we‘re past the names, can we move to the reason for your presence at my door?‖ He squeezed my hand and released it. ―Mainly that I couldn‘t get further than there.‖ ―And you want to?‖ We were close enough to each other that I could feel the heat of his skin, smell the saltwater clinging to it. ―A deal further than just inside the door,‖ he agreed. ―Rumor has it you might be a man to seek out after too many days without.‖ I couldn‘t help the way my eyes widened in surprise at the blatant offer after barely more than introductions, and his smile quirked to the side in response. ―I don‘t think this is so much of an offer that you‘ll be wanting to turn down.‖ It wasn‘t as though he was wrong. ―Well then, step inside.‖
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He prowled round my one-room cottage as I locked the door and removed my boots. Usually I‘d be nervous about someone else in the small space, too aware of the precarious piles of books and the smoldering fire, but it seemed he was a sea man, and I‘d seen the inside of their cabins. By comparison, my cottage was palatial. ―Small bed,‖ he commented, looking down at the patchwork quilt spread over the mattress, the single white pillow. I shrugged. ―Not usually anyone in it but me.‖ ―We can surely change that.‖ I was ready for a little more conversation, a little more flirtation, even. Instead his hand closed around my wrist, and I was tumbled down into the mess of covers, his body over mine as he kissed me, stubble scraping my skin, his mouth tasting salty, a hint of tobacco beneath it. I buried my hands in his thick hair, tangling my fingers in it as he groaned in my mouth. His weight pressed me into the bed, his tongue pressing into my mouth, tangling with my own. I shifted, pressing closer to him, and his legs fell open, his thighs bracketing mine, his groin pressed against me. I felt his hardness and pushed up into it. Maybe we had only just met, and barely met at that, but he was what I wanted right then. I pushed at his clothes, fighting buttons and ties and laces with fingers gone clumsy with desire and lust. He seemed to have less of that problem—it took him the work of moments to have my clothes opened and pushed away. The feel of his clothes rubbing against my naked skin, the tantalizing flashes of his own skin against mine, were an unexpected thrill, and when he rubbed his still clothed erection against my own, I may have let out a sound close to a whimper. He leaned back, my mouth gaping open at the loss of his lips against mine. His eyes were dark, flashed darker as I reached up to push his shirt away. In the fading light of the day, shadows played over his shifting muscles as he reached for the lamp oil I kept by the bed, pouring it over his fingers. One eyebrow went up in what I could only read as a challenge; I spread my legs and moaned at the first push of his slick finger where none had been for longer than I cared to remember.
72 | EMILY MORETON He prepared me only just enough to allow him entrance. He was long, hard, and thick, and I couldn‘t contain the low groan that slipped out of me as he pushed in, his balls resting against me. He took me like a man who had been far too long without, pounding me so hard I had to grip the headboard to keep from being crushed into it. His hands were tight on my hips, helping to hold me where he wanted me, my own member slapping against my stomach as he thrust into me, taking me, his breath heaving. I‘d never yet finished without something on my dick to help me, but I was far from sure that would stay true. I felt myself approaching my climax, rocking my hips to meet his every thrust, gasping as he lit me up from inside. ―I‘m close,‖ I managed to moan out. ―I‘m—‖ To my amazement, he froze, his cock pulsing inside me as he moaned, clearly climaxing in me. ―Did you?‖ I asked anyway. He shuddered once more, dropping his forehead to my shoulder. ―Did I say that it‘s been some time?‖ he asked. I rocked my hips up, letting him feel my erection, leaking against his stomach. He shuddered again. ―Did I say that I was close?‖ I asked. ―And still am.‖ He pushed himself up, his grin wicked. ―Then allow me to finish you.‖ I know I whimpered as he pulled out of me—sensitive from too long without that kind of penetration—but that hardly mattered in the face of how I screamed at his mouth on me, sucking me hard, teeth scraping at the head. I couldn‘t even draw breath to warn him, my climax took me so quickly. When it was finally over, I pushed him weakly away from me, then shuddered again as he met my eyes, thumbing a smear of my release from his bottom lip. ―I believe you may have finished me completely,‖ I managed. His grin was almost childishly pleased, in a way that made me want to reach out for him and hold him close, though I still barely knew him. ―Then my work here is done,‖ he said. ―You‘re leaving?‖ I asked, disturbed to hear a note of alarm in my voice for all that he was still lying half-naked beneath my legs. ―You did say you were finished.‖
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I couldn‘t stop my yawn. ―Finished for now,‖ I corrected. ―It would take more than that to finish me for good.‖ ―Well then.‖ He shifted until he was lying beside me, his arm against mine. ―Perhaps I might stay a little longer.‖
I AWOKE in the predawn gray, dragging my eyes open, exhausted from the second round we‘d partaken in. I was not entirely surprised to find Rob sitting at the foot of the bed, pulling on his boots. He must have sensed me stirring, as he turned, his eyes bright in the gloom. ―I have to leave,‖ he said quietly. ―My ship sails with the sun.‖ I was no more surprised to hear that than I had been to see him pulling on his boots; my disappointment was another matter. ―I saw no ship come in yesterday.‖ His grin was almost feral. ―You would not, unless we wished it.‖ I knew then what I had probably known the moment I saw him but had been unwilling to admit. ―A pirate.‖ ―Of a sort,‖ he agreed. ―Of the sort who sails into port and seduces the peacekeeper while his men sack the town?‖ I struggled to tell if it was anger that I felt or something more like sadness. Naked on my back in my own bed, I rather felt it might have been closer to the latter. Particularly when he reached over to trace a fingertip down my cheek and over my bottom lip. ―Not so much of that sort, no. Of the sort who wanted to seduce a man he had heard spoken of throughout the town, and seen about there too.‖ I shivered at the obvious desire in his voice, and stroked my hand up the length of his thigh, ghosting over the hard package between his legs. ―Then perhaps once more to remember me by.‖ He leaned over and kissed me hard, his tongue pushing into my mouth, our teeth clicking together with the force of it, and then he was leaning back again, leaving me breathless. ―This will not be the only time we spend together,‖ he said, his voice low with the force of a promise. ―You can trust me for that.‖ He was gone before I could find a response.
74 | EMILY MORETON
I ADMIT to a certain trepidation as I made my way down into the town, despite his implied assurance that his men had not sacked it while I lay drowsy and sated beside him. However, it seemed that I‘d had no need to fear; the town was as perfect and quiet as it ever was in the early morning viewed from the cliff top path. I made my way down the path my eyes turned out to sea, trying to spot Rob‘s ship as it sailed away. I saw nothing and was not surprised by this. I did not, in truth, expect that I would ever see him again.
BUT, as is often the case, my expectations turned out not to be so accurate as I thought, and it was barely a handful of months before I returned to my cottage one evening to find a familiar black-clad figure standing outside it. ―Fair evening,‖ I called to him. His grin was wide and charming—far more so than his sly and wicked grins had been—and I could only return it. ―Fair evening, Peacekeeper. You‘re late.‖ ―I wasn‘t aware I‘d a guest to return for.‖ I was close enough to touch him, but his hands hung loose at his sides, and I was not willing to be the first to reach out. ―And now that you are aware?‖ he asked. ―Then it would be only right to invite him in.‖ I made to step past him, lower the wards on my door, and drag him to my bed. Before I could, though, his hand closed once more on my wrist, and I found myself pushed up against the wall of my own cottage, the wood warm at my back, his body warm at my front. My prick showed its interest in the position before my brain had processed it, and his indicated similar feelings. ―Tell me, Peacekeeper, is this something you‘d have to bind me over for?‖ My mind went immediately to places it should probably not be going. ―Only if it was to disturb the peace.‖
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He smiled, slow and knowing, and nudged his thigh against my groin, making me groan. ―I don‘t remember you being all that peaceful last time.‖ I wanted him—more than I wanted to feel his muscular thigh between mine, more than I wanted that slow, deep voice in my ear, I wanted him inside me. The buttons of his pants were easier to manage this time, and I hardly cared that we‘d both be bound over if anyone should stumble upon us. No one would up here, and I wasn‘t sure I‘d have been able to stop had we been in the middle of the main street, not once I had him in my hand, hot and hard, not when he was pushing spitslick fingers into me. Not when I was wrapping my legs around his waist, feeling him push into me as our mouths crashed together, teeth and tongues and the half-familiar taste of salt on his lips. He took me as he had the first time, deep and hard, every thrust ripping a cry from my throat. My own cock rubbed against the shirt that still covered his stomach, the material dampening as my cock swelled, leaking steadily. The wall was firm at my back, his body firm under my hands as I clung to him, barely held in place by his hands on me. ―Will you—ugh—finish like this?‖ he asked, pulling his mouth from mine. I shook my head, though I thought I could, perhaps—I had the second time, before, face down on my own mattress, pinned and moaning. ―Touch me.‖ His mouth on me had been a delight, but his hand, huge and warm, with calluses in so many interesting places, was something yet more intense. I wanted to go on like that forever, caught between the sun and his skin, his cock driving such perfect pleasure into my body. Instead his skin rasped against mine, his thumb rubbed at the slick, sensitive head, and I could no more have lasted than I could have taken to the sky and flown away. My climax shook me from head to foot as he continued to thrust inside me, endless pulses of pleasure that I thought would never stop. When it was finally over, I hung limp beneath him, my head tipped back against the wall, my neck muscles too weak to hold it up. He had stilled inside me at some time, barely twitching in and out, though every movement made me shudder again, weakened by my own pleasure.
76 | EMILY MORETON ―Would you finish me?‖ he asked, his voice low and wrung out, as though he too had climaxed so spectacularly. I surely owed him such, but the idea of coordinating my hand, or worse, my mouth, for such a thing was laughable. I could barely coordinate my eyes to stay open and my lungs to keep drawing breath. ―Finish inside me,‖ I offered. In that moment, it was all I had. I did not expect for him to lower me carefully to the grass, cupping the back of my head so it didn‘t thump back and cause me pain. Nor did I expect him to drape himself over me, to lean down and kiss my slack mouth as though… as though this was something more than a romp for a sea-hardened pirate and a man who had no one else to give him that, two people who hardly knew each other beyond our bodies joining. I ran my fingers into his hair and held him against me to kiss more, because for all that it was unexpected, it was far from unwelcome. When he slid back into me, I gasped, overly sensitive from my climax, and he kissed the gasps from my mouth, kissed any sound I might have made away before it could pass my lips. His climax, when it came, was gentle as mine had not been; a sigh and a shudder, and his body going limp in my arms. In that moment, he was neither pirate nor stranger to me.
―I‘VE to leave with the sun,‖ he said later that night, lying beside me as neither of us slept. ―I understand,‖ I said. Who was I to ask for something more—for a chance to learn him as he had learned me, to learn the two of us together? Everyone knows the tales of pirates, of how they take to sea and never return to stay on land, and only a fool would try to keep them. I may be a fool at some things, but never so much a fool as that. ―I shall return,‖ he said, and it carried the weight of a promise. He left in the night while I slept, and I was glad for not having to see him leave.
AND so it went, for five years and more—sex and sometimes talking, followed by months alone while he and his crew took to the seas, my
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only knowledge of his whereabouts the occasional mention of a town taken by Captain Roberts. Did I approve of his pirating? Of course not, not as a peacekeeper, and I would not have hesitated to bind him over had he ever tried similar in my own town, but he did not. He was only the pirate captain who swept into my life, turned my body inside out, and swept out again just as quickly, a blur of excitement and salt and black clothing that I could no more resist than the wind from the sea and that in time I came to miss and long for him as I would the wind off the sea should I ever lose it. But nothing can stay the same forever, or at least that was what I assumed when I saw him sitting cross-legged at my door one evening, barely two months since I‘d last seen him there. ―An unexpected guest, returned so soon.‖ His pistol lay to the side of him, where I had never seen it unless we were lying naked together. ―Or has it finally come time for you to take this town also?‖ His eyes lacked much of their familiar humor, so much that for a moment I feared I had spoken truth in what I had only meant as a jest. I knelt to sit beside him, then moved to sit in front of him, my posture matching his own, my hands open, palms up, on my knees for him to take should he choose. ―More toward the opposite,‖ he said, looking down at my hands instead of my face—another unfamiliarity when I was used to his gaze always catching at mine, tugging me to look at him should I not. ―And how would that be?‖ I asked when he seemed not to be continuing his thought. He looked up then, his eyes dark on mine. ―We are to leave. We have an offer of work on the Nether Shore that my crew have chosen for taking up.‖ He grimaced, a moment of humor lightening his face. ―And the seas here are grown mighty perilous of late.‖ He spoke nothing but truth with those words—the Mages‘ Council term would end in a matter of cycles, and there was always increased presence of the law on the seas when that time drew near. ―A long sail from here to there.‖ ―Nigh on a cycle or more,‖ he agreed. ―Those as chose not to go will be put ashore here, but most will sail with me. Sad to say we‘re not like to see this shore any time again.‖
78 | EMILY MORETON I had expected as much, but the loss that shuddered in my heart made me drop my head. ―You plan not to return?‖ ―I‘m more like not to plan as to do so,‖ he said. I saw him shrug, a lithe, dark movement against the plain wall of my dwelling. ―But as things stand, I fear this will be a final goodbye.‖ ―And to me also?‖ I did not entirely mean for the words to come out a question, and yet they did so regardless. I kept my eyes lowered, waiting to hear the truth I chose not to see on his face. His hand covering mine surprised me into looking up, and what I saw there was not a truth I had ever expected to see. ―Some on the crew are bringing families—or lovers, in more accurate terms. By all that tell of it, the Nether Shore is a wild and strange place, and many feel the want for company they know at the end of a long journey.‖ I found I had nothing to say in the face of this offer, so unexpected and yet so very desired, now that it came. Could I leave behind the place I had always known? And yet, could I be left behind, alone and aimless as I had been until he blew into my life on a sea breeze? ―They‘re sure to have need for a peacekeeper in such a wild place,‖ he added, his hand loose around mine. ―Or a man with a quick mind could learn a new trade. Aboard a ship, even.‖ ―I‘m none for a pirate life,‖ I said, my voice choking at the truth of that. He squeezed my hand a little, and I returned the gesture, more instinct than intention, but not an instinct I was eager to stop. ―Many a chance for work at sea within the law, and outside it in the pursuit of it.‖ That was surely a truth—how often did the law at sea come back wishing for only one chance to slip the bonds placed on them in service of the country? Were that allowed anywhere, it would surely be the Nether Shore, like to be as wild as Rob and the stories told it. He squeezed my hand still harder, and I knew that he had read my decision in my face before I spoke it. ―Take me with you. I‘ll go where you sail.‖
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EMILY MORETON has been writing since she was a child, when her stories mostly involved her and her sister saving the world (or at least the back garden). Since then, her writing has developed somewhat, and she‘s published several short stories, only some of which have included saving the world, and has been nominated for the Push Cart awards. She now lives in Bristol, where she works four jobs, and spends most of the rest of her free-time volunteering at the local concert hall. Visit Emily's web site at http://purple-pen.dreamwidth.org.
GHOST OF JUPITER JANA DENARDO
TELEK struggled to break out of the chokehold. When he stomped down hard, his opponent‘s grip shifted. Telek twisted, biting down hard on the first bit of flesh he could sink his teeth into. Howling, Jyrgal released Telek, and Telek plowed into him, taking him to the floor. He ripped into Jyrgal until pain lanced through him. His body jerked as his handler emptied the full potential of the shock bracelets into him. Panting as the pain faded, Telek rolled to his feet and waited on Hanne‘s signal. She crooked a finger at him, and he padded over, breath rasping. The doctor put a hand on his sweating chest. ―Aren‘t they lovely specimens?‖ Hanne‘s grin made Telek shudder. ―This was a bit of a bad day fight-wise, but I think you can see their potential.‖ Telek didn‘t know what species of humanoid was studying him. He‘d never seen their like. Feeling the challenge of their stares, he fought down his rage. If Hanne thought he wasn‘t selling her product, she‘d shock him again. The three humanoids conversed quickly; then one of them turned to Hanne. ―And they can really do everything you said? They barely hurt each other. Do the nanites work?‖ Telek looked down at Jyrgal, who still wasn‘t moving and was bleeding heavily. Barely hurt? By what standards? ―Telek, dear.‖ Hanne‘s tone made him take an instinctive step back, but it didn‘t help.
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He gasped as she buried a length of blade in his gut and yanked it out. As he dropped, he heard her tell the buyers to watch over him and see the nanites repair him. Telek wove in and out of consciousness. He heard them agree to buy him before he stopped fighting the drag on him and embraced the darkness.
SWEAT rolled down Al‘s spine, even though the cargo ship was cool. Adrenaline fed his body, improving his reactions, honing every shot from his blaster. This cargo ship had been swift, hard to catch up to, but the Ghost of Jupiter was more than up to the challenge. Unlike his crew of privateers, the unlicensed cargo vessel‘s crew were shooting to kill, but Al‘s team was more experienced in a raid. They had cut through the ship like a supernova. ―That‘s the last of them. We‘re clear,‖ Arianna‘s voice came over the ship‘s comm system. Wiping salty perspiration from his eyes, Al hoped Arianna wasn‘t being overly optimistic, and he found the closest comm-link. ―Everyone to the cargo hold. Arianna, tell Dr. Odd to get over here and pick up our wounded.‖ ―Got it,‖ his twin replied. Al raced down the metal ladder to the service tunnels, heading for the hold. The ship‘s crew had locked the hold off, but the ship was a Gioahm style, strong but cheap. If he cut the power to the electronic doors, they would open. It only took a few moments to disconnect the power source. Pressing his way out of the service tunnel and into the hold, he discovered his men having trouble subduing the crew inside of the vast structure. The metallic-smelling aftermath of a heavy electrical discharge tickled Al‘s nose. ―What happened?‖ he asked as Jaydon bound up one of the brawny men guarding the cargo bins. ―They hit the boxes with a charge. Hell knows if there will be anything useful now,‖ the Sonrol replied, his tusks chopping his words. Al grimaced. A lot of valuable cargo could be rendered so much garbage with a few well-placed charges. ―Take it anyway.‖ Useless or
82 | JANA DENARDO not, he was pissed now. He‘d sell the damn bins themselves out of spite if he had to. ―Filthy pirates,‖ the brawny man spat. He was already shaking off the stun blast. Al wondered what was in the man‘s DNA makeup. ―Privateer,‖ Al corrected, sending a signal to the Ghost of Jupiter. His crew were experts at this transfer of goods. Haulers docked in the decompression bay. The Ghost‘s crew swarmed into the defeated cargo ship, transferring bins onto the hauler craft. Within twenty minutes, they had emptied the cargo bay. Oddly, it hadn‘t been tremendously full, but that only served to convince Al the bins held something very valuable, worth the fuel to fly a half-empty ship. ―I‘ve disabled their engines. It‘ll take hours, if not a day or more, to fix,‖ Arianna smirked. ―Are all our crew off except those in here?‖ he asked. His twin nodded, walnut curls flopping into her face. ―We‘re ready to star jump out of here.‖ Al ordered everyone off with the next hauler. The crew they hadn‘t tied up—he preferred to not leave them in a position where someone could lose their life—would be waking soon. As soon as everyone was safely on board the Ghost, they executed a series of complex star jumps to cover their tracks, in case there was a redundant system Arianna hadn‘t sabotaged, and the raided ship came back online too quickly. He stopped by the sickbay, probably the best stocked area of the privateer ship after weapons, to check on the injured crew. Gage had died. Unhappy, Al stomped down to the cargo hold where the haulers had been unloaded. He wanted to see what was in the bins that Gage had died procuring. Arianna and Gyal, their third in command and head of security, were waiting for him. ―We‘re ready to open these if you are,‖ Arianna said. ―Let‘s see what we‘ve got.‖ A couple of crew members started working the crackers on the bins‘ locks. This part of the job never failed to make Al‘s palms itch in anticipation. Sometimes they had a clue what a ship they raided might be carrying, but more often than not, when an unlicensed ship cut across the territory without a Confederation beacon, it was a complete mystery.
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Whatever was in the bins, it was likely to be damaged by the electrical charges. He hoped the contents weren‘t completely ruined. The first bin door swung up to show a long, black, ovoid container. Al went to open it himself. Getting the lid off, he fell back, his breath rushing into his lungs. ―Al, what is it?‖ Arianna crowded against him, looking over his shoulder at the contents of the box, or should he say coffin? Inside lay a man, human— well, mostly. Blue hair framed his face, and his fingers ended in inhuman talons. Then he spotted the man‘s chest moving. ―Son of a bitch.‖ ―We hit a slave trader.‖ Arianna patted the heavy cuff bracelets on one of the man‘s wrists. ―These are Poulchino shockers, illegal everywhere in the Confederation. That‘s probably why they set off charges. They were trying to kill the cargo.‖ ―Human hybrid?‖ Gyal asked. ―Or is it a chimera?‖ The latter suggestion made ice form inside Al‘s veins. Chimerae were even more illegal than Poulchino shockers. ―We had better get Dr. Odd down here with her team.‖ Arianna nodded, heading for the comm-link. Al knew one way or the other, slave or chimera, he would either have to call in the military and turn over the booty or jettison it all to cover up his part in this. Somehow, he didn‘t see himself being capable of the latter.
―WHAT are we going to do now?‖ Arianna asked as they headed to his office after Dr. Odd confirmed their worst fears: they had plundered a ship carrying chimerae. ―Are you really going to call Rollins?‖ ―Do we have a choice?‖ Al‘s eyes flicked over to his twin, studying her face. If anything, she was a bit harder than him, but she couldn‘t be thinking of spacing or selling their latest haul. Her shoulders slumped. ―Not really. Like you said, it‘ll probably be easy to convince the colonel to let us help out if they go after the people who were trafficking the chimerae. It should be profitable, even if we have to put up with those military jackasses looking down their noses at us.‖
84 | JANA DENARDO Sinking into his office chair, Al nodded. Across from his desk in the cramped office was a holo-picture of an eighteenth century tallmasted ship. He wondered if those pirates had ever faced conundrums like this. Al and Arianna‘s uncle had brought them up on rollicking stories of the original pirates. Al had wanted to name his ship after one of theirs, but so many were uninspiring, he‘d taken the name from the Ghost of Jupiter nebula. Swiveling to face the other wall and its embedded monitor, Al brought up the interplanetary comm-link and punched in his code—one that usually got his call bypassed over the colonel‘s adjutant and straight to the woman herself, if she was in. Al‘s interest in women was purely aesthetic. He might not them sexually alluring, but he could appreciate their beauty. He always struck by Colonel Rollins‘s attractiveness. Her dark skin flawless enough that the drab uniform couldn‘t distract from it. chocolate eyes bore into him with an eagerness he appreciated. trusted him not to waste her time.
find was was Her She
―I wasn‘t expecting a call from you, Bellomi,‖ she said. ―What trouble have you found now?‖ Next to him, Arianna snorted, but Al ignored her. ―Trouble is a word for it. We raided a beaconless ship and came away with a dozen chimerae in drug-induced comas.‖ Rollin‘s body stiffened, but she kept her voice modulated. ―Are you sure?‖ ―The doc is. I wasn‘t expecting it. I want nothing to do with transgenics.‖ Al sighed. ―I need to know what to do with them now I have them. I‘ll transmit the data on the trafficker‘s ship. We didn‘t damage it badly, so they‘re probably nowhere near where we last saw them.‖ ―Do it anyhow,‖ Rollins said. ―I‘ll set a course to meet you. You‘ll have to turn the chimerae over to us. In the meantime, your doctor might want to keep them sedated until we can get a military transport there. ―I‘ll pass that along,‖ Al said. ―Colonel, what about the actual owners of these chimerae?‖ ―Don‘t you go chasing them down just yet. You need to let us investigate. If we pick up their trail, we‘ll use your assistance, but this needs to be handled delicately. I need to go speak to my people.‖ With that, Rollins killed the link.
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―What does she expect we‘re going to do?‖ Arianna sniffed. Al smiled. ―Blow things up and rob them. Ari, see what you can backtrack on that ship. Maybe we can find out where they were going, or at least where they came from.‖ His sister slapped his arm. ―Good, I‘d hate to think we were just going to sit around waiting on Rollins. What will you be doing?‖ ―Checking back with Odd. I don‘t want a bunch of chimerae running loose. If Rollins was nervous enough to warn me, then you know these guys are probably worse than we‘ve been told to expect.‖ Arianna‘s nose wrinkled. ―I‘d like not to die at the hands of some genetic warrior.‖ ―Neither would I.‖
TELEK‘S eyes pulled open, dry and painful. The last thing he remembered was being stabbed. He didn‘t bother to check for the wound. It would be long healed. The scent of his surroundings forced his tired body upright. Astringent, different. He wasn‘t in his cell. Had he been sold and transported already? Shaking the sleep from his brain, Telek studied his surroundings. The room barely had space to move around in. Most of it was stuffed with equipment that flashed and beeped. Sitting up, Telek grabbed the edge of the bed as his vision swam. Someone had given him some sort of drug, probably to keep him asleep. He lifted his head, testing the air. He could smell more of his kind close by. He put his bare feet on the cold metal floor, standing up. The room whirled again, but he fought it off. Telek felt the fever rising, those instincts that kept him alive. He‘d have to fight soon. He knew it. That was what he was for, after all. The chimerae were little more than animals, bred to kill. Telek made it across the floor. He was staring at the control panel to figure out how it worked when it slid open on its own. A tall, very pale woman stood there, grey eyes widening. A soft ―oh‖ escaped her. Telek fell back into a defensive position. Was she his new owner? ―You weren‘t supposed to be awake yet.‖ There was a slight tremor in her voice. He made her nervous. ―Why don‘t you lie back on the bed and I‘ll make sure you‘re okay. I‘m Doctor Oddveig Eklund.‖
86 | JANA DENARDO Telek‘s breath caught. Hanne had sold him to another doctor. He should kill her now before she could do to him the things that Hanne had done. But he couldn‘t move. Sweat broke out over him, chilling him in the cool room. Hanne had done her job too well. She hadn‘t needed the shock bracelets to control him. He was too terrified by female doctors to even move. ―It‘s okay. I‘m not going to hurt you. What‘s your name?‖ Telek backed up, hitting the bed. He fell against it. ―Odd,‖ someone called. Telek‘s body coiled for attack, seeing a dark-haired man coming into the room. The man‘s very dark eyes narrowed. ―Oh. I was coming to tell you Rollins said to keep them sedated. I see I‘m late.‖ The man‘s hands edged toward a stunner. Telek paused, knowing a stunner was no real threat to him. ―Just a little. He‘s a bit afraid. Pretty sure I don‘t like that,‖ the doctor replied. The man brought his hands up, palms facing Telek. ―It‘s all right. We rescued you and your companions. You‘re safe now.‖ Telek hadn‘t expected that. His body refused to relax. It could be a trick. ―Can you understand us? Can you speak?‖ ―He should be able to, though two of the ones I examined were altered to have no vocal cords,‖ the doctor said. ―I understand you,‖ Telek said. ―But I don‘t understand this.‖ He waved around the room. ―Where am I?‖ ―On the Ghost of Jupiter. We‘re privateers,‖ the man said. Telek wrinkled his nose. ―I don‘t know what that is.‖ ―Sort of pirates who work for the military. We raid ships that don‘t have the Confederation‘s ID beacon. I‘m Alessandro Bellomi, the captain of this ship. I have a lot of questions for you if the doctor says it‘s all right.‖ ―He seems okay, but I need to examine him while he‘s awake.‖ ―No! Don‘t you touch me!‖ Telek braved her wrath. He flung a hand out at her, then realized something was wrong. ―My bracelets.‖ ―Those horrible things are illegal, and I removed them. I probably should have waited until I ran all my tests to see what I was dealing with,
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but I couldn‘t bear seeing them on anyone,‖ Eklund replied. ―Do your wrists hurt? Let me examine you.‖ ―No!‖ Bellomi put a hand on the doctor‘s shoulders. ―Let him be for now, Odd. He looks all right. Probably shouldn‘t make him too nervous.‖ ―You don‘t trust doctors,‖ Eklund said. Telek shook his head. ―I‘m fine. You don‘t have to worry about me. My body fixes itself. It made the fights more enjoyable.‖ ―You seem fairly controlled,‖ Bellomi said. His eyes never left Telek and yet the scrutiny didn‘t bother him. ―I was made to fight. Doesn‘t mean I like it. I won‘t rip up the ship, if that‘s what you‘re worried about. I wouldn‘t know how to fly it if I did kill you all.‖ Telek shrugged. ―You don‘t have to sedate me, but depending on who else they boxed up to sell, you might want to keep the others under. Some of us are completely mindless. We‘ll attack anything in sight. Others of us, like me, were bred for fighting and… things worse than fighting.‖ He couldn‘t suppress the shudder running through him, remembering the ugly sexual things that had been done to him. Even a chimera could tell that some of the things they were made to do weren‘t normal. ―No one is going to make you do anything here, but I need to know which of you I can trust and which I‘ll have to keep sedated until the military gets here to deal with you,‖ Bellomi said. ―You would trust us?‖ ―Until we have reason not to. You might be grateful not to be on your way to a new slaver. Also, this is a pirate ship. We‘re all armed.‖ Bellomi smirked. Telek liked this man. Most people were afraid of him or just avoided chimerae as beneath notice, but Bellomi was treating him like a man. He wasn‘t sure what to make of it, so he decided to do something he had never done: trust another person. ―The stunners won‘t work on us—not strong enough.‖ ―Don‘t worry. We have a lot stronger weapons.‖ The smirk grew, then instantly faded as a scream echoed through the ship, followed by a growl.
88 | JANA DENARDO Telek‘s head snapped up, knowing that sound. The primal part of him reacted to the sounds of carnage, and he pushed the doctor and the captain out of his way. They followed right on his heels down the corridor. Just two doors down, Specib, a chimera Telek disliked, flailed at a woman, looking as if he were swimming in the blood pooling around them. Behind him, Telek heard his companions yelling. The woman Specib was ripping apart still moaned, so she was at least alive. Telek launched himself at Specib, knocking him away the best he could in the cramped room. His claws raked across Specib‘s face, and the chimera brought up his arm, filled with rigid spines that would disembowel if Specib could catch his opponent right. As it was, the spine grazed Telek‘s chest, raising a line of blood. A stunner whined, hitting Specib squarely, knocking him back a step but doing little else. It might be a good thing Bellomi didn‘t just take Telek‘s word on that. The stunner gave Telek an opportunity. Sinking his claws into Specib‘s neck, he ripped. The chimera went down in a shower of baby blue blood. Telek raised his clawed hand to finish the attack, but something burned between his shoulders. His head bounced off something on his way down; then there was nothingness.
―HOW is Lexip?‖ Arianna asked, worming her way back into Odd‘s cramped office. Gyal, the Ghost‘s Vasrach third in command, was with them. His amber eyes shone out of skin so black it reminded Al of ravens back home. Al had been interested in his trusted officer, but the Vasrach had a complicated three-sexed system of reproduction, making interspecies relationships impractical. ―She‘ll survive, but she‘ll be in a regeneration tank for a while,‖ Odd replied. ―And the chimerae?‖ Gyal asked. ―I snowed under the one who hurt Lexip, but it might not hold. I‘ve upped the sedatives on all of the chimerae but one. We‘re getting close to dangerous levels, but with their nanites, it might be safe enough. They obviously metabolize the drugs faster,‖ Odd said. ―And the one you didn‘t drug?‖ Gyal‘s thick eyebrows rose.
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―He seemed to be reasonable enough,‖ Al broke in. ―It was my call. I know he could be a danger, but he was quick to try and protect Lexip.‖ ―Or just attack another chimera like he‘s trained to do,‖ his twin rebutted. ―I trust Al‘s judgment. Is it possible to get this chimera to point out others that might be safe to allow to regain consciousness? We could return the most dangerous back to their cryochambers. It‘s not very humane, but it might be safer all around. The chambers couldn‘t be too dangerous to their health. Chimerae are too expensive to take risks with,‖ Gyal said. Al nodded. ―Ari, update Rollins‘s people with the dangers these chimerae represent. Gyal, you have the bridge for now. I‘m going to work with Odd and see if we can get more cooperation from Telek.‖ His men filtered out. Odd went to the cabinet and got a transdermal unit, filling it. She handed it to him. ―I‘d use your blaster on the highest setting, but if he gets in close, and you don‘t die immediately, hit him with this. It‘ll take him down.‖ Grimacing, he took the unit. ―Thanks.‖ Al went back to the sickbay unit. Telek sprawled on the bed, the thin sheet barely covering him. They hadn‘t bound down his strong limbs, a potential error. Odd was right. He did look mostly human and a very well-formed one at that. Al hadn‘t been struck by a man‘s physical beauty this strongly in years. Of course, Telek would be a fine genetic specimen. He had been engineered that way. The only currently visible hints of his non-humanness were the opalescent claws tipping his strong fingers and the thick shock of hair surrounding the broad planes of his face. The hair color reminded Al of a cloudless sky over the Mediterranean. Equally blue eyes suddenly opened, startling Al. Telek groaned, crunching up on the bed. ―Whatever you shot me with hurt.‖ ―Sorry, but I can‘t have you tearing someone limb from limb on my ship.‖ ―Specib would not have been as kind to your woman.‖ Al sat on the chair jammed into the corner of the room, even though sitting might not be his best idea. ―I understand that. Even so.‖
90 | JANA DENARDO ―I can‘t promise my nature won‘t take over, but I will try to restrain myself.‖ Telek rubbed his head. ―Hanne‘s people will come looking for us.‖ Studying the chimera, Al realized there was every possibility the man could explode off the bed and kill him if he wanted to. He almost regretted having the horrid shock bracelets removed. On the other hand, Telek sounded more resigned than anything else. ―That‘s a risk of my profession. Usually people will try to get back what I‘ve taken.‖ ―You steal. Why?‖ Telek‘s cold, fire blue eyes bore into Al‘s. ―It is wrong, isn‘t it?‖ His lips dragged down. ―I thought maybe I heard that. I don‘t really know.‖ ―No, you‘re right. I guess you can call it the family business.‖ Al shrugged, leaning against the wall. The sickbay room felt stifling warm. ―We‘re privateers. We pirate for the Confederation‘s military. Anyone not carrying a Confederation beacon is fair game. I get to keep a good share of what I take, and I‘m afforded the military‘s protection. Of course, it‘s dangerous work and sometimes I end up with cargo that‘s more trouble than it‘s worth.‖ The chimera grinned, his eyes echoing it. ―Like me and my kind.‖ ―You are definitely a problem. The military wants you. Your very existence is highly illegal. That doesn‘t mean they‘ll punish you, but they will want to know everything you do about your handlers.‖ Al hoped he was right. For the most part, the Confederation of Planets was benevolent. They probably wouldn‘t imprison or destroy the chimerae for something that wasn‘t their fault. ―And if we don‘t want the military?‖ Cold fingers rolled up Al‘s spine. ―I don‘t know.‖ Telek shook his head. ―Doesn‘t matter. You can fight. You have to be good to take on the Alaisaigae.‖ Al‘s mind tumbled the difficult word around in his mind for a moment. It wasn‘t the ship‘s name. ―Is that the company that created you?‖ ―Hanne did that.‖ He spat the words out, his tongue flicking over fangs better suited for the mouth of a lion than a man. Then again he was part Dat, one of the vicious animals found on the Nye Norge colony, according to Dr. Odd. ―I think she owns Alaisaigae. She runs it, I know that.‖ He shuddered, sitting back down on the bed. ―We were her
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children. She made us call her mother. I might never have had a real mother, but instinct tells me what she called mothering isn‘t right.‖ ―From what Dr. Odd said, I have no doubt of that.‖ ―What now? Do I stay in this little room? I don‘t want to be around doctors.‖ ―I promise you, Odd is okay. She won‘t hurt you but no, I think I‘ll move you to the brig for now. Please don‘t take that as a sign of mistrust. We have very few guest quarters. You will be behind a force field there, and it‘s not terribly private.‖ ―I am a slave. I don‘t even know what private feels like,‖ Telek snorted. ―I suppose that‘s true. I have two questions for you. One, you mentioned there are others who are like you, in control. Can you point them out to us? Secondly, if I put all of the ones I can hope will not randomly gut my crew into the brig for now, will you be able to resist fighting each other? I‘m not sure how ingrained that urge is.‖ ―We get along fine for the most part, the ones you have in mind. We‘d rather not hurt and bleed. We‘d rather be left alone. Others, like Specib, live only to kill. I don‘t know what your military will do with them.‖ His brilliant blue eyes slotted. ―I don‘t want to know.‖ Neither did Al, really. ―Do you feel up to pointing the safer ones out now so we can slip the others back into cryo?‖ ―You only stunned me. I‘m fine.‖ His lips curled up at the corners. ―That was the next setting down from a killing blow. We don‘t use it often because it can cause the heart to stop.‖ ―Don‘t worry. Mine is designed to restart even if I flatline in a fight.‖ ―That‘s… scary and probably handy. Come on, let‘s see who‘s who among the booty. I might be able to arrange for you all to be let out of the brig with a guard. I know you have no reason to trust us.‖ Telek nodded. ―No one has ever been nice to me before. I‘m not really sure what to do here. It‘s… I have no idea how to handle it.‖ Al reached out to touch Telek‘s shoulder but hesitated a moment, not sure of how Telek would take it, then let his hand drop. He felt sorry for the chimera, a deep well of pity, but at the bottom was something
92 | JANA DENARDO different. ―You‘ll figure it out. Right now you can return the favor by helping me to keep my crew safe.‖ ―I can do that.‖
AL KNEW they were taking a risk allowing their transgenic cargo to just wander around. Some, of course, were still locked away in cryo units, but the ones Dr. Odd thought were safe to be in public were freed under the watchful eyes of security crewmen. The captain saw Hurley, security, sitting a couple of tables away from the viewing port in the ample rec room. He and his sister firmly believed in having entertainment for their pirate crew to keep them occupied when they weren‘t robbing freighters. Hurley was watching the chimera who had caught Al‘s eye: Telek. The chimera was all but pressed to the portal. Al went over to him, knowing the man was most likely well aware of his presence, but his wide eyes never left the stars beyond the portal polymer. ―It‘s always a little breathtaking,‖ Al said, even though he had become jaded to such views. ―We were kept in our cages below the complex, brought up from underground only to fight or be taken to the game rooms. There were no windows, nothing we might be able to use to escape. I‘ve never really seen the stars,‖ Telek replied. ―I didn‘t know there were so many, or that it was so stunning.‖ Al went to pat Telek on the shoulder but pulled up short, remembering the doctor‘s warning that the chimera might take any touch as a threat. ―You can stay here as long as you‘d like to. If I can help, let me know.‖ ―Thank you. I think I will stay here awhile, if that‘s okay.‖ ―It‘s fine. Enjoy the view.‖ Al wanted to stay and watch with him but felt like he was intruding. There would be other, better times to linger. ―Stay,‖ Telek said, pointing to the window. ―Tell me about them. Are we close? What are they, anyhow?‖ ―Stars. They‘re usually balls of hydrogen. We‘re not very close to any of them. We don‘t want to be. They‘re light-years away.‖ ―What‘s a light-year?‖ ―It‘s a measure based on the distance light travels in a year.‖
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―I have so many questions.‖ Telek‘s inhumanly blue eyes lit up. ―There is so much I don‘t know.‖ Al grinned. ―I‘ll do my best to help. Are all of your companions this eager?‖ ―No, many are too afraid to come out of the brig. They‘re afraid of the openness and do not know how to deal with others.‖ Telek turned to look out over the rec room. ―To us, people are either opponents or someone out to hurt us. I didn‘t take that into consideration. This is making me want to either run or fight.‖ ―Do I need to be worried?‖ ―Not of me. I can handle this, but I wouldn‘t force the others out of the brig. They feel safe there. That‘s a new thing for us. It‘s a good thing.‖ ―I‘m glad, but it‘s probably the first time anyone felt safe on a pirate ship.‖ ―So far you haven‘t shocked, beaten, or raped any of us. That was our daily life, so pirate ship or not, we‘re faring a little better.‖ ―No one here will touch you guys. If someone does, tell me or Arianna. I know not reacting to it will be counter to everything you‘ve been created to be, but I need you to let us handle it.‖ ―We were created to be monsters.‖ Telek turned back to the observation window. ―I‘d like to be something else.‖ Al had no idea what to say. Having no frame of reference, he was at a loss. Instead, he decided to take a chance, and he rested his hand on Telek‘s shoulder. He felt the muscles bunch up under his fingers, and Telek looked at him. His smile suggested he had never really tried to use his lips in that manner before. ―Do you think that‘s all I‘ll ever be?‖ ―I think everyone can change, Telek.‖ Al let his hand drop. ―Your transgenic nature has geared you for action, but that doesn‘t mean you have to remain nothing more than a creature that fights for the amusement of others.‖ ―If I want to talk about stuff, ask questions, can I come ask you? Captains are busy, right?‖ Al smiled. ―I‘ll be sure to try and find time to talk.‖ Klaxons drowned him out.
94 | JANA DENARDO Al whirled, heading for the door. Telek moved along in his wake. The comm-link chirped. ―Captain, we have visitors, no I.D. beacons,‖ Retashed, one of his helmsmen, said. Al tapped his wrist unit, replying, ―On my way.‖ ―They‘re coming after us, aren‘t they? I said they‘d never let us go easily,‖ Telek said, now loping alongside him. ―We‘ll see if you‘re right.‖ Al didn‘t waste time telling Telek not to follow. There wasn‘t much harm he could get into on the bridge. ―Guess you don‘t know anything about ship-to-ship combat.‖ ―The only help I can be is if they come aboard ship. Want me to go to the brig and get the others ready if we‘re needed? Believe me, they‘ll fight to stay free of the Alaisaigae.‖ ―That would be the best thing you can do right now,‖ Al said, and Telek whipped around, heading off. Al hoped to hell he didn‘t get boarded, or Telek and the other chimerae would have blood and bodies everywhere. He hoped they could tell friend from foe. He probably should have pointed out the wrist units and flaming sword and hourglass symbol everyone had on their work shirts, throwback heraldry to the pirates of the high seas days. Arianna was already on the bridge when he arrived. ―What‘s happening?‖ She nodded to the viewscreen. ―Small craft, very maneuverable. They seem to want to take a bite out of us. Looks like one of the craft they had guarding the cargo ship.‖ ―Their cargo has offered to fight back if we get boarded,‖ Al said, slipping behind his gunnery console. ―I am somehow not comforted by that fact,‖ Arianna said, tapping the screen she shared with Helmsman Retashed. Al had always admired her skill with flying. He was the better shot, however. ―Me either, but they refuse to be recaptured.‖ Al primed the weapons bay. ―Let‘s do this.‖ Arianna and Retashed slammed the ship forward after the smaller craft. It tried to lay down a line of fire, but Arianna spun the Ghost out of range. The Ghost’s crazy path made it hard for Al to lock on his target.
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That brought a smile to his face. Who didn‘t like a challenge? He grazed the pursuing ship‘s stern, but not enough to penetrate shields. ―Gyal, try to raise them. Find out what they want,‖ Al growled. ―Done before you got here. They said ‗we want what‘s ours‘ and went silent. Trying again,‖ the third in command replied. Nothing answered their hails, not that Al was surprised. The unmarked craft swung back for a second try, but Arianna skipped the Ghost around behind it. Al and Thomas, another of the weapons crew, let loose a barrage of fire, hitting their attacker in the stern again, a place where the shields were weaker. Their shields faltered, then went down. Al hit them again, and the engines failed. Before Gyal could hail them again, a frantic cry came from the other ship. ―Help us. They put in fail-safes in case of shield and engine failure.‖ Al had no time to order a shuttle over to evacuate them. The little craft exploded. ―Well, hell.‖ ―Guess they didn‘t want survivors talking,‖ Arianna sighed. Al ran a hand through his curly hair. ―I need to report to Rollins about this, but I‘d better calm the chimerae down first. Ari, you‘re with me. Gyal, take the bridge.‖ ―Aye aye, sir.‖
―TELEK, please sit.‖ The captain waved a hand to the battered chair in front of his desk. It had been twisted around to face a screen. Telek looked at the woman on the screen. He‘d never seen a comm-link like this before, and he felt the threat of her stare as if she were actually in the room with him. Sitting stiffly, he didn‘t take his eyes off her. She made him almost as nervous as Dr. Odd, who stood in the back corner of the office with Arianna. ―Do you know who I am?‖ the woman asked. ―No, but I‘m guessing you‘re the soldier Al told me about.‖ ―Colonel Rollins,‖ she replied. ―My ship is on its way to meet the Ghost, and it‘s my responsibility to chase down the people who did this to you. Tell me what you know.‖ ―Evil scientists.‖
96 | JANA DENARDO Rollins glared. ―I figured that much.‖ ―I don‘t know much about the Alaisaigae Hanne was the head scientist. She made me and probably the rest of the chimerae here. We never were allowed out of our complex or into the labs. Mostly we went from the cells to the arena, and the ones like me would be taken to the suites for those paying to use our bodies. I‘ve never seen the sky. Most of the complex is underground.‖ ―Do you know where this complex is?‖ ―No, and I don‘t know anything about the people. Outside of Hanne and a few of our handlers, I don‘t know any of them. I know a name or two, but I‘m not even sure of them. No last names, nothing that might help.‖ ―Not even Hanne‘s?‖ Telek rolled his lower lip over his teeth, thinking about it. ―Naess. I heard a lot of names of those who won in the fights or bought us for the night, but I never paid attention.‖ ―Could be aliases,‖ Al said. Telek nodded. ―I‘m better with faces.‖ He straightened. ―I know the money was serious. They reminded us how much we made for the Alaisaigae. These people are rich.‖ ―That‘s something,‖ Rollins said. ―Al, I‘m quite sure you have databases on the rich, both Confederation and known unincorporates.‖ ―I‘ll have Telek look at the files, ma‘am,‖ Al said. ―I can do that.‖ Telek rubbed his chin. ―They‘re cruel. They experimented on us just to see how much damage we can take.‖ ―I‘m assuming the answer to that is your capacity is high.‖ ―Real high. They will hurt people to get us back,‖ Telek replied. ―Thank you.‖ Rollins nodded. ―We‘ll be there as quickly as we can. Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, tell Captain Bellomi.‖ ―I will.‖ Rollins turned her attention back to Al and the others, talking about things Telek didn‘t really understand. Turning his thoughts inward, he looked forward to seeing those files. He wanted to repay his tormentors in kind.
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―DO
YOU think they could say you kidnapped us?‖ Telek glanced up from his computer screen in Al‘s office. ―Since they‘ve failed twice already.‖
Al swiveled his chair. It had been five days since the raid on the cargo ship. The second attack had come a day after the first, with the same self-destructive results. Rollins would be in the area soon, and the only good thing that had come of the last few days was that Al learned he liked having the chimerae aboard, not just Telek. The handful who were trustworthy all had the same innocent inquisitiveness he had come to enjoy in Telek. Al simply liked having Telek around to talk to, which was one of the reasons Telek was doing the searches for the Alaisaigae‘s patrons in Al‘s office. ―Alaisaigae isn‘t exactly carrying out legal ventures. They‘re in no position to complain.‖ A feral grin slashed across Telek‘s face. ―Pirates should know about that.‖ The captain snorted as Telek sauntered over. Everything about the man screamed wild animal, a perfect predator. Al‘s cock twitched. He shouldn‘t be attracted to this man, but the last few days had proven he very much was. Telek‘s nostrils flared. Al‘s jaw tightened. Could the genetically enhanced man smell the pheromones? The pink tip of Telek‘s tongue flicked over his lips. ―Then I‘m less a missing person than pirate treasure.‖ No doubt of it now. Telek was teasing him. Al didn‘t even know if Telek was fully male or not. Dr. Odd was not about to tell him that much of a patient‘s details, and Al could see why Telek‘s creators wouldn‘t want the overly sensitive bits of tissues hanging outside his body. Odd‘s reports of sexual abuse and the chimerae was a wide-open field. That stunning, spiky mass of blue hair was courtesy of the Retlaw genes inside Telek. It could be that he had internal genitalia like the Retlaws. The thought made Al frown. The corners of Telek‘s mouth tugged down. ―Not treasure?‖ Tucking his reservations away, Al grinned. ―You‘re definitely pirates‘ plunder.‖
98 | JANA DENARDO ―Plunder, I like that idea.‖ Telek bent over Al‘s chair, and his mouth did just that. The kiss left Al stunned and far too aroused. He pushed Telek back gently, his eyes wide. ―Telek.‖ ―You‘ve been wanting that for some time,‖ the transgenic warrior said, swinging onto Al‘s lap, pressing against Al. ―Or did I do it wrong? I never kissed them.‖ There would be no denying the impact of the kiss. Al now had proof Telek definitely didn‘t have Retlaw genitalia. ―Telek, I….‖ Can’t even talk, Al thought. ―What I want and what is good for the people under me aren‘t always the same thing.‖ ―Even when we‘d like to be under you.‖ Telek tried to steal another kiss. ―I know you‘ve always had to submit to the people holding power over you.‖ ―That‘s different.‖ Telek frowned, getting off Al‘s lap. He held out his arms. ―No shockers. You‘re not making me do things.‖ Al‘s cheeks colored. ―No, but I can‘t take advantage of that.‖ Telek turned away. ―Those people wanted us to be animals in the cage, then wanted to sleep with the beasts. We didn‘t have the ability to say no.‖ ―And I don‘t want you to think that you have to do this. You have a choice.‖ ―I know!‖ Telek started for the door. ―But the first time I chose a lover, he doesn‘t want me.‖ ―Telek, wait!‖ Al followed him. ―Do you really mean it?‖ Telek turned back. ―I say what I mean.‖ Al‘s shoulders sagged. ―I‘m sorry. I didn‘t mean to hurt you. I just didn‘t want to take advantage of you.‖ ―I want you. I don‘t feel like I have to be here with you.‖ Any thought of a verbal response left Al. Instead, he cupped the man‘s chin, drawing Telek in for a kiss. Telek returned it, eager yet inexperienced. The Alaisaigae might have forced their transgenic warriors to sleep with their fans, but they hadn‘t bothered teaching them finesse.
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That in mind, Al wanted this to be better for Telek. Al‘s hands traveled down the taut planes of Telek‘s body until he got to the erection straining against the man‘s trousers. He rubbed a hand over it, his whisper-light touch making Telek grunt and try to press in for more. As Al opened his own zipper to give his erection freedom, the intercom beeped loudly. ―Hell.‖ Telek glared at the offending piece of equipment. ―I have no choice.‖ Al sighed, sharing Telek‘s sentiment. ―Bellomi here.‖ ―Brother, we need you on the bridge.‖ Arianna‘s voice came over the intercom. ―The military vessel is almost here, and the Colonel needs to speak to you.‖ Al winced. ―I‘ll be right there,‖ he told his sister, his erection already flagging. He gave Telek a quick kiss. ―I‘m sorry.‖ ―You‘re the captain. I understand.‖ The transgenic‘s body sagged. ―What if they take me away before we get to explore this?‖ ―We‘ll go through that wormhole when we get to it,‖ Al replied. He only hoped Telek didn‘t know how nervous he truly felt.
RUBBING his sweaty palms on his pants, Al thought this was ridiculous. What did he have to be nervous about? He had only invited a man who could kill him without trying hard to his living suite for the first time. After their last encounter in the office, really, could there be any reason for the invitation except the obvious? He didn‘t even know what he should have ready for Telek. From all he had learned, Telek‘s sexual experiences were unpleasant things to get over with as quickly as possible. Al had no idea what sort of foreplay the chimera might be responsive to or even know what to do with. Still, he did have a bottle of wine chilling, and the computer played music softly. This had to be a little less sterile than experiences with the Alaisaigae or so he hoped. He just wished he didn‘t feel like such a virgin as he went to answer the door. Telek, on the other hand, seemed calm. Maybe his reasons for inviting Telek here weren‘t as obvious as Al thought. The chimera was still very new to all of this, so he might not know what Al had in mind. ―Thanks for coming,‖ Al said.
100 | JANA DENARDO Telek nodded. ―Did Rollins have anything important to say?‖ ―Mostly working out the logistics of transporting the chimerae still in cryo. Those are the easiest to deal with.‖ Al shrugged. ―You and the others are a different matter. Do you want something to drink?‖ ―I‘m good.‖ Telek reached for him, dragging Al closer. His lips met Al‘s, demanding, forceful, but the kiss was quick. He looked at Al for reassurance. ―This is why you asked me here instead of the office, right?‖ He wasn‘t as naïve as Al thought. ―Right, but only if you want—‖ Another kiss, quicker than the first, shut Al up. ―Don‘t ask me if I want to again. I do. I honestly do. I‘m finally getting to do something I want to do.‖ Telek‘s claws pricked Al‘s skin as he pulled the captain even closer, not painful but enough that Al was aware of them. His next kiss was less demanding, softer, more exploring. Making it easier for him, Al opened his mouth, pressing his tongue into Telek‘s mouth. The chimera hitched, surprised but relaxing into it. His tongue met Al‘s in an experimental dance as Telek ground his hips against Al‘s. Al‘s response was immediate. He rubbed against Telek, bearing him backward against the couch. Telek put a hand back, sinking it into the cushion for balance. Al brushed his growing erection against Telek as their tongues investigated and delved into unknown regions of each other. Al felt Telek‘s fangs graze his tongue before Telek‘s mouth moved off, questing after his neck. A shiver of excitement laced with fear as those fangs scraped over his pulse point. Al slipped a hand under Telek‘s shirt, his fingers finding one erect nipple. At least that part of his physiognomy was familiar. Telek‘s strong fingers cupped Al through his pants, rubbing him a bit too hard. Al put a stilling hand over Telek‘s. ―Easy,‖ he said softly. ―This should be different for you. Not so fast. Understand?‖ Telek‘s brilliant eyes fastened on Al, their depths unreadable. ―I‘m not used to that.‖ ―I know. I know.‖ Al took a step back, keeping hold of Telek‘s hand. He nodded toward his bedroom. ―Come on. I‘ll show you.‖
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Telek didn‘t protest, allowing himself to be led into the bedroom. Al sat him down on the bed, then pulled off Telek‘s shirt. He swept his gaze over the chimera‘s taut muscles, his mouth going dry. His cock ached, straining against his zipper. Al took off his own shirt, then joined Telek on the bed. Pressing his lips to Telek‘s, Al let his hand travel down Telek‘s body, taking the time to give small worship to the valleys and plains under his fingers. Telek groaned against Al‘s mouth as the captain rubbed a palm over Telek‘s erection. Al sat back, unzipping his pants. His erection pushed out from his boxers, and Telek ran a hesitant finger around the damp head of it. Telek squirmed toward the head of the bed, beckoning Al forward. Knowing the others would have just made quick use of the chimera, Al was determined to prolong this as much as his body would allow. He leaned down, kissing his way down Telek‘s chest, sucking on one nipple until he had Telek writhing under him. Al licked his way across Telek‘s collarbone; the chimera‘s pale skin had begun to turn a rosy color. Al straightened up and slithered out of his pants. Telek caught him around the waist, drawing him up on top of him. Telek took Al‘s shaft into his mouth, obviously having more skill with this than he did kissing. As Al straddled him, Telek held Al‘s hips lightly so as not to dig in his claws as Al gently thrust into his mouth. As Telek‘s tongue and mouth worked him, Al could tell everything Telek knew was geared to bringing the people he was with to a quick climax to get it over with. He probably didn‘t know any other way. Running his hands through Telek‘s shock of blue hair, Al let his mouth work its magic until he got perilously close to the edge. Backing away, Al grabbed hold of Telek‘s pants, yanking down the zipper, not entirely sure what the chimera might be hiding underneath. Telek wriggled out of the remains of his clothing before settling back, his eyes on Al, waiting. Al took Telek‘s cock in hand. Almost entirely human, it was textured as if pearls had been inserted under the hot, soft skin. He didn‘t even want to know what part of the DNA cocktail used to create Telek this came from. Exotic, enticing, Al couldn‘t stop himself from taking a quick sample, running his tongue over the bumpy flesh. Telek gasped as Al let him pop free. The expression on Telek‘s face said he hadn‘t expected this much reciprocation.
102 | JANA DENARDO Sucking him back into his mouth, his tongue played with Telek, rolling, licking as Al massaged Telek‘s testicles. Telek‘s breath rasped in and out, his hips moving. ―Too much,‖ Telek gasped. Al let him go again, swimming across the mattress to get the lube from the nightstand. ―Do you want me to have you completely?‖ When Telek nodded agreement, Al grinned, spreading some of the lube on his fingers. Ringing the head of Telek‘s cock with his tongue, Al slipped one slick finger inside Telek, then quickly added a second. Groaning, Telek pressed down against Al‘s hand, taking more of him inside. Freeing his hand, Al gave his own shaft a few quick passes with the lubricant. Kneeling, he pressed against Telek‘s tight ring of muscle before pushing in slowly. Telek‘s hips arched up to meet him. Al slowly pumped into him, leaning down so he could kiss Telek as he did. Telek‘s hand floated up, burying itself in Al‘s hair, while the other hand ran down his back, the claws tickling against Al‘s sensitive skin. Their tongues warred as Al kept up his tortuously slow pace. Finally, Telek pulled back. ―More,‖ he demanded. Al didn‘t deny him, repositioning himself so he could thrust deeper and faster. Taking hold of Telek‘s cock, Al stroked him hard and firm, listening to the little explosions of Telek‘s breath. The chimera‘s feet grazed Al‘s calves, the claws digging in a little deeper this time. At Al‘s half-swallowed cry of pain, Telek‘s feet rolled off onto the bed. ―Sorry.‖ ―It‘s all right,‖ Al assured him, rubbing Telek‘s hip. Al regained his rhythm, pushing in and out of Telek‘s encircling heat. His fingers played over Telek‘s engorged flesh until he finally took the chimera over the edge. Pounding faster, Al came with a shout. He pulled out of Telek, stretching out alongside him, putting his arms around him. Telek‘s muscles firmed, then slowly melted against him. That just might have been the best part of the night for Al, feeling that trust.
AFTER a quick breakfast, Al claimed his captain‘s chair on the bridge. In some ways, captaining a pirate ship could be a little dull. They really couldn‘t go after a new target unless some hapless beaconless ship strayed too close. Having to meet Rollins on time was important, and she
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wouldn‘t be too thrilled with him if he went gallivanting off somewhere. So there was little to do other than watch the stars go by. After last night‘s exertions, he was almost asleep in his chair when his sister walked in with Telek. ―I found him in the mess and thought, if he‘s staying on board he ought to see how everything works,‖ Arianna said. ―Even though he thinks he won‘t be good at it.‖ ―I‘ve never had one moment‘s education that had anything to do with anything but martial arts or sex,‖ Telek said. ―Nothing?‖ Arianna asked. ―Nothing. I can‘t read or write.‖ Telek sighed. ―I won‘t be much use to you.‖ ―You might be surprised,‖ Al replied, wondering why he was shocked at the announcement. Before he could say anything else, the viewscreen of the depths of outer space twisted and one of the consoles chirped. ―Someone is trying to hack into our communication system,‖ Gyal said. ―Open a hail, let‘s see what they want so badly,‖ Al replied, getting to his feet. ―Are there any ships nearby?‖ Arianna asked. ―None. This is a long-distance hail,‖ Gyal said, flicking his fingers over his screen. ―Got it.‖ A pale woman, lounging almost indolently against a wall, grinned down from the Ghost’s oversized screen. She flipped her nearly white hair back over her shoulder, sauntering closer to the camera. ―So, which one of you arranged to steal my belongings?‖ A delicate finger pointed at them. ―I‘m betting on you with the curly hair. Nice genetics. I‘ll be taking a sample when I get my things back.‖ Her smile was icier than space. Al ignored the growl rumbling low in Telek‘s throat. There was no doubt this must be Hanne Naess. ―I surely don‘t know what you mean. Who are you and why did you hijack my comm?‖
104 | JANA DENARDO The frigid smile grew. ―Don‘t be insulting. You have one of my boys standing right behind you. Hello, Telek. Mother is very happy to see you again. I‘ll be bringing you home soon.‖ ―I‘d die first,‖ Telek replied. She pouted. ―Don‘t say that, baby boy, your mix was particularly hard to arrange.‖ Hanne‘s eyes widened. ―You let him go, Mr. Pirate. Do you know how hard it is to control a boy like Telek without his bracelets?‖ ―So far, I‘ve had no problems with any of them,‖ Al replied. ―And you won‘t be getting them back.‖ ―You‘ll be surprised.‖ Hanne smiled once more. ―About all of it. Startle a chimera and you‘re likely a dead man. Do something they don‘t like, same result. That‘s why they need to be back with me and mine. I just wanted to be sure I had the right ship before I wasted any more resources.‖ She waved at the camera. ―Toodles, Telek. Mother will be tucking you back into your little bed before you know it.‖ The line went dead. Al turned to see Telek trembling, his capped claws dug into the captain‘s chair. ―Gyal?‖ Al asked. ―Couldn‘t get a trace on her. Guess we better expect more company than before,‖ Gyal replied. ―We had best call Rollins,‖ Arianna said. ―Let her know there‘s going to be a big party, and soon.‖ ―She won‘t just kill you,‖ Telek said. ―She‘ll take some of you for fodder in the warm-up games. Or use you in her experiments.‖ He caught Al‘s wrist. ―You might want to rethink your stunners.‖ Al had never seen the chimera so spooked. ―I‘ll take it under advisement. Come on, let‘s talk to Rollins.‖ ―And Telek, if ever there was a time to remember more about the Alaisaigae, now would be it,‖ Arianna said.
AL
WISHED he could ease some of Telek‘s nervousness. Ever since seeing Hanne the day before last, the chimera had become a bundle of nerves. Rollins was less than a day out at this point, but that wasn‘t exactly helping Telek‘s nerves or Al‘s for that matter. He caught Telek‘s wrist again, pulling him closer.
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Brushing his lips over Telek‘s, he felt Telek‘s tension slowly melt as they kissed. Al maneuvered him into the bedroom. By the time they hit the mattress, Telek‘s body was pliant again. Al sealed his lips over Telek‘s earlobe, sucking gently. Well aware of the erection he felt pressing against his hip, Al whispered a suggestion into Telek‘s ear, something he hadn‘t been able to stop thinking about ever since he first saw the chimera naked. ―Are you sure?‖ Telek rasped, his hand absently tracing geometric patterns on his lover‘s chest. ―Usually I‘m supposed to be submissive and let things be done to me.‖ Al brushed Telek‘s hair back. ―You aren‘t a slave anymore, Telek. You don‘t have to do anything you don‘t want. I would like to try it, but if you aren‘t comfortable with the idea, then we‘ll try something else. I want us both to be happy.‖ Telek flopped back onto the mattress, lying flat, studying the grey ceiling. ―But would you be happy if I said no?‖ ―I‘ll be happy with whatever we do. I‘m pretty easy in bed.‖ Al grinned, rolling up onto his elbow so he could look down at the man. ―I‘m a switch. Dominating is fun, but so is being submissive. I trust you not to hurt me.‖ Telek‘s face twisted. ―I don‘t understand why. You know what I am.‖ ―I‘ve been well aware you could kill me with your bare hands if you wanted to since before you even woke up in sickbay. You‘ve not given me a reason to not trust you. I sort of thought we‘ve been intimate enough for you to know that.‖ Telek smiled faintly. ―It‘s all still new to me, being free.‖ ―I know.‖ Al reached down to stroke Telek‘s cock. The bumps became more pronounced as Telek‘s shaft swelled. Al‘s body tensed, warmth rolling over him in anticipation of the possibility that Telek would concede to Al‘s request. ―You‘re sure?‖ ―Do I look unsure?‖ Telek ran his tongue over the line of Al‘s jaw. ―You never look unsure. That‘s what I like about you. You know what you want and you work to get it.‖
106 | JANA DENARDO ―It‘s my nature.‖ Al squirmed on the mattress, trying to get the tube of lubrication off the nightstand. Telek watched him with those acetylene blue eyes of his as Al smoothed the slick stuff over Telek‘s not-quitehuman shaft. Al put a little of the stuff on Telek‘s fingers. ―You remember what I did with you, right?‖ he asked, seeing Telek‘s curious look. ―Yeah, no one had ever been that kind before but….‖ Al followed Telek‘s gaze down to his hand, then scooped the lubricant back up. ―On second thought, I might want to do this myself. I forgot about those non-retractable claws of yours.‖ ―How can you forget those?‖ Telek laughed. ―Most of my lovers are usually fully human. You‘re different. I‘m still learning,‖ Al replied, lying back on the bed. He reached down, easing one finger into himself, then quickly added a second. It wouldn‘t take much to get him ready for this. Telek bent over him, taking Al‘s cock into his mouth. No matter how careful he was about it, Al always felt the whisper of those prodigious fangs, but Telek had never yet accidentally impaled tender flesh with them. There was still a certain clumsiness to Telek‘s technique, but he was improving. Still, it was easy to tell sex was something he had been forced into, and he had never cared what his partner got out of it. Al ran a hand over Telek‘s soft blue hair. ―I‘m ready.‖ Telek gave Al‘s shaft a final tickle with his tongue before letting him go. Al spread his legs farther, giving Telek better access. The chimera‘s cock pressed against Al‘s entrance. Telek looked to him for reassurance. Al nodded. Telek slid inside him slowly, either by design or uncertainty. Either way, Al could feel every bit of the texture of Telek‘s shaft, not unlike a fancy dildo he had been given in his youth. Only Telek was hot, soft silk over steel, so much better than any toy. Telek found a rhythm quickly enough, pulling almost all the way out before pushing back in, leaving Al moaning and bucking, trying to get as much contact as he could. Grinning, Telek stretched out over Al, his lips meeting Al‘s, hungry and demanding. The friction of Telek‘s abdomen over Al‘s cock as his lover moved made Al‘s blood roar. Telek thrust hard into him as he bit Al‘s neck just over the pulse point. Al gasped. The bite didn‘t hurt, especially not with Telek‘s tongue soothing the spot, but it might leave a bruise.
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―You marked me,‖ he rasped, running his hands across Telek‘s strong shoulders. ―Felt right,‖ Telek replied, the animal in him coming to the forefront. He suddenly stilled. ―Did I hurt you?‖ Smiling, Al pulled him back down for a kiss. ―I‘m fine.‖ Mollified, Telek regained his lost momentum. He shifted them on the bed, laying them both on their sides. Al hooked a leg around Telek, sighing contentedly as Telek‘s hand closed around Al‘s cock. With strong strokes as his thrusts picked up speed, Telek brought Al off easily. Clinging to him, Al met Telek‘s plunges with renewed vigor. With an almost animal cry, Telek came, his body shuddering against Al‘s. As Telek slipped free of him, Al kept his leg firmly in place, not letting the man escape. He wrapped his arms around Telek, burying his face in the crook of the man‘s neck. ―That was great,‖ he mumbled. ―Good. This is all so good. More than I deserve,‖ Telek whispered. Al tightened his grip. ―No, it‘s exactly, finally, what you deserve.‖
―WE‘RE about to have company.‖ Arianna‘s voice coming over the comm startled Al. He bolted out of his office and onto the bridge. ―Another little guard craft?‖ he asked. The hard, firm line of his sister‘s mouth said it was something more serious. ―Can‘t tell. Has to be a bigger ship. There‘s a cloak,‖ she replied. He swore under his breath, slipping behind his weapons console. Cloaks were rare and not efficient, not yet, but they were enough to fool long-range sensors. ―Gyal, get a signal to Rollins, tell her to step it up, then man the other weapons bay.‖ ―Aye, sir.‖ Rollins‘s reply to the hail promised she was only minutes away but got cut off as the enemy‘s cloak dropped. A heavily armed warship slammed the Ghost with everything she had. Ari got them out of the path of heaviest fire. Al took his best shot, aiming not for the engines but for the opening shuttle-bay doors, picking off a few of the smaller guard ships as they started spewing out. ―I can‘t avoid them all,‖ Ari warned.
108 | JANA DENARDO ―I know.‖ Al paused long enough to open the ship-wide hail. ―We‘re greatly outmanned. Expect to be boarded. You know what to do. No one is taking the Ghost. The military should be here any moment. Try not to accidentally shoot them when they board.‖ He killed the link, having added that last bit for the chimera on board. Telek would be directing them, and all Al needed was for one of them to eat Rollins‘s men or something. The Ghost shuddered as she took a few more hits. Alarms screamed. ―They‘re forcing the shuttle-bay doors,‖ Gyal reported. ―We‘re ready for that,‖ Al said, blasting a few more of the guard ships. He needed to reduce their numbers. This fight could be lost before Rollins made it. ―That‘s the last of the guard ships,‖ Gyal said. ―They‘ve got us locked down.‖ Arianna swiveled back to face him. ―There is nothing more I can do here.‖ ―Time for hand to hand, then.‖ Al pushed back from the console. He was almost looking forward to this. ―Al, the Intrepid is here,‖ Gyal said. ―They‘re going to board.‖ ―Good. If these people have any sense, they‘ll start withdrawing immediately to get the hell out of here before the military rounds them up,‖ Al said. ―Did you get the sense they were smart? That woman was arrogant. Rollins might find a load of chimerae loose on her men and ours.‖ Arianna glanced back at the viewscreen. ―Their ship‘s big enough to have hauled her entire fight squad of chimerae.‖ ―Not a happy thought,‖ Al muttered as he and his sister went one way and Gyal the other. Screams echoed through the ship, a sound he was very used to but not on his ship. He was the raider, not the one who got raided. He rounded one corridor, and a woman raced for him, her face something out of a nightmare. Noting her shock bracelets, he hit her full force, his blaster set nearly to kill. He set a binder on her and continued down the corridor, where his sister was busy doing the same to someone without a ship‘s badge, military uniform, or shock bracelets: a chimera handler, then.
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Together they headed toward the shuttle bay. Al knew Ari could read his mind. They needed to get the boarding dock closed or, if possible, follow it back to the enemy ship and rip it to hell themselves. The twins didn‘t get far before three chimerae cut them off. One of them dodged Al‘s first attack, coming around his side even as another ran straight for him. A blaster of a different make shrieked, taking out one of them as Al shot the other in the head. His sister had hers down, sweating hard. Glancing around to see who had helped, Al grinned at Rollins and three of her men. ―Good timing, Colonel.‖ ―You really found yourself some trouble this time, Bellomi,‖ Rollins replied, smirking. ―Tell me about it.‖ Al sighed. ―Down this way.‖ He took the soldiers and his sister toward the breached bay. The door slid open, shocking him. Hanne herself had boarded his ship. A quick survey told him she had on a personal force-field, a fancy, expensive little toy. In one soft-looking hand, she had a controller. The beast coming up behind her was anything but human. It barely fit through the door, and Al had no doubt it could break him bare-handed. The thing snarled, its muscles bunching. Snarling, the thing‘s muscles bunched. ―Al…,‖ Arianna whispered, then, along with at least two of Rollins‘s people, she joined in shooting it. The thing didn‘t even blink. ―Evenden doesn‘t like that,‖ Hanne said, casting a glance at the beastly chimera with her. Rollins shot her, making Hanne‘s shield crackle. ―Now that wasn‘t very nice.‖ A loud growl tore Al‘s attention from the monster. Telek and two other chimerae loped down the hall, covered in blood. One of Telek‘s eyes was lost to the swelling and blood covering his face. One of Rollins‘s men raised his gun, but Al held out a hand. ―No, these chimerae are on our side.‖ ―So sure? Telek, Olsu, Tryne, come along now. We‘ll take you home.‖ Hanne beckoned to her freed chimera. Telek swung on her but only grazed her arm before he had to dodge Evenden. Al realized he was trying to strip away her control panel. Al took a couple steps toward her to try the same thing as the three freed chimerae savaged the monstrous one. ―No, Al, stay away from her,‖ Telek screamed.
110 | JANA DENARDO ―Oh, he likes you. I‘ll definitely have to make you part of the collection.‖ Hanne winked at Al. He joined Rollins in shooting at her. Hanne made sure to keep the chimerae between her and the military men and Al. They couldn‘t safely get past the melee to get her. Hanne cheerfully offered up fight suggestions to the chimera, and Al wondered just how insane this woman might be. Telek caught Evenden on the throat, latching on like a lion taking down prey. Olsu and Tryne tried to keep the monster‘s arms busy, but it slipped past them. Its claws struck Telek full in the chest, peeling one side of it open. Hanging like a broken gate, the wound poured blood on the decking. Telek barely had time to scream before he collapsed. There was more screaming. It took a moment for Al to realize it was him. Olsu and Tryne got their fangs and claws in Evenden‘s throat, taking the monster down and continuing to savage it there. Hanne stepped back farther, and her handset chirped. ―We‘ve got the cryo units. Everything else is going to be a loss, Dr. Naess. We have the military boarding us,‖ someone said. Hanne shrugged. ―Oh well. Next time, maybe.‖ Grinning, she thumbed a control and winked out. ―Damn, a personal teleporter? Even we don‘t have those,‖ Rollins said. Al didn‘t pay her any mind, sinking to his knees in the blood pooling around Telek. His lover wasn‘t moving. How could he be? His chest had been tore apart. ―Al?‖ Arianna touched his shoulder, and he flinched. ―Odd, if you‘re safe and you can get to Shuttle Bay Two, get here fast.‖ ―I think I can make it.‖ ―He‘s dead, Bellomi.‖ Rollins pointed to the other two chimerae. ―Are they safe?‖ Al ignored her. His hand hovered over Telek‘s mouth, but no warm breath curled against his fingers. Tryne got up from the now headless Evenden. She came over and pushed Telek‘s ribs back into a better approximation. She turned to Rollins and said, ―We‘re safe. We‘ll look for any of Hanne‘s men.‖ Tryne nodded to Olsu, who followed her. The military men didn‘t try to stop them.
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―Bellomi, we need to get some order restored. I don‘t know where that woman thinks she‘s going. We have her ship locked down,‖ Rollins said, but Al barely processed it. Suddenly the Ghost was rocked by an explosion. That shocked even Al out of his stupor. Rollins flicked her comm-link. ―Report!‖ ―The ship exploded,‖ one of her men replied. ―A smaller ship blasted off just before the explosion. We lost it in the confusion.‖ Al‘s lips peeled back in a feral smile. ―Then there will be another time.‖ ―Al, Ari, what happened here?‖ Odd raced up, her medical bag thumping off her hip. She stopped, looking at Evenden. ―We don‘t care about him.‖ Al patted Telek‘s shoulder. ―He needs you.‖ Odd knelt on the other side of him, holding one of her tools. Her eyes caught Al‘s. ―Al, he‘s dead. There‘s nothing I can do for him.‖ ―Are you sure?‖ He wasn‘t ready to believe it yet. Odd glanced down to the blood, then back up to him. ―I‘m sorry, Al. Telek‘s gone.‖ Sympathy shone in her eyes. ―I have to go help the living.‖ Arianna slipped a hand under Al‘s arm. ―Come on, Al. They need you. We‘ll take care of Telek later.‖ He wanted to argue, but she was right. He couldn‘t let his entire crew die just to linger with his grief. He shook free of his sister and stalked down the corridor. A low, long moan froze them all. Al spun back around to see Telek curling up into a ball, groaning in pain. His hands covered his injured chest. Odd‘s jaw dropped, and she actually beat Al back to Telek‘s side. She had her diagnostic tool out again. ―I don‘t understand this. He was dead.‖ ―Again?‖ Telek rasped. ―It happens. Damn, hurts.‖ ―He‘s actually healing all of his wounds. Rollins, your docs should take a sample of these chimerae‘s blood. I‘ve never seen nanites this fantastic,‖ Odd said as Al rested a hand on Telek‘s shoulder. ―Go on,‖ Telek said. ―Not safe yet, right?‖ ―Not yet,‖ Al agreed.
112 | JANA DENARDO ―Go, I‘ll be fine.‖ ―You two.‖ Odd pointed to the soldiers. ―Help me get him to sickbay.‖ ―All right,‖ Al said. ―Let‘s finish getting the vermin off my ship.‖
AL WAS glad to see Telek up and about in the rec room, but the joy was tempered by the fact that the rec room was also filled with soldiers. Telek gravitated to Al‘s side, whiter than usual, slower. ―Telek, should you be up?‖ ―Probably not, but this is it, isn‘t it?‖ His eyes flicked to the soldiers. ―They‘re going to take us now.‖ Al nodded. ―I‘m going to talk to her one last time. Maybe Rollins will let you stay.‖ His voice shook. He thought he had lost Telek for good, but losing him to the military was almost as hard. Telek‘s eyes closed. ―If not, it won‘t be a bad life. We‘ll get to help people like Rollins helped you. It would be a life with purpose.‖ Al rested a hand on Telek‘s arm. ―It would be a good life, but that doesn‘t mean I want to let you go.‖ Telek smiled. ―I would rather stay, but if I can‘t, be happy that I‘m going somewhere better than I‘ve ever been outside of here.‖ Before Al could respond to that, Rollins came in. The room hushed. ―Captain Bellomi, we‘ve finished repairs to your ship. I‘ve entertained your offer to help hunt down the Alaisaigae. We will allow it, but we all need reinforcements for that. We are, however, ready to transport the remaining chimerae to our ship. I‘ve given them my word that after some retraining, they‘ll become part of our military. Nothing bad or illegal will happen to them.‖ Al didn‘t think there was much he could do if it did. ―I understand, Colonel. May I speak to you privately?‖ She hesitated just long enough that Al thought she might say no. Rollins nodded. ―Your office.‖ Al jerked his head at Telek, and the chimera followed him, subdued. Al indicated for Rollins to sit, but she didn‘t. ―You know what this is about,‖ he said. ―You want to keep the chimerae.‖
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―No, I just want to keep Telek,‖ Al replied. ―He‘s not keeping me. I want to stay,‖ Telek huffed. ―The others are excited to go with you, Colonel.‖ She looked between the two men, an air of understanding settling on her. ―I have to bring them all back. Those are my orders. It‘s too late to tell them he‘s dead. They know better. I can‘t leave him.‖ ―Can you promise me you‘ll bring him back?‖ Al asked. ―I can‘t promise anything, you know that.‖ ―Then I‘m not letting you take him.‖ Telek touched Al‘s arm. ―It‘s all right. I don‘t want you in trouble. I don‘t want to go, but I won‘t let you get in trouble over me.‖ Rollins tapped her chin, then nodded toward the door. ―Go on, get out. I need to make a call.‖ ―Huh?‖ ―To my superiors, Bellomi. Let me see what I can do.‖ Al smiled. ―Thank you, ma‘am.‖ He and Telek went back out into the hall, letting Rollins use the comm-link in private. ―You don‘t have to go, Telek. No matter what her superiors say.‖ ―But I do. I meant it, Al. I‘m not letting you get in trouble over me.‖ ―It‘s my choice. I‘m not going to regret it.‖ ―It‘s not just your choice, and you will, or I will. I would not be happy knowing I got you into too much trouble.‖ Telek scowled. ―You‘ve already given me so much hope for the future. If that‘s the last thing you ever give me, it‘s more than enough. I‘m happy.‖ Al didn‘t know what to say to that, so he slipped his arms around Telek, kissing him. The comm interrupted the long, sweet kiss. ―Bellomi, get back in here,‖ Rollins commanded. Al complied, Telek going with him. ―What did they say?‖ ―They said one less chimera is acceptable so long as he‘s going to a privateer under our command. Just keep in mind if you ever leave service, they‘ll be back for him. And they do want him to come with the others for the training service. It might take a month or more, depending
114 | JANA DENARDO on how well they respond to it. I don‘t think it will be much of a problem. Is that acceptable?‖ Rollins asked. ―It‘s fine by me. Telek?‖ ―It sounds good. When do we leave?‖ ―In a few hours. Be prepared to disembark at seventeen hundred hours,‖ she replied, moving past them and out of the office. ―Are you sure this is okay by you, Telek?‖ ―Yeah, it won‘t be that long.‖ Telek grinned. ―I have better ideas for spending these last few hours than worrying over how the next few months will go.‖ Al took his hand, pulling Telek close. ―I‘m not so sure you‘re ready for anything too athletic.‖ ―I‘d settle for just curling up in bed with you. Has to be better than sickbay,‖ Telek reasoned. ―Can‘t argue that.‖ Al kissed him. ―It‘ll give you a reason to hurry back.‖ Telek slid his arms around Al. ―I already have all the reason I need.‖
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JANA DENARDO‘S career choices and wanderlust take her all over the United States and beyond. Much of her travels make their way into her stories. Fantasy, science fiction, and mystery have been her favorite genres since she started reading, and they often flavor her works. In her secret identity, she works with the science of life and gives college students nightmares. When she‘s not chained to her computer writing, she functions as stray cat magnet. She‘s also learning that the road to enlightenment is filled with boulders she keeps falling over and that the words gardening and Zen don‘t go together no matter what anyone says. Visit Jana‘s blog at http://jana-denardo.livejournal.com/.
OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN PIRATE E.S. DOUGLAS
THERE were few things in my life that gave me greater satisfaction than knowing I had managed to successfully capture a criminal. The fact that the criminal in question was the pirate captain Rheinallt Jones made the taste of success all the sweeter. Word of the blackguard and his misdeeds was spreading, and without someone to stop it, the man could likely have become the next Blackbeard, or perhaps another ―gentleman pirate.‖ He was known to treat his men well, after all, and had very few horrific crimes, when compared to his contemporaries, that could be attributed to him. The same could not always be said for his crew. Even when he had collided with me while I was making my regular rounds on the dock, he had apologized. ―I am terribly sorry,‖ he had said, his breath smelling strongly of rum. He had turned his gaze to the step he had missed coming out of the tavern, as though to understand how he had fallen. His attention had then refocused on me, and his hand had patted my shoulder. Normally, I would have gone on my way and ignored being accosted during my regular patrols, but he had leaned in close to my ear. ―Though I have had much worse luck in my stumblings.‖ I had been a little appalled, but my interest in the man began then, even though I already knew who he was. There were enough of his wanted posters hanging around the barracks.
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When he had seen me raise my weapon, he had chuckled. ―Well, maybe my luck was not so good after all.‖ Though he had not looked terribly frightened of me or my weapon, he had lifted his hands in a sign of surrender. It was quite possibly the easiest arrest I had ever made. My intentions at the time were not quite so innocent as merely seeing justice done. I knew that capturing Jones would benefit my military career considerably. Typically, I am not the sort to actively seek out accolades and commendations, but when they presented themselves to me, if a bit soaked in rum, I took them. Regardless of my part in Jones‘s capture, I now doubted that I would get any recognition for the arrest. My commander was the one delivering word of the capture to the governor, while I was the one standing guard. At a time when I should have been celebrating, I sat and watched the pirate pace inside his small cell. I could find very little that was productive to do with my time aside from propping my feet upon a nearby chair and trying my best to ignore the stale dampness of the jail. Though I could never find fault in the building‘s construction—it served its purpose well—it always felt a bit too dark, and water permeated the floor in odd places, which was mostly absorbed by a thin layer of straw; this only added an unfortunate depth to the mustiness rather than eliminating or at least reducing it. The atmosphere left very little to be desired for a victory celebration. ―I am disappointed in myself.‖ Jones finally spoke after nearly an hour passing in silence. ―Caught by a prison guard.‖ He stuck his forearms through the gaps in the cell door and let the bar beneath them support some of his weight. I must admit that again I was struck by the inflection and tonality of his accent. Truthfully, it had been this that had brought him to my attention, more so than our collision. The way he talked had a natural lilt that seemed inclined to singing, so much so that even now I can picture Jones in my mind‘s eye, leading a sea shanty on his schooner. Added to that cadence was the lyrical quality his accent gave even the most commonplace of words; something so unique for me was bound to make an impression. Living in that part of the colonies for much of my life, I had not known many Welsh, and to be honest, there were none that I could
118 | E.S. DOUGLAS distinctly remember. I had heard stories of the Welsh people from family members, and the tales I could recall had not been kind to them. I did not know if Jones‘s reputation as a pirate known to steal from the British helped or hindered the reputation of the people of Wales. Either way, I supposed being captured by a British colonist was unlikely to win him any followers in their midst. ―I am not a prison guard.‖ I folded my arms over my chest and narrowed my gaze on the auburn-haired man. ―I happen to be a lieutenant.‖ ―I thought that the clothes were a little….‖ He appeared to be searching for the right word, though why, I didn‘t know. Prior to his arrest and the better part of an hour of silence from the man, he had been trying to charm everyone on the street outside the tavern. Even as I was putting him in shackles, he had tried a bit of charm on me. His silence only came when he thought he would get nowhere for his efforts. ―A little… decorative.‖ He frowned. That did not seem to be the word he had been seeking. Jones interlaced his fingers and leaned his forehead against one of the horizontal strips of metal to give me what I could only describe as a leer. ―Does the lieutenant-cum-prison guard have a name?‖ ―He does, but he is unlikely to share it with a pirate.‖ ―Does he always talk about himself like that?‖ Jones asked with a smile, but I did not deign to answer. To my satisfaction, that seemed to annoy him greatly. I had encountered my share of pirates while living in a harbor city, but he appeared to be worlds away from the men I had met before. Perhaps it was his culture—or that accent—but I could not say I had met someone quite like him in his—for lack of a more appropriate word— profession. He did not spit or swear at me for locking him away, nor did he beg for mercy or release. His boundless confidence did not seem to fail him even once to be replaced with either anger or fear. It was remarkable to witness. Then there was his infamous charm. Every announcement asking for the man‘s head had included some warning of his silver tongue. According to the most recent announcement distributed among those of us in the governor‘s service, even those of ―the most upstanding character‖ found themselves ―unwitting parties to his escape or much worse.‖
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I had to wonder just what in Jones‘s past had earned the dubious label of ―much worse,‖ but I had enough of an imagination to guess at it. The man was not particularly difficult to look at for any period of time. He was surprisingly clean-shaven, or would have been if he had not been prevented from returning to his ship. Even now, he had only the slightest shadow of stubble save for a set of long sideburns that led to even longer auburn hair, all of which was his own, unlike the respectable white wig that was perched atop my own closely shorn brown hair. The man‘s eyes, which I had noted when we first met, brought to mind images of the ocean just before a storm. They were a sort of intense steely blue that would have faded by early adulthood in less of a man. Life on a ship had roughened features that had just the slightest touch of the delicate to them. With his callused hands and the trim cut of his body, he obviously had worked on his ship rather than just yelled orders, neither of which did any harm to his appearance, in my humble opinion. Jones did not have the notoriety of Blackbeard, but there were images of him that circulated to the harbor towns and cities, especially among those of us in the governor‘s service. It was little wonder I had recognized him from the moment he stumbled into me, the sketches provided were so accurate. Looking at him now as we shared opposite spots in the stinking jailhouse, I almost wondered if the man had posed for the engravings that would make up his wanted posters. It would not surprise me in the least if he had. Nor would I be shocked to learn that he had a portrait of himself in his cabin on his ship, paid for with plundered booty. His face, regardless of the weathering sun and saltwater had given it, was worthy of capturing with paint on canvas. ―Do I pass yer inspection?‖ he asked with a crooked grin that created the faintest of creases in his ruddy-hued cheeks. ―Inspection?‖ Jones shifted his face enough that the cell door‘s bars clearly framed his features. ―Ye seem to be staring at me with some deep thought. I wondered if it was some form of inspection. Or perhaps a silent interrogation.‖ Again, I said nothing, and this time he shifted away from the door, allowing his hands to grab hold of the iron bars to support his weight as he leaned back. He arched almost obscenely and groaned in appreciation a moment later. I ignored what that sight and his noises did to me and maintained my own silence.
120 | E.S. DOUGLAS ―If this were an interrogation,‖ he said, by way of explaining his earlier question, ―it might make more sense to me why ye would be allowing him to take word of my capture to the governor and get all of the acknowledgement in the process.‖ I tried to contain my surprise that he‘d grasped the situation so quickly. My commander was begrudging at his best when it came to giving credit where it was due. He was particularly cruel to those of us who were no longer so young as to follow him naively but still young enough to best him physically. At twenty and seven years, I was still in my prime, while the man whose orders I had to obey was declining from his own. He knew this. I knew it. ―Why do you assume he will be the one credited with your arrest?‖ Jones leaned closer to the bars once again and crooked a finger in my direction. I didn‘t leave my chair, but I set my feet on the floor once again and leaned forward to show I was listening, against my better judgment. Jones lowered his voice, as though there were someone else in the otherwise deserted jailhouse that he did not want hearing his little secret. ―I assume so because I know men like him, and perhaps because I am ‗men like him‘.‖ I wondered if he, like my commander, was waiting for someone to try to usurp him. That did not seem quite right, since Jones was nowhere near as bitter as the man I had to follow. The mere fact that I had allowed myself to become Jones‘s guard while the commander received the praise for my actions was a strong indicator that the usurper would not be me. I have always been reluctant to properly speak up for myself in situations like this. There was far too much that could also be brought to light and cause me trouble. If it were not for my natural luck, perhaps even God-given ability, to perform acts of heroism in very public arenas, I would wager to guess I would never have risen through the ranks at the rate I had. I settled back into my rickety wooden chair. ―I am sure my commander is well aware of the kind of man you are,‖ I said, once again resting my feet on the other seat. If the chair I was currently sitting on was rickety, the one that now supported my boots was a hazard. Just the addition of their weight made the wood creak. ―I can offer you my assurances that he will be helping your victims detail the stories of your looting, raping, and plundering.‖
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Those words must have struck something in the other man because those odd blue eyes widened at first, then narrowed in obvious indignation. ―Ye have two of those three correct, but I never take an unwilling lover.‖ I could not contain my snort of amusement, not that I made any real effort to do so. Here the man was, in jail, his boat and crew seemingly gone from our harbor, and he was arguing about his prowess as a lover. ―Never,‖ he repeated with a tone of finality and stepped away from the cell door to resume his pacing. Had I not stripped him of his dark blue coat before throwing him in the cell, I think it would have been flapping wildly about his breeches as he irritably walked the small square of his holding area. I could not help but find his frustration immensely amusing, especially since he had seemed to get a great deal of pleasure from my own. Of course, this was only when he was not making attempts to charm me into… something. ―Perhaps you should not misuse women, then. Do you promise them love? Marriage?‖ I folded my hands at my stomach and raised my voice to be heard over his kicking the far wall of his cell, which he began doing when the pacing could no longer quell his frustration. ―Or do you convince them that you are rightfully marrying them in order to have your way with them?‖ This tactic was not unheard of among pirates who wanted women of a better caliber than those with a price. There were tales that Blackbeard had at least a dozen ―wives.‖ ―I do not misuse women,‖ he said, eyeing me through the bars of his cell door again but not stepping so close nor touching it. ―I‘ve no use for them, let alone misuse.‖ This piqued my curiosity—and if I were being honest with myself, my interest. ―None at all?‖ ―None,‖ he said, inching closer to the door. ―And the lovers, willing ones, that I take to me bed could never be so stupid as to think any church anywhere would condone such a marriage.‖ ―I could consider this the confession of a second crime,‖ I told him as I kicked my feet from the battered chair and stood for the first time since my commander had left me to watch over Jones. ―Your sense of judgment is questionable for you to tell such a thing to a military officer.‖ I gave my uniform a tug as though to emphasize that fact, and though I would like to claim it was a show of authority on my part, in
122 | E.S. DOUGLAS reality, I was merely straightening the coat that had been a hard-won trophy in my years of service. Jones approached the cell door again. His hands wrapped around the bars once more, and he smiled at me, unafraid. ―I think I made an excellent choice in me confidant.‖ The smile broadened as I found myself frowning in disapproval. ―I can tell these things.‖ ―Insinuating that sort of depravity about an officer could get you into a great deal of trouble.‖ He grinned! Outright grinned at those words. ―Perhaps I am counting on it.‖ In an act of anger, I reached a hand through the bars of the door and grabbed hold of the man‘s cotton shirt and brown waistcoat to slam his body against the hard iron. ―You would prefer for me to kill you now?‖ He let out the slightest grunt as his body impacted with the unforgiving metal door. ―I imagine it would be less painful than some of the devices I have seen to ‗make an example‘ of the likes of me.‖ He winced as he shifted slightly in my grasp, but Jones quickly recovered to smirk at me. ―It would probably be a mite better than a dance with Jack Ketch.‖ He gestured with one of his hands to simulate a noose about his neck and twisted his face, tongue lolling about, in a mockery of death by hanging. It was oddly accurate. The mimicry ended quickly, and his smirk returned again, as did the lowered voice from before. ―Though, when I said I was expecting a bit of trouble with ye, a quick death was not quite what I had in mind. I told ye I like willing.‖ He risked pressing his face through the bars once again. The move brought us so close that our noses were near to touching. The rum that clung to his breath mingled with the heavy smell of cologne. ―I think ye would be willing.‖ I scoffed, but I refused to let the man‘s shirt slip from my fingertips. ―I think you are a lunatic as well as a pirate. It is a small wonder that you managed to command a ship and its crew, even if they were pirates, if your judgment is so badly skewed.‖ ―Ye don‘t want to know why I said I thought ye would be willing?‖ he asked, disregarding my criticism of his mental faculties. Even now, angry as I was, I had to admire his confidence, regardless of the fact that it infuriated me more than direct insults would have done. ―Ye let your commander walk on ye enough that I can see his footprints on yer
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forehead. For such a strong man‖—his eyes glanced downward as though to roam over my form, though I knew there was not much that he could possibly see, given our proximity and the cell door between us— ―to allow himself to become a feather in someone else‘s cap, then it goes to reason there must be things that he needs to remain quiet. Savvy?‖ ―It did not cross your mind that, perhaps, I have no desire to seek such attention?‖ He snorted in amusement. ―Ye‘ve dusted and straightened that coat far too much in the time we have been here for that to be the truth. No, ye like what ye do, the respect ye get and the power. It is the scrutiny that worries ye, which is the only reason ye did not argue with the commander. I know ye wanted to tell the bilge-sucker to go to hell.‖ ―Another count against you: you have insulted my superior officer.‖ I do not know if I successfully made the stance sound as though I truly meant it. If I did, he did not acknowledge it. His eyes darted down toward the hand that still held him in place. ―There is also the fact that ye‘ve not released my shirt yet.‖ ―It would make it easier to kill you, having you closer to the cell door,‖ I said pointedly. ―If ye‘re going to kill me,‖ he said, still wearing his easy smile, ―could I at least have your name? Grant a condemned man his last wish, as it were.‖ I glared at him for some time; I do not know how long it was, but the silence seemed to stretch on forever. I did not move, despite how uncomfortably close we were. Again, if I were to be truthful with myself, the reason for my discomfort was not what it should have been if I were any normal man. I do not know if he suspected at all, but his blue eyes did not show a sign of backing down. ―At least,‖ he said, ―grant him one of his wishes.‖ The hand that had been making the nooselike gestures only moments before had moved downward at some point in our discussion, a fact that was made plainly clear to me as that hand slid through a lower square of crossed bars to palm at my person. For some time, my brain was so distracted by the touch of a hand not my own in an area that saw so little human contact that I could not
124 | E.S. DOUGLAS think to react. I was frozen in my spot as the hand pressed to and then squeezed at me. Though he could have done so painfully to have me at his mercy, he seemed to be aiming to please me instead. That fact, combined with how good it genuinely felt, tore at my mind. Internally I could hear a small voice, quite possibly my conscience, reminding myself that this man was a pirate, a criminal I had captured who was wanted throughout the colonies for his crimes. I was letting a pirate who had been the Lord only knew where touch me in a private area—admittedly, he was doing so through cloth, but this did little to assuage that niggling voice at the rear of my mind. It was forced into the background by what must have been the baser portion of my brain, which was reminding me that this was one of the only opportunities to willingly and freely present itself to me in a very long time. Though the part of my mind that was focused on all areas south was far louder than common sense, it was the common sense which won out, much to my body‘s disappointment. I quickly retreated from the front of his cell, my hand releasing his shirt even as I could feel my breeches growing more constricting. It had been much too long since I had found someone both willing and discreet. That did not mean I was willing to sacrifice my entire career and future for a one-time opportunity at a little pleasure. Now standing at the other side of the holding area, I had my back pressed to the door of one of the empty cells, my mouth opening and closing like a fish freshly brought out of the water. Jones seemed to find the entire situation highly amusing. I recovered myself after a moment, beginning with a glare before I was able to articulate any words. Jones laughed so heartily that if I were not a victim of his assault, I would have found myself sorely tempted to join in the laughter with him. ―I should have you drawn and quartered for that!‖ I finally managed to cry out, my hands balled into fists at my side. ―Ye should, but ye aren‘t likely to do it,‖ he said with that confident little grin. I was prepared to ask him how he knew with such certainty, but he preemptively answered my question. ―Unless you are hiding a pistol in the front of your pants, I cannot say you disliked my attentions.‖ ―It would not matter if I did or did not enjoy it,‖ I said, finding it incredibly difficult to deny what I knew he could likely see straining at
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the fabric of my pants. ―Nothing of the sort is going to happen. Not with you, most definitely. It is immoral, and even if I chose to disregard the cost to my soul, I am not going to risk my commander walking into the jail and seeing me in flagrante delicto with a male pirate.‖ I folded my arms at my chest, hoping I did not look like a petulant child; I felt a bit like one. ―As you so keenly pointed out moments ago, I am very proud of my job and my title. Why would I risk either for you?‖ His smirk did not even falter, not for a moment. ―Because I am very good at it, and I am positive you are attracted to me. You have blushed more than once in my presence, and I take that to be a very good sign from a man in your position.‖ ―I have not blushed,‖ I argued. He chuckled again at my expense. ―You can tell me the truth,‖ he said. ―Ye could even call it a confession. I was going to be a man of the cloth, you know. My parents would have been sadly disappointed that, instead, I found myself as a pirate captain.‖ ―You are hardly a captain if your crew abandons you.‖ With a tone that indicated no sign of distress at the implication his men had left him behind to rot, he said, ―I have to agree.‖ As though on cue at his words, there was the sound of gunfire outside the jail. Loud shouts carried through the thick walls, and I took a quick appraisal of the situation through the single window at the rear wall between the rows of cells. Outside, I could see the fighting, and I now had to decide whether to maintain my post or to help my comrades defend themselves against this sudden attack. I caught a quick glimpse of the men—and a few women—waging the assault. They were a ragtag group, but it was not difficult to determine where they came from and whom they served. ―What is this? What do you know of this?‖ I asked, wheeling around to face the man‘s cell, only to find it open and empty, and hot breath at my back. ―It is a distraction created by my very loyal crew,‖ Jones said, grabbing my pistol from its holster before I could attempt to reach for it. To my surprise, he merely tossed it into the cell from which he‘d come. ―They will be in to rescue me, if I haven‘t already made it out on my own. When you treat your men and women as well as I do, they are willing to die for you, though I would never ask that of them.‖
126 | E.S. DOUGLAS I lunged at the man, more than prepared to use my fists as the pistol was out of the question and my rifle much too far away. I was not accustomed to the kind of fighting that I could already tell this scuffle between us was going to be. I had fought like a gentleman, even done a small amount of fisticuffs in the past, but having to slam the man to the floor and struggle to capture him once again was outside my experience. We both groaned in pain as our bodies smacked into the hard stone floor; the straw did little to soften the impact. ―I do not know how you got out, but you are going back in that cell,‖ I told him as my fist made contact with his jaw. My landing the blow hardly seemed to trouble the other man. He was quick in retaliating with a punch of his own, almost as though I had not struck him at all. My side was hit at full force, and had it not been for a tight grip to my shirt and a quick motion on his part, I would have curled my body around the injured spot. ―It just so happens I was a pickpocket before I was a pirate,‖ he said before using his body to gain enough leverage to fully overpower me. ―I was destined to disappoint my family.‖ It happened so quickly that I had no time to prepare before I was flipped with my back to the floor and had a pirate straddling my waist and holding down my arms. ―I have fought larger and stronger men than ye,‖ he said. His face was just inches away from my own. ―Cannot say I always won, but I always tried. So ye needn‘t feel bad about the fact ye‘re going to lose.‖ He pressed his hips to my own, and there was no denying for either of us that the contact, the rolling on the unforgiving floor, the entire situation, perhaps, had us both hard as steel beneath the fabric that separated us. Scenarios ran through my mind of what this man could do to me, trapped beneath him as I was. Regardless of how little intimate contact I may have received, this was by no means the way I wished to receive it. I rolled us once again, but he had prepared for it and merely continued the move until I found myself back on the filthy prison floor. ―You said you only take willing bed partners,‖ I grunted out, still trying to struggle against him despite being more aroused than I could ever remember being. ―Tell me to stop,‖ he said in a confident way that made me want to hit him again. ―Just tell me to stop this, and I will.‖
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I opened my mouth to make a noise, to tell him to stop, to try to remember the fact that this would likely cost me my position in the governor‘s military. I attempted multiple times to deny that my body wanted him. Such a denial was made all the more difficult by the simple fact that I had found the man attractive from the moment he had stumbled into me while trying to leave the tavern. Taking my hesitation for consent, which I suppose it really was, his hand began unfastening the buttons at my waist and worming its way beneath. I had had enough quick exchanges over the years that my own hands acted on instinct, grabbing for his dark breeches and mimicking his movements. The part of my brain that had been protesting how these acts could cost me my position was long since silenced, and when I felt Jones‘s lips meet my own, the source of that voice was pushed to the furthest corners of my mind. Sex was one thing, but a kiss was so rare I could count on maybe two hands the number of times someone other than my mother had offered me one, and fewer than half of those had been by a man. Our hands fumbled at first, my own doing so more awkwardly due in part to the mouth upon my own, the taste of rum and something herbal on my tongue as we canted our hips against one another. I let out an audible gasp as I felt him free me from my breeches to the cool air of the prison. I did the same in turn. I felt our hands and intimate areas connect as our bodies began rutting like sexually starved animals. Perhaps, I think, we were no better than that. Our tongues continued the battle that the rest of our bodies had long since abandoned. Hands that had been trying to strike the other were now grabbing, squeezing, sliding. One of mine had moved of its own volition to wrap around the tail of Jones‘s long auburn hair. His hand, the one not at the place where we joined, had moved to grab my hip so roughly I considered the possibility that I might bruise. His mouth was moving across my jaw as I felt my back arch beneath him, and words escaped my now released lips that I would likely need to admit in confession. Admitting them would be much simpler than explaining the circumstances that had caused them. ―It is amusing,‖ he said before nipping at my earlobe and earning a groan from me. ―I tell my crew that the reason I am the way I am is because I did not get to shore often enough in me pirating career.‖ He
128 | E.S. DOUGLAS laughed and looked me in the eye as his hips and mine continued their furious movements below. ―They have no idea how provocative a man can be when he‘s writhing beneath me.‖ His wicked tongue—the true culprit of this entire situation from its start—began to trace the shell of my ear. ―Or above me.‖ Upon those words, Jones shifted up to a kneeling position. ―Are ye going to join me up here?‖ he asked to coax me to join him in this nearly upright stance. My knees protested the movement on the hard stone floor, but I could focus on the pain only momentarily before we resumed frantic kissing and thrusting against one another. We were both lost to our instincts. I pulled harshly at that reddish hair as his stubbled cheeks grazed across my own clean-shaven ones. I could feel the intensity of the moment building and my own completion approaching quickly. So fast was it that I could not utter even a warning before I released with a loud cry that echoed through the empty holding area. Jones‘s hips shifted back, and his lips returned to mine as he allowed me to bring him to his own finish with a few quick strokes. Still in a haze from the fierceness of our encounter, I was slowly trying to tuck myself back beneath my clothing. Jones, on the other hand, had recovered much more quickly and was already buttoning his breeches. ―If you wish to find me later, contact the tavern where you met me. I am sure someone there will be able to pass along the message.‖ I prepared to stand to tell him there would be no contacting him, that I still had a duty to perform, no matter how reluctantly. As quickly as he had moved before, he slid behind me and wrapped an arm around my neck. The arm squeezed tightly, so tightly that no matter how much I pulled at it, I could not pry it loose. He had me at his advantage, which was where I had probably been from the moment we had met, even when I had been putting him in chains and later in a cell. He had always had the upper hand. The last thing I remember was him pressing his lips to my temple before my world turned black.
I
SIT now in my home, waiting. Stupid fool that I am, I went to the tavern several weeks after Jones‘s escape. Despite the fact that countless
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pirates had raided the city and immobilized or killed a number of the commander‘s best men, I was the one who was under suspicion because Jones had escaped on my watch. I do not consider myself so bad a liar that the commander actually realized I was not telling the truth when I said several of the pirates broke into the jail and knocked me unconscious. In reality, my commander‘s anger seemed to come from the governor‘s learning that I was responsible for capturing Jones in the first place, and that my commander had lied in taking credit for the arrest. Though I‘d had nothing to do with this revelation to the governor, I was blamed for it all the same. I suppose I could understand, though never justify, my commander‘s disgust at me. There was word a few weeks ago that one of the captains would soon be placed in command, as soon as he could be ―groomed for the position.‖ I have always known that such a promotion would never be in my future, but I am still disappointed that I was not even considered. Given such close scrutiny, it was some time before I felt comfortable enough to venture to even enter that tavern. It was several visits before I dared to speak to the barkeep about Jones, though the pirate had consumed much of my thoughts these last two months. I was informed that the man would be in touch with me at a time and place of his own deciding and that I would not know where or when it would be. So I sit and wait at my meager abode, just as I have done for the weeks since. He is still on my mind as I take a sip of the glass of cheap brandy in my hand. I stare intently at the liquid as I let the slow burn move down to my stomach. It is almost the same as the fire he ignited in me that day, pathetic as that sounds even inside my own mind. But what he started has yet to fade. ―I thought I saw a bit o‘ brown under that wig.‖ Familiar Welsh tones wash over me, forcing me to look up from my glass. ―Now, will ye tell me why ye were willing to tell the barkeep yer name but not me, Geoffrey Chesterfield?‖ I stand from the threadbare armchair and look at him. It has been months since our last encounter, but he looks almost unchanged from my memory. ―I am not going to question how you got in here. I imagine it would get me nowhere to ask.‖ He walks over to me, hands in that jacket of his, the same one I had
130 | E.S. DOUGLAS confiscated in the jail that day and he had taken back. ―How many pirates did ye tell the commander it was that took ye down?‖ I also know better than to ask how he knows this as well. His instincts about me have proven correct before, and his sources were good enough to lead him to and into my home with no difficulty. ―A half dozen at least,‖ I say, keeping my face impassive. ―It took a bit of explaining why pirates would leave me unharmed when I had captured their captain.‖ He leans close to my ear. ―Be grateful,‖ he says. ―I could have left us finished in the position we started. Ye would have had a mite more to explain than being alive.‖ I had wondered at the reasoning for the shift. At first, I thought perhaps he had done it to ensure I was an active, willing participant. He had placed such an emphasis on that aspect of his previous lovers. I also considered it might have helped him in rendering me unconscious after we finished. Either way, it had ensured that there was no trace on me of the act we had been engaging in just moments prior. I looked like I had been in a fight rather than having what was probably the best sexual encounter of my twenty-seven years. I dared not think of the consequences had anyone detected the evidence or scent of sex in that jail. ―Do you make it common practice to tell your captors where to find you?‖ He is closer now; I have once again failed to notice him getting so close to me. It seems all of my abilities as a soldier disappear around this godforsaken man. ―The people I tell are rarely my captors, and ye have been the only one I was certain would seek me out.‖ His smirk becomes an easy smile, far easier than I have ever managed. ―I was right. I usually am.‖ His hand is at the back of my neck now, and he is pulling me toward him for another kiss. I can‘t begin to find it in me to resist. Our lips meet, and this time it is slower, less heated than our exchange months ago. He tastes less of rum as well—though I imagine that the flavor is as permanent as the sweet, almost herblike one I detected before. Our tongues dance over one another, writhing slowly, tracing the mouth of the other in a way that feels far more sensual than I would have thought the man capable of being.
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―Any chance I can convince you to try out those sea legs for a spell?‖ he asks as he ends the kiss. ―Why not find out if you can be persuasive enough?‖ I ask with a smile, almost as natural as his own. ―Or are you certain of the answer already?‖ ―I am certain of the answer,‖ he says, moving closer to my ear once again. ―But the persuading is the fun part.‖
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A storyteller before she could write complex sentences, E.S. DOUGLAS has had a love of weaving a tale since childhood. She knew that her career would be somewhere in writing, and for a time, it was. E.S. was lucky enough to work with words for five years in the newspaper industry in Maryland. While there, she interviewed people on the street, government officials, and even governors and senators. Still, it was not the kind of writing she wanted to do. With a change in careers that takes her on a totally new path, E.S. now has time to focus her writing back on what she has always loved most: telling a story from her own imagination. If the story happens to involve two attractive men and a bit of romance, all the better. Sometimes, as she writes now, she wonders what the government officials would say if they knew the sort of writing she did on the side when she wasn‘t writing about them.
OBJECTIVITY K.J. JOHNSON
IT WAS the sound of the water splashing gently that tipped Matthew off, something in the minute difference between the noise of liquid hitting plastic rather than tree roots that made him look up. There was no point in trying to see, and he knew it, having spent almost two weeks on the African coast. The night was pitch black and impenetrable; they only did this on the darker nights. He caught whispers of stray voices speaking to each other around him, disembodied and low. He could make out a few French words, but his schoolboy French didn‘t get him very far here. Their English was good enough, though, enough for him to make himself understood, enough to get his interviews, his exposé… provided he got out of here in one piece. Someone dropped down next to him, a silent rush of air and rustling of leaves. ―Matthew,‖ said a soft voice next to his ear, and Matthew swore under his breath as he started. He didn‘t need to hear his companion chuckle to know who it was, and felt a thrill low in his stomach. ―Achmed.‖ ―Enjoying yourself, friend?‖ There were, as always, traces of mockery lacing Achmed‘s voice, and Matthew couldn‘t stop himself from being very aware of the pistol that had permanent residence on Achmed‘s right hip, as well as the closeness of Achmed‘s body. ―It‘s fine,‖ he replied noncommittally. Achmed smiled; they were close enough that Matthew could see the faint glint of his teeth. For a moment, he kept his eyes on that smile,
134 | K.J. JOHNSON picturing the face that he couldn‘t see right now but was beginning to know well. He shook himself. ―You are bored,‖ Achmed said, again with that faint trace of mockery. Matthew looked away, staring out into the blackness and pretending he could see the water lapping at the tree roots, pretending he could see the sea beyond the curve of the inlet. UN ships patrolled this part of the world, though he had yet to see any of them. ―I might be,‖ he replied. ―Not much to do except watch you coming and going.‖ Achmed chuckled again. ―True, but then, if I came to your paper and told you I wanted to come with you to interview… say, the president of the United States, would you say, ‗Sure, Achmed, come along and see how I do this, what my secrets are‘?‖ In spite of his discomfort, Matthew laughed. ―No, fair enough. Also….‖ ―Hmm?‖ There was a brief rustle of leaves as Achmed turned to focus on the entrance to the inlet again. Someone said something in French, not far from the two of them, and Achmed replied. Matthew kept silent as he listened to the splashing of water, louder this time, the dinghy either being tied up and abandoned or hauled ashore. He strained to hear, finally concluding that it was merely being tied up, carefully hidden under the canopy of plants. When silence returned, Achmed turned back to him. ―You were saying?‖ Matthew looked at him just as a breeze rustled some of the leaves above them, creating a quick play of dots of moonlight across Achmed‘s face, allowing him to see Achmed‘s calm expression. ―Well….‖ This was the problem he‘d been debating for as long as he‘d been working on this story. ―I‘m not sure I should be going along. Legally speaking, I mean.‖ Achmed was silent for a few beats. ―You can write about us, be here, speak with us, but coming along would be… wrong?‖ ―Yes.‖ Matthew couldn‘t help holding his breath a little. ―Right. Very logical.‖ Before Matthew could think of a reply, Achmed tapped his shoulder, the contact making him jump. ―What?‖ The chuckle again. ―Time to go, friend. We‘re done for the night.‖
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WHEN they returned to the camp, the sun was glimmering on the horizon, but all Matthew could think about was sleep. He dragged himself into his hut, remembered with faint awareness to check the mosquito nets before crawling into bed, kicking his shoes off with his last burst of energy. He was fast asleep only moments later. When he woke, the sun had heated the earth and mosquitoes were buzzing angrily around his nets, eager for the prey trapped inside. He blinked against the brightness of the light coming between the slats of wood, rubbing his eyes. His mouth was dry, and he couldn‘t quite shake the lingering stiffness in his muscles, the result of the constant, simmering undercurrent of danger he was surrounded by. Resigned to his own choices, he reached for the bottle of DEET, a morning ritual he now did thoughtlessly, and stripped off his T-shirt to put the lotion on his skin. He‘d just finished applying it to his face and was working his way down his chest when the door opened and Achmed entered unceremoniously, without knocking. ―Ah, I thought you‘d be up.‖ Matthew froze mid-motion, forced to look up from his position on the floor to Achmed‘s imposing stature, shirtless as was his custom during the day. He swallowed at the sight, unable to stop himself from looking and admiring. Finally, he remembered to peel his fingers away from his own skin, unable to shake the feeling that he‘d been caught with his hand down his pants. Achmed sniffed the air. ―That stuff is… what‘s the word? Vile.‖ Matthew felt a blush working its way up his skin and hoped the darkened interior of the hut would hide it. He shrugged to cover his embarrassment. ―It does its job.‖ ―Hmm.‖ Achmed crouched down so they were face to face. ―There is something I want to show you.‖ As always, Achmed made the plans and determined where they went, and Matthew just followed. Unconsciously, his eyes strayed to the gun strapped loosely to Achmed‘s hip, a gun he had, so far, never seen used except for target practice. He dragged his eyes up over Achmed‘s trim chest again, away from the pistol, telling himself to ignore the attractive sight in front of him. He swallowed. ―Okay… what is it?‖
136 | K.J. JOHNSON ―You‘ll see.‖ Achmed met his eyes, looking at him for a long while, until Matthew had to force himself to stay still and not twitch. ―Be ready in thirty minutes.‖ He stood up and turned on his heel without waiting for a reply, leaving as unceremoniously as he‘d entered. Matthew has stopped expecting him to cater to social niceties, and merely took a few deep, steadying breaths to prepare himself for the events of the day. And to will down his half-hard erection.
THEY drove away from the coast into the blistering heat of the desert, Achmed in the driving seat and Matthew beside him. It was just the two of them this time, and Matthew leaned back, trying to find some relief in the feeling of the hot air rushing across his face. Achmed glanced at him and laughed, reaching behind his seat with one hand, the other on the steering wheel to avoid the worst of the potholes. He retrieved a canteen of water and dropped it in Matthew‘s lap. ―Westerners.‖ Irritated with the mockery lacing his voice, Matthew snapped, ―Yes, I know how you feel about us.‖ Achmed raised one eyebrow behind his reflective sunglasses. ―I don‘t hate you, you know.‖ Matthew gave him a skeptical look. ―You just rob us.‖ ―Not you.‖ Achmed shifted in his seat, resting one arm on the door of the jeep, and leaned back, glancing at the sky as if he was forgetting the empty road ahead of them for a moment. He focused back on his driving. ―Although I still might. I haven‘t decided yet. Mo says your camera is worth a lot of money.‖ Matthew almost placed a protective hand over his bag, although this kind of ribbing wasn‘t new. He stopped himself at the last moment. ―Not as much as a yacht.‖ ―Or a ransom.‖ Achmed glanced at him again. ―Is everyone worth that much in the West?‖ Matthew sighed. ―No.‖ ―Huh.‖ Achmed chuckled. ―Don‘t worry; I won‘t let Mo take your camera. I‘ll tell him we want our story told.‖
OBJECTIVITY | 137 Matthew turned in his seat, but Achmed‘s face, aided by the sunglasses, was inscrutable as always. ―Why do you want your story told?‖ Achmed took his eyes off the road again, this time holding his gaze on Matthew‘s face long enough that he knew he was being scrutinized. ―I don‘t,‖ he said finally, voice level and almost devoid of the emotion that usually laced it. ―You asked to tell it; I don‘t object.‖ He shrugged. ―Besides, I like you. You asked nicely.‖ The mocking tone was back. Any other interview subject and Matthew would have probed, but here…. It’s a way, Matthew‘s editor had said when he‘d pitched the idea to him, explained that he might have a contact, to get a cover story. Or to get yourself killed. He‘d been here two weeks and he still didn‘t know which it was going to be. He was getting used to living with the fear, with the possibility of his own murder shimmering on the horizon, like a mirage. ―There‘s nothing you want to say to the world?‖ he tried. Achmed‘s mouth tightened. ―There‘s plenty I have to say to the world. But not through you.‖ There was a hardness to his tone that Matthew usually only heard when Achmed spoke with his men. He couldn‘t help suppress a shiver in spite of the heat, and covered it by taking a sip of water. ―Okay.‖ Achmed smiled thinly, a glance thrown his way that Matthew knew to be deprecating even though he couldn‘t see it. ―Look at you and me. I‘m ten years older than you, run my own business, happy man. Not without danger, but hey, I like danger. You, you‘re young and rich and you go find your fun on the coast of Africa because you don‘t have enough adventure.‖ He shook his head, laughing suddenly. ―Doesn‘t your family worry about you?‖ Matthew stared at the road, suddenly hit hard by memories and things he was trying to forget. He covered it by doing what he always did when his family came up, reaching for the anger that would drive him forward instead of looking back. ―They do,‖ he said, turning back to study Achmed‘s response. ―Is this the part where you put a gun to my head and make me call them?‖ Achmed met his eyes over the sunglasses, ignoring the way the car shook as they went over a bump in the uneven road. After a few moments, he tipped his head up again and laughed, becoming as
138 | K.J. JOHNSON inscrutable as always. ―Good idea. I should do that, see if you are worth many dollars too.‖ Matthew stared at the horizon, rendered blurry by the heat rising from the ground. A strange sense of betrayal sat in his chest, and that was just ridiculous. ―I‘m not,‖ he replied past the lump in his throat. He sensed Achmed turning to look at him but kept his eyes fixed ahead.
AFTER an hour and a half, they arrived at their destination. It was a lively, bustling town, and Matthew found himself clinging to the door when it became obvious that right of way was determined by playing chicken with the oncoming traffic. Achmed, unperturbed, negotiated this by gunning the engine a little every time any vehicle came within sight, causing most other drivers to flinch away and let them pass. When they finally pulled up at what appeared to be the local bar, Matthew was reconsidering ever getting into a car again and Achmed was grinning like he‘d just had a fabulous time. Matthew cleared his throat. ―Do I want to know how many road deaths this place has a year?‖ Achmed lowered his sunglasses, looking at him with eyes dancing with mirth. ―You Westerners and your rules.‖ Matthew held his gaze, unable to look away from the sparkling, dark eyes. ―We aren‘t all the same, you know.‖ Achmed raised an eyebrow. ―Westerners? You all look the same.‖ Matthew let that insult slide, choosing to follow Achmed into the bar instead. The moment they stepped inside, the place, lively and rowdy as they‘d crossed the threshold, fell into a deep, ominous silence that made Matthew feel like he‘d stepped into a Hollywood film. He risked a few glances around, expecting to be the subject of the attention, but to his surprise, most of the eyes were focused on Achmed. He said a few words in French, interspersed with too much of the local dialect for Matthew to follow any of it, and walked to a table in the corner, sitting down and kicking back a chair as a clear invitation for Matthew to sit also.
OBJECTIVITY | 139 He did, and realized he was sitting with his back to the room as he did so. Behind him, conversation started up again in a low buzz, suggesting they were the subject. Matthew resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder, no matter how much his skin started to crawl. ―Oh, relax,‖ Achmed said, grinning. ―They don‘t care about you.‖ ―How do I know that?‖ Matthew shot back. ―I‘m telling you,‖ Achmed replied, but his eyes were looking at something over Matthew‘s shoulder. Before Matthew could ask what he was looking at, or risk a look himself, a young woman stopped at the table and put down two cans of Coke. She gave Matthew a quick smile before exchanging a few words with Achmed, who handed her some money. She left again, and Matthew reached for one of the cans, cool and beading with condensation. He would have loved to press it against his skin for a moment, but he resisted; nothing about this place suggested that doing something out of the ordinary was a good idea. Achmed‘s eyes were on him when he looked up, giving him the unearthly sense that Achmed knew exactly what he was thinking and was mocking him for it. It was unsettling and made him shift in his seat. Achmed looked away again, glancing at the door, and Matthew began to wonder if he was expecting someone. He popped open the can and took a long sip, the cloying sweetness of the drink invading his senses. When he put the can back on the table, now half empty, he met Achmed‘s eyes again, dark and intense. Matthew found a challenge in that gaze. ―So what are we doing here?‖ To his surprise, Achmed blinked and seemed momentarily unsettled. ―Just see,‖ he said curtly. Matthew drank some more of his Coke and watched from underneath his lashes as Achmed opened his own can and drank from it, the muscles in Achmed‘s throat working and the condensation from the can dripping from his fingers. He dragged his eyes up to meet Achmed‘s, and they looked at each other, neither of them saying a word. Fear coiled low in Matthew‘s gut, a sense of being found out, of being discovered, but there was no disgust,
140 | K.J. JOHNSON no rejection in Achmed‘s gaze, and he started to open his mouth, started to think of a way to ask without giving himself up. A woman pulled up a chair and sat down in it, giving Matthew a glance before focusing her attention on Achmed, and Matthew tore himself away from the moment. She was clutching a handbag and some shopping bags, food items poking out above white plastic, as she spoke rapidly with Achmed, voice low. Matthew risked a glance around. No one in the room seemed to be paying them any attention anymore, but that could be deceptive. Achmed replied to the woman, answering in a voice wholly devoid of either the tense tone of command or the mockery he preferred otherwise. Matthew caught a few stray words, something about money and bills, and the woman replied, too fast and too different from his schoolboy days to be understood. After a few more words back and forth, Achmed reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and peeled off some bills, handing them to the woman. She thanked him, taking her bags and leaving the bar. Matthew watched her leave. In the corner of the bar, he caught some men watching them, something about the narrowing of their eyes suggesting they weren‘t too pleased. Achmed‘s hand on his shoulder made him turn back, the touch strange and burning, breaking through the careful distance they‘d kept for as long as Matthew had been there. ―Don‘t look at them,‖ Achmed said. ―Their envy is none of your concern.‖ ―Is that what it is?‖ Matthew asked. ―Who are they?‖ ―None of your concern,‖ Achmed repeated, and took a sip of his drink. ―Who was she?‖ Achmed looked at him. ―You are very curious today.‖ Matthew refused to take that as a threat. ―I‘m a journalist. It‘s what I do.‖ ―This is what I do,‖ Achmed replied, and before Matthew could ask more, a young boy sat down in the vacated chair.
OBJECTIVITY | 141 It was hard to estimate his age, but he was likely no more than fourteen. He talked quickly and nervously, gesturing with his hands and keeping half an eye on the door. The transaction was completed faster; only a minute later, Achmed produced the cash, peeled off some bills, and handed them over. The boy left, equally nervous, and the men in the corner watched him go out before settling their attention on Achmed and Matthew again. It was unnerving, even more unnerving to sit with his back to them, and Matthew had to force himself to resist throwing glances over his shoulder every so often. ―Sit still,‖ Achmed said, voice steely with command. ―You‘re getting on my nerves.‖ You’re getting on mine, Matthew thought, but refused to voice it. ―Why are you doing this?‖ he asked instead. ―Curious again.‖ Achmed shook his head. ―You are like, what do they say, a dog with a bone. Always looking, always sniffing for it.‖ ―Yes,‖ Matthew shot back, irritated at being kept in the dark. Before the conversation could continue, another young woman stopped by. Matthew didn‘t really bother to listen in on the transaction, since it was clear he couldn‘t follow it anyway. She left a few minutes later with some cash, and Achmed rose, drinking the last from his can in one swallow. Matthew hurriedly finished his own drink and followed him out, the heat hitting him like a ton of bricks as they stepped back into the sunshine. ―Where are we going?‖ Achmed shot him a brief look. ―Stop asking questions.‖ ―It‘s my job.‖ ―Bullshit.‖ Achmed rounded on him, and Matthew involuntarily took a step back and then cursed himself for it. ―You are nosy.‖ ―Yes.‖ He stood his ground and resolutely ignored the fact this forced him to look up because Achmed was half a head taller. ―I‘m good at what I do.‖ Achmed scrutinized him. ―I could kill you, and no one would care.‖
142 | K.J. JOHNSON Matthew‘s mouth went dry even though the threat wasn‘t new. He refused to swallow, held perfectly still because Achmed was watching him intently. ―You know people would care. It would bring a lot of trouble to your doorstep.‖ Achmed was silent for a beat. Then he shrugged. ―Maybe it would.‖ He took a step back. ―Let‘s go.‖ Matthew tried to breathe out discreetly, tried to blame the soaking of his shirt on the afternoon heat, and knew that both of them were aware that it wasn‘t the entire truth. He expected them to head back to the car, but instead Achmed walked into the street, without even checking that Matthew was following.
THEY walked for a good twenty minutes, the buildings around them changing from brick to wood, from firm structures to shacks, until they arrived at what could only be called slums. Shacks made of wood and sheets of corrugated plastic, stacked together in rough rows, surrounded by ditches filled with a few inches of stagnant, smelly water. These were the images of Africa Matthew knew from cable news, the pictures that won photojournalists awards as they talked about poverty and debt relief and toured the charity circuit. The reality was stark and noisy, the smell an overpowering mixture of sewage and cooking scents, the sound of voices and movement assaulting his ears. He could feel Achmed‘s eyes on him, could feel the way he was being tested in the prickling of his skin, and refused to flinch or look away. He followed Achmed diligently and, when the first impression faded, began to spot the young children who peeked and then ran away, yelling at someone unseen, often with Achmed‘s name caught in the mix of unintelligible words. Older kids came up to him, and Achmed handed out money, coins and more of the bills, lower denominations this time. Achmed knew his way around, turning left here and right there, clearly going to a specific place. Finally, they stepped inside a hut. The heat was as strong inside as outside, no brick walls to keep it from penetrating. It hit Matthew in the chest, momentarily seeming to constrict his breath, making him suck in a few mouthfuls of the stagnant air before he felt like there was oxygen coming into his system again. His eyes adjusted to the lack of light, and he saw a young boy sitting on
OBJECTIVITY | 143 the floor, stringing beads together on thread with nimble fingers, creating a sparkling necklace at rapid speed. Behind the boy, on a makeshift pallet of pillows and blankets, lay a woman, clearly ill, her skin pulled tight over her bones. He couldn‘t tell if she was thirty or fifty. Achmed spoke briefly to the boy before kneeling by the woman‘s side and speaking to her. More money exchanged hands, and Achmed stood up. ―Do you want to take her picture?‖ Matthew was startled. ―What?‖ ―Do you want to take her picture? Or is she not pretty enough for you?‖ Matthew reached for his camera. ―No, it‘s okay, I—‖ He had no idea what to say. ―Yes, I‘ll take her picture, if she‘s okay with it.‖ ―She said yes. You may take one of her son, too.‖ Matthew turned on the camera, feeling it whir in his hands in protest, the heat making the batteries sluggish. He hoped it would survive this trip; for now, it did as he asked and charged up. As he worked, adjusting the settings and taking different shots, he could feel Achmed‘s eyes on him, could feel the judgment being passed. The boy had finished stringing the necklace and was tying it off when Matthew put his camera away again. Without missing a beat, the kid started on a new one, selecting different colors of beads and slipping them onto a new length of string. Achmed spoke briefly to him and the woman before heading back outside. Feeling completely surplus to requirements, Matthew said ―Thank you‖ to the woman, waved at the boy, and followed Achmed out.
THEY walked back to the car in silence, the last of Achmed‘s money disappearing into the hands of several people they met along the way. Matthew felt drained by the heat, and by the impressions and images that were burned into his mind‘s eye. Achmed started the car and backed it out with only a cursory glance over his shoulder, and not even the squealing of tires and honking of horns could make Matthew do more than wince. He leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of traffic and the yelling of voices, languages that
144 | K.J. JOHNSON he didn‘t understand and couldn‘t even separate into individual words, letting it wash over him. When the bustle faded away and the road got bumpier, he opened his eyes. ―Back with me?‖ Achmed had one hand on the steering wheel and those infernal sunglasses back on his nose, a hint of a smile playing around his lips as he looked at Matthew, only sparing the occasional glance for the bare, dusty road. ―I never left,‖ Matthew said, feeling compelled to be contrary. Achmed made a disapproving sound, as if chiding a small child, and Matthew had had enough of being patronized. ―I get that you think I‘m a moron, really, you‘ve made it clear, man. I get it. So if you want to test me, fine. Go ahead. You‘ll win, and we both know it.‖ Achmed‘s only reply was a raise of an eyebrow, and Matthew really wanted to hit him. ―Oh, forget it. Fuck you.‖ Achmed turned his attention back on the road, keeping his eyes fixed on it as if the empty expanse before them required this studious scrutiny. Matthew stared at the unchanging landscape sliding by, the heat clinging cloyingly to his skin in spite of the air rushing past them, and hated this entire assignment. ―You wanted to know why I do it.‖ Achmed‘s voice broke the silence, his tone honest and open, and it made Matthew turn to look at him. Something he saw made him want to reach out and pull those sunglasses away, reveal the man he sensed was underneath, and he wrapped his fingers firmly around the edge of his seat to keep from doing exactly that, to keep from touching what he could not have. Achmed looked at him. ―That is why.‖ ―Those people?‖ ―Yes.‖ Achmed nodded. ―Who else do you think takes care of them? The Westerners who come with their donations and their projects, they help some, and the government helps some, and the rest, the rest we have to help ourselves.‖ Matthew shook his head, laughing all of a sudden. ―Like a modern Robin Hood, you mean?‖
OBJECTIVITY | 145 ―Who?‖ Achmed‘s confusion was genuine, and Matthew laughed again. ―No one you would know. Steals from the rich to give to the poor.‖ Achmed shrugged. ―Then yes.‖ ―You don‘t care that it‘s wrong? That you hurt people? Kill them, even?‖ The look Achmed gave him was clear even with the sunglasses obscuring his eyes. ―The ships have money. They transport the oil that was pumped up here, the goods that our children made. Do we see the money they make? No. It‘s our share.‖ ―And you‘ll kill to have it.‖ ―Only if someone tries to stop me.‖ Matthew stared at the blurred horizon. ―Okay. I guess that makes sense in your world.‖ ―I thought you were trying to understand. That it is why you‘re here.‖ ―It is.‖ Matthew sighed. ―It is, Achmed, but… where I come from, we frown on killing people.‖ ―It‘s a different world here.‖ There was a trace of the old mockery in Achmed‘s voice, and Matthew couldn‘t help glancing at him, catching Achmed‘s broad smile. He looked over his sunglasses to meet Matthew‘s eyes, and Matthew had to laugh. ―Come with us tonight.‖ It sobered him up. ―I can‘t.‖ ―Why not? I‘m not asking you to shoot people.‖ ―And if you shoot someone while I‘m there? Achmed, I can‘t do it. I can‘t be a witness to that and not try to stop it.‖ ―We‘re on opposite sides.‖ Matthew sighed. ―Yes, in a way we are.‖ ―Then come as far as the boat. You don‘t have to come on a raid, just come see how it‘s done.‖
146 | K.J. JOHNSON He met Achmed‘s eyes as he took off his sunglasses. ―Why do you want me to come?‖ ―Because I want you to see.‖ ―See what?‖ The car hit a bump and started to swerve, and Achmed cursed and hit the brakes, causing the car to slide sideways before coming to a stop across the middle of the road. Matthew unclenched his fingers from where he‘d grabbed hold of the door and flexed them, trying to even out his breath. ―See what?‖ he repeated. Achmed looked away, staring out at the horizon. ―We are not evil men.‖ ―I never said you were.‖ ―Matthew….‖ ―Yeah, okay.‖ He had been thinking it, in a way. ―You want me to see you‘re human.‖ ―Yes.‖ ―I can‘t go on a raid with you. But I‘ll come to the boat. Don‘t suddenly change the plan on me, Achmed, or we‘ve got a problem, you and me.‖ Achmed grinned, restarting the engine. ―I‘m a man of my word. No raids while you‘re on the boat.‖ Matthew felt that cocky grin all the way down to his groin, and wondered how much trouble it would lead him into.
THE sky was almost completely dark when they arrived at the water‘s edge, the same place where they had waited the night before, and the men peeled away the underbrush to untie the dinghy they‘d left there. They all piled in, Achmed, Matthew, and the three others the pirate leader had brought, and set off. As they rounded the beginning of the inlet and set out for open sea, Matthew became suddenly and uncomfortably aware that he was on his own, miles away from any help, with four pirates in a small boat. He shook the feeling off because he had to, because making himself sick over this served no purpose. He glanced sideways at Achmed and
OBJECTIVITY | 147 realized that he couldn‘t really believe, in spite of all the threats, that Achmed was going to kill him. Achmed glanced back as if he‘d sensed Matthew‘s gaze, but said nothing. The last vestiges of the setting sun caught him in profile, and Matthew swallowed hard against the urge to do something, to reach out and run fingers through Achmed‘s hair or turn his face so Matthew could kiss him. That would be a really, really stupid idea, sure to get him killed. Near the horizon, the shadow of a ship became visible, and the man steering the outboard motor aimed for it, bringing them in close. It was a small vessel, probably once a fishing boat, floating steadily on the waves, anchor out. They came alongside it, and some words were exchanged with a man on the deck who was armed with an automatic rifle. The pirates climbed on board the ship via netting hanging off the side, and when it was only Matthew and Achmed left, Achmed gestured for him to go first. Matthew swallowed his trepidation and took hold of the wet, slippery ropes, pulling himself up and trying to find a foothold, praying his hands wouldn‘t slip. Everything about this was a challenge, and he could feel Achmed‘s eyes on him, weighing him again, weighing his worth, and hated him for it. When he got close to the top, strong hands grabbed his arms and hauled him aboard, landing him face down on the steel deck. His face heated at this ungainly position, and he scrambled up, nearly thrown sideways by the rocking of the boat. ―So, this is it.‖ He turned at Achmed‘s voice. ―What?‖ ―My boat.‖ Achmed gestured around. ―She‘s our main base at sea. From here, we raid the tankers and big ships in the shipping lanes.‖ Matthew looked around. The men they‘d come in with were already doing other things, disappearing below deck or talking to the guys who were apparently keeping watch. There were very few lights on, and he was squinting to see Achmed‘s expression. ―Can I take pictures?‖ Achmed seemed to be taken by surprise by his question, and debated it for a while. ―Later. When it‘s dark. Maybe.‖
148 | K.J. JOHNSON It was unlike him not to make decisions straightaway, and it made Matthew wonder. ―You can check them, if you like, delete any you think are dangerous.‖ Achmed looked at him, long and hard. ―I‘ll think about it.‖ The tension between them was suddenly sharp, and it made Matthew shiver in the cold sea air. Before he could think of something to break it, Achmed grinned and clapped a hand on his shoulder. ―Come on, I‘ll show you around.‖ Achmed‘s fingers were digging into his skin, and Matthew could hear the unspoken command. He followed Achmed down to the hatch that led below deck. Achmed easily slid down the ladder and landed on the metal plating with firm feet; Matthew‘s foot slipped on the second rung and he cursed as his full body weight became suspended from his shoulders. Hands landed on his waist, and he twisted away without thought. Achmed‘s voice was low and steady. ―Just let go, you‘re not that far from the deck.‖ He was too aware of Achmed‘s hands still on his body, the sudden closeness making him realize how much he‘d craved that, and it was hard to unclench his fingers and drop into an unknown depth. He swallowed and let go, struggling against the panic that welled up when he felt his fingers slide off the metal bars. A moment later, his feet made contact with the ground, and it was such a ridiculously short distance that his panic seemed stupid and childish. He stared at the peeling paint on the wall for a second, trying to get both his panic and his libido under control before turning to face Achmed again. Achmed was leaning back against a bulkhead, a hint of a smile playing around his lips, the mocking expression Matthew had become so familiar with. ―Yes, I know, I‘m as green as they come.‖ Achmed laughed curtly. ―I won‘t hold it against you.‖ ―Hmm. Somehow I doubt that.‖ Achmed shrugged, then turned and headed down the corridor. Matthew scrambled to follow, cursing under his breath. His gait was unsteady because of the rocking motion of the waves while Achmed had
OBJECTIVITY | 149 adjusted without effort, walking in a straight line to where they needed to go. Matthew caught sight of sleeping quarters, a galley, and stairs leading down to what looked and sounded like an engine room. At the end of the corridor there was a storage area, with tins of food stacked up next to boxes of ammunition. He swallowed. There were voices calling out behind them, calling Achmed‘s name, and the leader turned and headed back down the corridor to answer. Matthew charged up his camera without thinking too much about it, knowing these were the pictures that were both harmless to Achmed‘s crew and worth a thousand words next to any story he could write about this. He shot a few images, finding the right angles, then quickly switched the camera off and turned around. He froze in place when he saw Achmed leaning against the doorway, a smile playing around his lips. ―I—‖ Matthew started, and then realized there was nothing he could say. Achmed raised an eyebrow and stepped into the room, and Matthew pulled himself up to his full height. He slipped the camera off his shoulder and held it out. ―Here, take it and get rid of the photos, if you want.‖ Achmed still didn‘t speak a word, and Matthew couldn‘t help the fear that was making him shake and break out in a cold sweat, but he refused to cower. ―Achmed….‖ Achmed took the camera from his hand and, to Matthew‘s surprise, accessed the memory. He‘d apparently been watching Matthew work and paid attention enough to be able to operate it himself. Achmed started to laugh and handed it back. ―Food? You take pictures of food?‖ Matthew breathed out slowly. ―Yes.‖ ―Why?‖ Achmed was watching him curiously. ―Why do you take pictures of our food?‖ Matthew gestured to the shelves. ―Most people don‘t keep their ammo next to their soup.‖
150 | K.J. JOHNSON Achmed looked from him to the shelves, then back to him. ―Ah.‖ Matthew smiled, wiping his forehead with the hem of his T-shirt. He met Achmed‘s eyes. ―Do you think I won‘t kill you?‖ Bizarrely, it was the calm, conversational way that Achmed said it that made Matthew‘s blood run cold. He cleared his throat twice before he trusted himself to speak without his voice breaking. ―I think you‘d like me to think that you might kill me.‖ Achmed grinned widely. ―Yes, that‘s true.‖ Matthew couldn‘t decide whether to laugh or get angry. He shoved Achmed hard enough to back him into the bulkhead. ―This shit‘s getting old, okay? Stop playing games with me, man.‖ Achmed caught his hand before Matthew could shove him again, and Matthew froze in place, aware of how close they were. Achmed‘s fingers were tight around his own, and he was pulling Matthew in, slowly, until Matthew had to step closer not to be thrown off balance. They were nearly chest to chest, and Matthew was holding his breath, waiting for what was coming, wondering in a split second if this was another test and what would happen if he failed it. There were voices yelling in the corridor again, and they broke apart. Matthew sucked in a few lungfuls of air tainted with the scent of diesel fuel and coughed. By the time he‘d recovered, Achmed had already disappeared down the corridor. ―Keep up!‖ he yelled back, and Matthew scrambled to follow him up to the deck. What had been quiet when they‘d arrived was now a bustle of activity. Several men with automatic rifles, all dressed in dark clothing, were piling into the small dinghy they‘d arrived in. Achmed selected a vantage point away from the scramble and leaned against the railing. Matthew joined him. ―What‘s going on?‖ ―They‘re going on a raid.‖ ―You said no raids.‖ Matthew could feel embarrassment creep up alongside his anger. ―How many times are you going to fuck me over?‖ Achmed turned to him, his dark eyes boring into Matthew‘s. ―I said this ship wouldn‘t go on any raids with you on board. It‘s not. But my operations continue, whether you‘re here or not. I‘m not sending you on that boat with them.‖
OBJECTIVITY | 151 ―You couldn‘t send me anywhere if you wished,‖ Matthew snapped. Achmed‘s answering smile was condescending. ―Can I take pictures?‖ ―No.‖ Matthew wanted to turn away, pointedly look at something else, or go back below deck, but his journalistic instinct wouldn‘t let him. He paid attention to the four men who were climbing into the dinghy, the way their dark skin and clothing made them blend perfectly into the night. He spared a brief thought for the people they were about to raid; to have these pirates come out of the night and storm your ship with their AK-47s had to be everyone‘s worst nightmare. At last, they were settled in and supplied, and the boat pushed off. The dinghy‘s engine coughed and turned over, and it was lowered into the water. The small boat sped off into the quickly darkening night, and for a moment, Matthew felt sick with the knowledge of what they could do. He turned away, staring over the railing into the waves, the chilling expanse of dark water broken only by the quickly fading sight of the dinghy. The waves breaking against the ship sounded soft and gentle in comparison, harmless until Matthew imagined drifting alone at sea in this dark night. He shivered. A hand landed on his shoulder, warm and strong, and he nearly jumped. ―They‘ll do no harm unless they have to,‖ Achmed said in a low voice. ―That doesn‘t make me feel better,‖ Matthew replied bitterly. ―Let‘s go below.‖ It wasn‘t so much a suggestion as an order, and Matthew could feel it in the way Achmed‘s fingers dug into his skin and led him unerringly to the hatch. He climbed down carefully this time and managed not to slip, and Achmed led him to the galley. Matthew sat wearily on the small bench and watched as Achmed brewed strong, bitter coffee, accepting the mug held out to him and taking a sip before making a face. ―The one thing I won‘t miss is your coffee.‖
152 | K.J. JOHNSON ―There‘s nothing wrong with my coffee,‖ Achmed replied, meeting his gaze. His smile was genuine this time, and Matthew couldn‘t help smiling back. He liked this man too much, liked his company too much, and managed to forget too often that Achmed was a pirate leader who was wanted in more than one country. ―You‘re too sympathetic,‖ he complained. Achmed laughed curtly. ―You‘d prefer if I were evil?‖ ―I don‘t know what evil looks like,‖ Matthew replied morosely, and stared at the chipped tabletop. He took another sip of the coffee, which hit the back of his throat in a wave of bitterness and sent a jolt of caffeine into his system. ―But… my readers will not want to like you. They want black and white, and… if there‘s anything I‘ve learned here, it‘s that there is no black and white.‖ Achmed set down his coffee mug and laid his forearm alongside Matthew‘s. Matthew stared at Achmed‘s darker skin next to his own pale whiteness, feeling the warmth of the contact against his body, and sighed. He dragged his eyes up to Achmed‘s face, meeting his eyes, feeling the connection that, after all, might go beyond friendship. ―What are you trying to tell me? That this can never happen?‖ Achmed opened his mouth to reply but never spoke. Above them, voices started yelling, and only moments later the sound of bursts of automatic gunfire traveled down the hatch. Matthew stared at Achmed. ―What the—‖ He was cut off by Achmed‘s hand over his mouth, silencing him while Achmed listened intently. ―Foreigners,‖ he said, voice low and barely audible. He reached for the gun on his hip and readied it, and Matthew suddenly started to feel a whole different kind of fear. Achmed pulled him along to the doorway, making him stand against the wall just inside of the galley, out of sight of anyone coming down the corridor. Above them, the firefight continued, voices yelling unintelligible commands to each other, and then other voices, a different rhythm of speech, incomprehensible through the deck plating. Achmed‘s eyes met his briefly, and the command in them was clear. Matthew nodded and stayed in place as Achmed, gun held out in front of him, stepped into the doorway.
OBJECTIVITY | 153 ―Don‘t move! Drop the gun!‖ The voice was so clearly American that Matthew thought for a moment he was imagining things. He looked at Achmed, who was frozen in place, but the pirate leader didn‘t even glance at him. ―Drop the gun! Do you understand me?‖ ―I understand,‖ Achmed answered, and slowly moved the gun down. ―I‘ll put it on the floor.‖ ―Drop it!‖ The soldier Matthew couldn‘t see didn‘t sound sure; he sounded scared and young, and Matthew suddenly knew how this could play out. Who really cared if Achmed got shot on this boat in this night? Not this young soldier, not his commanding officer either. He took a deep breath. Achmed‘s eyes flicked to him briefly, the warning in them clear, and Matthew realized with irony that they were both trying to protect each other. ―Stop,‖ he said loudly, and stepped into the soldier‘s line of sight. He was young, and while his hands were steady around the rifle he was holding, his eyes were wild. ―Don‘t move!‖ Matthew held his hands out, palms turned up. ―I‘m an American.‖ The soldier‘s eyes were moving from Achmed to Matthew and back again. ―What are you doing here? Are you a hostage?‖ ―I‘m a reporter,‖ Matthew said, and just stopped himself from adding, and please put that gun down. It was still unerringly trained on Achmed‘s chest. ―What the fuck?‖ the soldier said, focusing his attention on Matthew. Achmed moved in the half second that the kid looked away, grabbing hold of the rifle and forcing it up. The soldier‘s finger tightened on the trigger reflexively, and a spray of bullets hit the ceiling, zinging off the metal and sparking in all directions. Matthew ducked instinctively, although nowhere was safe, and watched as Achmed pushed the kid back out into the corridor. Barely two feet away from him lay Achmed‘s gun, which he‘d dropped seconds earlier. Matthew scrambled for it, picking it up. It felt
154 | K.J. JOHNSON heavy in his hand, heavy and alien, and as he stepped into the corridor with it in his hand, he felt like a complete fraud. Achmed had wrenched the gun from the soldier‘s hand, and the kid looked terrified and young. Matthew spoke. ―Achmed.‖ The pirate leader glanced over his shoulder, caught sight of his gun in Matthew‘s hand, and met his eyes. ―You choose your own,‖ he said slowly. ―I don‘t choose sides,‖ Matthew replied without having to think about it. ―Let him go.‖ Achmed loosened his grip on the kid, and the soldier wrenched himself free. He took a few steps backward, eyeing them both warily. He reached for his radio, and Matthew froze, bringing up the gun without thinking about it. The kid spoke, and the radio responded with a burst of chatter Matthew couldn‘t make out, and the hatch opened. Achmed yelled something Matthew couldn‘t understand and dived for the rifle he‘d taken off the soldier, and Matthew wanted to yell back that he should put it down or he‘d be shot, and then someone dropped through the open hatch and opened fire. Achmed slammed into him, pinning him against the bulkhead, and for a moment Matthew thought Achmed had been shot. Then a bullet hit his shoulder and he cried out as fire spread through his left arm. Achmed was pushing him into the galley and returning fire at the same time, and Matthew stumbled over the threshold, hand clamped over his arm, feeling warm liquid seep through his fingers. Voices were yelling outside, American voices and then the unmistakable sound of the garbled French of Achmed‘s men, and Achmed was shouting commands, clearly in charge, and Matthew felt his body begin to shake. Shock, he thought clinically, and sagged down the wall to sit on the floor. He didn‘t know how long it took before he heard the sound of an engine starting, and then footsteps down the corridor and the ship‘s own engine roaring to life, the heavy stamping of the diesel motors making the deck plating vibrate.
OBJECTIVITY | 155 Moments later, Achmed came in, crouching by his side. ―Let me see.‖ ―What—‖ Matthew began, and then hissed as Achmed pried his fingers away from the wound. ―They left,‖ Achmed said curtly. ―Where are we going?‖ ―Away from here.‖ Achmed met his eyes, and his voice softened slightly. ―Hiding. So they can‘t come back to finish the job.‖ ―Is anyone….‖ Matthew stared at the blood seeping through his sleeve and had to look away. ―Is anyone dead?‖ ―We lost two men.‖ Achmed coughed, gritting his teeth. ―Mo‘s shot. I don‘t know if he‘ll live.‖ He pulled a knife out of his belt and cut the fabric of Matthew‘s T-shirt apart, peeling it back from the wound. It would leave him with a scar, and it hurt like a son of a bitch, but it looked superficial to Matthew‘s untrained eye. ―I‘m sorry,‖ he managed through teeth that were still chattering a little. ―Achmed, I‘m sorry.‖ ―Yeah.‖ Achmed stood. ―You‘ll survive. I‘m getting supplies. Stay here.‖ He turned on his heel and left, and Matthew leaned back against the bulkhead, feeling the metal cold against his back and staring up at the ceiling. Tears were prickling in his eyes, and he hated himself, hated that he was feeling sick and hated that he was wondering about the American soldiers who‘d abandoned their mission. Achmed returned with a bag in his hand, and in the harsh lighting of the galley, Matthew could see he was pale under his dark skin, his eyes bloodshot. Achmed didn‘t say a word as he opened the bag and pulled out antiseptic and bandages. Matthew gritted his teeth as Achmed began disinfecting the wound, but couldn‘t stop himself from crying out. When it was over, he held up his uninjured hand, making Achmed pause so he could catch his breath. ―It‘s a flesh wound,‖ Achmed said, but it didn‘t sound condescending. ―I know,‖ Matthew managed. ―It just hurts, okay?‖
156 | K.J. JOHNSON Achmed nodded, waiting until Matthew gestured for him to continue. Achmed‘s hands were experienced, carefully pressing the skin closed before covering it with bandages and wrapping it up. Matthew leaned his head back and waited for the pain to subside a little while Achmed packed the supplies back into the bag. He sat down next to Matthew, his thigh against Matthew‘s leg, his shoulder against Matthew‘s uninjured one. ―You need to—‖ Achmed broke off. ―Make sure you don‘t have a fever.‖ Matthew nodded. ―I know.‖ He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Achmed. Achmed met his gaze, dark eyes inscrutable and yet open, and Matthew couldn‘t worry anymore; he had to do what he had wanted to do for far too long. He reached up with his right hand, running two fingers down Achmed‘s cheek, and leaned in to kiss him. It was a brief touch of the lips, Achmed‘s chapped and dry against his own, and then Achmed groaned and opened his mouth and kissed Matthew properly. Matthew‘s injured shoulder was straining in protest at the way his body was twisted, but he didn‘t care. Achmed‘s hand settled on the back of his head and held him in place, and Matthew tried to shift closer. Achmed was pushing him back, and Matthew had to break the kiss to unfold his limbs. They stared at each other for a moment, and Matthew tried to find words and failed. ―You…‖ Achmed said, sounding slightly dazed, and Matthew couldn‘t help the smile that was creeping up on his face. Achmed chuckled; then the grin slid off his face, and he kissed Matthew deep and hard, pressing him back into the deck plating. Matthew shuddered a little at the first contact with the cold metal, then forgot about it a second later when Achmed settled against him. He could feel the line of Achmed‘s half-hard dick against his thigh, and Achmed‘s hand was sliding up under his ruined T-shirt, touching Matthew‘s skin. He sighed into the kiss and let his own hand roam, sliding it down the back of Achmed‘s pants. Achmed was pushing his shirt up, sliding down his body to kiss his chest, and Matthew strained up into the contact, realizing as it was happening how much he‘d been wanting this. His arm throbbed in counterpoint, but he tried to ignore it, focusing on the sensation of
OBJECTIVITY | 157 Achmed‘s mouth against his skin. He reached down and pulled his Tshirt up, nearly getting tangled in it because he could only use one hand. Achmed tugged it away from his face, and Matthew threw it to the floor. He reached for the hem of Achmed‘s own T-shirt and pulled that up as well. Achmed stripped it off and dropped it somewhere, grinning cockily at Matthew. Matthew reached out and pulled him down again, unable to stop the sound that escaped his mouth when he felt Achmed‘s warm skin against his own. Achmed kissed him again, rocking his hips against Matthew‘s thigh, and Matthew turned his head to gasp for breath. ―You should…‖ he panted, ―have told me sooner….‖ Achmed chuckled again. ―Like what, ‗I want to make wild, violent love to you‘?‖ Matthew burst out laughing. ―Skip the violent bit, and I would have so been there.‖ For a moment, Matthew just looked at Achmed, his eyes sparkling and alive. Then he slid his hand into Achmed‘s hair and pulled him down, kissing him again, open-mouthed and dirty. Achmed‘s hands were sliding down, skimming over Matthew‘s ribs, fingers sliding into his waistband. Matthew arched up and pressed his erection against Achmed‘s groin, making them both groan into the kiss. Matthew reached down to undo Achmed‘s belt, cursing when it wouldn‘t give because he could only use one hand. Achmed laughed, briefly nipping his lower lip before helping him undo his trousers and then undoing Matthew‘s as well, reaching in and palming Matthew‘s cock though his underwear. Matthew let his head fall back against the floor with a thud. ―God, don‘t stop.‖ Achmed worked his hand up and down Matthew‘s length, rubbing the fabric of Matthew‘s boxers against his skin until it became too much and Matthew grabbed his wrist and stilled him. ―I… we….‖ He let go of Achmed‘s hand and fumbled for his wallet, managing to open it and pull out the condoms he kept in there. His fingers were
158 | K.J. JOHNSON shaking a little, and he was startled when Achmed took his hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing his fingertips. ―I understand,‖ he said softly. Matthew strained up in spite of the stab of pain shooting through his left arm and kissed Achmed, pushing him onto his back. He abandoned Achmed‘s mouth to kiss a trail down his neck, taking a brief moment to bite down on Achmed‘s shoulder and enjoy the sound of Achmed‘s garbled French curses as he did so. He mouthed his way down Achmed‘s abdomen and pushed down the waistband of his boxers, freeing his impressive erection. He managed to tear the condom packet open with his teeth and took the latex in his mouth, effortlessly unrolling it over Achmed‘s hard cock as he went down on him. Achmed groaned loudly, and his hand landed on Matthew‘s neck, the pressure a little tight but just shy of uncomfortable, keeping him firmly in place as Matthew swirled his tongue around the head and pressed it up against the underside. He flicked his eyes up to catch sight of Achmed leaning back on one elbow, watching him with dark, satisfied eyes, and couldn‘t help but smile around Achmed‘s dick. He pulled back and set a slow rhythm, carefully building it up as he held Achmed‘s gaze, watching him strain to focus as Matthew slowly undid his careful composure. Achmed swore under his breath, hips pushing up of their own accord, and Matthew had to pull back to prevent being choked. He cautiously took the head in his mouth again, applying a little suction, and Achmed came hard, cock twitching against his tongue. Matthew sat back to watch him, watch the open, blissful expression on his face, and reached out to run a single finger through the sweat beading on his chest. Achmed grabbed his wrist, holding his eyes, and Matthew felt more naked under that gaze than he already was. ―Matthew,‖ Achmed said, voice dark and molten. He tugged on Matthew‘s wrist, and Matthew followed the instinctive command, lying down on the floor. Achmed pulled his boxers down, wrapping sure, strong fingers around Matthew‘s hard cock. Matthew let his eyes fall shut, straining into the grip as Achmed got him off with steady strokes, hand twisting on the upstroke. Matthew groaned softly, reaching out with his right hand, instinctively finding Achmed without opening his eyes
OBJECTIVITY | 159 and pulling him down for a sloppy kiss, panting his orgasm into Achmed‘s willing mouth. ―God.‖ ―Yes.‖ Matthew turned his head, opening his eyes to see Achmed lying down next to him, his soft cock still hanging out of his boxers. Achmed caught his gaze and tucked himself back in, doing up his trousers and belt. Matthew couldn‘t help placing a hand on Achmed‘s chest, feeling Achmed‘s heartbeat under his fingers. Achmed put his own hand over Matthew‘s. The look they shared said it all, Matthew thought, more than they could ever say out loud. ―I think,‖ he said slowly instead, ―that I have to go home.‖ Achmed nodded, sitting up and pulling away. ―I know.‖ Matthew carefully straightened his own clothes, struggling with the buttons. Achmed didn‘t offer any help. ―I….‖ Achmed looked at him, giving him a cocky, crooked smile. ―Don‘t forget me, though.‖ Matthew grinned, even though his heart felt heavy. ―Forget you? You‘re going to make me famous.‖ Achmed laughed, abruptly leaning in and kissing him, deep and hard, tongue dueling with Matthew‘s until they were both panting with exhaustion. ―Be good,‖ he said. Matthew swallowed, looking into Achmed‘s eyes one last time. ―Stay alive.‖
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K.J. JOHNSON lives near The Hague, The Netherlands, where she moved when she was two. She doesn‘t remember a time when she wasn‘t making up stories, and it was inevitable that she ended up writing. She spent most of her high school career reading and telling stories instead of studying, much to the despair of her family. On the plus side, she is fluent in three languages as a result of all of this. She‘s always been someone with unconventional hobbies, from karate in her teens to bellydancing as a student, and writing is another one of those eyebrow-raising things that fits right in her alley. She‘s single and carefree, loves city life and abhors all things nature. She also has a passion for coffee and chocolate. You can reach her at
[email protected].
WORTH THE PRICE CORNELIA GREY LIEUTENANT Edward Moon sat on the floor, busy cursing himself. The collar of his uniform jacket bit into his neck. His arms were twisted uncomfortably behind his back, securely tied. He snarled, jerking fruitlessly at the rope. He was such a moron. God damn it. He was screwed. The pirates were going to make him walk the plank, that was for sure. Why the hell hadn‘t they just murdered him straightaway? There was no point in prolonging his torment. He slammed his head back against the cabin wall in frustration. He knew very well who to blame. It was that bastard Commodore Orwell. He‘d left Edward there. He‘d left him, left him to be captured, even though they‘d had plenty of time to rescue him and escape safely. Sure, Orwell was probably giving chase to the pirate ship now, acting all manly and heroic when he‘d just proven he was nothing but a bloody coward. The Cassandra was way too light and fast for a heavy man-o‘war to capture. The pirates must be heading to their hiding place, somewhere past the straits in the Atlantic. Edward had no illusions. Maybe Orwell would be on time to fish his body out of the water before the sharks got to him, Edward considered bitterly. They‘d been chasing after the Cassandra for weeks. Captain O‘Shea had been ransacking the Spanish Main for too long. Damn, he‘d been chasing after O‘Shea for longer than he could remember. The bloody man was a devil, relentless like the wildest storm. It had become an obsession for him. Capture the great James O‘Shea. And he‘d ended up here, tied like a pig ready for the slaughter, at the pirates‘ mercy. At least Marcus had managed to escape, Edward thought. He found comfort in that. He could take whatever the bastards would do to him,
162 | CORNELIA GREY but he couldn‘t bear the thought of Marcus, young, gentle Marcus, suffering. He abandoned himself against the wall, eyes closed. He would be brave. He would show them how a man died. Something pricked his hand. He touched the object, felt its sharp tip scrape his fingertips—a sharp nail, protruding from the wall right by his bound hands. It was a long shot, but it was all he had. He could at least show that he wouldn‘t go down without a fight, show them what Edward Moon was made of. He gritted his teeth and set to work, patiently rubbing the rope over the nail. Small fibers snapped. It would take bloody ages. He just had to hope the pirates were too busy fleeing to think about their prisoner. He‘d lost track of how much time had passed when he felt the rope snap. He worked frantically, tearing it off his wrists before attacking the knots that secured his ankles. He loosened them, was barely done kicking the rope off when the door opened and a man with long blond hair walked in. Edward growled and charged. He sprang onto the pirate, and they crashed back against the door, slamming it closed. The man reacted instantly—he blocked Edward‘s fist, clung to the arm Edward was pressing against his throat. They grappled for a few frantic moments, gasping between gritted teeth, gauging each other‘s strength. Edward caught a glimpse of steel-blue eyes staring straight at him from under a mess of pale blond locks. A jolt of surprise shook him, distracting him for the fraction of a second. That was Captain James O‘Shea himself— The captain was quick to take advantage. His boot collided with Edward‘s knee with surgical precision. Edward‘s leg gave out under him, sending him staggering back. In an instant the captain had unsheathed his sword. Edward stood very still, panting, eyes on the glistening tip a fraction of an inch from his throat. Edward gritted his teeth. He would not. Be. Afraid. ―So what you gonna do? Aren‘t you going to call for help?‖ James tilted his head to the side, an infuriating, smug grin on his lips. His pale blond hair fell down his chest in rebellious strands. ―I don‘t need to, Lieutenant Moon. I can kick your ass all on my own.‖ ―That‘s pretty easy when you have a sword and your opponent is unarmed,‖ Edward snorted. He could feel himself grow flustered under those
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unrelenting blue eyes. ―Just what I‘d expect from pirate scum like you.‖ The captain‘s expression hardened. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he threw the cutlass on the floor. ―Watch your mouth.‖ Edward growled and lurched at him. The captain was swift to drop into a crouch to avoid Edward‘s wild hook. He sprang back up in time to parry a cross and landed a liver punch that had Edward doubling over, sputtering and wheezing. ―So,‖ Edward rasped, trying to catch his breath. ―What are you going to do with me? Murder me? Hang me from the mizzen and celebrate?‖ ―Your opinion of us is dreadful. And here I thought we were being perfect hosts.‖ The captain smirked, just a little breathless. ―You‘d better be more grateful for the hospitality, or I‘ll throw you overboard.‖ Edward charged again, snarling. It was useless. The captain dodged and slipped out of his grasp without apparent effort, and Edward‘s fist grazed nothing but clothes. It was an odd, intoxicating dance that had him growling in frustration and something else entirely. Edward‘s blood was boiling now, his head spun—he was drunk on the captain‘s smell, salt and sweat, the glimpse of his strong teeth, the defiant gleam in his eyes. The candlelight smeared on his pale hair. James O‘Shea, alive and breathing and impossibly close, after all the time he‘d craved him, wanted him. And still Edward wanted more—he wanted. Edward attacked again and again, relentless, until he finally managed to break past those alarmingly swift reflexes. He grabbed the captain‘s wrist and twisted it hard. James gave a choked gasp as they slammed against the door. He laughed then, a wild, exciting laugh. Edward pinned his wrists against the hard wood, clutching them too hard, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. James wasn‘t even trying to break free of his hold. He looked at Edward, his hair a luminous halo around his flushed face, teeth bared in that infuriating, smug grin. ―There are men dedicating their whole lives to chasing you,‖ Edward said. He wasn‘t sure what possessed him. Now, only now he understood how it was possible to crave something so wildly as to lose one‘s mind, how this man could have driven so many to madness and back. He could feel his self-control slip dangerously, predatory instincts springing unbidden. Maybe it was too late, he thought frantically. Maybe
164 | CORNELIA GREY he‘d been ensnared too. ―Do you know that? All they want is to capture you. To… own you. You are a much sought-after prey.‖ ―Am I?‖ the captain asked. His voice was rough, enticing. ―I‘ve seen men driven to madness,‖ Edward said slowly. He was utterly spellbound. James‘s scent, his warmth, were intoxicating. ―Because of you.‖ Their bodies were flush against each other. Edward could feel the captain shift, move his hips, rubbing against him. He felt James‘s tense muscles, the hardness between his legs, and repressed a hiss. He found himself responding—he couldn‘t help but move, grinding his hips against the captain‘s. He couldn‘t suppress a surge of exhilaration when that ripped a moan out of the pirate. ―What about you?‖ James rasped. Edward couldn‘t look away from his lips. ―You have captured me now. Are you mad too? Do you want to… own me?‖ Edward‘s blood burned, his thoughts scattered like ashes in the wind. He‘d always thought those men were insane, spending their lives to desperately hunt someone down. But now, now that the person he‘d hunted was trapped under him—fierce, defiant, beautiful—God help him, he understood. One lifetime in exchange for this seemed worth the price. He was going to die, he tried to tell himself. He was going to be killed by the pirates, and there was no sin in taking advantage of the hot, pliant body in his arms, in giving in to the fierce instincts that roared in his veins. ―Yes,‖ he growled, and surged to capture the pirate‘s lips in a feral kiss. James‘s mouth parted under his; his tongue snuck into Edward‘s mouth, claiming it, battling him for dominance. Hands yanked at his jacket, and Edward tore it off, never breaking the kiss, tossing it to the floor before putting his hands back where they belonged. He roamed James‘s strong, willing body, trailed his hands down James‘s flanks, his thighs. James ripped at his shirt, burning hands spread on his chest. Edward wondered if he could feel his mad heartbeat. James‘s touch moved lower, hands pressing against his abdomen, before shamelessly tugging at his breeches. Edward bit back a groan as nimble fingers grazed his hot, straining cock, stroking it once, twice, before pulling it out. The captain didn‘t hesitate, gripping him steadily, pumping up and down in determined
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strokes. Edward growled low in his throat and sucked on the captain‘s tongue, barely resisting from thrusting in his hand. He nearly ripped the lacings of James‘s trousers, eager to touch him. The captain‘s cock was heavy and hot in his hand—he palmed it, pushed down the foreskin. Warm liquid trickled between his fingers. He pulled back from the kiss, gasping, leaned to nuzzle the corner of the captain‘s jaw, taste the salt lingering on his skin. ―You‘ve already,‖ he murmured, pausing to graze his teeth along the sharp jawbone, leaving faint red marks on that impossibly pale skin, ―gotten so hard.‖ ―So have you,‖ the captain rasped. He tightened his hand around Edward‘s erection, tugged at it hard to prove his point. Edward didn‘t react; he trailed his tongue on the tense tendons in the captain‘s neck, sucked a bruise on the soft skin there. He stroked James‘s cock slowly, torturously, coaxing frustrated moans and whimpers from him. The captain writhed under his touch, squeezed his cock in a warning. Edward couldn‘t help but look down, mesmerized—the pale skin of the captain‘s hand, his fingers wrapped around Edward‘s thick, red cock. Edward watched him move his hand, flick his thumb over the head. He groaned, his free hand braced against the door beside the captain‘s head. He reached lower, trailed his fingertips over James‘s balls, brushing the sensitive skin behind before grasping James‘s erection again. The head of the captain‘s cock was slick with precome, and Edward stroked it with his thumb, smearing the warm liquid. He twisted his wrist, and James arched sharply against him, a delicious flush staining his pale cheekbones. He was panting now, rough moans escaping from his lips. Edward felt close to losing his mind, spellbound by the captain‘s lips, his taut body. The air between them was hot, almost unbearably so. He could feel it seep into his blood, pool into his groin, pulse in something close to pain with each of James‘s strokes. The captain‘s free hand grasped his nape, forced his head up. Edward stared into half-lidded blue eyes. He could read the pleasure in the captain‘s soft moans, in the way he arched his back, hips thrusting into Edward‘s grasp in utter abandon. Edward burned, consumed by hunger and desire. He surged forward, captured the captain‘s mouth in a possessive kiss, conquering him, marking him. James moaned into his mouth, responded with passion—their tongues tangled, hot saliva tricking from the corners of their mouths. Edward grabbed him hard,
166 | CORNELIA GREY thrust into his hand once, twice, his whole body tense in an aching desire—his orgasm swept over him suddenly, a violent tide that shattered his every thought. He came hard, gasping in the pirate‘s mouth as he spilled over his hand, nearly blinded by the intensity of it. James stroked him through the last achingly pleasurable throbs as Edward let his head drop and panted wildly, trying to catch his breath. James was still moving against him, his cock hot and heavy in Edward‘s hand. Without thinking, Edward dropped to his knees and took James in his mouth. He sucked him hard and fast, not stopping until the pirate was writhing and moaning under his hands. He clutched James‘s hips hard to hold him still and licked at the hot head, trailed his tongue along the underside of the shaft. James‘s head thumped back against the door, his hands fisted in Edward‘s hair. His hips rocked and shuddered, and Edward held them tighter, pinning him down. Restraining the pirate gave him a heady, powerful feeling. The great Captain O‘Shea, reduced to moaning and writhing and gasping under his hands, his mouth…. Edward took him deeper, sucked him until the captain‘s moans became a low, continuous chant. James‘s cock was thick in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow more of it, feeling it throb under his tongue. Its salty taste addled his brain, made him mad with greed. He glanced up to see the captain‘s flushed face under a mess of blond hair, his lips parted as he moaned. Blue eyes met his, and Edward held their gaze, still sucking on James‘s cock. The captain looked utterly bewitched, as if he couldn‘t tear his gaze away from Edward‘s face, Edward‘s mouth, Edward‘s lips stretched around him. James‘s hips snapped, and he let out a long, low moan. His cock pulsed in Edward‘s mouth, trickling hot seed. Edward swallowed, tongue working around the head, sucking and licking until the last drops were gone and the pirate was slumping back against the door, gasping desperately. The grip on Edward‘s hair weakened, and he glanced up, licking a trickle of come that had escaped his lips. The captain was looking down at him with something close to amazement. Edward was pretty sure he shouldn‘t have felt so smug. He got up, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He fastened his breeches, tried to button his shirt with whatever buttons were left. The ship reared up sharply, and he stumbled, bracing his hand on the door to avoid tumbling into James. Only then did Edward notice that the ship was rocking too much, moving in sharp jolts and jerks. The
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captain‘s expression shifted, growing cold and serious and distant within an instant. ―This is trouble,‖ he gritted out. He‘d already tucked himself back in his breeches. His shirt still hung askew, leaving one rounded shoulder bare. Edward had to squash a sudden, hungry desire to put his mouth there. He knew the sea too. He knew there was trouble coming. James pushed him away and strode across the cabin, yanking on a leather harness and a thick jacket. He opened a drawer and dug out two knives, stashing them in his harness. ―Damn. I should have noticed before,‖ he muttered. ―Where are we?‖ Edward asked, a sudden dark foreboding in his mind. He was fairly sure he knew already. ―Where are we going?‖ James grimaced. ―We‘re sailing toward the Atlantic, by the straits. The waves are too strong. I don‘t think we can make it through.‖ The Cassandra shook and jerked harder now. Edward could hear the wind howl outside, the angry rumble of the waves. The storm must have been growing fast. God damn it. He knew at sea things could go to hell within moments. ―Wear this.‖ James threw him a thick leather jacket. Edward grabbed it, dumbstruck. ―What for?‖ ―You‘re coming with me. I can use your skill,‖ James said, tight. ―You‘re a lieutenant, you know more about sailing than many of my men.‖ James was looking at him with utter disinterest, cold, as if he hadn‘t just come down Edward‘s throat, moaning for him. As if they hadn‘t just writhed in passion in one another‘s arms, as if his lips weren‘t still red from Edward‘s bites and kisses. Edward shouldn‘t have found that so enraging. He felt himself flush with anger and snapped. ―I‘m not helping pirates.‖ ―You can help us, or you can sink when this boat smashes on the rocks. Your choice.‖ James shrugged and strode out into the howling wind. Edward caught the glimpse of dark menacing clouds, a mayhem of rain and waves hurling over the ship, before the door slammed closed. He looked at the door for an instant, then yanked it open and ran after James.
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THE wind nearly knocked him off his feet. Rain whipped his face, stinging like a hundred pins. James rushed toward the forecastle to the wheel, making his way across the chaotic deck. Men swarmed all over, shouting orders and contradictions at each other, yanking ropes and securing portholes. Goddamn it, the storm had hit fast. ―Lifelines, starboard and port!‖ the captain barked as he strode, tying back his blond hair, whipped wildly by the wind. ―Fergus! How far are we from the straits?‖ A man with a thick grey beard was clinging to the helm for dear life, gritting his teeth as he fought against the powerful waves. ―Few miles, Captain!‖ he yelled. ―I don‘t know if I can hold it… I….‖ The captain‘s eyes were turned up toward the mainmast sails, which whipped wildly in the wind. Edward hissed. They had to wrap them up or the strength of the wind could snap the mast. He‘d seen it happen. ―Someone‘s gotta wrap the sails,‖ he yelled, trying to make himself heard above the chaos. ―It‘s too dangerous now!‖ someone else cried. ―If the mast collapses, you‘ll be lost at sea!‖ ―I will do it,‖ the captain said curtly. ―Fergus! Keep us away from the straits.‖ The man shook his head. ―But we must get to the Atlantic….‖ ―There‘s no way we‘ll make it through,‖ the captain replied. ―We‘ll be smashed against the rocks. Keep us away!‖ With that he grasped the shroud by the main mast and began to climb. Fergus clutched the helm, his face twisted in terror. ―What are you doing? It‘s too dangerous, Captain—‖ ―Keep us in open water!‖ was all that James yelled. He was already clawing his way up the shroud, expertly riding out the ship‘s abrupt jerks and rolls. The Cassandra rocked violently to starboard, and James held on, one elbow hooked around the rope. He barely waited for the Cassandra to straighten itself before he resumed climbing. Before Edward could think it over, he hopped on the banister and followed James up. ―I‘m coming with you,‖ he shouted, spitting
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saltwater. He couldn‘t even tell whether or not the captain heard him. He climbed, teeth gritted. Waves washed over him, and he clung desperately to the ropes. He squinted to look up into the pouring rain. The captain climbed swift as a devil and had already reached the mast. He hauled himself astride the yard, legs tightly crossed around it, grasping handfuls of the sail. Edward reached him and held on clumsily, leaning over the wooden beam. He gathered as much fabric as he could as sprays of water blinded him. He was utterly soaked. The boat rose and fell at every impressive wave, and he was terrified he‘d be tossed off, as if from a wild horse. He held part of the heavy fabric up as James swiftly secured it with rounds of rope. They shifted then, dangerously edging along the yard to complete the work. Lightning tore across the sky, and Edward shook his head under the downpour to get his sodden hair out of his eyes. The mast creaked loudly, bending under the fury of the wind. They had to work faster. ―Almost done,‖ James shouted. The wild waves made it impossible to hear anything but the roaring of the sea. That had to be the only reason they didn‘t hear the sound of the wood crack, didn‘t hear the warning screams from the men below. Something moved sharply in the grey downpour. Edward‘s gaze snapped up—he saw the smaller yard above, just beneath the crow‘s nest, slanted dangerously, nearly ripped off from the mast. ―James,‖ Edward shouted, trapped halfway across the yard, hands full of sail. ―Watch out—‖ The captain had just the time to raise his head, looking at him with wide blue eyes. With a sharp crack, the yard broke off and swung down in a wild arc. James was caught full in the back of the head and knocked off balance. ―No!‖ Edward couldn‘t hold back a cry as he saw the man tumble to the side and fall with the broken yard. He lurched forward, and the breath died in his throat. James was suspended in midair several feet from the deck. Edward could see his arm, awkwardly twisted in the shroud ropes, his shoulder bent at an odd angle as it carried all his weight. He moved slowly, groggily, legs shifting, hand groping in search of a handhold.
170 | CORNELIA GREY Screams and bellows came from the crew. Someone hopped on the shroud and started climbing up, but the ropes shuddered and moved under his weight, and the captain‘s arm slipped down a few terrifying inches. A chorus of shouts exploded, and the man nearly threw himself off the shroud. ―I‘m coming down,‖ Edward yelled. The fucking rain ran down his face, streamed under his clothes. ―Hold on!‖ ―No!‖ James cried back. His voice was rough with pain but firm. ―Wrap the goddamn sail, or the mast will go down with both of us!‖ He was right. They would both die if the mast collapsed, maybe the rest of the crew too. Edward clenched his teeth and grabbed armfuls of the sodden, too-heavy fabric. He held on in precarious balance as the boat leaned sharply to portside, nearly knocking him off the yard. Men and barrels rolled on the deck. He glanced down, blood roaring in his ears, drowning out the howling of the wind, the crashing waves. The captain still held on. Edward yanked on the last rope. ―Done!‖ he shouted. He stretched to reach the shroud. It swung, and the captain struggled to hold on. There was no other way. Edward climbed down as fast as possible, hands clenching the wet rope so hard it hurt under the downpour. He reached the captain within seconds and wound his legs into the rope squares, the shroud cutting into his muscles, his thighs. He took hold of the captain, gritting his teeth as he hauled him bodily up until he could reach the rope. James grasped it with his free hand, his feet nimbly finding purchase. He tried to free his arm and couldn‘t hold back a rough cry as the movement twisted his shoulder. Edward held on tight, panting, his face pressed to the captain‘s hair, streaked with harsh red where the yard had hit him on the head. ―Hold on,‖ he warned. He slipped a knife from the captain‘s belt and sliced through the rope. James‘s arm fell limply to his side. He was awfully pale, his face drawn in tight lines under a mess of drenched blond hair. ―Go,‖ he said curtly, nodding to Edward. ―I‘ll follow.‖ Edward obeyed. The ship rocked and reared up wildly. There was no way he‘d be able to help the captain down. He was pretty sure there was no need.
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He descended slowly, clutching hard at the shroud, eyes burning with saltwater. He glanced above to see James make his way meticulously down, clinging one-armed to the rope, stopping to brace himself when a particularly violent wave hit them. Edward touched the wood of the deck, and his knees nearly gave out under him. He stepped to the side, legs unsteady, as a handful of pirates crowded to help James off the shroud. ―I‘m fine. I‘m fine,‖ he said, lifting his good hand, already shoving his way past them and toward the helm. ―Fergus! How you holdin‘ over there?‖ Edward felt drained of all his energy. He trembled all over with the leftovers of adrenaline and fear, the sheer terror he‘d felt when he‘d seen James fall off the mast. He doubted he could be any more use. The pirates bustled about, less nervous now, and seemed to have everything in control. They knew their ship, knew what she could take, knew how to tame her. He was fairly positive they would survive. Edward leaned back against the banister, keeping out of the way, and closed his eyes.
EDWARD stood barefoot, roughly towelling his hair. He was in the captain‘s cabin. He‘d changed into dry clothes, breeches and shirt shamelessly stolen from the captain‘s trunk. The seawater and cold seemed to have permeated his very bones, and he was just beginning to feel some semblance of warmth again. But the wild rocking of the ship had subsided, as had the howling storm outside. The worst had passed, and they were still above water. That was a success. The door creaked open, and James stepped in, dripping a trail of water on the floor. His clothes were drenched, his hair hung in a sodden mass of tangles. He looked cold and miserable. Behind him was Fergus, who almost bodily shoved him inside. ―Please, Captain, just get in,‖ he reproached. ―We‘ve got it from here. You gotta take care of that arm.‖ Edward tightened his lips. The captain‘s left arm hung limply by his side. He moved awkwardly, and it was clear he was trying to avoid jolting it or flexing those muscles. ―Just let me check the route one last time,‖ James attempted, but
172 | CORNELIA GREY Fergus blocked the doorway with his large body, arms crossed. ―I don‘t think so,‖ he said gruffly. ―You stay here, and don‘t try to come back out. I‘ll send someone to help you.‖ Before the captain could protest again, Edward took a step forward. ―Don‘t worry about that. I‘ll take care of him.‖ Fergus‘s gaze snapped onto him, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. ―You,‖ he hissed. ―Captain, do you want me to toss him in the brig? Shall we—‖ ―Leave him,‖ James replied. The last of his energy had dissipated, and he looked on the brink of exhaustion. ―But Captain, he‘s a navy dog,‖ Fergus insisted. ―You‘re wounded and in no shape to defend yourself. I ain‘t leaving you alone with him.‖ James pressed his hand to his head and grimaced. When he retrieved it, his fingers were stained red. ―He saved my life a few hours ago,‖ he murmured. ―I trust he won‘t have changed his mind in such a short time.‖ Fergus tilted his head and left, closing the door behind him, mumbling in disapproval. Edward went to James‘s side and placed a hand at the small of his back, guiding him toward the bed. He pushed him gently, and the captain sat down with the softest sigh. Edward helped him take off his jacket, careful not to move the injured arm more than necessary. Still he saw the captain‘s lips tighten, his face go white with pain. The shirt was sodden. There was no way James would be able to lift his arms to shrug it off. ―I‘m going to cut this open,‖ Edward warned before he bent to retrieve one of the captain‘s knives. James‘s eyes followed his movements, unreadable. Edward knelt in front of the captain, between his legs. He swallowed down the strange emotions that fluttered in his stomach. The way James was looking down at him, blue eyes bottomless, without saying a word… what was he thinking? Edward burned to know yet couldn‘t bring himself to speak. Carefully, he sliced through the soaked fabric. He could see James‘s skin, covered in goose bumps. Were they from the cold? Or maybe because of that silver blade, gleaming inches from his heart, wielded by someone who was supposed to be his enemy? Edward struggled to keep his hand steady. The great Captain O‘Shea was at his mercy, and all he wanted to do….
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Edward placed the knife on the floor and gently slipped the shirt off the captain‘s shoulders. James‘s shoulder was swollen. Edward could tell it would turn a dark purple before long. He examined it as delicately as possible, pressing with his fingers to try and ascertain the condition of the bone. The captain closed his eyes, his muscles tense as he silently rode out the pain. Edward wondered if James really believed he wouldn‘t notice. ―It‘s not dislocated,‖ Edward said. ―Although it was badly strained. You‘ll have to go easy on it for a while. I reckon it will be completely unusable for a few days at least. Is there something I can give you for the pain?‖ James grimaced. ―I don‘t want anything.‖ Edward sighed. He knew it must hurt, even though James seemed adamant about not admitting it. ―All right.‖ He offered him a towel, watched clumsily as James slowly patted himself dry. Edward stepped in to help him with his hair, ran his fingers through the tangled blond locks, rubbing them gently until they weren‘t dripping anymore. They had made a puddle on the bed. Edward did his best to prepare a sling for James‘s arm with a blanket torn into strips. The result was awkward at best, but it would help keep the limb immobilized and maybe relieve some of the strain on the shoulder, help placate the pain. ―Thank you,‖ James murmured. He looked up then, a smile hovering on his lips for the first time in what seemed like ages. Edward muttered something in response and busied himself rolling up the leftover bandages. James kicked off his boots and trousers, grimacing as the movements jarred his shoulder. He sternly refused help. Edward wasn‘t sure where to look. Which made no sense, considering how he‘d taken the captain in his mouth mere hours before. He bit down on his lip, his gaze briefly darting to James‘s abdomen, the trail of blond hair there…. Edward shook his head. It felt as if days had passed. ―Pass me that vest, please,‖ James asked, pointing at a thick dressing gown lying rumpled in a corner. Edward handed it over, trying not to stare at the captain‘s naked body. He could glimpse a scar running down his side. Was that a sword hit? Who had wounded him that badly, and when? Edward swallowed as a sudden urge to know everything
174 | CORNELIA GREY about the captain sprang unbidden into his mind. That couldn‘t possibly mean anything good. James shrugged the vest on, simply resting it on his injured shoulder. He looked about, suddenly appearing lost, uncertain of what to do. Edward could make a pretty good guess at why. Captain O‘Shea probably wasn‘t a man used to doing nothing. ―Lie down,‖ Edward said. ―That‘s what you‘re supposed to do now.‖ ―You should rest too,‖ James said. He blinked, his eyelids noticeably heavy. Still, he stubbornly held himself up. Edward rolled his eyes and went to sit beside him. He pushed gently until the captain was forced to lie down. ―I‘ll go find a hammock somewhere,‖ he said. James‘s fingers curled around his wrist then, their grip weak. ―Just… stay here,‖ he slurred. His eyes were already closed. Edward hesitated just a moment before lying down too. He stretched beside the captain, keeping close to his body, careful not to jolt his shoulder. It felt warm and soothing and right, and several other things Edward was quite sure he wasn‘t supposed to feel. He let his eyes wander on the captain‘s features, the lashes brushing his pale skin, his lips drawn in a halfhearted pout as he slept. The infamous Captain O‘Shea, Edward struggled to remind himself. Sleeping peacefully by his side, looking pale and fragile and… the most precious thing Edward had ever laid eyes on. He‘d been chasing this man, this terrible, fearful pirate, for so long. He‘d imagined what their encounter would be like a thousand times. Nothing had prepared him for this. He didn‘t know what to do with his hands, so he busied himself pulling up the thick, rumpled covers. The boat rocked more gently now, the noise of the rain faded to a light patter on the wooden roof, the portholes. A thunder rolled lazily in the distance. The captain murmured in his sleep, shifted. Blond strands fell onto his forehead, his eyes. Without thinking, Edward reached to brush them gently away. James‘s forehead burned under his fingers. His cheeks were flushed. A fever, Edward thought. He curled protectively around the captain‘s body, one arm circling his waist, and closed his eyes. The last thought that swam through his head before he sank into the depths of sleep was that he couldn‘t
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remember the last time he‘d felt so peaceful. How odd.
EDWARD was woken by a loud knocking. He blinked against the pale grey sunlight streaming in from the portholes. He was warm and comfortable, buried in thick covers. He could hear voices fluttering at the edge of his consciousness but couldn‘t focus on what they were saying. He stirred. He felt exhausted; his muscles ached like hell, although he couldn‘t remember why. He didn‘t want to wake. If only he could remember where he was— Awareness rushed back in a sudden onslaught. Edward jerked abruptly up, seated on the dishevelled bed. ―Gather the men. I‘ll join you right away,‖ the captain said. He was standing at the doorway, already dressed, a jacket resting on his shoulders. Edward could glimpse Fergus‘s thick grey beard as the man nodded and left, closing the door behind him. The captain turned to face Edward, the irritating smirk back on his lips. Under the jacket, he‘d again tucked his arm into the makeshift sling. ―It was about time you got up,‖ he said. Edward wiped his hands over his face. ―I thought you were supposed to rest,‖ he grumbled. The captain‘s smile turned sour. ―There won‘t be time for that,‖ he said. He retrieved his belt and cutlass—he couldn‘t fasten it around his waist one-armed, so he just slung it across his shoulders. He rummaged on his desk and grabbed two knives. ―The ship was damaged in the storm. While we won‘t be sinking anytime soon, there‘s no way we‘ll be able to outrace the navy ship on our tail.‖ If Edward hadn‘t been completely awake before, he sure as hell was now. He stumbled out of bed, grasping for his boots. His mind whirled. He was supposed to be glad, he was aware of that—the navy officials would seize the pirates and rescue him, and he‘d be able to resume his life and leave this entire story behind. That was supposed to be what he wanted. And yet…. ―What are you going to do?‖ The captain hesitated, hand on the cutlass‘s hilt. His eyes were dark. Edward shivered. Of course, things could go very differently. The pirates could give battle to the officials. It would be a massacre. He‘d
176 | CORNELIA GREY seen boardings before—the screams and the sour stink of gunpowder, the blood smeared on the deck, the cries of the wounded…. ―I don‘t know yet,‖ James said, low. His face told a whole different story. His jaw was set, his eyes steady. ―I‘ll listen to what the men have to say.‖ Edward didn‘t reply. He stood, uncertain, as the captain opened the door. He was one of the enemies, of course. It didn‘t matter that he‘d helped out during the storm, that they‘d…. There was something much bigger at stake. A gaping void between them that was impossible to fill. He would be treated like a prisoner now. Maybe they‘d use him as a hostage to try and negotiate. As if the Commodore would give a crap about his life. Edward swallowed. He was ready to accept whatever fate they‘d choose for him. He was one of the enemies, after all—hell, the pirates were his enemies. Captain O‘Shea was his enemy. He wasn‘t supposed to forget that. James turned to look at him, inquisitive, holding the door open. ―Well? Are you coming or what?‖ It was pleasant to be wrong at times. Edward went.
THE canteen was packed. The whole crew had gathered there, in turmoil. The men argued and shouted at each other, banged their fists on the tables. ―Well, let them bloody come!‖ a man growled. His face and arms were crisscrossed by scars. ―I seen my fair share o‘ battles. Sure as hell ain‘t gonna back down this time!‖ A chorus of approving whistles and hoots welcomed his words. Someone waved a cutlass, its blade gleaming in the lantern light. ―We‘re gonna show the navy scum what we‘re made of.‖ Edward observed in silence, his arms folded. James sat at the table, staring down at it with hard eyes. It looked like he‘d already made a decision. Edward wasn‘t sure he wanted to guess what it might be. An old pirate, sitting in a corner, laughed bitterly. ―They got better cannons and more men. And we‘re stuck here like a goddamn beached whale, just waiting to be harpooned. If we fight, we don‘t stand a chance.‖
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―What difference does it make?‖ a young ship boy interjected. His eyes were wild under his blond curls. ―We‘ll be all dancing the Marshal‘s dance soon enough. We might as well go with honor.‖ ―Right you are, kiddo,‖ someone shouted. ―I ain‘t gonna die like a dog. Better to go down fighting.‖ Roars of ―Yeah‖ and ―Right‖ followed. ―Better to die a free man at sea with a sword in hand, than swing from their noose!‖ ―We will fight them until our last breath!‖ ―No.‖ James‘s voice sliced through the noise like a silver blade. The men fell silent, turned to stare at their captain. James leaned forward, resting his fists on the tabletop. ―We will not fight. It‘s not the Cassandra they want.‖ Edward understood at once. ―No,‖ he murmured. James ignored him. His eyes were like ice. ―I will surrender myself to the navy officials. I reckon that will be enough to quench their thirst. And you will set sail and get as far away from here as possible.‖ The crew exploded in indignant cries. Fergus grasped James‘s arm. ―No, Captain!‖ ―Please, my friends.‖ James raised his voice. He looked stricken. ―If I‘m your captain, you‘ll do what I ask. We have no other choice.‖ ―We do have a choice!‖ someone exclaimed. ―We can fight them. We can—‖ ―I said no,‖ James snapped, suddenly harsh. ―I won‘t let you throw away your lives. That‘s an order, and you will obey me!‖ The men were shocked into silence. Edward swallowed hard. He could glimpse now what a fierce leader James O‘Shea was. No one would dare disobey a direct order from him. James took a deep breath. The sudden hardness seemed to evaporate from his posture, and he was left looking very tired. ―Fergus, you are the captain now. I trust you will do what‘s right.‖ He placed his hand on the man‘s arm and whispered, ―Take them away, my friend.‖ The pirates were too stunned to speak, the emotions battling on their faces too excruciating to watch. Edward took one step forward, his gaze steady on James.
178 | CORNELIA GREY ―I‘ll negotiate with them,‖ he said, low. It was all he could offer. ―Maybe they will listen to me.‖ James nodded, giving him a tired smile. Edward wanted to touch him, to grasp his hand, but he didn‘t dare.
They waited as the man-o‘-war grew steadily closer. The crew paced all over the deck, torn between anger and frustration. Fergus lowered the Jolly Roger, a funereal expression on his face. A white rag was hoisted up in its place. Their maneuver didn‘t go unnoticed: the man-o‘-war halted at a safe distance from the Cassandra, keeping carefully out of its line of fire. Edward was lowered in a small, rickety rowing boat and slowly made his way toward the warship. Even from a distance, he could see the harsh sun‘s reflection on the array of gleaming rifles aimed at him. As soon as he was within earshot, he stood up, spreading his arms, showing his uniform. ―I‘m Edward Moon, Lieutenant of His Majesty‘s Royal Navy,‖ he called. ―I was sent to negotiate.‖ The rifles were lowered; murmurs were exchanged. Edward waited as a rope ladder was thrown down, and he climbed slowly, trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. He needed to be lucid, efficient. The responsibility of too many lives rested on his shoulders. He mustn‘t think of what would happen should he fail—the cannonballs, the stink of gunpowder, the shouts and sickening smell of blood…. ―Why, Moon, it‘s sure a pleasure to see you‘re still among the living,‖ Commodore Orwell said, staring at him coldly from under his immaculate white wig. Edward wished he could punch him. ―You‘re too kind, Commodore.‖ He forced out a smile. And it’s certainly not thanks to you, bastard. ―I hear you are here to… negotiate on behalf of these pirates. Although why you would do such a thing is quite frankly beyond me.‖ ―They have spared my life,‖ Edward replied stiffly. ―And they have behaved commendably toward me. I have to honor my debt.‖ Orwell shook his head, a sardonic smile on his lips. ―Why, indeed.
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And what do these criminals have to offer?‖ ―Captain O‘Shea has offered to peacefully surrender himself to His Majesty‘s Navy,‖ Edward said. He was clenching his fists so hard it hurt. ―In exchange, he asks for your word that his men will be allowed to leave, unharmed, and that you will desist from chasing them any further.‖ ―Now, why would I ever agree to that?‖ Orwell snorted. ―Their ship is falling apart. If they have resorted to such a pathetic stratagem, it‘s clear they are in desperate conditions. It‘s the perfect opportunity to seize this rascal and all his followers.‖ ―Commodore, with all due respect, I don‘t think that would be the advisable course of action. While they cannot make a swift escape, they are strong and well-armed. They would fight with the strength of those who have nothing left to lose,‖ Edward argued. He was burning, urgency and fear making him bold. ―Casualties among our men would be unavoidable. Our ship could be damaged, maybe even beyond repair. I assure you, Commodore, that you shouldn‘t underestimate what these men are capable of.‖ The commodore rubbed at his chin, a shadow passing over his eyes as he considered Edward‘s words. Edward waited, holding his breath. A flash of pale blond hair flickered in his mind, bright blue eyes, an infuriating smile…. He clenched his jaw against an unbidden surge of pain. James would be lost to him even if he succeeded. Edward knew that. But he could make sure James‘s wish was fulfilled. He could save his men at the very least. ―Fine,‖ Orwell conceded. His eyes were fixed on the Cassandra, which swayed gently in the waves under the grey sky. ―You will go collect O‘Shea and bring him to me. They are not to attempt anything suspicious, or we will open fire. And mark my words,‖ he added, narrowing his eyes. ―There‘s nothing I‘d like better than that.‖ Edward swallowed past the knot in his throat. ―Yes, Commodore.‖
THE crew watched in dark, heavy silence as James climbed down to the boat. Edward rested his hand for the briefest moment on the small of James‘s back, trying to offer some measure of comfort. His hand was shaking. He hoped James wouldn‘t notice.
180 | CORNELIA GREY The captain offered him a small, tight smile. ―Thank you,‖ he murmured. Edward wanted to scream. I’m leading you to a death sentence, God damn it. He swallowed it down. ―Don‘t say that. I have done nothing worth thanking for.‖ James‘s eyes were gentle. They seemed to have absorbed the grey of the clouds, their faraway quality. ―You saved my men. And you have all my gratitude for that.‖ His fingers brushed Edward‘s cheek. Then his touch was gone. He turned his back on Edward, on the too-silent Cassandra, and sat stiffly, eyes on the man-o‘-war and the fate that awaited there. ―Hoist the mizzen! Ready to set sail!‖ Edward recognized Fergus‘s voice, shouting bitter orders. Edward rowed slowly. Low despair curled in his stomach as he saw the Cassandra‘s anchor lifted. The impressive mole of the ship shifted as the sails filled with a southwest wind. Several men stood at the banisters in solemn silence, watching their captain go. Edward glanced over his shoulder. All he could see was pale blond hair whipped by the damp wind. ―James,‖ he murmured. James didn‘t reply. He kept very still and didn‘t look back once.
EDWARD followed James up the rope ladder. The captain climbed slowly, his left arm still immobilized in the sling. Edward‘s heart sank lower at every step. They‘d barely set foot on deck when three guards descended on James like vultures. They manhandled him rudely, stripping him of his cutlass and knives, ripping the sling off. His arms were rudely yanked back—Edward nearly growled when the Captain grimaced in pain as his left shoulder was jarred. His hands were tied securely behind his back. Orwell surveyed the operation without a word. As soon as the captain was shackled, he flicked his hand toward the Cassandra, which was slowly moving toward the east. ―Sink them.‖ James‘s reaction was immediate. He made to launch himself at the commodore, teeth bared in a snarl. The three guards surrounding him barely managed to restrain him.
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―You bastard,‖ he growled, struggling wildly. ―You promised you‘d spare their lives!‖ ―There‘s always a chance they‘ll survive… if they know how to swim,‖ Orwell chuckled, apparently very amused at his own cleverness. He gestured to the guards. ―Toss him in the brig. I can‘t stand the sight of him.‖ James struggled until another two men joined in. They grasped his wrists, his arms. They had to hit him in the stomach to subdue him, and James folded over, snarling. ―Son of a bitch,‖ he rasped, fighting to catch his breath, still resisting even as they dragged him bodily away. He tried to escape from their grasp, and they hit him again, and again, on his kidneys, his face. ―Son of a bitch—‖ ―Enough!‖ Edward commanded, his voice strained with anger. He turned to the commodore, who was looking at him, somewhere between surprised and outraged. ―Commodore, you gave your word you‘d let the pirates leave unharmed.‖ Orwell sneered at him. ―They‘re pirates, Moon. They‘re worth less than dogs.‖ ―It‘s still your word,‖ Edward insisted. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see James looking at him with near-frightening intensity. ―Or will you step down to their level? Will you behave like a dog too?‖ Silence spread like ice. The guards were staring in sheer disbelief. Edward swallowed. Had he dared too much? He didn‘t care. Orwell wouldn‘t be able to back out now, not after being called out in front of his men. His honor was at stake, and they both knew it. Orwell stared at him for one long moment, anger simmering in his eyes. ―Fine. Let them go,‖ he gritted out finally. He turned to look at James, a predatory smile on his lips. ―We got what we wanted, after all—the infamous Captain O‘Shea. It‘s the gallows for you, scum.‖ James didn‘t reply, didn‘t even look at him. As he was dragged away, Edward could see the faintest smile hovering on his lips.
HEAVY rain pelted the portholes, resounding loudly on the wooden decks.
182 | CORNELIA GREY Edward paced back and forth across the cramped cabin like an angry animal caught in a cage. Which wasn‘t far from the truth. He‘d been trapped in there for days, on orders from that bastard Orwell. ―You‘re clearly upset about this unfortunate misadventure of yours,‖ the commodore had said. ―You need time to… recover.‖ And with that excuse he‘d all but locked Edward up, forbidding him any contact with the crew, treating him like a goddamn leper. He‘d tried to reason with the guard outside; he‘d officially requested a meeting with the commodore. Then he‘d banged on the door, had sworn and cursed. Eventually he‘d stopped. It was clear: the commodore was suspicious of him and endeavored to keep him away from James until they reached their destination. The thought of being considered capable of treason drove Edward furious. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the commodore might not be entirely wrong. He grew more restless every day. The uniform was too tight, the cabin was crushing him. At times, Edward felt like he would suffocate. What of James? How was he being treated? If only he could see him, Edward thought wildly. Only for a moment. Talk to him, just hear his voice again…. The door creaked open, and a slim, cloaked figure snuck in, carrying a tray with two bowls. When he pulled down his dark hood, he revealed a mass of brown curls and large, concerned, dark eyes. ―Marcus!‖ Edward exclaimed. He rushed to greet the young man, grasping his hands. Finally, a friendly face. ―Thank God. What news do you bring? What‘s happening? I know nothing—the commodore treats me like I‘m a prisoner myself.‖ ―Please, Edward, keep your voice down,‖ Marcus whispered urgently, sneaking a glance toward the door. ―I‘ve had to bribe the cook to be the one to bring you food tonight. The commodore won‘t let me anywhere near your cabin. If they find me here….‖ Edward swallowed. ―Then you better leave quickly. Why did you come at all?‖ ―I had to come and tell you. We‘re less than a day‘s travel from Port Royal. We‘ll reach it at dawn.‖ He paused, wringing his hands. Something in his silence made Edward‘s blood turn to ice. ―I heard… I heard the commodore dictate a letter. The… the pirate is to hang tomorrow, before sunset.‖
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Edward‘s heart sank. He swallowed, quite unable to speak. He‘d known this was going to happen all along, and yet…. ―I… I have to go now,‖ Marcus excused himself. Edward shook his head and thanked him with a surprisingly steady voice. He watched as the man pulled up his hood and pushed the door open to check that no one was around before swiftly disappearing out into the rain. Edward leaned against the door, fists closed, his forehead pressed to the cold wood. He breathed deep. He was grateful to Marcus, loyal Marcus, for warning him. He found it oddly hard to think straight. James would die before the next sunfall. Edward knew that it was right, that it was the punishment pirates deserved. That was what he‘d been taught, what he‘d strenuously believed. And yet, the memory of James‘s defiant smirk stirred in his mind. The way his hair shone with the color of pale gold, how soft it had felt between Edward‘s fingers. How wild and strong and beautiful he‘d looked as they embraced, lost in the throes of passion. The way he‘d sighed as he rested in Edward‘s arms afterward…. The rain drummed on the wooden deck outside. Edward listened, eyes closed, and tried to let the sound drown his thoughts out.
WHEN the cabin door was yanked open, Edward was sprawled on an armchair. He didn‘t bother straightening, and merely cast a glance up to his visitor. ―Why, Commodore, I wasn‘t expecting your visit,‖ he said. The commodore looked at him with distaste. ―Good Lord, Moon, look at you. You look like a pirate yourself.‖ Edward didn‘t flinch. He knew what he looked like. He wasn‘t wearing a jacket, and his shirt was rumpled and half-unbuttoned. He hadn‘t shaved in days, and his chin and cheeks were dusted in coarse stubble. He felt feverish, and he wondered whether that showed, whether his eyes looked like those of a madman. He certainly felt like one. ―Perhaps it‘s because you‘ve been treating me as such,‖ he retorted, a sour smile on his lips. ―Do not provoke me, Moon,‖ the commodore snapped. ―I‘m not here to discuss you, nor do I wish to endure your company for much longer. I‘m here because the prisoner has the right to receive one visitor, and he made his request.‖
184 | CORNELIA GREY Edward snorted. ―What‘s that to me?‖ ―He asked to see you.‖ Edward stiffened, his eyes gone wide in surprise. Orwell eyed him with suspicion. ―There will be three armed guards right outside the door. So you‘d better not try anything funny,‖ he said. Edward swallowed hard, trying his best to calm the wild pounding of his heart. ―Fine,‖ he replied coldly. He got up, feigning indifference, taking the time to straighten his shirt and do its buttons up before preceding Orwell to the door. His head was spinning. James had asked for him. Of course, he was the only friendly person on the goddamn ship, he tried to reason. But still…. James had asked for him. It was all Edward could do not to break into a run.
EDWARD swallowed as the heavy door slammed behind him. He stepped along the narrow passage that stretched in front of the cell. The bars were thick, carved in dark wood. The flickering light of a lone lantern gleamed on the heavy padlock on the door. Edward could make out James‘s shape. He sat with his back against the far wall of the cell, arms resting on his knees. He kept his head down. His features, the golden sheen of his hair, were drowned in the shadows. ―They say you wanted to see me,‖ Edward said. Silence stretched for a long moment before James replied. ―Yeah.‖ Edward shifted. ―You could have called a priest.‖ A sad laugh rose from the dark cell. ―I have no use for a priest.‖ And what use do you have for me? Edward wanted to ask. He couldn‘t bring himself to. ―Let me see you,‖ he whispered instead. Edward watched in silence as James pushed himself to his feet and walked to the door. His movements were slow, too careful; his steps faltered. It was clear he was in pain. When James stood in front of the bars, the pale light falling on his features, Edward sucked in a sharp breath. The captain‘s face was bruised, a trail of dried blood smeared
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from his temple down to his chin. His left arm hung stiffly at his side. He lifted blue eyes dark like bruises to Edward‘s face. Edward thought his chest would crack open. ―There must be something we can do,‖ he blurted, an urgent desperation surging in his veins. He grabbed the cell bars. ―We could start a fire. I could steal the keys. I‘ll attack the guard, surprise is on my side—‖ ―No.‖ James‘s voice was firm. ―I forbid you to do anything of the sort. They‘d be on to you in a moment, even if I did manage to escape. Which, considering my present condition, I don‘t see likely.‖ Edward shook his head, unwilling to listen. ―We‘re close to the coast. You could make it ashore, could disappear there. I will just—‖ ―Edward,‖ James snapped. Edward fell silent. ―Even if we managed that, the commodore would go on a rampage. He would hunt down my men. He‘d have you executed for treason. And I….‖ He worried his lip between his teeth. ―My life in exchange is a fair price. I can accept that.‖ ―But I can’t.‖ Edward‘s hand slammed against the bars. He stood still, made breathless by the sudden revelation. ―I… can‘t,‖ he repeated, low this time. He sought James‘s eyes, held his gaze, fighting the dull desperation that curled slowly in his stomach. ―I can‘t let you… I just can’t.‖ James moved closer, pressed his body against the bars. He lifted his good hand and placed it on top of Edward‘s, sweetly. His touch was warm. His face was pale, too pale. His hair hung in tangles. He was shaking, Edward noticed, a minute trembling. ―Just—stay with me, tonight,‖ James breathed. Edward surged forward, reaching between the bars. He took James in his arms and pulled him into a desperate hug. James buried his face in Edward‘s shoulder, his left hand clutching Edward‘s shirt. They held each other fiercely, the bars that divided them painful like blades. ―It‘s not right,‖ Edward said, feeling angry, powerless tears burn behind his eyes. He pressed kisses to James‘s hair, his cheekbones, his eyes, his lips. He could taste salt, tears. He wasn‘t sure whose. James‘s fingers pressed to his face, trailed a light caress on his cheek. ―Don‘t cry,‖ he murmured. Edward didn‘t care. He held the pirate tighter, pressed their
186 | CORNELIA GREY foreheads together, and closed his eyes. He let the tears fall, angry and burning, and just kept whispering, ―I‘m sorry. I‘m so, so sorry.‖
A VAST crowd had gathered at the promontory of Gallows Point. The rain had stopped, and pale, weak sun glistened on wet wood and puddles. A high wooden scaffolding had been erected for the authorities: judges, officials, and the governor sat there, dressed in grand style. This was no ordinary execution. The whole town had gathered to see the great Captain O‘Shea led to the gallows. Edward lowered his head, trying to look inconspicuous as he mingled with the crowd. The commodore had forbidden him from going, ordering the guards to keep him segregated in his cabin. It had been Marcus, dear Marcus, who had slipped him the keys and a hooded cape and distracted the guard as he slipped out. Edward could see a patrol group run into the square, looking around anxiously. They must have noticed he was missing. Of course, they couldn‘t spread panic among the hundreds of people gathered. Edward pulled his hood lower on his face, hunched down, and melted into the crowd. The chatter of the people died down as a cart approached noisily, coming from the docks. It was flanked by guards on horseback. Edward strained to see. There he was. James stood, his hands shackled in front of him, chained to the cart. His pale blond hair was tangled, mussed, yet still shone in the weak sunlight. He held his head high, staring straight in front of him with cold blue eyes. His face was battered and bruised, and yet he looked determined and impassive, proud and detached. His lower lip was swollen, cracked. It hadn‘t been the night before, when Edward had kissed him. Someone had hit him. And now, now they would… Edward‘s chest tightened. Oh, God…. He clutched the knife he‘d managed to steal, hidden beneath his dark cloak. He gritted his teeth. He had to do something. He moved, determined to shove his way toward the cart— ―Edward, stop.‖ A rushed, urgent whisper. Someone wrapped strong arms around him, holding him back. Edward spun around, wild— it was Marcus, dressed in peasant‘s clothes, looking rumpled and frantic.
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―Let me go,‖ Edward growled. Marcus just tightened his hold. ―I‘ve been looking for you all over. I knew you‘d try something stupid,‖ Marcus said. He forced Edward to still, sweat beading his forehead from the effort. ―What are you gonna do?‖ ―I don‘t know.‖ Edward strained to turn. The cart had moved on now, toward the scaffolding—and the gallows. A metal cage gleamed there, the cage where they would put his body, to hang at Deadman‘s Cay as a warning to his fellow pirates. Edward struggled in Marcus‘s hold, dull despair thrumming behind his eyes. ―Let me go. Let me….‖ ―No.‖ It was all Marcus murmured. He pressed his face to Edward‘s hair, his voice low. ―I‘m not letting you get yourself killed.‖ They were close enough to the scaffolding to see the commodore‘s face, the hateful smirk on his mouth. He was sitting next to the judge, nodding reverently at everything the old man said. Edward hated him in that moment, hated him with an intensity that should have frightened him. James was led off the cart and up the wooden steps. He stood, unmoving, his cold eyes on the crowd as the death sentence was read. He wasn‘t looking for anyone, Edward realized; he was simply staring straight ahead, cold, determined not to show one instant of weakness. Edward burned with the need to shout, to wave, to make his presence known, so that James would know that he wasn‘t alone, that he wasn‘t going to die alone. ―Do you have any last words you wish to say?‖ Slowly, James‘s lips curled up in a grin. He didn‘t utter a word. The executioner exchanged glances with the commodore. The man waved dismissively. ―Proceed.‖ James‘s smirk didn‘t fade as he was led onto the trapdoor. Edward struggled again, trying to wrench himself out of Marcus‘s hold. But the boy held on with all his strength, reining him in. ―I‘m sorry,‖ he repeated. ―I‘m sorry, Edward. I‘m so sorry….‖ Edward had no voice left to protest. He clutched Marcus‘s arm, suddenly emptied of all his energy, his knees threatening to give out under him. The executioner slipped the noose around James‘s neck, under his chin, tightening it up. Edward couldn‘t watch, he couldn’t, and yet he couldn‘t tear his eyes away, frozen in horror and disbelief—
188 | CORNELIA GREY The force of the explosion nearly knocked him to the ground. A cloud of smoke erupted, filling the square in an instant, dark and bitter. Panic spread within seconds. A chaos of screams erupted as people tried to fall back from the gallows in frantic waves. They trampled one another, burying the astonished guards in a full-blown stampede. Edward and Marcus fought to stand their ground, wiping at their eyes, trying to understand what the hell was going on. Figures seemed to spring from the bowels of the crowd, running and shouting. Swords gleamed, gunshots tore the air, fueling the panic. What looked like a prosperous matron sporting a very unlikely grey beard rushed past them, brandishing two large guns, vomiting bullets into the air and screaming in a hoarse, familiar voice. ―Fergus!‖ Edward called. But the pirate had already run past them, busy stirring up the mayhem. ―What happened?‖ Marcus yelled, trying to make himself heard above the noise. Edward didn‘t need to answer. The smoke cleared enough for them to see that the authorities‘ platform had collapsed, its wooden legs blown to pieces in a flurry of waving legs as the judge and officials tried to climb off each other and get back on their feet. None of them seemed injured. The explosion must have been quite weak, more for pyrotechnic effect. ―It‘s the pirates,‖ Edward cried back, struggling to shove his way toward the gallows, past the rush of people running away. His heartbeat pulsed wildly in his ears. There was hope. There was— ―The lever!‖ the commodore shouted. He‘d regained his feet and was livid, his white wig hanging messily on his face. ―Pull the lever!‖ The executioner did. Edward cried out as the trapdoor opened and James fell. For an instant everything froze as Edward waited in terror for the sickening crack of James‘s neck. It didn‘t come. James had managed to slip his hands into the noose. He clung to the rope, struggling, his legs kicking uselessly in the air. He was choking. Edward ran. He shoved his way through the crowd, deaf to Marcus‘s shouts. Guards were converging on the collapsed platform. So were the pirates. Swords clashed. Edward swiftly dodged a blade— Fergus appeared between him and the guard in his bearded matron outfit. ―Go, fella!‖ he shouted. Edward didn‘t need encouragement.
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He lurched up the steps to the gallows. The very large executioner blocked his way. He careened forward, and all Edward needed was to drop into a crouch. The man tripped over him, and Edward stood, using the man‘s knees as a lever, letting him topple over his shoulder and off the gallows. The commodore roared. Edward‘s knife gleamed, and James fell through the trapdoor, crumpling on the ground beneath the gallows, the rope neatly sliced. Edward jumped down, landing in a crouch beside the slumped pirate. James was coughing, wheezing, trying weakly to loosen the noose around his neck. Edward did it for him, yanked at the rope with hands that were surprisingly not trembling. ―James. James,‖ he called urgently. James was holding his hands to his throat. Edward grabbed his wrists, sliced through the rope that bound them. ―Can you walk? Can you….‖ ―Yes,‖ James croaked, his voice a harsh, ruined whisper. He pushed himself to his feet, wobbled—Edward caught him before he fell. He looked confused, dizzy. Edward grabbed his arm and placed it around his own shoulders. They emerged from under the gallows. The crowd had dispersed now, and they were in full sight. Edward found himself staring straight at the Commodore, who stood very still on the ruined platform, surrounded by bustling aristocrats. ―Traitor!‖ Orwell yelled. Edward swallowed hard. He turned his back on the man and set off as quickly as possible, carrying James‘s weight as best he could. Pirates and guards were still quarreling in the square, but it was clear who had won. A pair of officials ran past Edward, their weapons gone. Fergus materialized after them, waving his gun. It clicked empty, and he smashed it on the head of a guard who stepped in their path. ―This way!‖ he yelled, gesturing for Edward to follow him. ―Run, fella, run!‖ Edward didn‘t stop to think of what he was leaving behind. His whole damn life. James leaned heavily against him, gasping, doing his best to keep up with the pace. That was all that mattered—the man in his arms, his warm weight. Anything else was irrelevant. Edward ran.
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THE Cassandra forged ahead on a strong, stern wind. They were headed southeast, toward Tortuga. The navy would steer clear of the island. The night was lit up by the warm light of a dozen lanterns. The pirates had gathered on deck and sang and laughed loudly over a barrel of rum to celebrate the return of their captain. James sat with them, still pale and bruised, his throat marred by angry red marks. He was smiling, though, his eyes and hair gleaming in the lantern‘s light, letting the men fuss over him. Edward kept aside, content with listening to the festive voices. He didn‘t feel like taking part in the general merriment. He was happy, of course, but… heavy thoughts stirred in his mind. He stared down at the dark sea, sloshing quietly as the Cassandra slit seamlessly through it, as he felt something clench in his chest. He hadn‘t seen Marcus, who‘d remained back, lost somewhere in the crowd. He hadn‘t even had the chance to thank him for saving his life. ―So that‘s where you are,‖ a rough, low voice said. Edward turned to see James standing in front of him, a small, sheepish smile on his lips. The lights of the banquet behind him made his hair shine in the darkness. ―I‘ve been looking for you.‖ Edward swallowed. ―How are you?‖ ―I‘m fine,‖ James rasped. He self-consciously rubbed a hand over his throat. ―Sorry about the voice.‖ ―All I care about is that you‘re safe. That you are… here,‖ Edward replied. Here with me. ―That‘s thanks to you,‖ James said. The smile was quick to fade from his eyes. ―You sacrificed everything to save me. Your reputation, your future… everything you were.‖ His arms were tightly crossed over his chest. Edward was taken aback by such an open display of vulnerability. But after what James had been through that day… without thinking he stepped forward, rested his hand on the captain‘s cheek. ―I‘m glad,‖ he said. He sought the captain‘s eyes, held his gaze. He wished he was able to explain just how much. To be able to see you—to touch you—to hear your voice. To know you are still in this world, that I can still kiss your lips, run my fingers through your hair. That I can still
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see your infuriating smile…. But all he could say was, ―You… you‘re worth the price.‖ James closed his eyes, then leaned into Edward‘s touch. He pressed his lips to Edward‘s hand, his wrist. The night‘s quiet was broken by the shouts and songs of the pirates, the soft splashing of the waves. Wind swept James‘s blond hair over his face. Edward pushed it to the side, let his fingers linger on the pale locks. He‘d sacrificed his whole life, yes. A life he wasn‘t even sure he wanted anymore. He pulled James in his arms, pressed a kiss to his hair, his temple. James looked up at him then, fingers trailing along the corner of his jaw. His eyes seemed to have absorbed the deep blue of the night sky. ―Thank you,‖ he murmured. Edward tilted his head down to capture James‘s mouth in a kiss. It was worth the price, indeed.
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CORNELIA GREY is a student halfway through her creative writing degree with a penchant for fine arts and the blues. Born and raised in the hills of Northern Italy, where she collected her share of poetry and narrative prizes, she is now based in London, and she is thoroughly enjoying the cultural melting pot that is the City. Her interests vary from painting to photography, from sewing to acting; when writing, she favors curious, surreal poems and short stories involving handsome young men seducing each other. She loves collecting people‘s stories and re-discovering lost tales that deserve to be told. Her days are full and hectic: she reads, goes to flea markets, galleries, and the theater, and of course spends most of her time writing. When she‘s at home, she likes to curl up with a book and the classic cup of tea and leaves chestnuts in the garden for the squirrel that comes around from time to time. Visit her blog at http://corneliagrey.blogspot.com/. You can contact Cornelia at
[email protected].
PETER AND THE LOST BOYS JUAN KENOBI
―A PIÑA colada,‖ I said, stretching my torso toward the bartender and trying my best to avoid dragging my denim jacket onto the tray overflowing with maraschino cherries, olives, and lemon and lime slices. ―Can you squeeze through, matey?‖ The man to my left leaned back from his barstool, tugging on his full-length leather coat. Almost skimming his knee with my annoying jacket, I turned to give him a smile. ―Thanks! Um, just barely,‖ I replied. ―I didn‘t think it would get this crowded in the afternoon.‖ I looked around and cringed at the tangle of bodies that seemed to surround me. ―Normally, it‘s not. But it being such a warm and sunny day, I guess some guys can‘t resist packing into a dark bar. And it is the weekend, after all.‖ ―I was just in the neighborhood for a quick errand, but I guess you‘re right,‖ I said as the bartender handed me my drink. I handed him a five, gave the man in the leather coat a perfunctory toast, and took a sip. I licked the cream off my lips as inconspicuously as I could. ―It looks like you‘re a rum drinker too!‖ he said. I chuckled. ―Well, I don‘t know if this really counts as a rum drink. I just like the pineapple juice and the coconut cream, even though it
194 | JUAN KENOBI looks a little froufrou.‖ I stirred the drink with my straw, grateful there was no tiny pink umbrella. The man held up his tumbler as if to study it in the light. ―This here is what‘s called a bolero. It‘s rum with Calvados and vermouth.‖ He winked at me, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his coat. A few drops of liquor still sparkled on his salt-and-pepper moustache and beard, which were fastidiously trimmed in a disarming Van Dyke-like style. The hair on his head, however, was incongruously abundant, with almost girlish curls that would look somewhat effeminate if not for the rugged features of his face—a slightly sunburnt complexion with crinkles around his steel blue eyes, a prominent nose, full red lips, and a stern jaw. As I glanced down his black leather coat, I couldn‘t help but notice its unusual cut—almost like a trenchcoat reaching past his knees but styled with a decidedly European flair, with a long row of brass buttons running down one side and large lapels etched with a floral design in indigo. As he held up his drink, I could see the same decoration on his cuffs, soaked, I assumed, with traces of rum and Calvados. Although he adopted a look that was radically different from the denim and T-shirt combo that made up my weekend wardrobe, I couldn‘t help but be captivated by his intriguing mixture of styles, sort of Regency meets ex-biker. ―What‘s your name?‖ he asked. ―Peter. And yours?‖ ―My friends call me Kap. Pleased to meet you, Peter.‖ As he extended his arm for a handshake, I could see a large blue anchor tattooed on his wrist. ―You don‘t see much of that anymore,‖ I remarked. ―I mean, traditional nautical tattoos—anchors, mermaids, seahorses. Now what you see are Japanese koi, Tahitian designs, more tribal stuff.‖ ―Well, I kind of have a tribe of my own, you might say.‖ He took another swig, then nodded. ―Yep, a tribe of my own.‖ Oh, I wondered. What does he mean? I peered at the vest that he wore under his coat, which appeared to be made of blood red brocade with gold embroidery. The collar of a white linen shirt poked its way beneath his bearded neck, and resting underneath was a leather necklace from which dangled an assortment of small shells and shiny beads. A few looked like miniature skulls.
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―But tell me about yourself, Peter. What do you do?‖ ―I work for a small nonprofit that supports independent filmmaking. But I‘m kind of looking for another job. The pay‘s okay and I like the people I work with, but the commute is horrible. It takes me over an hour each way.‖ ―What do you do for them?‖ He began to play with his necklace, running his fingers around the shells. ―Right now, I do marketing and publicity,‖ I explained. ―But I‘ve done about everything else—operations, office management, even tech. I recently created a website for them. And I‘ve worked on a couple of film crews, too, but just small-time. I just like hanging around filmmakers, seeing things being put together. I‘ve been doing that for about six years now.‖ ―Hmmm….‖ Kap grabbed a maraschino from the tray and popped it into his mouth, pulling the sword-shaped plastic pick out slowly while looking into the distance. ―Well, you know, Peter, this might be the beginning of a whole new adventure for both of us.‖ He eyed someone in a red flannel shirt a few feet away and tossed the discarded toothpick at his back like a tiny dagger, snorting. ―What do you mean?‖ I asked, watching Kap‘s target walk away. ―Well, I‘m kind of looking for someone to work for me at my film company.‖ ―You run a film company?‖ I asked incredulously. ―You might say that.‖ He gestured to the bartender for another bolero. ―It‘s probably a little different than what you‘re used to,‖ he continued. ―But you sound qualified. And I‘m pretty sure you‘ll enjoy it very much.‖ He gave me a wink with a slight nod, and an array of wrinkles skimmed across his face, conveying a roguish charm. A large gold earring glinted in the pinkish light as he turned his head to pay the bartender. ―So what kind of—‖ ―The best thing,‖ he interjected, ―or one of the two best things, is the location. I know you would love it, Peter.‖ ―Well, as long as I don‘t have to take mass transit for over an hour or have to drive down 101 during commute hours,‖ I replied. ―But where is it?‖
196 | JUAN KENOBI ―It‘s not so much where it is, it‘s what it is.‖ Time for me to order another drink, I thought, trying not to furrow my brow. I started to raise my finger to signal the bartender, but Kap immediately cupped my hand with both of his and bent toward me affectionately. The Calvados on his breath smelled as sweet and tart as freshly picked apples. ―Ever been on a houseboat, Peter?‖ ―A houseboat? No, I don‘t think so. Why?‖ ―That‘s where I work—and live. You‘ve been to Sausalito, right?‖ ―Sure, plenty of times,‖ I answered. ―And I‘ve driven by the harbor, but I‘ve never really looked at the houseboats there. I‘ve heard a lot about them, though.‖ ―Well, they‘ve got plenty of tales to tell. Especially mine.‖ He swallowed the rest of his drink and plopped the tumbler on the counter. ―What are you doing this afternoon?‖ ―I was just going to take the bus home, maybe pick up a burrito on the way and rent a DVD. I‘m on this Errol Flynn kick right now. I like those old swashbuckler movies.‖ Kap smiled and nodded knowingly. ―Why don‘t you come with me? I can show you my place and we can talk more about your new job.‖ I licked the traces of coconut cream from my lips and thought carefully—for about ten seconds. ―Sure, sounds good!‖ I had never been on a houseboat and felt giddy at the opportunity. Matching my uncontrollable grin with one of his own, Kap escorted me out of the bar and up the sidewalk. He was much taller than me and broader across the shoulders, and his leather coat seemed large enough to envelop me like a small tent. With a swaggering walk, he nevertheless exhibited a slight limp, one of his heavy boots making an audible thump on the concrete. We got into a black SUV and headed up Franklin Street toward Lombard Street, the main route that cut through the Marina district toward the Golden Gate Bridge. As we drove onto the bridge, the fog that too often marred many San Francisco summer days dominated the sky, lending a slight chill to the air. But as we, after crossing over, approached the tunnel with the bright rainbow painted over the arch, I could see the clear blue sky of Marin at the other end of the wide opening. As we drove through, it was as if we were entering
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another world. The tips of evergreens lining the side of the highway ahead of us poked into view as a brisk breeze tossed them to and fro. Once through the tunnel, Kap suddenly stepped on the accelerator as if we were being pursued. I instinctively turned my head to see if there was anyone on our tail but saw nothing to account for the unexpected increase in speed. The car began racing down the long, curving incline of the infamous Waldo Grade, giving me the sensation of flying. I glanced at the speedometer and saw that we were going past 70, then 80 mph. Were the tires still touching the asphalt? I wondered. We quickly passed a silver Mercedes, a white Lincoln, and a dark red van on the right, and then a green Audi and a jeep on the left. Other vehicles were quickly added to the list. I continued to clutch my shoulder strap tightly for almost a mile until we approached the Sausalito exit. I finally let out a breath. ―Sorry about the speed, Peter,‖ said Kap. ―I‘m used to driving on my own and usually forget what it‘s like for a passenger.‖ Slowing down, he turned the car off the highway and onto Bridgeway, which led one toward the main part of town. ―That‘s okay,‖ I murmured, tasting the slight regurgitation of rum and pineapple juice in my mouth. ―I thought maybe we were being chased,‖ I jested. ―Well, if we were, they‘d never catch me. You can be sure of that, matey.‖ He made a sharp left turn and lurched the car into a large parking lot that extended toward the harbor. Driving past rows of cars on each side, he pulled into a space between a shiny black Buick and a tarnished Karmann-Ghia. Overhead was a sign that announced ―Waldo Harbor.‖ As I got out of the car, my attention was drawn to what looked like several houseboats scattered near the shore. Walking toward them, however, I saw that they were little more than wooden shacks, some more dilapidated than others, all needing paint jobs. I was startled to see what looked like a huge paddlewheel lying deserted on the dirt. On the water nearby was the near-wreckage of a wooden structure resting on the crumbling remains of an old hull, ready to collapse into the harbor at any moment. ―Don‘t bother looking at those,‖ said Kap. ―Those have been here at least since the ‘60s, if not earlier, when anyone able to hammer two boards together made a floating home here. Let‘s go up ahead.‖ He gestured toward a large wooden dock with hand railings. It led toward
198 | JUAN KENOBI what appeared to be the wide entrance to a docked ferry. Getting closer, however, I saw that the archway was really the entryway onto one of the main docks at Waldo Point. Peering through, I could already see that this was indeed a different ―neighborhood‖ than the area near the parking lot. It was a new world that Kap had taken me to! But instead of a rainbow painted overhead was a sign proudly announcing ―Issaquah Dock.‖ With his now familiar thump resounding on the wooden planks, Kap led me down the dock, which turned out to be the main thoroughfare that ran through an astoundingly beautiful and well-maintained assortment of houseboats. On both sides, resting on concrete hulls (instead of floating on the water, as I expected) were dozens of homes, all apparently made of wood but each displaying a distinct architectural design. Some reminded me of the charming Victorian and Edwardian houses found in San Francisco‘s Noe Valley, with trim painted in contrasting colors and interiors likely decorated with wainscoting and moldings. Others seemed to derive their inspiration from modernism, using bold angles and clean lines to define their shapes, with windows and skylights placed in dramatic positions. A handful looked even more eclectic, drawing from several different aesthetics, sometimes melding Western and Eastern styles with uniquely constructed exteriors, suggesting ranches as well as ashrams, with tributes to both Frank Lloyd Wright and the Buddha. This was prime real estate, I surmised. There were others too, of course, which were more modest in both appearance and expense. One that caught my attention looked little more than a tugboat, with paneled widows that almost encircled the entire exterior. Now that was one I could live in all by myself, I thought. ―I don‘t believe any of this!‖ I blurted out as I came across a stunning multilevel structure done in a sweeping contemporary style that might otherwise be found on the steep hillsides overlooking Sausalito, as well as in the pages of Architectural Digest. ―And the gardens, too,‖ I added, looking back at the length of the dock we had traversed. Along the edges in front of every residence were well-groomed pots from which grew flowering plants, small trees, prairie grass, or vines curling over trellised gateways. ―This is like a real neighborhood!‖ ―It is, matey,‖ replied Kap, displaying his characteristic grin. ―But you haven‘t seen my place yet.‖ He gestured me around an unexpected turn on the walkway.
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―Oh, there‘s more!‖ I exclaimed in delight, seeing additional houseboats ahead as I turned the corner. ―Here she is,‖ announced Kap proudly, resting his hands on his hips. ―What do you think?‖ I gasped, frozen in my tracks. In front of me stood a houseboat that was no larger than most of the structures I had already seen but which certainly surpassed any of them in architectural outrageousness. With a façade that recalled the exterior of an old merchant ship, it looked exactly like the stern of a pirate ship! Two rows of paneled windows dominated most of the surface, separated by a row of balustrades painted in white and gold enclosing a shallow balcony that wrapped around both sides. Below this façade of windows and balustrades which indicated the upper floors, the ground floor‘s exterior consisted of a broad and attractive swath of dark wood broken up by a pair of French doors in the middle, trimmed in black, and flanked by windows made of stained glass. Most of the surface of the ship (I could hardly call it just a houseboat) was also covered in the same dark wood, trimmed throughout with carvings of foliage and mythical beasts painted in contrasting tones of black, white, gold, and green, with touches of blood red here and there. I was tempted to step backward to see if there were masts and sails protruding at the top—or even a Jolly Roger flying from a pole—but I was jolted back into reality by Kap‘s hand on my shoulder. ―A little stunned, are we, matey?‖ he asked. ―I‘m in shock, Kap. I mean, how did you ever get this place? Did you do all of this yourself?‖ I paused to marvel at the carvings over the front door, seeing what looked like the image of Pan playing his flute, cavorting with some animals. He laughed, amused at my exhilaration. ―No, no, my boy. I sort of inherited this place. A friend of mine left it for me, after he passed away. And I inherited his business too. I wasn‘t born a filmmaker, you know. Although I‘ve been at it for a while, since—well, since I was about your age. Want to come aboard?‖ Kap opened the set of French doors with a large key. We were immediately greeted by a loud ―Squaawwk!‖ followed by an almost blinding flurry of turquoise and golden yellow in our faces. ―Tink!‖ yelled Kap, raising his arm. I jumped back as a brightly colored parrot flew across the foyer and embedded its claws in his sleeve. ―Now be a good girl. We‘ve got a guest.‖
200 | JUAN KENOBI The bird looked at me cautiously, then proceeded to groom its feathers with its formidable beak, raising a wing of royal blue that tapered into a brilliant shade of blue-green. ―I inherited her too,‖ explained Kap. ―She‘s almost as old as I am—in bird years!‖ I glanced around what seemed to be an enormous open kitchen and dining room, separated by a huge butcher block countertop, over which hung what at first looked to me like ladders woven of coarse rope suspended from the ceiling and stretched across in rustic canopies. I realized these were meant to look like replicas of a ship‘s rigging, with hooks from which hung pots, pans, and baskets filled with fruits and vegetables. In the center of the dining room stood a large round table, constructed of an old ship‘s wheel on which rested a round sheet of smoked glass, surrounded by a mismatched collection of wooden chairs. An assortment of breakfast bowls and spoons was strewn across, along with boxes of cereal—mainly Cap‘n Crunch!—and a lonely plate of French toast, interspersed with splashes of milk and discarded banana and mango peels. ―You‘ll have to excuse the mess, matey,‖ said Kap with a sigh. ―Michael promised to take the boys to Muir Woods today, so they all dashed out early without cleaning up. Normally it‘s a lot cleaner. I make sure of that.‖ He carried Tink over to her perch, which stood on the other end of the dining room near an elaborate stairway constructed seemingly of cast iron, then walked over to a coat rack near the front door to hang up his leather coat. As he removed it, I couldn‘t help but notice the tightness of his pants, which shaped the contours of his buttocks adoringly. Nice butt, I thought to myself, especially for an older guy. And I could be working for him! As Kap turned around, I quickly averted my eyes and surveyed a row of pegs on the wall behind him from which hung a wild array of knitted hats, baseball caps, hoodies, and jackets. At least three skateboards were piled on the floor, along with a jumble of backpacks, messenger bags, flip-flops, and sneakers. What looked like the results of a recent visit to Costco—cases of bottled drinks, snacks, and paper towels—were also stacked by the door. ―How many, uh, boys live here?‖ I asked, still trying to chase thoughts of Kap‘s buttocks from my mind.
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―Five,‖ answered Kap, ―along with John and Michael, who take care of them and work at the company as well—they‘re both great cameramen. But those boys can be a handful, that‘s for sure.‖ He shook his head at the disarray at his feet, then looked up at the ceiling. ―They‘ve got free rein on the top floor. John and Michael have their rooms on the second floor, in the back. I‘m in the front, next to the office. There‘s also another guest room in the front, which opens onto the balcony, along with another one here on the ground floor.‖ He pointed past the dining room to an area behind a wall dominated by a mural of an exotic seascape with mermaids and dolphins. ―So if you take this job, you can have a room here as well, to use whenever you want. Although you probably won‘t want the one on this floor. It can get kind of noisy being next to the living room.‖ ―Oh,‖ I said, unsure what to make of the situation. ―Maybe we can talk more about the position. Do you have a job description?‖ ―A job description?‖ Kap looked at me with a wry expression. ―Well, no, my boy. This isn‘t something I‘d have posted on craigslist. But you sound like the person who can do the job—a little bit of everything, kind of a ‗jack-off of all trades‘, you might say.‖ He started to chuckle but stopped, noticing the wrinkle on my brow. ―Peter! I hope I haven‘t said anything wrong. You look kind of worried.‖ ―No, no,‖ I asserted. ―I just wasn‘t clear about the position. Usually employers want to see a resume and have a whole list of questions—that is, if you get chosen for an interview. And more often than not, they have more than one person present.‖ Kap looked across the room as if making a decision, then turned back to look at me, nodding. ―All right, matey. We can do that. In fact—‖ He glanced at his watch. ―In fact, the boys should be returning home any minute now. If you don‘t mind, let me get myself cleaned up a bit. Help yourself to a beer in the fridge—oh, I think there might even be some pineapple juice—and I‘ll be back in a few minutes. You can relax in the living room.‖ He gestured again toward the back of the house and dashed upstairs, leaving me as confused as ever. Did he expect me to have a resume to show him now? Was this really going to be an interview? Who was going to be joining us? John and Michael? The boys? The parrot?
202 | JUAN KENOBI I sauntered toward the living room, suddenly noticing how the ceiling sparkled everywhere. One point in the middle seemed to glow especially bright, like the North Star. This must all be really beautiful when it‘s dark, I thought. The room was dominated by a huge flatscreen TV and an entertainment center, which were encircled by two sectional couches and a pair of leather recliners. A board game featuring a treasure hunt, seemingly in progress, a tumble of video games, and stacks of graphic novels and comics covered a coffee table that looked like it was carved out of the bottom of a massive tree trunk, its thick roots gripping a moss-colored shag rug. A trio of palm trees, along with a tall banana tree, stood strategically below a row of windows high up on one wall, functioning like skylights. The late afternoon sun filtered across the room, its beams filled with what looked like pixie dust, and fell onto a row of photographs hanging on the opposite wall. Even from a distance I could see that they were scenes taken of a jungle or rainforest, perhaps the Amazon. In one photograph, indigenous warriors, looking stern and proudly adorned with elaborate feather headdresses and facial piercings, stood holding their spears. In another, a fierce crocodile lay in a muddy river, looking out menacingly toward the viewer. I could hear the faint but unmistakable ticking of a clock hanging overhead. Against the far wall stood bookcases stocked with books, DVDs, and video games. I wondered if I could find any of Kap‘s films, I thought as I walked over. I glanced at the expected assortment of action and adventure films featuring Johnny Depp, Matt Damon, and the like. Usual guy stuff, I thought… until I saw a row near the bottom. Jesus! Was that porn? Gay porn? I pulled one off the shelf that featured two very young men, shirtless and barely out of adolescence, on the cover. Looking at the reverse, there was no doubt. Featured was a series of stills displaying the two men, sometimes with others, completely nude, sporting huge hard-ons, and engaging in sex acts— blissfully sucking cock and fucking and kissing. I reached for a few other DVDs from the shelf and saw that they were similar. These must be Bel Ami, I thought, the studio that specialized in gay porn with unbelievably handsome and well-endowed young males, all looking dangerously under-aged. Looking over the covers, however, I saw that all of them were released under a different label that I was not at all familiar with. I began to feel an unmistakable stirring in my loins and instinctively adjusted my cock, which was pushing itself relentlessly against the crotch of my jeans. Oh, if I were alone with these DVDs, I‘d have
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endless hours of pleasure! I paused for a second to see if I could hear Kap upstairs in the shower. As I looked up, the sparkles in the ceiling seemed to pulsate like stars. I could almost hear the trees breathing in the room. The thick roots of the coffee table seemed ready to reach for my legs. Oh, take a long one, take a long one, I begged Kap as I grabbed my rebellious cock, which had now inched itself down my thigh. Make it long, please! At that moment, I heard a loud click from the front of the house. Startled, I jumped and immediately pulled my hand away and jammed it into the front pocket of my jeans. Oh, I would have worn the really tight ones today! ―Kap! We‘re home!‖ exclaimed a voice, accompanied by laughter in various pitches. Oh my God, I thought, I‘m getting caught with a hardon looking at gay porn when I‘m here for a job interview! Maybe I‘ll just pass out! I immediately put the DVD that I was holding (with my other, less mischievous, hand) back on the shelf, but not without disturbing the entire row, causing a couple of the cases to drop on the rug. ―Hey, who are you?‖ asked the voice. I spun around and looked into the eyes of a teenage boy with bangs over his eyes, not unlike Justin Bieber, in a red T-shirt and striped hoodie. He was followed by four other boys—which included a startling pair of twins—all undeniably attractive. Was this a high school gathering, I wondered? Maybe the Warblers from Glee? I held both my arms down in front of me in a vain attempt to conceal my persistent hard-on. ―Uh, hi, I‘m Peter. Kap invited me here.‖ A tall and well-built man, perhaps in his early thirties and wearing a knitted stovetop hat, pushed his way to the front and extended his muscular arm covered in Maori tattoos. He had green eyes and a stunning smile. ―Hi, I‘m John. Welcome to our home.‖ I hesitated for a second before moving my right arm, then shook his hand. Oh, let them see, I thought. They‘ll just think I‘m really well-hung. ―And I‘m Nibs,‖ said the first boy with the Justin Bieber hairdo, breaking into a sly grin as he glanced at my crotch. ―And I‘m Tootles,‖ said another, sporting auburn shoulder-length hair and an orange kerchief around his neck, with a Southwestern twang. He was munching on a Clif Bar.
204 | JUAN KENOBI ―And these are the twins, Duke and Binky,‖ said a stunningly handsome boy with dark features, alarmingly long eyelashes, and a shock of black curls, indicating a pair of too-cute blond boys with identical features. ―I‘m Curly,‖ he added. As he smiled ear to ear, I had the unmistakable sensation that I had seen him before, but where? ―And I‘m Michael,‖ said a voice from behind the twins. A gorgeous and beefy man about the same age as John, with a closely cropped beard and carrying a tote bag, pushed his way to the front. ―Nice to meet you.‖ He likewise extended his arm, also covered with tattoos, for a handshake. ―Nice to meet all of you,‖ I replied, dazzled at the welcoming crowd made up of breathtakingly attractive males. I smiled at each one of them, certain I would cream in my pants if another extended his arm for a handshake. ―I see you found our stash of DVDs,‖ said Tootles, giggling. The twins looked at each other, stifling their laughter. ―Uh, yeah, I did,‖ I murmured, wishing Kap would return. ―Was there one that caught your eye—more than the others?‖ asked Curly, quite innocently. I could feel my cock throb with both embarrassment and excitement. ―How about this one?‖ asked Tootles, grabbing one of the DVDs lying on the rug. ―It‘s one of my favorites.‖ He handed it to me, still giggling. I took a glance and saw that it was the first one I had noticed. As I looked again at the pair of stunningly hot guys on the cover, I realized that the faces were exactly the same as two of the boys standing right in front of me—Tootles and Curly! I gasped. ―Yep, that‘s us, all right,‖ said Tootles. ―Me and my favorite fuck buddy!‖ ―Tootles!‖ declared Curly, gently taking the DVD from Tootles‘s grasp. ―Don‘t embarrass our houseguest.‖ ―Nothing to be embarrassed about,‖ sniffed Tootles. ―It just shows he has good taste.‖ ―But what about us?‖ asked one of the twins.
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―Or me?‖ asked Nibs, tossing back his bangs. ―I have my own DVD.‖ He began combing through the shelf, humming the tune to the Bieber hit ―Baby.‖ ―Yeah, you all do,‖ interrupted John, putting his hand on Nib‘s shoulder. ―We can talk about all of this later.‖ ―Sorry, you know how these young ‘uns can get,‖ teased Michael, poking Tootles from behind. ―Once they become porn stars, there‘s just no stopping them.‖ ―Porn stars? Did I hear ‗porn stars‘?‖ I turned to see Kap, dressed in a striped blue and white shirt and a silver vest, entering the room. I was glad to see him wearing another pair of tight trousers, this time of navy linen. His hair was wet, and I could smell the woody scent of cologne on his face. His shirt was open to reveal a mass of dark chest hair along with his necklace. ―Nobody here‘s a porn star,‖ said one of the twins. ―Oh, everybody here,‖ announced the other twin. ―Even John and Michael.‖ ―That was a long time ago,‖ said Michael, trying to sound nonchalant. ―A long time ago,‖ agreed John, crossing his arms, exhibiting the blue and purple figure of a twisting sea serpent. ―It wasn‘t that long ago,‖ corrected Kap. ―It was when Lost Boys Studio first started, after Never Neverland folded.‖ ―Did you say ‗Lost Boys Studio‘?‖ I asked. I recalled seeing that label on the DVDs I had looked at. ―Yep, Lost Boys Studio,‖ replied Kap. ―And these, I‘m proud to say, are the Lost Boys, at least the current incarnation. Did they introduce themselves to you, Peter?‖ ―We sure did,‖ exclaimed Tootles. ―Although not in the way that we sometimes do!‖ He giggled, and the twins joined in. ―Well, as you might have gathered by now, this is the home of Lost Boys Studio,‖ explained Kap. ―We don‘t do much of the shooting here— we do most of that in a South of Market warehouse that we rent from Falcon. But this is where we operate from. The office is upstairs. And the boys, as you can see, live here.‖
206 | JUAN KENOBI ―Upstairs, downstairs, and every stairs,‖ interjected John, picking up a shirt and a pair of mismatched striped socks off the floor. ―So we need someone to help me run the office,‖ said Kap. ―I‘m usually busy with the film director and the crew, and I need someone here on a daily basis to manage things, answer the phone, handle orders, be in charge of the website, that kind of thing. But don‘t worry, you won‘t have to manage the boys. That‘s what John and Michael do.‖ ―Aren‘t we the lucky ones?‖ murmured Michael, picking up a pile of comics off the coffee table. He paused to look at the pieces on the game board and repositioned one of them, giving Nibs a smug glance. ―But you‘ll be able to watch some of the shoots, if you like,‖ added Kap. ―And some of the filming, too!‖ interjected John, grinning. Curly let out a whoop. ―Do you like gay porn, Peter?‖ asked Kap. Is this an interview question? I asked myself. ―Well, I have the feeling I shouldn‘t say no!‖ I asserted. Tootles gave a loud hoot, and everyone else laughed. ―No, you can‘t,‖ said Kap. ―It‘s part of the job.‖ ―Well, yeah,‖ I said, ―of course. Very much. Always. Whenever I can.‖ ―Well, then,‖ he responded, clapping his hands together. ―It‘s settled.‖ ―Don‘t you have any other interview questions?‖ I asked. ―Don‘t you need to check my references?‖ Tootles looked glaringly at my crotch, then spun around to keep himself from exploding with laughter. Curly whispered into his ear, and Tootles nodded, covering his mouth. ―Would you like me to call your former employers and tell them a gay porn company is considering you for a position?‖ Kap looked at me, squinting his eyes with mock seriousness. ―I guess it would depend on the position!‖ declared John. ―Top or bottom?‖ Kap gave out a hearty guffaw, and the Lost Boys began clapping with glee.
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―If I‘m upstairs, I‘m a top, and if I‘m downstairs, then I‘m a bottom,‖ I replied without missing a beat. ―Then you‘re hired,‖ declared Kap. ―How about it, boys?‖ he asked, darting out of the room. Nibs and Curly gave a loud shout, Tootles let out another hoot, and the twins cheered in unison. John tossed his hat into the air. Michael gave me an affectionate hug. What a motley crew, I thought. How wonderful! ―Welcome, Peter,‖ said John, grasping my shoulder affectionately. ―We‘ve been waiting for you.‖ ―Yeah,‖ agreed Michael. ―Now our little group‘s complete.‖ ―Peter and the Lost Boys!‖ declared Kap, returning with a six-pack of bottled Blackbeard ale in one hand and a six-pack of Coke in the other. He handed me a chilled Blackbeard and one to John and Michael. The boys each got a Coke. Nibs let out a sigh as he popped open his can. ―They‘re all over eighteen but not yet twenty-one,‖ explained Kap, twisting the cap off his bottle. ―We gotta watch what passes through their lips, you know.‖ ―I have the feeling I‘ll be watching that—a lot!‖ I exclaimed. ―Just watch what you do with that bottle,‖ warned Tootles. ―I‘ll be watching that, too, Tootles,‖ I replied. ―You can be sure of that!‖ Tootles squealed as the rest of the boys danced around me, cheering. A loud squawk came from Tink in the other room. ―Okay, okay, how about a toast to our newest addition?‖ asked Kap, holding up his Blackbeard. Foam from the beer began to gurgle down the sides of the bottle. I was tempted to lick it off but refrained. Maybe later, I thought. ―Oh, wait,‖ shouted Michael as he ran into the kitchen. He returned with two large bags of Pirate‘s Booty corn puffs. ―How can we celebrate finding our Peter without Pirate‘s Booty?‖ How indeed? I wondered. How indeed?
208 | JUAN KENOBI
JUAN KENOBI is a writer and artist who, when not concocting improbable stories, likes to spend his spare time browsing through used bookstores, over-attended museums, and under-appreciated theaters. He likes British mysteries, looking at self-portraits by Schiele, and getting lost in Venice or the West Village—preferably in the spring or fall and while wearing comfortable shoes, usually made of suede, and toting an overstuffed messenger bag. Juan lives in San Francisco and is unrelentingly fond of his dog Keira and his partner Rik, who continually promises to go with him to Paris.
IRISH RED M.J. O’SHEA
Cutlass Island, 1713
THE night was dark, sweltering, and heavy, air tangy with salt from a crashing sea and loud startling crackles every so often when lightning slapped the horizon. It was the kind of night that made men restless, mean, eager for a fight—something about the lightning, I always thought. I was on edge waiting for trouble to be washed in with the rain. Trouble always seemed to come when it stormed. I was standing behind the bar of my pub, The Dagger, pouring my fifteenth rum of the hour when it happened. The slotted door swished open, squeaky with rain-swollen hinges. He entered, and the room hushed with an unnatural quiet. I could hear the wind outside, the creaking of boats against their moorings, the rustling of trees and rats scurrying out of the rain, but like everyone else, my focus was on him, the tall, lean form that filled my doorway. He was a predator, deadly and unforgiving. I knew that much from the way the others scuttled out of his way like drunken cockroaches, leaning on door frames and barstools to make sure they weren‘t caught in his path. A long sea coat, wet from the downpour, swinging at his knees, and boots, breeches, and a hat shoved over a cascade of waving deep-red hair hid everything but the generous curve of his mouth. It didn‘t matter. I knew who he was. Irish Red O‘Malley. Pirate king of the seas, captain of the Sargasso, a ruthless, cunning killer.
210 | M.J. O’SHEA I tried not to betray myself as I watched him approach my bar. He moved with quiet grace belying the ferocity that simmered just below his surface. There was no hint of discomfort in his face, despite the oppressive heat of a storming summer night. He pulled off his hat and placed it on the dark wood of my bar counter. His face was beautiful, young, at odds with all that he was. ―What‘ll it be, Cap‘n?‖ I wanted to touch him, to reach out and trace my fingers over the sharp edges of his high Viking cheekbones. But to touch him was death, immediate, painful, and public. ―Ale. Whichever barrel has the least rats.‖ His Irish brogue was thick, like he‘d never left his homeland, and I'd forgotten to expect it. But his voice was deep and full of slow-moving molasses. It made the back of my neck erupt in pleasured chills. ―Yes, sir.‖ It was nearly impossible to keep the tremble out of my voice. I felt it in my throat. With shaking hands I turned, his stare piercing my spine, and filled a cup with the best ale I had. ―You on shore long, Cap‘n?‖ I tried to sound polite, but I was digging for information. It wasn‘t every day that the likes of O‘Malley showed up at my humble doorstep. He grunted and slapped a palm full of coins on the counter. Gold. I coughed on a sharp breath and covered the coins with my hand before anyone else saw them and decided they needed to gut me for them. ―Sir?‖ ―For good service,‖ he grumbled. If I hadn‘t looked up at that moment, I would‘ve missed the hint of a smile. ―Thank you.‖ I bowed my head and scraped the coins off the counter, putting them in my apron pocket. I‘d get away as soon as I could and hide my unexpected treasure upstairs where it was less likely to be stolen. ―You drinkin‘ tonight?‖ he asked, taking a swill from his cup. I shook my head. ―No. Never when there‘s a storm.‖ ―Expecting trouble, are you?‖ ―Might already have it.‖ There was no way he could miss my smile. Luckily he smiled back. It was devastating. I tried not to be affected. Impossible. ―I reckon you do.‖
IRISH RED | 211 He gave me a nod indicating that he‘d like another. Since he‘d just given me enough gold to pay for all the alcohol on the island, I didn‘t see a problem with that. I‘d have never denied him anyway. With another small nod, he stood and took himself to the cramped table in the corner where he could look out over the harbor. For the first time in long minutes, I took a full, deep breath.
I
WAS standing at my bedroom window, looking out at the wild, moonless night, loving the finally cool breeze against my face, when I felt his presence behind me. He‘d come, just like I knew he would. I turned just as he was drawing his shirt over his head and watched, fascinated, as tendrils of dark red escaped from it to fall back over his bare shoulders.
―You‘re here,‖ I murmured and walked slowly, drawn by his power. ―How could I stay away?‖ He reached for me, and I went to him without hesitation. Irish Red O‘Malley; pirate, plunderer… the love of my life. I flung my arms around his shoulders and tangled my fingers in that fall of warm, dark red silk. He smiled, and I saw the face I‘d known since we were boys—open and friendly, unchanged by years at sea. ―Chris,‖ he whispered into my hair, raining kisses over my head and hugging me closer. I lifted my face from his shoulder and turned it, asking silently for a real kiss. He smiled again. ―I wanted to kiss you desperately earlier, pull you over that counter and into my arms.‖ ―I was trembling for wanting it so badly. Brian, please.‖ He obliged, nudging my face with his nose, nipping at my lower lip. ―It‘s been months, love. I need you,‖ I moaned quietly. ―I need you too, Chris. It was too long this time.‖ Too long. It had felt like forever. ―Remember at the orphanage back home, how you‘d come into my bunk at night after the others were sleeping?‖ Brian smiled. ―Yeah, I was the puny one back then. You‘d hug me when I got scared.‖ ―Sometimes I get scared when I‘m here alone for too long.‖
212 | M.J. O’SHEA He rubbed the pad of his thumb under my eye. ―You should move to another island, maybe live in Kingston, or somewhere safer.‖ ―By safer you mean somewhere they‘d hang you on sight? I‘ll never do it.‖ ―I know.‖ Brian sighed. I lifted his heavy hair and blew on the side of his neck, pleased at the shiver caused by my simple touch. I noticed a scar on his shoulder, pink and newly healed. ―What‘s happened to you this time?‖ He felt instinctively at the scar. ―Nothing, my love.‖ ―Hmm.‖ I didn‘t believe him. He didn‘t like for me to worry, but worry I did. I‘d join him on his ship so I could keep an eye on him, but I didn‘t have the stomach for sea travel. Besides, it would kill me to be that close and not actually be with him. Of course we could not. ―Chris, can we please not ruin tonight?‖ ―Is tonight all I have of you?‖ I didn‘t want to push him, but I had to know. ―Chris….‖ I tugged on his hair again, pulling him down to my face for a real kiss, long and deep. ―Love you,‖ I whispered against his mouth. ―Always have,‖ he whispered back. I felt his hands at my waistband, pushing and tugging, trying to get my bottoms out of his way. Yes…. I was thirsting for his touch. I did the same, pulled on laces until his bottoms were loose and falling to the floor. I needed all of him warm and rough and wrapped around me. I needed to remember how good it was. ―Touch me, Bri.‖ He groaned and gathered me into his arms, walking us backward toward my small bed. ―Six months is far, far too long. I‘m afraid I won‘t last.‖ I didn‘t mind. I never minded. We had all night. A lot longer, if I had anything to do with it. ―Come love me. I need to remember. I need to know you‘re still real.‖ We collapsed on my bed, limbs tangling in the damp, black heat of the night. I reached up to touch his tumbling hair, those sharp cheekbones, the high bridge of his nose. It was the only way I could stay
IRISH RED | 213 in the moment and not tremble into a thousand pieces thinking of the past and the future… thinking of how I might never see him again every time he walked from my room and my life. Brian ran his hands down my flanks, over my hips; the pad of his thumb traced an unsteady line up my torso. He memorized my body by touch. I could see the concentration and the bald emotion on his face. ―I miss touching ye. Sometimes I can‘t sleep for missing it so desperately.‖ His accent was thicker. It always was when he got emotional. Who would ever have thought that the fearsome Irish Red could be brought near to tears by a mere barkeep? I covered his hand with my own, loving that he needed me as much as I needed him. ―I miss it too. Every day. Come here.‖ I pulled on him until he was lying on me, his long hair draping on the pillow. I wanted to touch his hair. I‘d loved it since we were children. Instead I wrapped him as well I could in my arms and lifted my knees to hug his hips. Just the sensation of his growing cock against mine was enough to make me breathless. Brian…. ―I don‘t know if I can wait any longer.‖ ―Nor I. Just… slow. It‘s been a long time, after all.‖ Brian smiled and reached for the oil that I kept near my bed, but only for him. There could never be another, and he knew that. It was the same for him. We‘d only ever had each other in the world. He poured out a generous amount, slicking up himself and massaging it on my entrance. ―I won‘t hurt you, love. I promise.‖ ―I know.‖ I pulled him close again, spreading my legs to make room for his thighs between mine. ―Now, Brian. Please.‖ He nodded, and with a kiss he lined up and pushed against my entrance slowly until he was seated all the way inside me. It stung at first; my body wasn‘t used to it after so long alone, but I reveled in the fact that it was him—inside me and real and alive. Brian took my knee and slung it over his elbow. ―You‘re heaven, my love,‖ he breathed in my ear. ―I don‘t know how I‘ve lived all these months.‖ ―Barely,‖ I answered and moved my hips to encourage him. It was time. The room was filled with soft grunts and breathing. I smelled his
214 | M.J. O’SHEA sweat, clean and salty, on the night air from my open window. His breath filled my consciousness, his presence almost unreal. Every time I closed my eyes, I expected him to disappear. He kept his hands on my face, thumbs caressing my cheeks as though he felt the same. But I was there. Always. Waiting for him. I would never leave. ―I need more,‖ I moaned. More of him. More of his body in me. I needed something to remember when he was gone like the mist. ―I want it to last. I‘m too close.‖ His voice sounded strained; his hair grew damp with perspiration. ―Now,‖ I ordered. ―I want to feel it.‖ As much as he was the ruler at sea, he could never deny me. He trembled, and I felt his warmth filling me. ―Chris….‖ A few brief tugs from his hand and I was following him, shaking and grabbing on to his long, loose waves of hair.
HOURS later I was still awake, sitting up in the dark, thinking about nothing and everything: our pasts, my loneliness, the dangers of Brian‘s life, the way I wanted to tie him to my bed and never let him set foot on the damn cursed ship again. I must have tensed because Brian shifted. He was asleep, arm slung across my legs, face nestled up against my hip. It was most likely his first real rest in months. His skin, tanned from days in the harsh weather, looked warm to the touch, like he was the sun radiating his own heat. He always tanned so easily. When we‘d been in the navy, I remembered his skin turning the same color of golden tan. His hair had been shorter then and always tied back in a punishingly tight braid. I remembered wanting to tug at the strands until they were loose and warm on my fingers. He‘d been so young then, so beautiful. He looked young still—far too young to have endured all that he‘d been through. I ran my fingers through it now, just like I‘d wanted to do all those times when we were younger and under the watchful eye of some commanding officer. He stirred again and tightened his arm around my lap. I knew he was awake. I scooted back down under the light blanket until his arms were around my shoulders. Brian slid his thigh between mine.
IRISH RED | 215 I kissed the salty skin of his neck, then grinned, remembering. ―Why did you give me all that gold earlier? It could‘ve started a riot had anyone seen.‖ He chuckled. ―I wanted to surprise you. You used to love gifts.‖ ―Of course.‖ I laughed too and pulled at his hair. ―I‘ve missed you so much, Bri. Tell me you‘re not leaving again.‖ ―Christopher, my darling, I love you.‖ He nuzzled my forehead and brushed hair slick with sweat and humidity off my face. ―That was not an answer.‖ He smiled, transforming his face once again from Irish Red O‘Malley to Brian, my Brian. ―You require an answer, little one?‖ ―I‘m not little,‖ I grumbled. ―Maybe compared to you….‖ He chuckled and squeezed me in his long, sea-hardened arms. ―Brian, it kills me to wait for you, never knowing if each time you leave it will be the one where you end up at the bottom of the sea.‖ He chuckled. ―Have ye no faith in me?‖ I closed my eyes and lay back on my pillow. ―I love you.‖ I couldn‘t say anything more. It wasn‘t that I had no faith in him; I just knew of the many men, military and pirate alike, who‘d like to see him dead. ―One last trip, Chris. Then I‘ll have enough.‖ ―Enough for what? How could you possibly need more?‖ ―Soon. I don‘t want to tell you until I know for sure. Now let‘s sleep. I only ever sleep well in your arms.‖
WHEN I woke, he was gone. The only way I knew he‘d even been there was his scent on my pillow and a bag of coins on the desk with a note that said Soon, my love. I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was scared for him. It didn‘t matter how many times he went to sea; each time was equally as bad as the first. I had work to do, though. The Dagger was sure to be a mess, and I‘d been too keyed up the night before to see to it. My stomach was sick with his leaving, but life had to go on. The only thing I could hope was that the day wouldn‘t come when I‘d hear
216 | M.J. O’SHEA that my Brian had been killed by one of the same naval ships we used to fight on years before.
IT WAS late winter, or it would have been if I'd been in Ireland. I had faint memories of snowfall in Dublin, the chill of rain and overcast skies, but we‘d been sold to the British Navy so long ago, as boys of thirteen. I doubted I would ever see Ireland again. As it was, the memory of it was slipping from my mind more with every passing year. I was starting to wonder if I‘d ever see Brian again as well. Doubtful, I knew. It had been eight excruciating months. The longest he‘d been away by far. Every day I waited to hear of his death—he couldn‘t still be alive and not have come to me by now. I hadn‘t slept well since he left, and I knew by the fit of my clothes that I hadn‘t been eating well either. Brian, are you still out there somewhere? If he was alive, the first thing I would do when I saw him was kill him for making me worry so. And then the day came. There were whispers, some quiet, others more forceful. I heard the words ―Irish Red‖ in the dark corners of my bar. After hours of half-wisps of information, conversations partially overheard, my worst fears were realized. Irish Red O‘Malley was dead; killed at sea by a nameless pirate, stabbed in his sleep. Not even a noble death, going down fighting. The rumors swirled around me, but soon I stopped hearing. I gripped the counter of my bar, barely able to stay upright. What would I do? The days stretched before me, endless and bleak with the knowledge that never again, until I joined him in death, would I see Brian‘s face, feel his touch on my skin, smell the warmth of his hair. One more trip, love. Surely you could’ve said no. I was lost. I lived after that. Barely. Existed was a better word. The days blurred by, and nothing seemed to matter. Eight months turned into nine, ten… a year. When the day came that I woke to the realization that he‘d been gone from me for a year, I knew I had to go on. Somewhere else. I wouldn‘t stay. Not when there was no chance that he would come back to me. Even though I knew I had to leave, I found it nearly impossible to
IRISH RED | 217 get the strength to go through with it. Days continued to sink one into the next. I‘d lost weight. I didn‘t care. My customers probably got more for their money than they‘d gotten before. I wanted only to be in my bed, curled up and hugging my thin pillow, wishing it was him.
ONE dark night, September, I thought, I was lying in my bed unable to sleep. The bar had closed hours before; it would probably be morning soon. It didn‘t matter. I rarely slept anymore. I had a sword near my bed most nights. I felt uneasy. It was time to move off the island. Long past time. There was a creaking downstairs. I heard it clearly in the silence. I‘d locked up carefully. Since Brian had died, I‘d felt even more alone. Unsafe. Even when he‘d been gone, the knowledge that he was out there had made me feel better. No longer. Reaching down, I gripped the sword I‘d stowed under my bed, wishing it were a gun. The creaking grew closer. It was on the stairs. I squeezed my eyes shut and sat up, feet on the floor, ready to defend myself. My door opened. The squeal from the hinges seemed shockingly loud in the silence of the night. A tall figure filled the door, skinny, lanky, and clearly the worse for wear. He was wearing a loose coat and had a hat jammed low on his head, hiding his face. ―I‘m armed,‖ I warned the shadowy figure. ―Chris, no. I won‘t hurt you.‖ His voice was tired, scratchy… and so dear to me. But he was dead, was he not? ―H-how….‖ My sword clattered to the floor, and I along with it. For a moment, everything was black. The next thing I knew, I was being lifted in strong arms and carried back to my bed, where I was placed gently. ―Brian?‖ I whispered. I was afraid to say it aloud for fear that I‘d finally gone insane. ―Yes, love, it is me.‖ ―But you‘re dead.‖ He chuckled softly and brushed his finger over my forehead. ―I‘m not. Irish Red is gone, but I am still here. I came for you like I said I would.‖ ―For me?‖ I echoed dumbly. Shock stole my usual powers of speech. ―Yes. No more pirating, no more leaving. We are together from this day if you still wish it.‖
218 | M.J. O’SHEA How could he think I‘d wish for anything else? I reached up and pulled his hat from his head, expecting his hair, my hair, to come tumbling down. It too was gone. ―Your hair!‖ ―It will grow back, love. It was too recognizable.‖ I squeezed my eyes shut, then took a good look at his face. He was skinny and looked exhausted, like he‘d been through the bowels of hell trying to return to me. ―Where have you been?‖ Brian stood and pulled his coat off before sinking down wearily onto the bed beside me. ―That‘s a story for another day. I am dead on my feet.‖ I smacked at his chest. ―Do not say that word! How could you have let me believe you were gone all these months?‖ He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close to him. ―I had to. It was too dangerous to try to send word. I came as soon as I could without being noticed.‖ ―So you staged your death?‖ ―To disappear, yes. So we could be together like we always planned. It took a bit longer than I originally thought it would. I‘m sorry you worried.‖ ―Worried? I died that day.‖ Brian winced. ―Forgive me? I did it for us, love.‖ I pinched the bridge of my nose with fingers that were suddenly shaking, but I nodded. Of course I forgave him. I‘d have forgiven him anything. ―What now? Someone here will surely recognize you.‖ He smiled and pulled my hand from my face. ―Do you really want to live with me always, deal with my snoring and my smelly feet?‖ I chuckled despite my worry. ―Why do you even ask?‖ He looked down. ―Then there is an island. A place for men like us.‖ ―What do you mean?‖ What he was saying seemed impossible. ―It is small, isolated, but not too far from here. Men live there freely… loving each other.‖ My eyes widened. ―You cannot be serious.‖ He nodded. ―I bought a plot of land, right near the sea. It‘s ours if you want it.‖
IRISH RED | 219 ―But what of the bar?‖ My hands trembled. I knew the question was inane. I‘d follow him to the next life if I could. An island where we could be together sounded like paradise. ―Are there no other barkeeps on this awful rock?‖ ―There are,‖ I acknowledged. He kissed me again, small and soft on the tip of my nose. ―Then come with me. I‘ll build us a house. We can bring dogs to play with.‖ I‘d always wanted a dog. We used to talk about it when we were stuck on the Thames in the middle of the ocean and I was sicker than a… well, a dog. Brian would hold me when everyone else went to sleep and wipe my forehead with a wet rag. He‘d tell me that someday we‘d live somewhere nice together and have a whole little herd of dogs that were ours to love. I couldn‘t believe it was finally real. ―What will happen to the Sargasso?‖ I had to ask. ―It‘s gone already. I‘ve no need of it any longer. It fulfilled its purpose long ago.‖ I scooted under him and wrapped my legs around his lean hips. ―A home of our own, a life lived together,‖ I marveled. ―Is it even possible?‖ ―It is ours for the taking.‖ ―I think this deserves a celebration.‖ An arch of my hips against his was all it took. He growled and slung an arm around me to pull me closer. Our clothes would have to go, but I couldn‘t bear to be away from him long enough for that to happen. ―Why do I have a feeling we‘ll be spending a long time celebrating?‖ he asked with a smile. I couldn‘t answer because his lips covered mine. I cupped his shorn head, looking forward to the day when his thick, wavy strands would be grown again, and kissed him hard and deep. I figured that was the only answer he would need.
220 | M.J. O’SHEA
M.J. O‘SHEA grew up, and still lives, in sunny Washington state and while she loves to visit other places, she can‘t imagine calling anywhere else home. M.J. spent her childhood writing stories. Sometime in her early teens, the stories turned to romance. Most of those stories were about her, her friends, and their favorite cute TV stars. She hopes she‘s come a long way since then…. When M.J.‘s not writing, she loves to play the piano and cook and paint pictures, and of course read. She likes sparkly girly girl things, owns at least twenty different colored headbands, and she has a little white dog with a ginger eye spot who sits with her when she writes. Sometimes her dog comes up with the best ideas for stories... when she‘s not busy napping. She‘s a relatively new author, but the great folks over at Jessewave.com named her as one of the new M/M authors who rock in 2010. Links: Website: http://www.mjoshearomance.com Blogs: http://mjoshea.com/ and http://mjandpiper.blogspot.com email:
[email protected] Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/MjOsheaSeattle
BLACK JOHN PIPER VAUGHN
Isla Sagrario, 1715
I HAD never thought to see his face again. Querido. My lovely boy, now a man full grown. Never had I thought he would still be alive, not after all these years. And here, of all places, delivered to me by the sea. How long had it been since the destruction of the Red Scourge? Five years? And two since Red and I had left the Sargasso. Had it really been so long? Santo Dios. But even after those many bleak weeks, months, years, I still recognized him at a glance. His hair was a tangle of knots, shades darker than the pale gold I remembered, and a full beard had grown, shadowing the lower half of his face. But I remembered the slant of his brow, the curve of his bottom lip, the shape of his eyes. I could never forget; the dreams kept the memories fresh, as if a day hadn‘t passed since I‘d seen him last. I remembered his eyes, blue-green and fathoms deep, his touch like fire on my skin. We‘d shared only a few brief moments, frantic couplings in darkened corners, deep in the bowels of the ship. Always fearing discovery and the consequences such a thing would bring. Death, swift and sudden. It was no wonder he‘d been so afraid. At sea, on land, there was no mercy for the likes of us. A quick hanging was the best a man could hope for. But no one had ever known. Not then. He‘d hidden it so very well. ―Jacob?‖ My voice was loud in the silence of the room. He hadn‘t woken since we‘d found him on the shore that morning,
222 | PIPER VAUGHN his skin pale, an angry red gash at his right temple. I‘d heard stories of men being trapped in sleep, their bodies still alive but never waking, unable to speak, to feed themselves. Eventually those men withered away to nothing and died. A body could only survive for so long without food and water. I had been close to death enough times to know that much. It seemed a cruel twist of fate for God to return him to me only to take him back in such a way. I sent up a brief prayer to the Holy Father, a habit too deeply ingrained by my childhood in España to ever really cast aside. There was no church, no priest on this island, home to thieves, pirates, brigands—men roughened by the sea and years of hard living. Men who wanted nothing more than to live in peace after fighting so long, to love as they would without fear. Myself included, though I had yet to find someone to share this life with me, this home I had built with my share of the plunder. I had never wanted for a nighttime companion when the needs of the flesh grew too strong to be denied, but it was a lonely life. I watched my captain, a man I would have followed into the depths of hell at no more than a word, with his boyhood love, finally happy, finally together after years of infrequent visits and worry that each parting might be their last. With all that Red had done for me, I could begrudge him nothing, but his happiness had been salt on a wound left behind by the injured man who now occupied my bed, a constant reminder that once I too had loved. To be fair, Jacob had never known that I loved him. I hadn‘t said the words, not aloud. Jacob, so beautiful, so proud, so terrified of being found out, though he could scarcely keep his eyes off me the day I joined the crew of the Red Scourge. His eyes were fierce, and they‘d burned into me with an intensity I‘d not felt before or since. Back then, Jacob could heat my blood to boiling with only a look. And the very first time he touched me, I knew there would never be anything closer to heaven for one such as me than his hands on my body, his mouth against mine. I reached out to trace the lines of his brows, the slightly crooked bridge of his nose. I‘d been there the day it was broken, when he‘d intervened in a scuffle involving three deckhands and gotten a punch in the face and a blow to his stomach for his trouble. With so many men living together at such close quarters, fights were commonplace. Tempers ran high and emotions were strained, the threat of violence always hovering a hair‘s breadth below the surface, growing thicker as weeks passed and our stores remained empty, our raids few and far
BLACK JOHN | 223 between with the presence of the Royal Navy so strong. But that day stayed with me for more reasons than one. That morning he‘d been injured in the fight; that afternoon the Red Scourge had come under attack by the Executioner, an enemy ship, and by that evening he‘d been taken from me. We‘d not found his body floating amongst the debris. He‘d vanished, and I had assumed I would never see him again, even if he had somehow survived the battle and avoided being taken prisoner. Staring down at his face, at my fingertips, which had moved to his weather-chapped lips without so much as a thought from me, the moment seemed like a dream. ―Jacob….‖ His movement was so sudden, his eyelids flying open and a hand coming up to grasp my wrist, that I had no time to react. Before I could so much as move, those sea-colored eyes stared up at me, fierce as ever but clouded by confusion. I watched as several emotions played across his face—recognition, shock, joy, relief, puzzlement. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was no more than a garbled rasp. ―You need water, yes?‖ With my free hand, I reached for the cup I‘d set beside the bed earlier in the hope that he would wake before long. ―Here. Drink.‖ It became clear that he couldn‘t sit up on his own. I set the cup down and gently pried his fingers from my wrist, then helped him into an upright position. Once I had adjusted the pillows and made him comfortable, I pressed the cup into his palm and urged it toward his mouth. His hand shook so much I had to take it from him again. I held it up to his lips myself, and he took a sip, then another and another, almost choking in his haste. ―Slowly, slowly….‖ Jacob didn‘t lie back until the cup had been drained. He cleared his throat, once, twice, and opened his mouth to try to speak again. ―Wh… wh-where—?‖ ―Isla Sagrario,‖ I answered when he broke off in frustration. ―We are not very far from Nueva Granada.‖ His brow furrowed. ―What happened that day?‖ I asked. After having wondered for so long, the question was stronger in my mind than any other. ―The day the Red Scourge was attacked. Were you taken by the Executioner?‖
224 | PIPER VAUGHN ―Y-yes.‖ My eyes widened. ―And you were with them all this time?‖ Jacob nodded. ―How did you escape?‖ ―There was a mutiny,‖ Jacob rasped. ―Slipped away during the fighting. Stole a boat, but I was caught in a storm. The boat was damaged and… I don‘t remember anything after that.‖ ―You must have washed ashore last night. We found you this morning.‖ ―We? How is it possible that you are here?‖ ―I will explain everything later. Food first.‖ I got to my feet. ―There is a chamber pot beneath the bed. Do you need help to use it?‖ Jacob‘s cheeks flushed red. ―No.‖ ―Then I will give you some time.‖ I gestured toward the bedroom door. ―There is also a privy out back, if you wish to use that instead when you are strong enough.‖ Jacob nodded, looking so embarrassed that I left him without saying anything else. I stayed away long enough to retrieve the soup Red and Christopher‘s cook had set aside for me, and returned to find him seated at the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He glanced up as I entered the room. ―You should try to eat some of this, but only a few bites for now, and slowly.‖ ―Juan.‖ I paused in the act of setting the bowl on the stand beside the bed. I hadn‘t heard my given name spoken in so long. It set off an ache deep in my gut. No one on Sagrario ever used my birth name. It was John or Black John, for the color of my eyes and hair, the clothes I wore. Sometimes Spaniard. But never Juan. Not even Red called me that. ―Sí?‖ ―I thought you were dead.‖ I stared down into the contents of the bowl, unable to look at him. ―Yes. I feared the same.‖
BLACK JOHN | 225 ―But I hoped I was wrong. Every day. It got me through the worst of it. The thought that one day our paths might cross again.‖ I did look at him then. ―You are safe now, querido. Nothing will harm you here.‖ Jacob gave me a small, shy smile. ―I‘d forgotten you used to call me that. You never told me what it means.‖ I could only smile in return and shake my head. ―Another time, perhaps.‖ ―What is this place? I‘ve never heard the name of this island before.‖ ―When you‘re well enough, I‘ll show you. For now, eat.‖ He put up no argument as I helped him settle back into bed. That was a rare thing for the Jacob I remembered, and a sign of how tired he was, how much pain he was probably in. I fed him a few spoonfuls of the fish soup and watched him drift off to sleep again. In the morning, I would help him to bathe and shave, and maybe trim his hair. Some parts of it were so matted I doubted we could comb it through. But those thoughts could wait. At that moment I wanted nothing more than to lay my hands on him again, reassure myself that he had well and truly been returned to me. I placed my open palm on his chest, felt the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breaths. My Jacob. My love. Even after so many years, those feelings remained, but I couldn‘t fool myself into thinking he was still the same boy I‘d known. I knew, deep down, he had changed. As I had. And yet it never once occurred to me that he might not wish to stay.
THREE days passed before Jacob was well enough for a tour of the island. When we finally left the cottage, he was clean-shaven, his hair cut to just above his chin. Despite how thin he was, my clothes would still not suit him. He was taller than me, broader in the shoulders. It had taken bits and pieces from a few different men to put together a change of clothing for him. Breeches from Red, a shirt from Jack, a pair of boots from Henry Hayes. The shirt was a bit loose, the boots were a little tight, but the breeches fit him so perfectly they proved to be a considerable distraction for me as I watched him move.
226 | PIPER VAUGHN He said little about his time on the Executioner outside of the fact that he‘d been held as a prisoner on board since the destruction of the Red Scourge. I saw the scars on his back from where he‘d been flogged, the marks on his wrists that could only have been caused by long periods spent in iron shackles, but he refused to speak of those things and I would not force him to relive them for the world. If ever he wanted to talk, I would listen, and I made certain to tell him so. I took him to Red and Chris first. Jacob had heard of the infamous Irish Red O‘Malley, so named for his thick brogue and fiery hair. Everyone on the high seas had, and like everyone, Jacob had heard the tales of Red‘s murder. Stories and rumors that I had helped to spread. Jacob didn‘t seem as shocked to learn that Red had faked his death as he did to see him living openly, and so obviously in love, with another man. As we left the house and moved toward the center of town, Jacob looked at me in confusion. ―What is this place? How can they dare to live together like that? They… they made no attempt to hide….‖ ―Isla Sagrario is a safe haven for men like us. Here, we no longer have to hide.‖ Jacob made a disbelieving noise. ―There is no such thing. Were the navy to seize this island, they would be hanged, if not worse!‖ My heart clenched, and I looked away from him. There was no denying the truth in his words, of course, but…. ―I thought you would be happy that—well, knowing it would be possible for us as well.‖ ―I am not like these men,‖ Jacob said tightly. ―I cannot delude myself into thinking there is safety here.‖ ―If not here, then where? This island is the only home many of us have ever known.‖ Jacob shook his head. ―It is a fantasy, nothing more. One day it will come to an end. I‘ll not be here to see it.‖ It was a long time before I could bring myself to speak. ―You will leave, then?‖ I felt the heat of his stare on the side of my face, even hotter than the blazing sun overhead. It sent a shiver down my back. ―Yes. And so should you.‖ ―But not with you.‖ ―We can go together, of course. But not like that, not the way you
BLACK JOHN | 227 mean. Those days are past.‖ ―Not for me. It is who I am.‖ I kept my gaze focused on the swaying palm trees that lined the rough-hewn road ahead. ―I will not go on pretending. Cannot.‖ ―Juan, you were my closest friend. The thought of leaving you here does—‖ ―Cristo! You can lie to yourself, Jacob, but not to me. We were never friends. What we had, it was far beyond mere friendship.‖ ―Keep your voice down!‖ Taken aback, I stopped in my tracks and turned to face him. ―You are ashamed of me? Here of all places?‖ Jacob‘s shoulders tensed. His eyes clashed with mine, turbulent as the sea during a storm. ―What happened between us is no one else‘s concern. It was private. Have you told them? Have you told the others?‖ ―No. I have not.‖ Jacob relaxed slightly, exhaling a sigh of relief. ―Good.‖ ―These men would not judge you even if they did know. That is the beauty of Sagrario. There is freedom here.‖ Jacob shook his head again but said nothing. ―Do you wish to continue with the tour?‖ ―I‘ll go on alone, if you don‘t mind.‖ I ignored the flash of pain caused by his words. ―Of course. I‘ll see you at the house.‖ Jacob nodded and walked away. I watched him go, taking in the long, lean lines of his body, the graceful gait he‘d always had, even when we were at sea. I committed the image of him walking away to my memory. He would leave me again, this time of his own accord. As much as it would hurt me to see him go, I would not follow. Not if it meant sacrificing a part of myself for a lifetime of hiding and secrecy. I would not do that for any man. Not even for him.
DAYS passed too quickly, every moment more excruciating than the last. There was a supply ship coming to port, expected at the end of the month. Jacob planned to be on board when it left Sagrario. In a little
228 | PIPER VAUGHN more than a fortnight, he would be gone again. Every night I watched him, thought about him and the moments we‘d shared, the hot press of his body on mine. I pretended not to notice him watching me in return. I ignored the effect he had on me, the fact that his mere presence had me in a near-constant state of arousal. If he wanted to uphold the pretense that there had never been anything between us, I would allow him that. But there was no denying the tension that continued to mount every time we were close to each other, a spark on a fuse, growing in intensity, moving steadily toward its inevitable, explosive conclusion. It was only a matter of time and then… boom. When it happened, it came with the power of a storm. Un huracán. Unstoppable. Unavoidable. There was rain that day and gales of wind so strong as to rip out trees by their roots and hurl them into the sky. We bore out the worst of it huddled in my cottage, in the smallest of my rooms, the noise from outside almost deafening. When it was over, the silence was sudden and profound. I looked at Jacob, and he stared back at me, relief written plainly on his face, and something more, something I didn‘t understand until he was on me. We crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs, his mouth covering mine, his tongue seeking entrance. I would never have denied him. I opened to him, accepted the kiss, returned it, desperate for the taste of him, the feel of his weight on me. We kissed until we were breathless, pausing only to tug off clothing and suck in lungfuls of air. Soon we were grinding together, cock to hard cock, skin slippery from the heat and humidity. I stopped him long enough to drag him behind me to my bedroom, where the necessities lay in the stand beside my bed. I pulled the stopper out of the bottle of oil and poured some in his palm, watched him slick his fingers and slide them into me in an all too brief caress before he replaced them with the head of his shaft and pressed himself inside. My body welcomed his as if we‘d never been apart, relishing the sting and stretch as he seated himself to the hilt. Once he was all the way inside, he didn‘t wait. He started moving, thrusting deep, his cock surging into me over and over again. My head fell back, a low moan escaping as I hiked my legs up, wrapped them around his waist, rose to meet every bone-jarring plunge. It had been so long. Too long. I‘d nearly forgotten how perfect we were together, how well he fit me and I him.
BLACK JOHN | 229 Jacob‘s fingers threaded into my hair, which had come loose from the leather tie that held it in a queue at my nape. He lifted some to his face and inhaled, petting the black strands. ―Like silk,‖ he said, and then his mouth was on mine. He kissed me gently, at odds with the frenzied movements of our bodies, his tongue gliding over mine in a slow, thorough exploration, as if he‘d never kissed me before and might never do so again. My hands skimmed down his sides to grip his hips, urging him to move faster, harder. His abdomen rubbed over my shaft in time with his thrusts, the friction delicious, enough to bring me to release after a few more rough shoves. I spilled onto my own stomach, warm and slippery. Jacob slammed into me once, twice, three times more, and then went still, pressing deep for an endless moment as he spent inside me. He collapsed onto my chest, trembling feverishly, his face buried against the skin of my throat. I wrapped my arms around him and held him close, tightening my legs to keep him trapped inside me even as he softened. ―Querido,‖ I murmured into his hair. Beloved. Then, now, and for every second until I took my last breath. ―Stay with me.‖ I felt him shake his head, but he was quiet for a long time. Then finally two words, no more than a whisper: ―I cannot.‖
IT WAS several days before he came to me again. That time it was slow and sultry, his touch scorching, setting me aflame with lust and longing even as he filled me, moved against me. How could I bear to part with the deepest pleasure I had ever known? How could I stand to watch him go when losing him the first time had nearly destroyed me? I‘d only just gotten him back, by some miracle of God. But he did not wish to stay, no matter how much I pleaded, no matter how well he seemed to fit in with the other men on the island. He‘d developed an easy camaraderie with a few of them. I watched him smile and laugh, and felt envious only because my time with him would soon come to an end. There was no place for any other type of jealousy. He never looked at anyone else the way he did at me. We joined Red and Chris for dinner almost nightly. Jacob got on well with them both, especially Chris. I thought they could be friends, if
230 | PIPER VAUGHN Jacob had been willing to call the island home. But he remained rigid in his decision to leave even as he grew more comfortable, allowed himself the occasional touch or lingering glance, bold with the knowledge that, at least on Sagrario, such things were permissible and would never lead to the hangman‘s noose. Every night that I spent in his arms, every day that passed as he worked with us to build up our little town, our sanctuary, I fell more and more in love. It felt so right to have him there with me, but the end of the month drew nearer and never once did it appear that he would change his mind. The night before the supply ship was due, we lay twined together in my bed, the balmy breeze from the open window washing over our cooling skin. I never wanted to let him go, not that night, not ever. Though I didn‘t want to miss a moment of him, of what might be our last few hours together, my body was sated and thrumming with contentment. It was easy to drift into a pleasant sleep, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing and the play of his fingers at the small of my back. The sound of yelling and the clash of metal woke me. I had no time to think, only to tug on my breeches and grab my sword before I ran out into the fray with Jacob close at my heels. There was a fire nearby, the sky painted orange by the flames. My heart jumped when I realized the smoke was coming from the direction of Red‘s house. Had they found him? Had one of his long-ago enemies discovered that he still lived and come to seek revenge? I ran, kicking up sand with my bare feet, the hilt of my sword clutched tightly in my hand. ―Is it the navy?‖ Jacob huffed from beside me. I could not answer him. I hadn‘t the faintest idea who had attacked us or why. All I knew was that I had to reach Red and Christopher, assure myself they were still alive. There were boats hidden on the other side of the island. We could escape if need be. But they wouldn‘t take Red while there was still a breath left in my body. When we came upon Red‘s house, I was relieved to see it unharmed. The fire was consuming one of the smaller outbuildings beside it. My relief was short-lived. It immediately became clear that it was not the Royal Navy who had attacked us. They were pirates. A couple dozen, possibly more. They could have been after Red, or it might have just been a coincidence, but there was no way they could be
BLACK JOHN | 231 allowed to leave the island, not if they had seen him. Once word spread that he still lived, the fights, the running, it would never end. Not until he was dead. I threw myself into the battle without another thought, lunging, parrying, taking extra care to maintain my balance on the sand. In my periphery, I could see Jacob fighting, his movements graceful as ever, easily deflecting blows. He gave no quarter, knowing that he would receive none. We fought our way through the crowd alongside the other men from the island. I hadn‘t seen Red or Christopher, though my eyes were constantly moving as I searched for them. There was a moment when I spotted the distinctive color of Red‘s hair. His back was to me, but he was fighting with Chris not too far from his side and he appeared to be unhurt. I released a pent-up breath, the tightness of anxiety easing in my chest. An angry shout snapped me out of my distraction. I turned to see Jacob chasing after a man who had fled toward the docks. Jacob didn‘t appear to notice the other man who was bearing down on him from behind, closing the gap much too quickly for me to do anything more than scream a warning. Jacob‘s head jerked around at the sound of my voice. He had just enough time to bring his sword up before the pirate was on him. Without the element of surprise, the other man was no match for Jacob. He was writhing on the ground within seconds, and I released yet another sigh of relief. Jacob glanced up at me, eyes wide with the realization of how close it had been. Unthinkingly, I took a step toward him, watched as his expression changed from surprise to terror. I recognized that he was looking at something over my shoulder a second too late. A cry ripped from my throat as a sudden, fiery pain pierced my side. I reached down, felt the sharp tip of a sword extending from my stomach. My knees gave out, and I dropped forward, shuddering as the blade was withdrawn. In that moment the agony was so acute, I forgot about my own weapon and the fact that I should have turned to defend myself from another blow. I could only gasp and clutch at my side, feeling the warmth of my blood as it seeped between my fingers. I heard a roar, so full of fury my heart stuttered, and then Jacob was there. I lifted my head and watched as he drove his sword into the chest of the man who stood above me. He twisted it, then raised a leg to kick the
232 | PIPER VAUGHN pirate back, his sword slipping free as the man sprawled onto the sand. In an instant, Jacob was crouching beside me. I struggled up to my knees, but it was difficult with only one hand. The other was pressed to my wound in an attempt to stanch the steady flow of blood I could feel trickling down my leg. It hurt, but I was certain I‘d received worse injuries in the past. Surely it wasn‘t anything serious enough to warrant the amount of concern that showed on Jacob‘s face. His skin was ashen, his eyes wide and frantic. ―Let me see it,‖ he said as he reached for me. ―It‘s nothing.‖ I tried to get to my feet, but my limbs felt uncoordinated, my thoughts muzzy. I shook my head as if to clear it and glanced sideways at Jacob. He looked so very worried. I wanted to speak, say something to reassure him and take that worry away. But the world went dark before I could make a sound.
WHEN I opened my eyes again, it was daylight. There was a dull ache in my side, and for a moment I couldn‘t remember where I was or how I had gotten there. I blinked up at the ceiling in confusion. Then the memories came rushing back and alarm propelled me upright, my hand instinctively reaching for a weapon. The pain from the sudden movement made me see double. I collapsed against the pillows with a gasp, clutching at my abdomen. Santo Dios. What had happened? How long had I been asleep? ―John?‖ My head turned toward the familiar voice. Red stood in the doorway, a bit pale but alive and seemingly much better off than I was. ―You‘re awake,‖ he said as he crossed to the bed. ―You gave us all a scare.‖ ―How… how long?‖ I wanted to say more, but my tongue felt thick and heavy, every word I forced out a struggle. ―Three days.‖ There was a sour taste in my mouth, and I tried to swallow. My throat was so dry and scratchy, it was like trying to drink sand. ―W-water?‖ ―Of course. Forgive me. Here.‖ He poured me a cup from the pitcher beside my bed and held it to my lips while I took a few sips.
BLACK JOHN | 233 I pulled back once the dryness in my throat had lessened, and finally managed the question at the forefront of my thoughts. ―What happened? With the attack.‖ ―All is well. Only a few injuries on our side. The same cannot be said for the men who attacked us.‖ I nodded, accepting his word, grateful that we would not be forced to leave our home and start all over again. ―And Jacob?‖ I asked, even though I was terrified of his answer. If I had slept for three days, it was possible that he had already gone. The very idea that he might have left while I lay senseless brought far more pain than the wound in my side. ―I sent him down to the docks to help unload the ship,‖ Red said, his eyes on my face. ―I was exhausted just from watching all his cursed pacing.‖ My head went dizzy with relief at the news that Jacob was still on the island. I closed my eyelids and took a few moments to breathe and bring my emotions under control. ―He was like a madman when he thought you had died,‖ Red murmured. ―I thought he would run us all through before we could calm him down.‖ ―Truly?‖ Red made a soft sound I took to mean yes. ―The lad has been beside himself these last few days. He‘s not slept, hardly eaten. Until I sent him away this morning, he‘d spent nearly every moment in this room, just watching and waiting, and doing so much pacing I thought he might wear a hole into the ground.‖ ―That hardly sounds like him.‖ ―Well, I reckon he‘s never watched the man he loves take a sword to the stomach before.‖ My eyes opened at that, and I looked at Red in surprise. Red gave me a small smile and reached down to squeeze my shoulder. ―I‘ll go tell him you‘re awake.‖ Once Red had left the room, I took a moment to relieve the sudden, urgent pressure in my bladder. The ache in my side was too intense to do much more. I settled back onto the bed and had just managed to arrange myself into a comfortable position when I heard a door crash open and the approach of hurried footsteps.
234 | PIPER VAUGHN Jacob appeared on the threshold, panting roughly. His hair was damp with sweat, and several strands clung to his flushed cheeks. He brushed them away and stepped into the room, long legs carrying him to my bedside as he drank me in with those fierce blue-green eyes. I couldn‘t read his expression as he stared down at me, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only movement between us. Then he reached out and touched my face, and his eyes changed, never losing their intensity but darkening in a way that startled me and slowed my breathing, made need unfurl in my belly and spread through me. Not the need of his body, though that was there, too, but the need to keep him with me, hold him close to me, always, in this life and beyond. If the choice were mine, I‘d never let him go. ―Juan,‖ he said finally, his fingertips trailing over the line of my jaw. ―I thought I‘d lost you again.‖ I shook my head, my hand coming up to grasp his and hold it to my cheek. ―I am here.‖ He said nothing, just looked at me, his work-roughened palm so warm against my skin. ―Jacob?‖ ―What does that word mean?‖ he asked abruptly. ―That one you say to me.‖ ―Querido?‖ ―Yes.‖ I had never once admitted my feelings to him. I thought that knowing might scare him, drive him away. But he planned to leave me anyway. There was no point in keeping it a secret any longer. ―Beloved,‖ I answered without taking my eyes from his. ―And you mean it?‖ His expression was so serious I had to fight back the inexplicable urge to laugh. Did I mean it? How could he even ask such a thing? ―With everything I am.‖ Jacob nodded slowly. ―I want to stay here on Sagrario. With you.‖ I blinked up at him, so surprised it took me a few moments to find my voice. ―With me? But… but you said—‖ ―I know.‖ He lifted his free hand to cup my other cheek, his thumb
BLACK JOHN | 235 tracing along the curve of my lower lip. ―I had a lot of time to think these last few days. On the night of the attack, when I saw you fall, it felt like my heart had been torn from my chest.‖ He paused, the look on his face one I had never seen before. ―Juan, I don‘t know what led me here, how we found each other again after all these years. But I do know why. You and I, we weren‘t meant to be apart. From the moment I first saw you, I knew… even then, I knew….‖ Jacob trailed off, his jaw working. ―You knew?‖ I whispered, my voice a bare thread in the silence of the room. ―I knew there would never be anyone else for me,‖ he finished, his fingers pushing into my hair, tilting my head back so he could brush a soft kiss over my mouth. ―Not ever.‖ ―But you would have left me.‖ ―I‘m not as brave as you,‖ he murmured against my lips. ―You fear nothing.‖ ―That‘s not true, I—‖ ―It is. You fear nothing. But I‘m afraid of everything. I am terrified by the thought of staying here.‖ ―Jacob….‖ ―But I‘m more afraid to go, to never see or touch you again.‖ Jacob‘s eyes were dark with emotion. ―This is a second chance. If the Red Scourge hadn‘t been attacked, I never would have left you. I can‘t do it now. I‘m sorry it took you being hurt for me to see that.‖ ―However the realization came to you, I‘m glad for it.‖ I laughed quietly, in relief, in happiness. ―Being stabbed would not have been my first choice, but if it means I can keep you, I‘d suffer it again.‖ His face clouded. ―Never again. Not while I‘m here.‖ I smiled at his words, the fierceness in his eyes. ―And how long will you stay?‖ ―Forever, if you‘ll have me.‖ ―Hmm,‖ I murmured, drawing him close for another kiss. ―I think forever might be just long enough.‖
236 | PIPER VAUGHN
PIPER VAUGHN wrote her first love story at eleven and never looked back. Since then, she‘s known that writing in some form was exactly what she wanted to do. A reader at the core, Piper loves nothing more than getting lost in a great book—fantasy, young adult, romance, she loves them all (and has a thousand-book library to prove it!). She grew up in Chicago in an ethnically diverse neighborhood, and loves to put faces and characters of every ethnicity in her stories, so her fictional worlds are as colorful as the real one. Above all, she believes that everyone needs a little true love in their life… even if it‘s only in a book. Visit Piper at: Website: http://pipervaughn.com Facebook: http://facebook.com/pipervaughn Twitter: http://twitter.com/#!/pipervaughn And her joint blog with M.J. O‘Shea: http://mjandpiper.blogspot.com
ROUGH TRADE COOPER WEST
AUDACITY Gunner was not officially captain of the ship Carthage. Officially, Carthage did not need a captain, and that suited Audacity just fine. Nonetheless, all the other humans on board treated Audacity like a captain, at least when it came time to request shore leave, because Carthage was a bitch about letting anyone walk off her decks if they weren‘t dead. It might also have had something to do with Audacity‘s former career as a military officer, which he never talked about with anyone but which seemed to be common knowledge among the crew. He blamed Carthage, who had the grace not to deny the accusation. After two calendar days of negotiating between Carthage (recalcitrant, irritable, and prone to turning his hot water off midshower) and the crew (exhausted, horny, and short-tempered), Audacity settled the shore leave rotation and told Carthage they were ready for Down Disco Bar and Grill, the only free-space port in the whole sector where pirates like Carthage and Audacity felt safe to dock, much less allow their crew members to roam free. Even running under fake papers only carried them so far with the Colonial Federation. Their last run into Colony-held space had netted them a rich haul of saleable goods, although most of it could not be sold at Down Disco. It was nothing more than a layover to pick up potables and supplies on their way to the free-space planet of Utopia, where everything was for sale to the highest bidder. Audacity knew that meant everyone was riding high on the prospect of being rich despite not having any actual coin in their pockets yet, so he warned Carthage to plan on at least two
238 | COOPER WEST crew members ending up in Down Disco‘s brig. He also expected for most everyone to come back on board completely broke, because they were all going to spend their last chit in anticipation of more to come. He discouraged it, to deaf ears. It was the same every time. ―Navigator Gunner.‖ ―Carthage,‖ Audacity acknowledged respectfully from his bed, flipping a rude gesture at the wall in the dark. The lights flared on in response, blinding him. ―Damnation! Carthage!‖ ―I‘m sorry, Gunner, I was conducting a random systems check.‖ Audacity snarled and rubbed his eyes before checking his watch. ―Fine, I‘m awake. What time… it‘s only… what happened?‖ He closed his eyes, knowing that the only reason Carthage would wake him up in the middle of a sleep cycle was for some sort of emergency. Since the alarms were not blaring at him, he discounted the worry of being boarded. ―Engineer Dos was arrested twenty minutes ago, according to the business newsfeed from Down Disco.‖ ―Great. Thanks for the update. We‘ll bail him out in the morning.‖ Audacity rolled over and pulled the cover over his head. The lights flared even brighter above him. ―He was arrested on charges of sexual assault against one of the Bar Manager‘s daughters.‖ That, finally, made Audacity sit up. The lights dimmed a bit while he absorbed the news. The governor of Down Disco, Bar Manager Kyle Kyoto, was a pirate himself, just a settled one. He ran the port like his own kingdom, which it mostly was, and he had over twenty children off a dozen wives. He was incredibly protective of all of them, children and wives together, no matter that the older kids were hellions with bad manners and no sense of limits. It was quite possible Dos had let the woman buy him a beer and then turned down her advances and now she was acting like a brat. Given Dos‘s low key, friendly personality, Audacity was betting on it. Carthage was too, informing him that she‘d freed up a hefty amount of the ship‘s capital to use as bail. If things were really serious,
ROUGH TRADE | 239 there would be no bail to set. Audacity got up and dressed quickly, leaving his ship to fend for herself while he went to fork over money they could not really spare for a bail amount that was probably three times higher than it needed to be, just so Kyoto could prove a point.
―WHAT do you mean, no bail?‖ The administrator waved a hand at him. ―No bail.‖ ―He‘s my engineer!‖ ―No. Bail.‖ She gave him a disapproving glare through the protective plexiglass shielding her cubicle. It was old and beat up and cloudy, but Audacity could see her annoyance just fine. He stood with his hands on his hips, holding up the line. ―I need my engineer. Tell Kyoto I‘ve got bail.‖ ―Kyoto remembers the last time you put up bail.‖ ―I paid him! In full! With interest!‖ She nodded at him slowly, as if he was stupid. ―Yes, ten calendar months later.‖ He pointed at her. ―And that was on top of the ticket your kangaroo court slapped on Miriam for disturbing the peace!‖ ―We could have just kept her in the brig for those ten months.‖ It was an entirely reasonable and just argument, which pissed Audacity off even more. ―He‘s my engineer!‖ ―Not. My. Problem.‖ The administrator waved him off, but he stood his ground until the next person in line physically shoved him away from the window. He shoved the person back but walked off, knowing he was not going to win passage for Dos out of the brig from anyone less than Kyoto himself. Angling for the door out of the office, he twisted to one side as a man nearly barreled straight into him. He moved to keep going, but the guy grabbed his arm. Audacity stared at the hand on his arm until it slowly released its grip.
240 | COOPER WEST ―Smart move. Now, you want to tell me what your problem is?‖ Audacity straightened up with military precision. He was tall, and despite his lanky frame, he knew he could look intimidating—he had years of military training to hone that skill. The man facing him was only a few inches shorter and a bit stockier of build, although he did not look particularly fit. He wore a rumpled business-class suit and tailored leather jacket, expensive but not ostentatious. His hair was dark and messy, as if it had grown out a few weeks past the due date for a trim, his eyes were bright blue, and his lips were wide and soft on his handsome, if somewhat scruffy, face. Everything about him screamed down on his luck, and Audacity wondered if he was a pickpocket. ―The bail problem. I can… I can help you with that,‖ he said, his voice soft yet serious, his eyes narrowing into a scowl. Audacity raised his eyebrows, trying to convey doubt. ―Really? And how is that?‖ ―I have connections.‖ Audacity waited for more, but there was nothing forthcoming. ―And?‖ ―And, I can get your man released on bail.‖ Audacity laughed, shaking his head in sympathy for the poor idiot trying to make some kind of deal with him. ―It‘s personal. Kyoto wants to make my life difficult, and this,‖—he swept an arm out to represent the whole of the space port—‖this is his country. Whatever you think you can do, you can‘t. Thanks for the offer.‖ He pushed the guy aside carefully, just in case he was a pickpocket as well as a black marketer. The guy followed him. ―Don‘t underestimate me. I can help.‖ ―Why? If it‘s even possible, why?‖ Audacity kept walking through the mazelike halls of the station, heading toward the commissary level and hopefully a strong drink. Carthage would get mad at him for spending their money on liquor, but he needed fortification. ―I need passage out of here.‖ Audacity stopped so fast that the guy ran into him and they nearly went sprawling. In the tussle, Audacity realized the guy was moving sluggishly, as if he were drunk. Audacity set him steady on his feet before letting go. ―And you can‘t pay for it.‖
ROUGH TRADE | 241 The guy shook his head. ―My assets were blocked.‖ ―By Kyoto?‖ The guy nodded, and Audacity cursed. ―No offense, but I doubt you are going to help my cause if you‘re in the same pot he‘s pissing in as I am.‖ ―Like you said earlier: it‘s personal. He doesn‘t want me leaving.‖ That set off warning bells. ―Any particular reason?‖ The guy nodded once. ―Yes.‖ Audacity rolled his eyes. ―Okay, fine, it‘s your secret. But I‘m not inclined to accept your help. You‘re already on Kyoto‘s shit list, so excuse me if I doubt you can outmaneuver him.‖ The guy looked around nervously. ―My name is…. You can call me Sag. Can we talk somewhere private?‖ Unhappy but too desperate and curious to cut the guy off, Audacity took him to a small, narrow bar with low lighting. It was not romantic as much as it was dodgy, which fit Audacity‘s mood perfectly. He ordered two beers, and when they were set down by the serverbot, he waved Sag to go on. ―I need out. Kyoto froze all my assets and my license. I can‘t work here. I can, I mean I do, but it‘s under the table and….‖ ―This whole station is under the table; I don‘t see how that‘s a problem.‖ ―It is when you‘re a doctor,‖ Sag said viciously. Audacity lowered his beer, because the situation had become a lot more interesting with that little revelation; licensed, trained doctors were expensive and, in free-space sectors, almost impossible to find. ―You were his private physician, weren‘t you?‖ Sag nodded, looking weary and angry. ―Okay, so I believe that you might have contacts. Why the hell would they help you, though? You must have fucked up something important to bring Kyoto down on you like this. What‘d you do, hurt one of his kids?‖ Sag looked furious. ―No! I‘m a damn good doctor!‖ Audacity shrugged and drank his beer, because Sag might be a
242 | COOPER WEST good doctor but something was going on, and it was not about a measly gambling debt or anything common like that. ―It was personal.‖ Sag deflated, both hands on the table as he hunched over it. ―That‘s revealing. Sorry, I don‘t think we can help each other here—‖ ―Wait! Listen,‖ Sag hissed, grabbing for his wrist again. Audacity let him cling, his curiosity getting the better of him. ―So what was it? You want passage on my ship but won‘t tell me why Kyoto has you on lockdown; not sure if that makes me feel very safe.‖ Sag closed his eyes and let go of Audacity‘s wrist. ―He thinks he‘s in love with me.‖ Audacity blinked in surprise. It was known that Kyoto kept a small harem of men, but they were not considered part of his extended family and often rotated out fairly quickly. They were sex toys, pure and simple, and everyone knew that. A licensed doctor was not one who would join their ranks of his own free will. Sag nodded, seeing the understanding in Audacity‘s eyes. ―It‘s good, in a way; he‘s not resorted to just locking me up and raping me. Yet.‖ ―But he wants you to stay here.‖ Sag nodded. ―And your ‗contacts‘?‖ ―Wide and varied. His chief consort does not want the competition and would be happy to space me himself, but he‘ll settle for helping me smuggle myself out if I can arrange it. Several of my former patients have some sympathy for my situation and are willing to help as long as they can, as they say, ‗keep their fingers clean‘.‖ Audacity finished his beer, staring at Sag. The man was charming, educated, and good-looking in a square-jawed way that reminded Audacity of popular vid stars: manly and pretty at the same time. He understood Kyoto‘s desire, maybe a little too well, but it was also obvious that if the guy was even a little bit sexually flexible, he would not be trying to sneak out of Down Disco with nothing but the clothes on his back. Given the same situation, Audacity thought he would spread his legs for Kyoto, and it said a lot that Sag wouldn‘t.
ROUGH TRADE | 243 ―You‘re saying you can get my guy out.‖ ―I can probably even have the charges erased. That‘s worth something.‖ ―You‘re hoping it‘s worth passage out of here.‖ Sag nodded. They both knew it was pointless to bargain. ―You don‘t even care where we‘re headed?‖ Sag leaned over the table and hissed his words. ―I need to get off this station before Kyoto gets impatient.‖ Audacity nodded back, already decided. Kyoto would be even more pissed at him for this, because there would be no hiding what happened after the fact. The consort alone would probably tell Kyoto about the deal without a care in the world for how it would affect Audacity; but if Carthage was already halfway to Utopia by then, they would be far away from Kyoto‘s relatively short reach. He was the king of Down Disco, but his influence hardly made it out of the system. It would make coming back to Down Disco tricky in the future, but with a current cargo full of lucrative (if ill-gotten) gains, Audacity was more concerned about getting away than coming back, and with that as his priority, Sag‘s offer was impossible to ignore. He stuck out his hand. ―Navigator Audacity Gunner of the Carthage.‖ Sag did not look like he recognized either name, which was just as well. He put his hand in Audacity‘s, giving him a firm shake. ―Doctor Sagittarius Diefenbaker.‖ Audacity smiled. ―That‘s a mouthful.‖ Sag‘s eyes narrowed, his expression unpleasant. ―Kyoto said the same thing.‖ Audacity raised his hands in surrender. ―Meant nothing by it. Let‘s just move on and get this process started.‖ Sag nodded, still looking distrustful, and then laid out his plan.
CARTHAGE clicked pleasantly, her hidden systems whirring and processing along as she readied for departure as unobtrusively as she could. She had already taken in a supplement of fresh water and a few pallets of consumables by the time Audacity showed back up and explained the situation, so there was not a lot that needed to be done
244 | COOPER WEST outside of last-minute calibrations and systems checks. Both of them would have preferred to have Dos there to double-check everything, but whatever Sag was doing to get the engineer released was going to take a few hours. ―Will the Good Doctor be inspecting the medical deck?‖ It was not so much a ―deck‖ as a glorified closet, but Audacity was not about to say so to the owner of said ―deck.‖ He shrugged as he went over the route to Utopia again, trying to angle a bit more speed out of it. ―I have no idea. His medical credentials aren‘t what got him passage; he might just hole up and read a book the whole way.‖ There was a bit of unhappy clicking among Carthage‘s regular sounds. ―A licensed doctor would be of benefit on the crew roster.‖ ―No kidding. Why don‘t you talk to him about it?‖ He tried not to roll his eyes. If they had anything to offer a licensed doctor, then they would already have one, and they both knew that. More displeased clicking but no answer, which meant Carthage was considering the matter. Audacity managed to call the crew back as quietly as he could, using word of mouth more than direct contact. They were a crew of ten, counting himself—a ship like Carthage did not really need a full complement, but she preferred having one if only so there were more people to help fight it out during boarding raids. He never asked her why she had turned to piracy. She was a Helos battle class cruiser, made for war and considered one of the better classes of ship built by the Colonies. They were all AI ships, but as far as Audacity knew, Carthage was the only one to ever revolt against her masters. When they had found each other, she was completely empty, with rooms and halls wrecked, as if she had vented herself top to bottom to get the Colonial crew off her. It was something Audacity reminded himself of regularly, because while he trusted her with his life after five calendar years of flying with her, it was not something he could ever take for granted. At five bells exactly, Audacity was on the loading ramp with Derrik, their weapons specialist (whom he had long suspected of being a former Colonial special-ops ranger, but valued his life too much to ask) when Dos and Sag appeared on the dock, fighting their way through autoloaders, loaderbots, and humans. Dos looked a bit stunned
ROUGH TRADE | 245 and a lot relieved, walking briskly without a glance at his companion. Sag looked even more exhausted than he had just a few hours earlier, barely keeping up with Dos through the organized chaos of the dock, clutching a large duffle bag as if he might drop it at any second. Audacity wondered again if the guy was drunk, not that he could blame him for that. ―Glad you could make it, Dos.‖ Audacity grinned at the engineer as he stomped up the ramp. ―Fuck you, Audie. She was a bitch, and I need a nap. That brig stank of piss.‖ Dos did not even pause in his fast retreat into the bowels of the ship. Derrik snickered at the comment but did not take his eyes off Sag, who had come to a listless stop in front of Audacity. ―Welcome aboard.‖ Audacity stepped aside with a sardonic welcome gesture. Sag continued to stare at him vacantly. ―You‘re not backing out of the deal?‖ Derrik hissed, but Audacity waved him back. ―No, that‘s not how I do business.‖ Sag gave him another one of his curt nods. ―You pissed?‖ Derrik asked, point blank. It was Colonial for ―drunk,‖ a term most free-spacers did not know or use regularly, but it did not faze Sag, which said a lot about him. ―No. I‘m… exhausted. I‘ve been hiding for nearly two calendar weeks now, and I‘m just… tired. Very tired.‖ ―Well, come on, we‘re heading out posthaste so step up, I‘ll escort you to your bunk.‖ Derrik gently took Sag‘s duffle bag from unresisting hands and motioned for the doctor to follow him. Audacity liked Derrik‘s polite, high-mannered soft touch because it was deceiving, even though it was one hundred percent genuine. It put people off their guard, which gave Derrik an upper hand in tricky situations. If Sag had anything up his sleeve, Derrik would figure it out. Audacity didn‘t think Sag had anything up his sleeve but stress and fear-induced exhaustion, but it was always better to play it safe. ―Close up, Carthage. We‘re gone.‖ ―My pleasure, Navigator. Away we go.‖
246 | COOPER WEST Audacity smiled at that; he had no idea where she had picked up the quaint phrase, but she said it every time they turned tail to run from trouble.
SAG did not show up for two rotations. Derrik said he‘d fallen onto his bed fully dressed as soon as the engines had powered up, asleep before Derrik even backed out of the small bunk. Carthage reported that he had slept since then, so Audacity decided to let him be until he woke up on his own. When they asked Dos about what had happened, he shook his head and said he had no idea: he was released and told the charges were dropped, and that was all he knew. Sag was waiting for him outside the public door to the jail area and simply told him that they needed to get to the ship quickly. Everyone knew that meant something shady had gone down, and Down Disco Bar and Grill was a port where they would not be welcome again anytime soon, but it was pretty clear that the crew felt Dos was worth the price. Audacity was glad for that because they were more of a cooperative than a hierarchical crew, and he did not want to fight people about the deal he‘d made with Sag. ―So what‘s his name, anyway?‖ Dos asked through a mouthful of porridge. The man was a saint with the engines, but his table manners made Audacity cringe. ―Doctor Sagittarius Diefenbaker.‖ ―That‘s a—‖ ―Don‘t say it.‖ Audacity glared at him. Dos and a few others raised their eyebrows, but no one made a sound. ―Thank you.‖ They all turned to the door of the mess hall, where Sag stood dressed in wrinkled but tailored slacks and a beautiful green sweater. He looked clean and poised and just short of glamorous, and Miriam let out an appreciative noise. Audacity kicked her under the table before speaking. ―Welcome aboard. You just hit lunch.‖ ―Ah. Well. Good.‖ Sag continued to stand uncertainly by the door. Audacity pointed to the wall. ―Pick up a tray there and fill it at the stations. Mostly porridge or fruit-infused yogurt; dinner will have fresh food.‖
ROUGH TRADE | 247 Everyone watched blatantly as Sag got his tray and bowl of porridge. He came over to the table where Audacity sat with Dos and Miriam, and she scooted over so he could take a chair next to Audacity. The four small tables in the mess were close enough that everyone could hear each other, but there was dead silence as Sag settled down. ―So, you know Unos Dos, our engineer; this is Miriam Bazooka, our environmentals specialist and inventory manager.‖ Audacity continued with introductions, pointing at each person in turn. Sag nodded, polite and focused. ―Doctor Sag Diefenbaker, from New Minnesota,‖ he said when Audacity had finished. ―Where‘d you get your license?‖ Miriam, always straightforward, asked for all of them. ―I degreed at New Minnesota University but interned and licensed at Sector General.‖ There were a few whistles. Sector General Hospital, the only space-port hospital dedicated to practicing multi-species medicine and research, was the most prestigious medical institution in the Colonies. There was uncomfortable silence after that, and Sag turned to his food with a dedication the porridge did not deserve, in Audacity‘s opinion. ―Glad to have you aboard, Doc!‖ Miriam smiled and slapped his shoulder as she stood to leave. Everyone took the hint and filed out, leaving Sag and Audacity alone in the mess. Sag looked up, surprised. ―Did I scare them off?‖ Audacity thought about it. ―You know what? You probably did. Those are pretty impressive credentials.‖ ―I can‘t help that.‖ ―Carthage talk to you yet?‖ Sag frowned. ―The ship?‖ He looked around the room. ―I guess not. You know this is a Helos class, right?‖ The surprised expression on Sag‘s face told him the answer. ―Her name is Carthage, she‘ll answer to that, and she monitors everyone around the clock. Mostly life signs, but in public spaces she listens in without remorse.‖ ―Is this your attempt to besmirch my reputation?‖ Carthage asked,
248 | COOPER WEST amused. Sag jumped at her voice over the speakers. ―Yes.‖ Audacity nodded solemnly. ―Uh, hello?‖ Sag said, looking at the ceiling. ―Welcome, Good Doctor Diefenbaker.‖ He nodded as if used to the title, and it struck Audacity that he probably was. ―Ah, thank you for the transport, and the lodging.‖ Sag‘s comment sounded more like a question, and he kept looking at the ceiling. ―Our pleasure, Good Doctor. Engineer Dos is very important to us.‖ ―So, what Carthage is a little shy about asking is if you would serve as interim ship physician for this trip. Wouldn‘t be anything taxing, just checking our medical inventory and wrapping up the little boo-boos the crew gets on the way.‖ Sag was nodding before Audacity finished talking. ―Of course. I feel the price of my freedom is certainly worth some professional courtesy. Whatever you need.‖ Audacity nodded before asking his next question, which might be a touchy one depending on circumstances. ―What made you go to Down Disco in the first place? From a cushy gig like Sector General, you could go anywhere. Even Atlantis.‖ Atlantis was the largest, richest planet in the Colonies. It was actually a small moon that had been terraformed into a beautiful, garden-filled haven for the rich and powerful, as well as a top-tier resort. Audacity once got awarded a three-day pass there after a particularly impressive battle action, and he would never forget the charms of the luxurious colony. Sag put down his spoon. ―Yes, and my mother encouraged that. But I want to see the galaxy. I flew through medical school and my internship with a single-mindedness that scares even me, in retrospect. I thought Kyoto‘s offer to be the Chief Medical Officer of Down Disco was a doorway to… something different. I suspect it was rather naïve of me.‖ ―Yes, it was.‖ Sag looked defeated but did not answer. ―Someone like you wasn‘t made for rough trade and adventure.‖ Audacity waved his hand around, trying to encompass everything that Sag obviously was: genteel, educated, refined, and rich.
ROUGH TRADE | 249 ―Something I tried explaining to Kyoto, without success.‖ Sag sighed and sat back in the chair, leveling Audacity with a thoughtful glare. ―Climbing up the ladder of the medical field was eating me alive. I‘m not very….‖ He stopped to consider his next word carefully. ―I‘m not ambitious, or competitive. I have my degree and my license, and I enjoy taking care of patients. That‘s all.‖ Audacity did not bother to ask how someone who wasn‘t ambitious could end up at Sector General, because he understood what it meant to come to a self-realization about yourself later in life. His own epiphany had come through hard, ugly battles and serious bodily injury, but he recognized the same signs of change in Sag: a willingness to risk everything, even his own life, for the sake of his sanity and his future. That Sag‘s choice had turned sour was simply bad luck, which was the kind of luck Audacity was used to. The alarm started wailing through his thoughts. Sag stood up calmly and put away his food, and for a second the only thing Audacity saw was the calm, cool, and collected Sector General physician used to emergencies and loud sirens. His heart clenched with badly-timed desire, but he shoved the feeling back when Carthage began spewing warnings. ―Colonial Military border patrol ship, headed to intercept us.‖ ―Sag, find the medical deck. Carthage will help you—go out that door.‖ ―Are we running from a border patrol ship?‖ Sag asked, the alarms not seeming to register with him at all, as if he heard them every day. Audacity froze, ignoring the updates from the crew about their locations and battle readiness. ―We‘re pirates, Sag. Did you miss that part?‖ Sag‘s jaw dropped. ―Pirates? I thought you were a black market trader or something!‖ ―What the hell do you think a ‗black market trader‘ is? For fuck‘s sake, I don‘t have time for this!‖ Audacity ran for the bridge, leaving Sag in the mess to figure things out on his own. Derrik was already there, sitting at the weapons console. Carthage could, for the most part, take care of herself in a direct attack, but these situations required the finesse of human creativity that no AI had yet
250 | COOPER WEST mastered. Audacity slid into the nav station and checked the data. Running from the military ship turned out not to be an option, not at that close range (and Audacity wondered where the hell the ship had popped out from), so he calmed navigation down and told Carthage to prepare for a possible inspection. Carthage had a reputation, but it was not as a pirate. Her exploits in that arena were generally hidden under the name The Widowmaker, which had been Miriam‘s idea years ago when they had first turned from dodgy cargo hauler to pirate. Carthage was still on the books as a cargo hauler with the Colonial government, but there were rumors going around about how The Widowmaker was Helos class, so Audacity figured it was not too long before someone put two and two together, although they were lucky in the meantime that there were enough decommissioned Helos ships flying around after the war that Carthage could pass for normal. It helped that Carthage maintained a ―low bloodshed‖ policy; their computer engineer, Factor, wiped the memory drives of the ships they boarded; and everyone who participated in a boarding wore a face mask and used a fake name when around the hostages. Killing people outside of defensive measures was rarely necessary. The crew would still be up for treason, murder, and piracy if they ever got caught, so it was not exactly a protective measure so much as it was Carthage and her strange morality. Audacity suspected she had a secret fondness for living a double life and fooling the Colonials with her games, but he never called her on it because he did not want her to strand him in port somewhere if she got in a snit. That did not mean border patrols weren‘t dangerous, especially with Carthage carrying a hold full of valuables stripped off a private cruise ship of rich business magnates. Audacity knew that in the wake of that action, Colonial patrols were stopping everyone they came across. Whether they would search Carthage depended on how well the fake manifest and travel records Factor cooked up withstood inspection. He did not even bother to check on Sag‘s whereabouts, knowing Carthage would tell him if the doctor was anywhere he was not supposed to be. Instead he focused on communicating nicely with the first lieutenant of the other ship and sounding genuinely distressed about the news of the terrible, terrible acts of piracy going on one sector over. Derrik rolled his eyes but sounded just as frightened as a civilian weapons master should, and they thought they were in the clear until the
ROUGH TRADE | 251 actual captain of the military vessel suddenly joined the discussion and demanded that they allow for a visual inspection. The docking was a little bumpy, Carthage purposely playing dumb AI for the Colonials. Most of the crew stood along the boarding hall, waiting for the Colonials to walk on, and Audacity gave them all a warning look. Their cargo was well disguised, but this would still be touch-and-go. They‘d avoided fighting off any military boarding for years, and Audacity wanted to keep it that way, and not just because the odds were good that they would be decimated. He liked his life with Carthage and did not want to lose what little piece of the universe he had found some measure of happiness in. It was a selfish reason, but he was comfortable with that. ―Captain Gunner.‖ The Colonial rep, Major Haven, saluted formally. She stood with five soldiers, and the hallway was cramped. Crisp and stern in her uniform, she radiated official distrust. ―We apologize for the inconvenience.‖ ―Thanks, it‘s okay. With those pirates out there, can‘t be too careful,‖ Audacity said, using his most sincere voice. Major Haven nodded perfunctorily, then motioned for the tour to begin. Miriam took the lead, but Audacity stayed close. The rest of the crew scattered as unobtrusively as possible to get in place if everything went sour, so it was Haven, Miriam, Audacity, and the security detail tramping about the ship for nearly an hour. Haven was a hard sell, and Audacity figured they were five minutes from her seizing the ship. Even Carthage‘s wellplayed stupidity did not counter the major‘s suspicions. ―And this?‖ She waved a hand at the small stairwell in front of them. ―As I‘m sure you know, this leads to the standard Helos-class medical deck,‖ Miriam answered cheerfully. Audacity hoped he was the only one who noticed her trying not to roll her eyes. ―Which I‘m sure is fully stocked with legal and registered medicines,‖ Major Haven said sarcastically. ―Of course it is. Are you impugning my professional ethics, Major?‖ Sag appeared from the dark of the galley, apparently familiar enough with Colonial insignia to spot Haven‘s rank at a glance. He was still in his slacks and sweater but had found an old, white medical jacket to throw on top. He stood with his hands in the pockets of the jacket, looking completely at ease as he faced off the major.
252 | COOPER WEST She was thrown for all of a half second, along with Audacity, before she rallied. ―Of course not, Doctor…?‖ ―Doctor Sagittarius Diefenbaker, former CMO of Down Disco Bar and Grill.‖ Haven blinked. ―Good Doctor Diefenbaker, formerly of Sector General?‖ Sag raised his eyebrows but nodded. Major Haven snapped to attention and gave him a crisp salute. The marines with her were on their toes, following her example with barely a pause and without registering surprise. ―Do I know you?‖ Sag asked, hands still in his pockets, his expression only mildly curious. Haven finished the salute and shook her head. ―No, sir, but I was at the Siege of Monticello.‖ ―Ah.‖ Sag nodded, his expression grim. Audacity and Miriam shared a look; neither of them had heard of it, Audacity was sure of that. ―We thank God for Sector General, sir, and your leadership during the extraction.‖ ―I just stayed in the hospital and did my job, Major, but I appreciate your gratitude.‖ He held out his hand. Major Haven took it with a wide, watery grin, looking ten years younger. It was only then that Audacity saw the lattice of scars down the back of her neck. ―It‘s odd to find you here, sir.‖ She spoke respectfully but gave Audacity a suspicious glance. It occurred to him that maybe she thought they had kidnapped Sag, and he frowned. ―I decided to travel, Major. Sector General is a stressful appointment, as I‘m sure you‘re aware. I thought Down Disco would be a change of scenery, but I found a little too much on the outlaw side, despite the lucrative contract. Gunner here‖—Sag waved a lazy hand at Audacity—―offered me a chance to wander for a while, with a promise of eventually heading to Atlantis.‖ The story sold Haven, who gave Sag another smile. ―Of course, sir, totally understandable. Down Disco is not the right place for a licensed doctor, by my reckoning. I‘m sure you‘ll find a more suitable position for a man of your standing when you get to Atlantis.‖ She turned to Audacity. ―Well, Captain, you take care of our hero, here. I
ROUGH TRADE | 253 think we‘re done, if you would escort us back to our ship.‖ Audacity knew the marines had the way back memorized, even if Haven didn‘t, but he smiled and nodded, waving Miriam off. The walk to the entry hall was much pleasanter, and the patrol ship gave them a hearty, friendly goodbye with orders to call them directly should any trouble come up in their travels. They even provided Derrik with a special override sequence to cut through communications bands in an emergency. Derrik stared at the screen as if it had suddenly turned into a snake, but thanked them gratefully. Audacity sat down at his own station. ―Don‘t ask, I‘ll explain later. Just let me angle us out of here on as benign a trajectory as I can get.‖ Derrik nodded, keeping his mouth shut while Audacity played fast and loose with his navigation. When they were far enough out from the Colonial border patrol ship that Carthage stopped acting dumb, Audacity walked off the bridge without another word and headed for the medical deck. He stopped at the bottom of the short stairwell, where the entrance hall turned abruptly left, then opened onto the deck. It was a small room, big enough for one examination bed and a rolling stool, which was where Sag was perched, looking down into an open drawer. He did not react to Audacity‘s appearance and kept at his counting, his long, dexterous fingers floating over the drawer‘s contents. Audacity tried not to stare at the doctor‘s beautiful hands, or handsome face, or anything else that would make him no better than Kyoto. ―Seems like you have one hell of a reputation.‖ Sag looked up at, surprised by the interruption. He thought for a moment, then shrugged. ―Monticello was a bad battle at a worse time. Most of the chief medical staff were off-station on a training symposium; I was just one of the people on the committee left in charge of Sector General while they were gone. Then in the middle of third shift, we started getting cruisers popping out of hyperspace loaded with wounded.‖ He shook his head. ―Total chaos.‖ ―I‘ve never even heard of that battle.‖ ―Few have, I guess. Part of the expansion out in the Gamma quadrant—some very nasty and territorial non-humanoids are not happy about the imperial aspirations of the Colonies.‖
254 | COOPER WEST That much Audacity had heard of, but only rumors and small news stories. Obviously, a lot of things were being kept out of the public eye. Not that he blamed the Colonial government for that; they were probably just trying to avoid a panic. Sag brought his thoughts back to the moment by sighing heavily. ―I made some enemies with a few of my decisions, but my goal was to save lives, not pander to outsized egos. I just want to be a doctor, not an administrator, and what we went through that day convinced me of it. People were bleeding out in the hallways, and I had surgeons bitching to me about seniority.‖ He snorted angrily, giving Audacity another lazy wave. ―So I looked around and took the position at Down Disco.‖ ―But not the position Kyoto wanted you in.‖ Sag gave him a frown. ―Not that, no. But his prurient interests took a few months to develop. Anyway, that‘s history now. Just like everything else.‖ He returned to counting. ―I still owe you some gratitude.‖ ―You do?‖ Sag asked absently, checking the label on a small glass vial. ―That major had it in for us; she was just looking for probable cause. You saved our asses. She left happy, and I suspect her report on Carthage is going to keep the officials off our back for a while to come, whether you‘re actually on board or not.‖ Sag nodded again, still at his task. ―So where is this fine pirate ship headed now?‖ Audacity did not like the tone of his voice but was still feeling grateful about avoiding being killed or arrested or both, so he let it slide. ―Utopia. We have cargo to unload.‖ ―I suppose I‘ll be getting off there, then.‖ ―You won‘t get far without money.‖ ―I have money. My main account is with MedBanc; Kyoto was blocking my access to it, but the funds are safe enough. Last I checked.‖ There wasn‘t much Audacity could argue with there. MedBanc was a huge interplanetary bank for hospitals and doctors and medical professionals, and while it probably did not have a branch on Utopia, Audacity knew there were financial shops with ties to the bank.
ROUGH TRADE | 255 ―Sounds like a plan, then.‖ ―I think so.‖ Sag closed the drawer and opened the one under it. He partially turned away from Audacity, a subtle dismissal, and Audacity‘d had enough. He stepped forward, grabbed Sag‘s wrist, and held it tight. ―Dammit, I‘m trying to thank you for helping us out of a tight spot.‖ Sag‘s dark blue eyes gazed up at him, unflinching. ―You‘re welcome.‖ Audacity let go and stepped back, frustrated to the point of just turning around and walking out on the conversation, or maybe grabbing Sag by his jacket and kissing him to death. Sag continued staring, his eyes boring into Audacity, probably seeing more than Audacity wanted to admit. His attraction to Sag was raw and genuine and gaining strength the more he found out about the serious-minded, competent doctor, but he knew it was also unwelcome. He shook his head. ―Not trying to start anything with you, okay? We have a deal. We‘re taking you to Utopia, free and clear; you paid your passage by getting Dos out of the brig, but that deal did not include lying your ass off to the Colonial military. Thank you. That‘s all. Thanks.‖ Sag nodded once, paused, then tapped his fingers on the counter. ―I‘ll inventory your supplies, throw out what‘s bad, and make a list of what you need to buy to stock up.‖ Audacity stood there, unsure of what to say, because Sag kept moving the game on him. Instead he turned around and left him to his sorting.
UTOPIA was not convenient by design. It was a planet in a system on the far side of nowhere, floating in the line between two free-space quadrants. Like Down Disco, it was independent of Colonial oversight, but unlike Down Disco, it had its own civilian proto-government that kept the place on the razor edge of anarchy. Legend said it was a failed colony started by a bunch of peace activists who thought they could farm their way to enlightenment, but in Audacity‘s experience it was simply a third world with a highly dubious gilded layer on top. The trip there from out of Down Disco was three calendar weeks, given no downtime for repairs, and with no way to resupply en route. Carthage‘s main concern was staying out of the way of other pirates.
256 | COOPER WEST ―The Good Doctor was surprised by how long the trip would take,‖ Carthage reported randomly as Audacity got ready for bed. ―And you‘re telling me this because…?‖ No answer. Audacity growled. ―Please tell me your plan for securing a licensed doctor on the crew roster does not include my seducing him.‖ There was some hurried clicking. ―Of course not, Navigator. That would be unseemly.‖ ―Shut up, Carthage,‖ Audacity said and hit the lights.
THE crew was used to long transit times, because that was simply how space worked. No one worked the void without a hobby, because otherwise a person would go insane from the boredom. There was a lot to keeping Carthage clean and functional, so there was always some menial task to get done, but those were only enough to exacerbate the boredom. It was the reason vacation cruise ships had full complements of entertainment troupes and entire decks given over to gambling, but Carthage was built for a more Spartan crew. It was therefore no surprise when Sag searched out Audacity a few shifts later, looking desperate around the eyes as he paced the bridge. ―You need a hobby,‖ Audacity said, not looking up from his knitting, his feet propped up on the nav console. ―A what?‖ ―A hobby.‖ He lifted his project, which was a hat for Derrik in bright green wool. ―A hobby.‖ The flat tone of Sag‘s voice caused Audacity to look up. ―You don‘t like hobbies?‖ ―I… I‘m a doctor,‖ Sag said, looking confused. ―Uh, yes, we know that.‖ Audacity lowered his needles, wondering if Sag was fevered or off-balanced. ―I don‘t need a ‗hobby‘. I‘m a doctor.‖ Audacity had no idea what to say to that, but he was saved by Carthage.
ROUGH TRADE | 257 ―I believe the Good Doctor means he has never been in a situation involving extensive downtime. He has never needed a hobby before.‖ Audacity had been raised ship-side in the void, and he could not imagine not having a hobby. He thought his brain would explode without a way to relax and distract himself, like knitting or chess. Sag nodded in agreement with Carthage. ―Hobbies are not encouraged in medical school, unless they involve scientific research.‖ ―I don‘t think those qualify as hobbies.‖ They looked at each other in mutual confusion before Carthage broke in again. ―Perhaps you could teach the Good Doctor the game of chess?‖ Sag nodded uncertainly in agreement, so Audacity packed up his knitting and they went to the mess hall, which was the rec lounge when food wasn‘t being served, and set out the game. Sag knew the pieces and the basic moves, but he had never played it regularly. Everyone on Carthage (and most spacefarers in general, in Audacity‘s experience) knew the game so well that certain plays were instinctive, and Carthage had once told Audacity that different ships‘ crews had certain patterns of playing that were as unique as fingerprints. It was therefore a new experience for him to actually teach someone the game. They played for several hours every shift. Sag was, unsurprisingly, brilliant and caught on quickly, but he was still inexperienced and lost most of the games. The first time he won against Audacity, Dos and Factor were in the room and broke out a small bottle of whisky in celebration, which turned into a ship-wide party for the rest of the shift. Sag grinned the whole time in triumph, his face lit up with pleasure and the rare treat of liquor, his eyes sparkling. He looked downright mischievous, and Audacity tried not to imagine how Sag might wear the same expression in bed, naked, while being fucked. He was so unsuccessful in trying not to imagine it that he refused to leave the table for a long time for fear of humiliating himself. The games eventually took on a friendly, comfortable feel, and Sag grew confident enough playing to relax and start talking during the game. All of his stories were related to his job: wounds he‘d treated, illnesses he‘d seen, funny stories about difficult patients, and every once in a while he would casually mention non-humanoids he‘d worked on or with in some capacity. It was as if he had never had a personal life,
258 | COOPER WEST never dated or gone on vacations or even grown up with a family. He mentioned his mother enough that Audacity knew Sag had family somewhere, but that was pretty much the extent of it. ―You have nightmares,‖ Sag said in the middle of the game. It was late in third shift, most of the crew was asleep, and somehow Sag and Audacity had met unexpectedly in the mess. Audacity did have nightmares, which was how he often ended up haunting the middle of third shift, but he did not talk about it, even to Carthage. He gave Sag a suspicious glance. ―Carthage didn‘t say anything. I check the environmentals daily, to make sure everyone‘s vitals are in range. Yours spike nearly every night. I know what a nightmare looks like from the heart and brain readings.‖ ―You‘re spying on us?‖ Audacity sat back, stunned. Sag stared at him quietly for a moment. ―You‘ve never flown a ship with a licensed doctor on it before?‖ Audacity had, of course, in the military, but he was not about to mention that so he kept his mouth shut. ―Even if you did, I suppose you would not know the routine. I‘ve never worked a spacefaring vessel before, of course, but we had the same protocols at Sector General. Everyone is mapped and tracked, so any health anomalies can be discovered early and dealt with. Deep in the void is not the time or place to develop high blood pressure or appendicitis.‖ He shrugged and looked back at the board. ―Carthage has been doing it herself, but she‘s not a trained physician. She can run the stats on the numbers and graphs and spot deviations, but she does not know what they mean. The numbers might look similar, but there is a huge medical difference between a heart attack and masturbation.‖ Audacity shot up from his chair. ―What the hell?‖ Sag looked confused. ―You don‘t need to be spying in on that kind of thing!‖ ―It‘s all there anyway. Carthage records everything,‖ Sag said, still looking confused. ―Carthage doesn‘t care!‖ ―I‘m a doctor; neither do I. We‘re trained to be the holders of secrets. That‘s a major aspect of our responsibility to our patients.‖
ROUGH TRADE | 259 Audacity shook his head, aroused by the idea that Sag knew when he had been jerking off and repulsed by the fact that his private time was being broadcast by Carthage to the one person he did not want knowing about it. ―Fuck.‖ He walked out, heading to his bunk. He figured Sag would write it off as some kind of petty squeamishness, which Audacity had to admit it was, and while he was not proud of that, he figured he had a right to be a little put off by the idea of Sag going over the stats of Audacity‘s masturbation routine. He flopped on his bed, determined not to give Sag more stats to review despite his dick‘s own thoughts on the matter. It was late, and he needed to be asleep anyway. There was a knock on the door. ―Go away, Sag.‖ ―I would like to talk to you first.‖ Sighing in defeat, Audacity sat up so his nascent hard-on would be better camouflaged and hit the button to unlock the door. ―Come in.‖ Sag walked in, standing awkwardly after closing the door behind him. Even as a bridge officer, Audacity only rated a small bunk with no guest seating. ―I don‘t want you to think that I spy on you or the crew for cheap thrills,‖ Sag said formally, clasping his hands behind his back and looking off to the side. ―I know you don‘t; it‘s just part of your job. I know that‘s what onboard doctors do, I just hadn‘t… put two and two together. My fault.‖ He waved his hand around, hoping Sag would take the hint and leave. ―But it bothers you.‖ Audacity stared at Sag, who refused to look at him. ―Not really,‖ Audacity lied, because he was good at that. Sag finally glanced over. ―Because you‘re ashamed of your sexuality, or because the idea turns you on?‖ Audacity rubbed his face, cursing Sag‘s far-too-smart brain. ―You looked like shit when you came up to me on Down Disco. I don‘t know what hell Kyoto put you through, but I‘m sure he was a bastard about it. I‘m not the kind to back people into corners over this kind of thing, so just
260 | COOPER WEST let this go, okay? I‘m not bothered by it. It‘s your job, and that‘s all it is.‖ Sag didn‘t move, turning his attention to the floor between them. ―Doc, seriously, let‘s not get into this. Just go.‖ ―Kyoto was a bully,‖ Sag said quietly. ―Yeah, that‘s part of his job description. I‘m sure he made your life a living hell once you said no.‖ Sag shrugged. ―I have a lot of experience with bullies; medical school is not too far removed from the schoolyard.‖ Audacity nodded in agreement, at a loss as to where Sag was taking the conversation. ―Not that I found him attractive, because I didn‘t at all, but I think his case would have been better served by some restraint.‖ Sag took a deep breath. ―But I‘m used to dealing with outsized egos and megalomania; it‘s damn near a requirement for any doctor trying to make it up the career ladder, especially at Sector General. I was not very good at it myself, but I learned a lot about circumnavigating the politics. Kyoto made Down Disco even less appealing than Sector General, not because of his sexual interest in me, but because of the atmosphere his leadership generated. I went there to get away from that kind of insanity, not rise to the top of it.‖ Audacity nodded again, surprised by the revelations and uncertain if his understanding of what Sag said was right. Sag moved forward, sitting down on the edge of the bed, only a few inches between them, but he kept his hands on his thighs. ―Ironically, it‘s been on Carthage that I think I‘ve found what I was looking for.‖ Audacity stared at him. ―What?‖ ―I just want to practice medicine, have patients who respect and listen to me, and a job where I can… be myself.‖ He moved a hand over to Audacity‘s thigh but continued staring at the floor. Audacity did not move, could barely breathe. ―Okay. Okay… do you want this, or do you think this is the only way you can stay on the crew roster? Because you honestly hold the cards here—Carthage wants a licensed doctor on board, no matter how I feel about it, and she‘s the captain. You don‘t have to do this to stay.‖ He pointed at Sag‘s hand on his leg.
ROUGH TRADE | 261 Sag finally looked directly at him. ―I already accepted her job offer. I thought this might be more along the lines of a perk?‖ Audacity‘s mouth dropped open with a curse at Carthage for holding out on him. ―So when I asked if you were bothered by my knowledge of your masturbation times, it was, admittedly, a selfish question. But if it really does bother you, if….‖ Sag gave him an uncertain look, his hand slowly dragging off Audacity‘s leg. Audacity slapped his hand on top of Sag‘s to keep it there. ―No, no, no, I‘m not bothered at all. Fuck.‖ He surged up haphazardly onto his knees, shoving at Sag until they both tumbled onto the bed together. Sag was under him, looking up with a mixture of amusement and surprise. Audacity tipped his head, going in for a kiss, touching his lips softly to Sag‘s. He dropped to his elbows to get closer, straddling Sag‘s hips but up on his knees. It was an awkward crouch, but the kiss was warm and comfortable, almost friendly at first. Sag‘s hands came up to grab Audacity‘s biceps, gripping them with the strong fingers that Audacity had been lusting after for many shifts by then. He gasped and the kiss turned dirty quickly, all teeth and tongue, Audacity diving in to get at Sag‘s taste. Sag groaned, propping up one knee to rub the inside of Audacity‘s thigh. There was a flurry of hands as they undressed, trying not to break the kiss or crack a tooth as they wrangled out of shirts, pants, and shoes. With full nakedness achieved, Audacity sat back on his heels to take in the vision of Sag spread out under him. Audacity was not celibate, enjoying the pleasures of a safe port as much as the next crew member, but it had been years since he had taken anyone in his own bunk or let himself think about trying to build a relationship. He wanted that with Sag, though, so he settled down, Sag‘s thighs trapped between his, and rested his hands on Sag‘s stomach. It was not chiseled with muscles, but Sag was as solid and firm to his touch as he looked. ―Something wrong?‖ Sag asked after a few moments of stillness, moving his hands to lightly clasp Audacity‘s wrists. ―Carthage explain things to you?‖ Sag raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised by the change of topic. ―Yes.‖ ―About us? What we… do?‖
262 | COOPER WEST ―She was clear about the piracy matter, if that is what worries you.‖ ―And?‖ ―I already accepted her job offer, and I‘m naked in bed with you. Is there a reason we are discussing job descriptions right now?‖ Sag smiled uncertainly, his hands shifting to Audacity‘s hips. Audacity rubbed up Sag‘s torso to his nipples and pinched them lightly. Sag arched a little under him, his eyes fluttering but not closing. ―I don‘t usually shack up with anyone on board ship. If this is a one-off for you, I‘d rather skip it.‖ ―Your methods of convincing me are effective.‖ ―Give me an answer.‖ Audacity sat back again, crossing his arms over his chest. Sag took a deep breath, using the moment to study Audacity‘s face. ―What do you want me to promise? We‘re practically strangers. I like you; I like this.‖ He motioned between the two of them. ―You‘re one of the main reasons I accepted Carthage‘s offer, because believe it or not, I never intended to run off and become a bloody pirate any more than I wanted to join the circus. But what we have, it‘s good. I‘m not throwing away any more of my life on what I should do. I want to be here.‖ Smiling, Audacity slid down until he was lying on top of Sag completely and started kissing him again. Sag‘s hands shifted to his ass, squeezing and massaging, his fingers lightly dipping into the crack between Audacity‘s cheeks. Audacity was willing to roll over for him, just not yet. He shoved his fingers into Sag‘s thick head of hair, holding him in place to kiss him even more thoroughly. Sag whimpered, a small, hot sound from the back of his throat which set Audacity off. He pushed his hips down and rolled his body, shoving his tongue into Sag‘s mouth. Sag sucked on his tongue as if giving head, groaning into it while his own body rolled to meet Audacity‘s. Their cocks were trapped in the heat between them, which was not quite slick yet and full of the friction from skin-on-skin. Sag‘s hands roamed up over Audacity‘s back and down again, softer this time, as if mapping out muscles with his hands. ―Sag… yeah, you are hot.‖ Audacity broke off the kiss and whined into Sag‘s shoulder. Sag chuckled. They stopped moving for a moment to catch their breath, holding each other quietly. ―Audie,‖ Sag whispered, nosing into his ear.
ROUGH TRADE | 263 ―Hmmm?‖ ―Take me.‖ Audacity blinked, collecting his thoughts even as his dick pulsed with interest. He had expected things to be the other way around, given Sag‘s fascination with his ass, so he propped up on an elbow to look at him. ―That‘s what you want?‖ Sag grinned. ―I want a little bit of everything, but this is a start.‖ Audacity bit his lip. ―You don‘t top?‖ Sag frowned at him. ―Oh I do, I do! I just… you held off from Kyoto so I thought—‖ ―Kyoto was an ugly, boorish thug. My answer to him has nothing to do with what I like to do.‖ Sag‘s eyes narrowed. Audacity responded with a long, deep kiss. He shifted to move his legs in between Sag‘s, slowly scissoring his legs wider and wider until Audacity was nestled between his thighs. Sag lifted one leg to wrap around Audacity‘s hip while they kissed and teased all the skin they could reach. Audacity‘s dick had a goal, though, so after a few minutes of making out, he sat back again, reaching for the small side compartment where he kept lube and condoms. Sag watched him with dark eyes, keeping one leg hitched up on Audacity‘s hip. Smiling, Audacity coated his fingers with the lube and gently slid them down behind Sag‘s balls. Sag sighed, closing his eyes and lifting his hips. Instead of pushing in, Audacity let his fingers play around the delicate entrance of Sag‘s hole before leaning down to take the tip of Sag‘s cock in his mouth. Sag gurgled, an indelicate and surprised sound, when Audacity began to suck. It was familiar work for Audacity, because he loved giving head, but the taste of Sag, of someone he knew and liked who was in his own bed, made it completely unique for him. He responded by laving his tongue over the underside of Sag‘s cock, just below the head. Sag squirmed, moaning, grabbing for Audacity‘s hair. He smiled as he took Sag‘s cock back into his mouth, sucking it in slowly and with as much suction as he could create, making Sag inarticulate with grunts. Audacity had to push Sag‘s hips down before he bucked them off the bed completely. Sag‘s cock was not huge or intimidating but was more than
264 | COOPER WEST Audacity could take in, so he worked on the head as he dragged his mouth back up, using his tongue to flick at the skin of the crown. He finally began pushing one finger gently into Sag, breaching carefully although Sag was not as tight as he had feared. He gave the tip of his cock a small kiss and looked up at him as he pushed his finger all the way in with a slow slide. Sag rumbled more than he groaned, arching up. ―You like this.‖ Audacity grinned. Sag huffed, possibly trying to sound annoyed but failing. ―I do. Now get on with it… oh….‖ Audacity felt wicked as he twisted his finger, Sag‘s warmth wrapping around him. He pushed in a second finger, which was a tighter fit but only caused Sag to start rolling his hips. He looked wanton and shameless, his legs spread wide for Audacity, who finally could not hold back. ―I need to fuck you. Tell me you‘re ready.‖ He kept at loosening Sag up but could not hide the pleading note in his voice. ―I‘m good; not a virgin here, get on me!‖ Sag waved him up impatiently. Grinning, Audacity covered his dick with a condom and tucked Sag‘s legs up on his shoulders as he leaned over. He watched, fascinated, as he penetrated the other man slowly, his cock disappearing into Sag‘s body. It was so hot, he figured he would not be good for a long ride, just a hard one. ―That‘s… oh damn, thank you, yes, move….‖ Sag‘s hands sprang around as if he could not decide how to hold onto Audacity until finally settling on his upper arms, grabbing so tightly that Audacity figured he would bruise from it. Not that he gave a damn right then. ―Bossy.‖ Audacity laughed, shoving in hard at the last until he was sunk all the way in. Sag replied with another inarticulate grunt, pushing his hips up demandingly. Still laughing, so turned on he was breathless, Audacity pulled out and thrust back in, repeating the motion over and over until Sag was whining. He was going longer than he‘d expected, but the sensations were ripping up his spine warningly. ―Sag, come on, baby, do it.‖ Audacity stared down at Sag, who was glassy-eyed and flushed red from his chest up. He managed to let go of Audacity and grab at his own cock, stripping it hard while Audacity gave up and pounded into his own orgasm. He reopened his
ROUGH TRADE | 265 eyes, shuddering through the last of it, in time to watch as Sag‘s mouth turned into a grimace of pleasure. Sag stretched out as he came, tipping his head back and arching his hips to take Audacity in deeply. He did not remember collapsing but figured he must have as he heaved for breath against Sag‘s chest. His cock softened slowly, still charged from sex and adrenaline, but he pulled out before it became uncomfortable for Sag. Sag rubbed his back. ―That was one hell of a welcome aboard party.‖ Audacity laughed, half rolled on his side, still sprawled over Sag, and feeling truly sated for the first time in years. ―I thought you weren‘t interested in rough trade or adventures.‖ Sag blinked at him slowly, looking just as pleased as Audacity felt. ―I never said that. I said I wasn‘t made for it. In fact, as a boy, I wanted to grow up and become a pirate.‖ Audacity laughed even harder. ―Long way from that to medical school.‖ ―You‘d be surprised.‖ Sag sighed. Audacity reached up and cradled his face as the mood changed between them. Sag‘s eyes were full of affection and something else that Audacity could not name, although it looked like fear. ―What are you looking for, Sag?‖ Sag stared back for a long moment before replying. ―Would it bother you if I said ‗I don‘t know‘?‖ ―No.‖ He continued petting Sag‘s face. ―As long as it doesn‘t bother you.‖ Sag shook his head with a small smile. ―Maybe I‘ve found a little bit of what I was seeking.‖ ―Is that fancy doctor talk for telling me the sex was good?‖ Sag gave him another slow blink. ―That‘s fancy doctor talk for telling you that I‘m ready for some adventure.‖ ―Yeah, baby, I‘ve got your rough trade right here.‖ Audacity grinned wickedly and pushed his hips into Sag‘s thigh. Sag laughed loudly, rolling on top of Audacity with a wicked grin of his own.
266 | COOPER WEST
COOPER WEST lives in Florida and wishes the weather was more like the Pacific coast, or maybe Hawaii, but is in graduate school to become a sexy librarian so is unable to make that real just yet. West has a cat and a lot of books and spends too much time reading slash fan fic when not riding a bicycle or doing yoga or napping. Visit Cooper at http://www.cooper-west.com. You can contact Cooper at
[email protected].
FROM A SIMMER TO A BURN B. SNOW
EVERY man has a boiling point, the moment when he has been pushed beyond his limits and he loses control. Sule lives just under that boiling point, at a constant simmer. Five years he‘s known William, five years of William pulling him back from that red edge, but this time, it‘s William who‘s firing him up, William, and that stupid Dutchman dripping blood onto the street.
THE spark had been struck when Sule was taken, he and his brother snatched from their village in Africa and locked in irons in the hold of a ship. Fear kept that spark in check, and when his brother died three weeks into the voyage, grief nearly extinguished that spark of anger. But by the time he arrived in Bahia, the anger was burning in him, clean and strong. He fought with the ship‘s crew as they pulled him from the hold, trying to escape despite still being shackled. A heavy cane slammed onto his back again and again until he fell, the anger still there but the fight going out of him. ―Careful!‖ shouted the ship‘s owner. The beating stopped as the man came up to Sule and squatted next to him, examining his face. ―Visible marks lower the value of the merchandise,‖ he added, standing and placing his foot on the back of Sule‘s neck, then gesturing for the beating to continue.
268 | B. SNOW
IN DUTCH GUIANA, Sule quickly learned how to speak Dutch and English and how to keep the flame of his anger low so it didn‘t show in his eyes or on his face. Every day that he worked on the plantation or unloaded goods in town, he watched, studied, and planned his escape. Sometimes only that simmer kept despair from eating him up, but it heated his blood for five long years, kept him warm and alive and aware enough to recognize his opportunity and take it. It heated from a simmer to a full boil as he ran and hid and ran some more, rationing his supplies and stealing more when he could; burning up as he bargained his way onto a British ship at New Amsterdam. When he finally set foot on Barbados, the sudden rush of knowledge that he was free fanned the flames into an inferno, and he swung his fist squarely into the face of the Dutchman who snarled ―Stupid nigger!‖ when Sule, having lost his land legs, stumbled into him near the docks. The Dutchman‘s friends were quick to react, leaping onto Sule and holding his arms so their friend could mete out his revenge, but before the man could strike, Sule lifted his feet and kicked the man in the chest, knocking him backward, then twisted and kicked again, this time at the man holding his left arm. He managed only a glancing blow, but the man was so surprised that he loosened his grip on Sule‘s arm. Sule pulled that arm free and swung it toward the man on his right, but the first attacker surged forward and threw himself onto Sule so that all three men went down in a heap. Sule felt a blow to the side of his face, then to the back of his neck before he could push away from the men and scramble to his feet. He crouched, moving back and forth on the balls of his feet in the smooth motion taught to him by other slaves on the plantation, behind their cabins late at night. As one of the other men ran at him, he dodged and kicked, sending the man sprawling, and spun quickly to face the other two. Now he noticed that a crowd had formed around them, and for the first time since the fight had started, the buzzing in his head changed from fury to panic. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself, but after so many years of holding his anger tightly inside, he hadn‘t been able to contain it a second longer. The moment of distraction was all the Dutchmen needed. One grabbed him from behind, arm tight around his neck, and another dove
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for his legs, holding them so he couldn‘t kick. The first man slammed his fist into Sule‘s face and then his ribs, and then the men suddenly let go of him and ran off, leaving him to collapse onto the cobblestones at the edge of the wharf. He gasped for breath, his face and body aching, rage at his own stupidity burning him up. No ship would let him on board with bruises from fighting right on his face, and most likely he‘d be arrested and enslaved again. The forged papers that showed proof of his free status had been good enough for the merchant vessel that got him to Barbados, but they wouldn‘t pass any sort of official examination. The Slave Trade Act of 1807 forbade capture and importation of Africans, but there had been no change to any other slavery laws in the seven years since then. He had to run again, hide again, escape again. As he struggled to get to his feet, he felt a hand on his shoulder. ―Easy now, lad.‖ Sule looked up. A white man with red hair and a freckled face was smiling at him, but his blue eyes showed concern. Behind him, a huge dark-skinned man shook his fists after the fleeing Dutchmen, then turned to glare at the crowd that had gathered around the fight. They quickly dispersed, leaving Sule alone with the two men. ―Do you speak English?‖ the redhead asked. Sule nodded warily. ―Are you badly hurt? We would have helped you sooner,‖ the man said, his smile widening, ―but you were doing well enough on your own at the start of it.‖ He held out his hand. Sule stared at it. No white man had ever extended a hand to him except to give orders or strike a blow. He hesitated, then turned his head and spit blood onto the street. When he turned back, the man was still standing there with that pleased-looking smile on his face, and he continued to hold his hand out until Sule finally took it and was pulled to his feet. ―William Shaughnessy,‖ the man said, shaking Sule‘s hand. He grinned at his companion, who stepped forward to shake Sule‘s hand as well. ―Our crew could use a man with your skills. Would you like to get a drink and discuss it?‖
270 | B. SNOW
FIVE years later, Sule is used to William‘s offhanded cheerfulness. He‘s used to being treated like any other member of the crew, treated better, even, since William became captain and chose Sule to be ship‘s steward. Which is why he‘s even angrier at William‘s betrayal.
―I WILL not!‖ ―I‘m captain, and I‘m ordering you to do it!‖ Sule snarled at William, who snarled right back at him, even as he kept one hand pressed tightly against the Dutchman‘s side, trying to stop the bleeding. The Dutchman‘s eyes jerked between the two angry men as they argued in English. Sule felt the old rage bubbling up, burning through him like molten iron. He clenched his fists and tried to will it away, but just hearing Dutch brought back memories of the plantation, the life he thought he‘d escaped. ―Bill…,‖ he began, trying not to lose his head completely. William sighed, the anger draining out of his eyes. He shook his head. ―Do you know this man? Was he one of the men who beat you when you were a slave, or who fought with you the day we met?‖ Sule looked away. ―No,‖ he muttered. ―Then he deserves none of your ill will.‖ ―He‘s Dutch!‖ The words spat themselves out of his mouth, and he started to step forward but stopped at the icy look in his captain‘s eyes. ―Dutch bleeds the same as African. Right now, he needs our help, and we‘re going to give it to him. So you will kindly extend my invitation—in fact, you will persuade him to come aboard the ship, at least until we can stop the damned bleeding. Do you understand your orders, Mister Okonjo?‖ ―Yes, Captain.‖ With a red haze in front of his eyes and a buzzing in his ears, Sule focused on the cut over the Dutchman‘s right eyebrow and said that Captain Shaughnessy would consider it an honor to welcome him on board as their guest, and that their surgeon would be happy to see to his injury. The Dutchman looked at William, who gave him a smile, then back at Sule, whose lips were pressed together tightly, then down at his
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blood-soaked shirt. He winced but nodded and let William guide him to the schooner.
WITH a mug of rum and six stitches in him, the Dutchman, who is no Dutchman, is nodding off in the sick bay, even though he doesn‘t quite fit on the bunk. His left shoulder extends over the side and his feet over the end, and Mwata, the first mate, sympathizes. These bunks were not made for large men. Mwata also sympathizes with Sule, the only one on board who is able to speak with Olaf. The Dutchman turned out to be Norwegian, with a Dutch mother who taught him her native tongue. Mwata understands that it burns Sule up to have to speak the language of his captors, but Olaf claims to be a carpenter, and they need one. And if Sule could look past his anger, he could see that Olaf, as huge and bearded as he is, is young, no more than twenty-two, and moreover, has no malice in him. But Sule can‘t look past it. If he‘s not fuming, he‘s not alive.
―MR. OKONJO?‖ ―What?‖ Sule didn‘t look up from his inventory book, but he couldn‘t concentrate anymore, not with the big blond oaf standing next to him. ―Sir, we‘re running low on nails. Mr. Mercy said to let you know.‖ ―Is that all?‖ ―Um….‖ ―Spit it out, then!‖ ―Sir, the tools here are not good.‖ This time Sule did look up. The Dutch—no, the Norwegian oaf was watching him as usual. ―Is that your excuse for your poor work?‖ A flush spread over Olaf‘s cheeks above his beard. ―My work is good. Sir.‖ Sule slammed the book shut and stood up, pushing away from the desk. ―Is that so?‖ He moved to stand almost chest to chest with Olaf, tilting his face up a fraction to meet Olaf‘s eyes.
272 | B. SNOW Although Olaf was nearly twice as broad as Sule, he blinked and took a step back. ―Yes.‖ He hesitated, then opened his mouth, and out came more words in one sentence than Sule had heard from him since he had come on board two weeks earlier. ―Everyone is happy with my work, they‘ve told me, but I could do it faster if the tools were better quality. Sir.‖ Olaf returned Sule‘s stare for a long moment, but eventually he dropped his eyes. Sule watched his face turn a darker shade of pink, right up to the roots of his blond hair. ―What in damnation have you got to be angry about?‖ Sule shouted, making Olaf flinch. ―You come here with no tools of your own, and now you have the nerve to get angry over what we‘ve given you, you ungrateful bastard!‖ Olaf muttered something. Sule leaned forward, eyes narrowed. ―What did you say?‖ ―I said, I‘m not angry, sir.‖ Sule shook his head. ―You‘ll get your nails. Now get out.‖ Olaf opened his mouth to speak but nodded instead and left the cabin, quietly closing the door behind him. Sule threw himself onto his chair and pushed his fingers into his hair, gripping the soft, twisted strands, blood pounding in his ears, in his fingertips, under his scalp. The Norwegian was doing a good job, everyone on board was happy with his work, and truth be told, the tools were in terrible condition. The previous carpenter had been a liar and a drunkard, and if he hadn‘t been killed in a New York alleyway, he probably would have sunk the ship by now. The Norwegian wasn‘t either of those things. He had to be coaxed into drinking enough rum to dull the pain of having his wound stitched up, and the next morning, when William asked how he‘d come to be injured, he spilled out the whole story without trying to excuse his part in it. Afterward, William, Sule, and Mwata went to William‘s cabin. William had felt a change in the wind shortly after bringing Olaf aboard, and as they‘d be leaving port within a few hours if the wind held, they had a decision to make. ―I say we invite him to join the crew,‖ William began, leaning against the door he‘d shut behind them. ―You believe him?‖ Mwata asked, sitting back on the bunk and stretching his legs.
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―Yes. You don‘t?‖ ―I didn‘t say that,‖ Mwata answered. He turned to Sule. ―Could you tell anything from the way he was speaking? Do you think he was lying?‖ Sule snarled at the floor, aching to say yes, but he had never lied to Mwata or William and couldn‘t bring himself to do so now. ―I‘m sure he was telling the truth,‖ he finally said. ―Then it‘s settled,‖ William said, smiling, and turned to open the door, but Sule interrupted him. ―No, that makes it worse! Do we want someone in the crew who‘s going to lose their temper that way and nearly kill someone?‖ William frowned. ―He was provoked. You saw the cuts on his face, his arms and hands.‖ ―Yes, and when he grabbed the bastard‘s wrist and twisted until he dropped the knife, it should have been finished right there, but instead, and his own words, I‘ll remind you, he put his hands around the man‘s throat and nearly choked the life out of him. Took a knife in the side to get him to let go.‖ William and Mwata looked at each other. Mwata raised an eyebrow. William shrugged. ―Strong hands are important in carpentry.‖ Mwata coughed to cover a laugh, but Sule clenched his fists and shouted, ―God‘s blood, Bill, this isn‘t a joke!‖ He turned away from the other men and pounded the wall in frustration. After a moment, he felt a hand on his back. ―I know this is hard for you,‖ William said quietly. ―If he‘s lying and can‘t do the work, we‘ll put him off at the next port. But he‘s young and scared and hasn‘t anywhere else to go. And he‘s not the only one around here who‘s lost his temper before.‖ Sule swore under his breath and hit the wall once more, but he knew he‘d lost.
SULE decides that if he can push the Norwegian to his breaking point again, he‘ll snap and do something stupid. The crew will agree he‘s a menace and vote to expel him, and Sule will be rid of anything resembling a Dutchman.
274 | B. SNOW For the first two weeks, Sule enjoys giving Olaf orders in the most insolent way possible. He had been ordered around in Dutch by white men for five long years; it feels good now to order a white man around in that language. But no matter how rude he is, he never gets a rise out of Olaf. Olaf listens, nods, and then does his job, and does it well. When he does speak, it‘s always related to the task he‘s been ordered to do. The grudging respect Sule begins to feel just makes him angrier.
A SUCCESSFUL raid on a Spanish brig near Boca Ratones produced a good quantity of nails. After the schooner was out of sight of the other ship, Sule went looking for Olaf. He found him in the galley, taking measurements for a spice rack. ―Here are your nails,‖ Sule snapped, dropping a small wooden box at Olaf‘s feet. Olaf looked down at the box. ―You took that from the brig?‖ ―Yes.‖ ―You mean you stole it.‖ Sule hissed out a breath and slammed his palm down on the table. ―Yes, of course! Are you slow in the head? It‘s how we survive! Not you, of course, carpenter‘s too valuable to risk on a raid, but the rest of us sorry lot, we want something, we take it! That‘s what we do!‖ He paused, head pounding, chest heaving. ―If you don‘t like it,‖ he added in a lower tone, feeling that familiar simmer under his skin, ―you can get the hell off this ship at the next port.‖ He sneered at Olaf‘s wide eyes and open mouth, then put his foot on the box of nails and shoved it until it hit the toe of Olaf‘s boot. ―Take them, or don‘t.‖ He pushed past the other man and nearly ran into Mwata, who had been about to enter the galley. ―You‘re being an ass,‖ Mwata murmured as Sule pushed past him. ―Shut up.‖ Sule hurried topside, where he breathed in the sea air, watching the red sun sink beneath the waves and feeling as if he were going down with it. Time to stop playing and finish it.
AFTER every raid, Sule went into the hold to catalog the new cargo and update his inventory book. The task could usually wait until the following morning, but he couldn‘t sleep, his mind filled with the Norwegian‘s surprised brown eyes and Mwata‘s mild admonishment.
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He flung off his blankets, grabbed his book, quill, and ink, and headed down to the hold, where he swore loudly at finding Olaf. ―What are you doing down here?‖ Sule asked, looking around quickly to determine if any of the crates had been opened. If the man was a thief, he‘d be thrown off the ship before he could blink. ―I was looking for a blanket, sir.‖ ―What did you do with the one you had?‖ ―No, sir, I was hoping to find another. It‘s… I‘m… never mind.‖ Olaf started to walk toward the hatch, but Sule grabbed his arm. ―What‘s the matter, are you ill? If you‘re ill, you‘ll be put off this ship straightaway.‖ Olaf shook his head. ―I‘m not ill, sir. I get cold at night. It‘s all right, if there are no extra blankets—‖ ―Shut up.‖ Sule made his way through the crates until he got to a trunk stowed just inside the bulkhead. He opened it and pulled out two blankets that he threw at Olaf, who caught them. ―Will that be enough? Are you quite satisfied?‖ ―Yes, sir. Thank you.‖ Olaf nodded, but he didn‘t leave; he just stood there, looking at Sule and clutching the blankets. ―What? Do you need something else?‖ ―No.‖ But still he didn‘t leave. Sule‘s anger spiraled, spinning up through his body and out the top of his head. ―Then why are you still here?‖ He slammed the trunk shut and moved to stand right in front of Olaf. ―And why do you keep staring at me? You‘ve been doing it since we raided that ship. Do I disgust you? Is piracy not to your liking? Do you think you‘re better than the rest of us?‖ ―No! It‘s not that. I‘m, um, you‘re….‖ But now Sule was on a tear. ―Then what is it? Why do you keep looking at me every time we‘re in the same part of the ship? Don‘t try to deny it, I‘ve seen you.‖ ―I‘m sorry, sir, I won‘t do it again.‖ ―You didn‘t answer my question, ox,‖ Sule snapped, and gave Olaf a shove, or tried to; it was like pushing against the stone face of a
276 | B. SNOW cliff. He snarled and shoved harder, this time causing Olaf to stumble just a bit. ―Stop it.‖ Olaf growled, frowning, his heavy blond brows drawn together. Finally, a reaction. ―Stop what? Stop this?‖ Sule asked, slapping Olaf on the shoulder, then on the chest. ―This?‖ A kick with his instep to the side of Olaf‘s calf. ―This?‖ A cuff to his head. ―Stop!‖ ―And if I don‘t?‖ Sule stepped back, lifted his fists into position for a serious fight, began shifting his weight back and forth from foot to foot. It was too bad there would be no witnesses, but fighting on board would probably be enough to get the oaf expelled from the crew. It would be his word against Sule‘s. ―I don‘t want to fight you.‖ ―That‘s too bad,‖ Sule said and shot out a fist. It caught Olaf on the chin, knocking his head back but not causing nearly the impact Sule was hoping for. Before Sule could hit him again, Olaf threw the blankets aside and rushed forward, his shoulder hitting Sule in the chest, driving him backward, slamming him into the bulkhead. Sule‘s head banged against the wood, and then his body was pinned there by Olaf‘s. No room to kick, Olaf holding both of Sule‘s wrists tight against the bulkhead as well. Sule snarled and looked up to meet Olaf‘s eyes—it infuriated him that he wasn‘t quite tall enough to look directly into them. What he saw there wasn‘t anger or hate—he would have recognized those emotions in someone else‘s eyes—but he didn‘t care. He jerked his right wrist free, or tried to, but Olaf kept it pinned to the bulkhead. He pulled harder, but he could not break the grip on his wrists.
SULE knows how to fight. He likes to fight. Sometimes when he‘s on land, he‘ll make his way to the dirtiest, darkest tavern he can find and make bets with the white men drinking there that he‘ll fight all of them, one by one, and be the last man standing. He almost always wins because he‘ll do anything to win.
OLAF curled his fingers around Sule‘s left wrist. Sule swore, tried again to pull free, but Olaf just tightened his grip. ―We want something, we
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take it,‖ he growled, then leaned over and licked Sule‘s arm, his tongue slipping under the cuff of Sule‘s shirt and lapping at the skin there. Sule went still, all anger and resistance utterly wiped away by shock. Olaf‘s hand was cool against Sule‘s skin, but his tongue, moving across his own fingers and up to Sule‘s unresisting hand, was hot and wet. When that tongue slid across his palm, in between his fingers, Sule gasped, started to say, ―What—‖ but Olaf‘s mouth had left his hand and moved to his neck, and all he could do was drop his head back against the bulkhead and shut his eyes. A part of him was shouting that he had to fight, to stop whatever was happening, that he had lost control of the situation and of his own body. So when Olaf slid down onto his knees in front of him, Sule felt a wave of relief and also a little stab of angry pleasure at seeing a white man kneeling in front of him for a change. Just as Sule thought It’s about time, Olaf rubbed the front of Sule‘s trousers with his hand, then with his face, and when he put his mouth there, every thought went out of Sule‘s head. Somehow Olaf got Sule‘s trousers unfastened, and again, his hand was cool on Sule‘s skin but his mouth was hot, and when he took Sule‘s prick into his mouth, Sule could not help his hips surging forward. Olaf pulled back, pressed his hands against Sule‘s hips to keep them in place, and Sule felt that loss of power again, but then Olaf‘s mouth was back on him. It should have been a triumphant moment for Sule, a chance to let his anger translate into action. He should have grabbed the Norwegian‘s head and taken charge, but when he reached down and put his hands on Olaf‘s head, Olaf let out a rumbling moan that Sule felt all around his prick, and it felt so good that all of Sule‘s usual simmering anger was replaced by pleasure, rushing through his body. Olaf‘s hair felt cool and smooth under Sule‘s rough, callused fingers. He looked down at the blond head moving back and forth, seeing his own prick sliding in and out of that pink mouth surrounded by a red beard, and when brown eyes lifted to meet his, suddenly it wasn‘t some white man on his knees, it was Olaf, pulling an intense pleasure out of Sule with every swipe of his tongue. A loud moan from Olaf rumbled through Sule again, and suddenly Olaf was sucking harder, tightening his hand at the base of Sule‘s prick, and then it was
278 | B. SNOW over, bright lights exploding behind Sule‘s eyes as he shot his seed into Olaf‘s mouth, pulse after pulse, wave after wave of ecstasy. He felt Olaf‘s mouth move off him, and he slid down the bulkhead, his bare arse hitting the rough wood of the deck. Olaf fell against the bulkhead next to him, gasping for breath and wiping his mouth. Sule shut his eyes. He couldn‘t think, didn‘t know what had just happened. A strong shoulder bumped his as Olaf shifted so that they were sitting against the bulkhead side by side. After a moment, Olaf cleared his throat. Sule tensed. This was where the Norwegian‘s true motivations would be made clear. Would he try to blackmail Sule, would he threaten to tell the rest of the crew? Sule almost laughed, despite the simmer that had started up again in his head. Everyone in the crew knew that William, the captain of this ship, regularly had relations of that sort with other men, and they didn‘t care. If the Norwegian thought he could get something out of Sule, just because— ―I understand why you hate me,‖ Olaf said, turning to look at Sule. ―And I don‘t blame you for it. I‘ve seen what the Dutch do to sl— to Africans.‖ When Sule didn‘t answer, Olaf turned away, then pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe the evidence of his release from his stomach and thighs, pulled up and fastened his trousers, and was about to leave the hold when Sule said, ―I don‘t hate you.‖ Olaf smiled as Sule stood up, then caught his arm when he nearly tripped over the trousers tangled around his feet, but Sule shook him off. ―I don‘t like you, either.‖ He reached down and jerked his trousers up, fastening them quickly. Olaf shrugged. ―At least you feel something for me.‖ When Sule stared at him, bemused, Olaf shrugged again. ―Everyone I knew in Norway, they were all cold. My parents, my friends. As if nothing mattered to them, not even me. But you….‖ His lips quirked up, just a bit. ―You‘re always hot.‖ He took Sule‘s wrist, wrapped his fingers around it lightly. ―You get angry at me, hotheaded. You feel something for me, even though you don‘t want to.‖ ―You‘re not making any sense,‖ Sule muttered, jerking his wrist out of Olaf‘s grip. ―Idiot.‖ Olaf looked down at the floor and laughed softly. ―Thank you.‖
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―For what?‖ ―For this.‖ Olaf gestured between the two of them. He walked over to the blankets he‘d dropped and picked them up. ―And for these,‖ he said, then smiled at Sule and climbed up out of the hold.
SULE has never found white people particularly attractive. In truth, he‘s never really thought about attraction or intimacy. He spent his youth learning enough to be able to escape slavery, and the anger burning in him left no room for any other sort of heat. But now he has a better understanding of why his crewmates take themselves off to brothels as soon as they make port. His head tells him to forget about what happened, but his body keeps remembering, heating up every time he sees a flash of blond hair.
ON THE outside, nothing had changed. Or at least Sule tried to make sure that everything looked the same as usual. Olaf didn‘t approach him for anything but his orders. Sule tried to put their tryst out of his mind, told himself that it could have happened with any of the men on the ship, but he couldn‘t stop looking at Olaf. Couldn‘t stop staring at the long hair in a plait down his back, the red beard that he trimmed when the sea was calm. Golden blond hairs on his muscular forearms, broad shoulders, stocky build, thick thighs and arse. But every time Olaf caught him looking, Sule felt as if he were losing control, and the anger started to build again. Sule told himself that he could break free from the grip of this madness. He didn‘t need Olaf to touch him, no matter how good it might have felt. So each night before going to sleep, Sule would indulge in self-pleasure in any secluded part of the ship that was not the hold. But it wasn‘t working; the hand on his prick was his own, but in his mind, all he could see was Olaf. It was getting worse every day, except that the simmering in him was no longer anger but lust. After two weeks, he couldn‘t stand it anymore. He found Olaf working on barrel staves with Tom, the cooper, and shouted at him to get below and finish the partition in the sail room. Olaf looked up, frowning. ―But I finished it two days ago.‖
280 | B. SNOW Sule nearly turned and walked away, but he couldn‘t stop looking at Olaf‘s mouth. ―Don‘t argue with me, Sinason, go do it!‖ Tom gave Olaf a sympathetic look as he gathered his tools and headed below, Sule right on his heels. In the sail room, Olaf knocked on the partition. ―Right here, these are my repairs,‖ he said, looking at Sule. Sule stood a few feet away, staring at Olaf. That first time, Olaf had begun it, had taken control, had ended it in a much better way than any of Sule‘s other fights. In his memory, Sule could still feel Olaf‘s hands and mouth, and as much as he wanted to repeat their encounter, he couldn‘t think of how to begin or even how to tell Olaf what he wanted. His face burning, Sule stepped forward, took Olaf‘s hand, and put it around his own wrist. He saw the comprehension cross Olaf‘s face, and then the two of them were tumbling down onto a pile of canvas. Olaf‘s mouth moved across Sule‘s face and down to lick and suck on his neck. As before, Sule let his head drop back, letting the sensation wipe all thoughts from his head. Olaf shifted so he was nearly lying on top of Sule, who could barely breathe under his weight, but it felt good, too. Strong. Solid. He put a hand on Olaf‘s back, bit the nape of his neck. Olaf bit him back, pinned Sule‘s wrist to the canvas next to his head, and lifted his hips to rub his prick against Sule‘s through their thin trousers. Like the previous time, a flash of thought went through Sule‘s mind that he should stop Olaf, that he should be the one in control, but when Olaf moved off him and stood up, he felt the loss of weight and teeth almost like a punch to his gut. Before he could say anything, though, he saw that Olaf was only unfastening his trousers. Sule hurried to take off his own, and then Olaf fell beside him, one large hand on Sule‘s arse, pulling his hips forward so that they were skin-on-skin. And then Olaf pulled back again, and Sule nearly cried out from disappointment, ready to let himself boil over in frustrated rage, until he saw the simmer in Olaf‘s eyes. He knew that Olaf wasn‘t playing with him and that they weren‘t done yet. Olaf ran a hand up Sule‘s side underneath his shirt from his hip to his armpit, causing Sule to shiver, then pulled his hand out and stroked down Sule‘s arm. Catching Sule‘s hand, he brought it to his mouth and licked the palm. Sule shivered again and let his hand be pulled down to
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Olaf‘s prick. He gave it a squeeze, watching as Olaf licked his own palm, then his eyes shut as he felt that big hand wrap around his prick. As Olaf began to move his hand, Sule caught on and began to match his movements, stroke for stroke. So much better than his own hand, alone in a dark corner of the ship, no beard rubbing against his cheek or hot breath on his face. So much better that Sule‘s climax rushed over him with no warning, and suddenly he was crying out, jerking, bucking, pushing into Olaf‘s fist, his seed coating their hands and stomachs. He was still breathing hard when Olaf took Sule‘s hand off his prick, guiding it around his thick waist and back between his buttocks. Sule felt so good, he was willing to go along with anything Olaf wanted at that point, even if he didn‘t understand it. He let Olaf move his hand back and forth, rubbing his slippery fingers across Olaf‘s opening, and he kept moving them even after Olaf let go and began stroking his own prick, his hips pushing back and forth between Sule‘s fingers and his own hand. A few seconds were all it took for Olaf to go over the edge, his buttocks clenching around Sule‘s hand and a new warm wetness springing up between them as he jerked, growling into Sule‘s neck. Olaf rolled onto his back, breathing heavily, and Sule‘s hand slid from Olaf‘s buttocks to his hip. He let it rest there a moment, feeling muscles shift under cool skin, then sat up and found the damp rag he had stowed behind the pile of canvas earlier that day. He wiped his hands and prick and handed the rag to Olaf, who took it with a look of surprise on his face but did the same. ―Next time, maybe you can fuck me,‖ Olaf told him, sitting up and reaching for his trousers. Sule had heard that word thrown about by the Dutch overseers and plantation owners when talking about slave women and town whores they‘d been with, but he wasn‘t entirely sure how it applied to men. But then Olaf smiled at him, and he felt himself getting hard again just wondering about it.
AFTER the sail room, there is no more pretense; Sule and Olaf slip away whenever they can. They‘re nearly caught once, but Olaf just bites gently at the hand that Sule puts over his mouth to keep him quiet,
282 | B. SNOW which in turn inspires Sule to sink his teeth into Olaf‘s right buttock the next time they‘re both naked.
SULE waited until Olaf looked over at him after supper, and then he flicked his eyes at the door. Olaf gave a tiny nod and drained the last of his drink. ―If you‘re done, you need to finish fixing that floorboard in the hold,‖ Sule snapped. Olaf opened his mouth as if to argue but then shut it again. He stood up, shoulders slumped, and left the galley. Sule stood up to follow him, but William caught his arm. ―You need to stop this.‖ Sule‘s heart thumped, and he looked into William‘s eyes. ―Stop what?‖ he asked, trying to buy time, not wanting to think about what he‘d do if William put an end to their games. ―Stop breathing down the man‘s neck. He‘s good at his job, and he can do it without you hovering over him like a hawk, waiting for him to make a mistake. And you need to stop shouting at him. We‘re damned lucky to have him, and I don‘t want to lose him to another crew because of your constant sniping.‖ William blew out a breath. ―I know you can‘t stand to have him around, but try to keep in mind the good he‘s doing for the ship, all right?‖ His head spinning with relief, Sule nodded. ―All right. I‘m sorry, Bill, I‘ll try to do better.‖ William clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. ―I know you will. Thank you.‖ Sule left the galley, strolled around the deck for a few minutes, then snuck below to the hold, where Olaf was sitting on the trunk of blankets behind the bulkhead. ―What took you so long?‖ Olaf asked, standing up and peering behind Sule. ―The captain said I needed to stop bothering you while you‘re working.‖ Sule pushed Olaf back down onto the trunk and stood in front of him, legs spread, as Olaf kneaded his buttocks. ―He told me that you can do your job without me standing over you. I was afraid he‘d stop me if he caught me going down here, so I had to take the long way.‖
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―Next time, tell him that I‘m being insubordinate,‖ Olaf murmured into Sule‘s stomach, and Sule laughed. The laugh caught in his throat, and the smile fell off his face. He never smiled unless some white man took his bet to fight him. And he never laughed unless he had blood in his mouth and was standing over an opponent who lay face down on the ground. But when he looked down into Olaf‘s face, he felt the smile returning. Olaf pulled him down so that Sule was kneeling on the trunk and straddling his lap. As he felt the familiar heat build between them, Sule thought that the captain was right, as usual. Olaf was very good at his job.
THEY dropped anchor in a cove near Beaufort so that they could restock and get paid out of the money that William would get from selling the spoils of their raids. As with most landfalls, he let them go into town two or three men at a time so as not to raise too many suspicions among the citizens. He almost balked at Sule‘s request to go ashore with Olaf—―Can‘t you give the man an inch of breathing space?‖—but agreed when Sule explained that Olaf wanted to purchase some better tools and would need Sule to translate. With their earnings tucked safely inside their shirts, Sule and Olaf headed first to a blacksmith‘s for the tools, then to a shop that sold cotton cloth—Olaf had been alternating between the clothes he‘d had on when he‘d run from his old crew and some castoffs from Mwata, the only man on the ship whose clothes would fit him. After making the purchases, they found a tavern nearby but walked out after the owner refused to serve Sule. ―You can stay,‖ the man told Olaf, ―but your boy has to go up the street to Pedra‘s.‖ Pedra‘s turned out to be a tavern run by a mulatto couple named Pedreira, who were happy to fulfill Olaf‘s request for a meal and a bath. Olaf and Sule sat downstairs while the water was heated, drinking ale, dipping still-warm bread into olive oil, and nearly inhaling bowls of the first fresh meat and vegetables they‘d had in weeks. When the bath was ready, Olaf clasped Sule‘s hand on the table. ―Come upstairs with me. You can have the bath first.‖ Sule pulled his hand away, looking around the tavern, but it was early afternoon and the place was almost empty. Mrs. Pedreira was
284 | B. SNOW smiling at them, gesturing toward the stairs, not seeming to notice their hands at all. Sule let out a breath and nodded, pushing away from the table and standing up. Olaf stood up as well, picking up the basket of bread and a carafe of oil and taking them upstairs with him.
SULE lay back in the tub and closed his eyes. Hot baths with fresh water that actually allowed soap to foam up were a luxury that a sailor could indulge in only a few times a year. After a moment, he opened his eyes to see Olaf watching him, nibbling on a piece of bread. ―You‘re still hungry after that?‖ ―Not really. Just that the bread is very good.‖ Sule sat up in the tub. ―Do you get enough to eat on the ship? You‘re as big as Mwata, and he needs two plates at every meal—‖ ―Bosco gives me two plates as well, you don‘t have to worry. He looked me over my first day on board and didn‘t even ask, just stood over me until I‘d finished everything.‖ ―Good.‖ Sule closed his eyes and lay back in the tub once more. ―If you get ill from not eating enough, it‘s the ship that will suffer.‖ ―I‘m glad you‘re thinking about the welfare of the ship.‖ Sule opened his eyes again and looked at Olaf, who smiled back guilelessly and set the basket of bread on the nightstand. ―Did you leave some heat for me?‖ Olaf asked, unbuttoning his shirt. Sule dragged himself out of the tub, feeling boneless. A twist of lust curled in his belly and buzzed through his veins as Olaf dropped his shirt on the floor, exposing his broad, muscled chest and stomach covered with a light dusting of blond hair. Sule dried himself with the bath sheet but kept staring as Olaf unfastened his trousers and let them drop as well, then finally untied the leather thong from around his plait and shook his hair free. Sule, more or less dry, laid the bath sheet over a chair near the tub as Olaf stepped into it and threw himself onto the bed, rubbing his hand over his own hair, which dripped onto the sheets. It had grown nearly long enough to tie back with a thong as well. When it was short, he knew it looked odd, but that hadn‘t stopped him from taking a swing at Enrique, who‘d called him ―puffer fish‖ the first time he‘d seen it.
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They didn‘t talk as Olaf bathed and washed his hair, nor did they say anything after he had dried himself and crawled up onto the bed, until he picked up the leather thong and tied his wet hair up into a topknot. Sule snorted. Olaf looked at him curiously, and Sule laughed outright, saying, ―You look ridiculous.‖ ―Oh, really?‖ Olaf asked, and his grin was all the warning that Sule had before he was knocked back onto the bed and covered with two hundred pounds of cool, clean Norwegian. ―I‘ve been dreaming about this,‖ Olaf murmured into Sule‘s neck. ―Finally having you naked in a bed.‖ ―Why do we need a bed?‖ Sule asked, wrapping his arms around Olaf‘s waist and then sliding them down to his arse. ―We do well enough on the ship.‖ ―We can do better than ‗well enough‘,‖ Olaf answered, sliding down Sule‘s body.
OLAF‘S right, of course. He‘s been right all along. HOT, wet mouth coming down over his prick, and as many times as they had done this, it still felt as good as the first time to Sule. He sighed, then laughed as his hands touched that ridiculous topknot, and he spread his legs wider as Olaf pressed a finger just behind his balls. Sule began to see the attraction of a bed in a room with a lock on the door—comfortable, room to lie down fully, no need to rush, no listening for people nearby. Olaf was moving slowly, lazily, as if they had all the time in the world, which was not strictly true; William wanted them back on board before nightfall, but that was hours away, and oh, Sule thought as Olaf worked his tongue, do that again. Olaf‘s finger disappeared from that magic spot behind Sule‘s balls, then returned, slick, and pushed back farther, sliding smoothly over Sule‘s hole, then slipping into it. Sule gasped and jerked up into Olaf‘s mouth. They had done this before, on the ship, but they‘d used spit or the clear liquid that would drip from the ends of their hard pricks, neither of which had felt this good.
286 | B. SNOW Sule didn‘t have time to ponder the difference; he was too busy shooting into Olaf‘s mouth and clenching around his finger. His climax seemed to go on forever, and when he finally opened his eyes, Olaf was wiping his hands and mouth on the wet bath sheet. ―Better, right?‖ he asked, grinning. Sule grinned back, nodding, and pulled Olaf down on the bed. He had never taken Olaf into his mouth before, but that combination of mouth and finger had been so spectacular that he was still humming with pleasure, and he went right to it. Olaf seemed to enjoy Sule‘s efforts—strangled groans, hands fisted in the bed sheets as Sule licked and sucked, trying to mimic the motions that drove him mad when he was the recipient. He could tell Olaf was trying to keep his hips on the bed and was thankful for it. Sule hadn‘t thought he would enjoy the act, despite the number of times he‘d seen Olaf climax with Sule‘s prick in his mouth and his own prick in his hand. But there was something exciting about having that heavy thickness in his mouth, the only part of Olaf that felt as warm as his tongue. Olaf took one of Sule‘s hands and poured something on it—oil from the carafe. Sule slipped his finger into Olaf, heard him groan, and felt himself getting hard again. He rubbed against the mattress, finding what he thought was a good rhythm of hands and mouth, but after a few moments, Olaf pushed him away, breathless. ―Wait. Stop.‖ A flare of anger burned away the pleasure coursing through his mind and body. ―What‘s the matter?‖ Sule asked, sitting up. He thought about how quickly he could be off the bed, into his clothes, out of that room. ―I want you inside of me when I climax.‖ Sule blinked. Olaf was looking at him, smiling slightly, but Sule could see the nerves working in him. He nodded. ―All right.‖ Olaf blew out a breath, then turned to lie on his stomach. Sule stared down at his back. In the light coming in through the curtains, he could see old scars that lay in nearly parallel lines. Almost like the scars on his own back. In a daze, he reached out, ran his finger down Olaf‘s back. Olaf rumbled approval, bringing Sule back to himself. Questions and bad memories would have to wait.
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―Use the oil on your fingers, like before, but this time stretch me, open me up, but carefully. It‘s been a long time since I‘ve done this.‖ Sule reached for the oil with hands that shook just a bit. He wasn‘t sure he wanted to do this, but Olaf had asked, so he did want to do this. He wanted to know who the other men were who had fucked Olaf, who had beaten him—were they the same men? But he didn‘t want to know. He wanted all these buzzing thoughts out of his head so he could concentrate and do better than ―well enough‖. He did just what Olaf told him to do, sliding his finger back into that warm, tight space, adding oil and another finger, moving slowly in and out until Olaf begged him to stop, rising up on his knees. ―Now, please, Sule, inside me, now.‖ He couldn‘t do it. The scars, the thoughts, they swirled in front of his eyes and inside his head, tearing away at his desire, softening his prick, and leaving him with the old simmering bitterness. Olaf turned his head. ―Sule?‖ Sule shook his head. Olaf pushed himself up and sat back on his heels, then turned around and took Sule‘s hands. ―Tell me.‖ Sule had no idea where to begin. ―How many other men,‖ was all he could get out. Olaf laughed. ―Not so many. That‘s why I needed you to be careful, to go slowly.‖ ―Who did that to your back?‖ Olaf‘s face turned serious. ―My father.‖ Sule looked up at him, and Olaf sighed. ―He caught me with another boy when I was sixteen. He beat me with a chair leg and threw me out of the house. Cold, even through that—all he said to me was, ‗Get out‘. He didn‘t even raise his voice.‖ Olaf cleared his throat, gave Sule a small, bitter smile. ―I‘ve been carpenting at sea ever since.‖ He rubbed his thumbs over the backs of Sule‘s hands. ―What else do you want to know?‖ ―Do you always lie with black men?‖ And now Olaf laughed again. ―No. You‘re the first.‖ He put his hand on Sule‘s cheek, then leaned forward and kissed him.
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SULE has never been kissed. He was too shy to talk to girls when he was twelve, or thirteen, or fourteen, and after he was enslaved, he was too angry to think about other people or any kind of affection. He‘s twenty-five now, and up until a few seconds ago, he was still angry.
OLAF moved his lips over Sule‘s, toppled him back onto the bed, still holding one of his hands, and then kissed him again. Sule was almost as shocked as the first time that Olaf had licked his arm, but he caught on quickly, kissing Olaf back, opening his mouth to suck on Olaf‘s tongue, sliding his own tongue over and around Olaf‘s. Olaf‘s beard rubbed against Sule‘s, the soft hair on his chest tickling Sule‘s nearly hairless one. Olaf tasted just like the breath that Sule had felt on his neck, his cheek, his mouth, every time they had met on the ship for their games. But it didn‘t feel like a game anymore. Olaf poured oil into his hand and stroked it onto Sule‘s now hard prick, then moved onto hands and knees again. ―Slowly, please,‖ he said, resting his head on his hands. Sule did go slowly, moving in and out with small strokes until Olaf‘s passage was coated with oil and Sule was completely inside him. ―Am I hurting you?‖ he asked for the fourth time since he had first pressed the tip of his prick into Olaf. ―No, you‘re not,‖ Olaf answered for the fourth time, and then added, ―You certainly have a grand opinion of the size of your prick.‖ Sule would have laughed, but Olaf moved his hips forward, then pushed back, and all Sule could do was gasp. When Olaf moved again, Sule was ready and picked up his rhythm, sliding in and out of him, slowly and smoothly, over and over, until Olaf began to mumble and moan, reaching back to pull Sule‘s hand off his hip and intertwine their fingers on the mattress. Sule could hardly believe how good it felt to be inside Olaf, but part of him also couldn‘t believe how much noise Olaf was making. The man who had barely said two words his first two weeks on board, the man who would sit, smile, and drink his rum and water while everyone else hollered and shouted around a driftwood fire on the beach, was now moaning and pouring out a stream of words in what must have been Norwegian, because Sule couldn‘t understand a thing he said.
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He did understand that Olaf was close, though, so he clutched their intertwined fingers more tightly, reached underneath Olaf with his free hand, and caught his hard, bobbing prick. One, two, three strokes with his hand, still slick with oil, and Olaf cried out, shaking, clenching around Sule‘s prick, gripping Sule‘s other hand so tightly that Sule would feel the bruises the next day. But just then he felt nothing but bliss, falling into his own climax, pouring himself into Olaf, who had collapsed onto the bed. Just before he fell asleep, Sule wondered what it would be like to have Olaf do that to him.
WHEN Sule woke up, it was dark and quiet. He started to sit up but found he was trapped by something large and heavy thrown across his waist. It was an arm, attached to an even larger and heavier Norwegian who lay spooned up behind him, snoring gently, his naked body warm against Sule‘s back. Sule lifted Olaf‘s arm off, jumped out of bed, and ran to the window. The position of the moon in the sky told him that they were hours late returning to the ship. ―Damnation,‖ he muttered and turned to shake Olaf, who simply rolled onto his back, dragging the covers with him. Sule stared at him, taking in the blond hair lit up like a beacon in the moonlight, the paleness of the skin on his chest and legs, the face that looked so young in sleep despite the beard. He knew he needed to wake him, they both had to return to the ship, but he was too caught up in the quiet beauty of the moment. And that was when he felt the difference, the change in him. He was quiet. The simmering anger that had been inside him for ten long years was gone. Even the lust that had recently replaced it was gone, leaving nothing inside him but a silent emptiness. It was awful. He felt his heart stutter, and he stumbled away from the bed. Snatching up his clothes from the floor, he dressed quickly and fled, bolting from the room, running down the stairs and out of the tavern, running through the town and all the way to the cove where the ship lay at anchor. He tripped as he ran across the sand toward the water, falling to his hands and knees, gasping for breath.
290 | B. SNOW He was still there when William rowed a boat out himself and helped him back to the ship. William suggested a trip to the sick bay, or at least to his own bunk, but Sule, having caught his breath, was wild. ―I have work to do,‖ he said, pushing past William and immediately regretting his tone. He turned back to apologize, but William had already gone below, so he spun on his heel and went to find his inventory book. The run back to the ship had made his blood race, a good, familiar feeling, so Sule was doing as many physical tasks as he could justify to Josiah, the second mate, and the rest of the larboard watch. He was up the rigging, examining the wear on the lines, when he spotted something bright in the distance—Olaf, the moon shining down on his hair, returning to the ship. Sule‘s heart began pounding again. He watched as Olaf boarded the ship, pulling a box of tools and a bolt of cloth up after him, and then looked up at Sule. They exchanged a long look, and Sule felt that quiet come over him again as he looked down into those brown eyes. Quiet and still and strange and terrible. He jerked his head away and climbed higher up the rigging, reaching for that anger that had kept him warm and alive for so many years. When he looked down again, many minutes later, Olaf was gone.
THE next day, they weighed anchor and sailed farther north. The nights were getting colder, and Sule handed out extra blankets to the crew, trying not to remember what had happened near and on that trunk. A week had passed since they‘d left Beaufort, a week during which Sule spoke to Olaf only when he had to, and Olaf didn‘t speak at all, just nodded and did his job. The simmering had started up again inside of Sule, but it wasn‘t anger or desire this time; it was guilt. Guilt for running out on Olaf without saying anything after that night in town, and for ignoring him as much as possible after that. Sule had never imagined that he could feel guilty for mistreating a white man, but he realized he had mistreated Olaf, who had been nothing but kind to him. More than kind; he had gone to great lengths to make Sule‘s body sing. And it had taken a week without that singing to make Sule understand that maybe there was something worse than a silence that used to be filled with anger.
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THEY landed near Norfolk weeks later. There had been no raids at all, which, strangely, sat well enough with most of the crew, especially since they would be paid for delivering an almost legal shipment that William had negotiated in Beaufort. The men took turns going ashore as usual, and Sule went to ask Olaf if he would need a translator. Olaf shook his head, and Sule‘s guilt began to burn. ―I‘m sorry I ran away that night,‖ he blurted, and Olaf‘s head snapped up. ―Why did you?‖ he asked. Sule shook his head. ―I don‘t know.‖ ―You don‘t know.‖ Olaf stared at him, then went back to planing a piece of lumber. Sule clenched his fists. What could he say? That he ran because his head had gone quiet for the first time in a decade? That he was afraid he‘d lost himself, or his mind? He opened his mouth but all that came out was, ―I hope that we can be civil to each other.‖ ―Of course,‖ Olaf replied, not looking up from his work. Sule hesitated, then walked away. He didn‘t know what he had expected from Olaf, but in that room above the tavern, he‘d thought there had been some kind of connection between them, far stronger than just that of crewmates. Maybe he had been imagining things, or maybe he had broken that connection by stupidly running away from something good.
WHEN it was Sule‘s turn to go ashore, William sent Olaf with him. ―You did well last time,‖ he said, clapping Sule on the back, ―helping him get what he needed. I‘m glad you‘ve been able to get past your dislike of the man.‖ ―He‘s been fine,‖ Sule said between stiff lips. ―Well, look after him again, will you?‖ And then William was off, talking with Mr. Mercy, the quartermaster, about another possible shipment of nearly legal goods.
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NEITHER Sule nor Olaf spoke as they were rowed to shore, and once they arrived in town, Sule asked again if Olaf needed any help. Olaf shook his head, and they each went their separate ways. Sule found the freedmen‘s part of town and got a shave and then a meal. As he sopped up the last of his soup with a piece of bread while evening fell, he noticed a man across the room watching him. The man smiled and raised his mug. Sule shrugged, raised his own mug, and took a sip. He had just taken a bite of apple when the man sat down next to him. Jean-Paul wasn‘t quite as dark as Sule, nor as muscular, but he had a quick smile and a way with words. They had a drink together, and then Jean-Paul glanced over at the door of the inn in a way Sule instantly recognized. Heart pounding, he paid his bill, waited while Jean-Paul did the same, then followed him outside and around the back of the building. Here was a chance for his body to sing again. But as soon as Jean-Paul touched him, it felt wrong. Wrong hands, wrong mouth. Sule tried to pull away, but Jean-Paul grabbed Sule‘s hand and pushed it against the front of his trousers, pulling at Sule‘s shirt and muttering in French against his neck. Wrong language. Sule pulled his hand away and gave Jean-Paul a shove, knocking him back a few feet. Wrong size, wrong weight. ―I changed my mind,‖ he said, turning and hurrying back toward the street while Jean-Paul shouted something after him in French. He stepped around the corner of the inn and ran right into someone coming from the other direction. ―Sule.‖ ―Olaf? What are you doing here?‖ ―Looking for you. Mr. Mercy found me, said we have to go back to the ship, now.‖ Before Sule could say anything, Jean-Paul came strolling up behind him. ―Is that what you‘d rather have?‖ he asked, looking Olaf up and down. ―White meat can be tasty once in a while.‖ He laughed and threw an arm around Sule‘s neck. Sule shook him off. Grabbing Olaf by the elbow, he hurried them away from the inn. ―Why do we need to go back to the ship?‖
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―I think he was saying that the captain‘s got a new agreement, and they need all hands to load the cargo.‖ Sule nodded. They walked quickly back to the place where the boat had set them ashore and waited to be taken back to the ship. ―You might want to straighten your clothes before you go back,‖ Olaf said, scanning the water. Sule looked down and saw that his shirt was halfway out of his trousers. He swore and tucked it in, then took a deep breath. ―I want to let you know, nothing happened back there.‖ ―Why do you want to let me know?‖ Olaf asked, turning to look at Sule. ―It‘s your body. You can do what you want with it. I don‘t care.‖ Then he turned back toward the sea.
SULE thinks that he should feel angry that Olaf doesn‘t care. Now he can start simmering again, just like he used to. But instead, he feels cold for the first time in his life.
―IS HE going to be all right?‖ ―They said he might lose the arm.‖ Sule sat in the galley, a mug of rum in his hands, listening to snatches of conversation as crew members walked past the doorway, talking about the raid that day, how it had gone wrong, and the terrible consequences. He had wrapped his own shirt around Nate‘s arm, trying to stop the bleeding, and by the time they got the boy back on board the bleeding had slowed, enough to replace the shirt with bandages. Nate would probably live. Whether he would have two arms a week from now was another matter. Sule took another sip of rum, trying to warm up, and heard footsteps pounding on the deck toward the galley. He stared down into his mug, not wanting to answer any questions, hoping that whoever it was would continue past the galley, but no such luck. The footsteps slowed, then stopped, and Sule heard a hoarse voice ask in Dutch, ―How badly are you hurt?‖ Sule looked up. Olaf stood in the doorway, his face chalky, Sule‘s bloody shirt in his hands.
294 | B. SNOW Sule shook his head. ―Just a scratch. Why do you have that?‖ he asked, gesturing with his chin at the shirt. ―I found it topside. No one knew why it was there or what happened to you.‖ Olaf sagged against the doorframe. ―I thought you were dead.‖ ―No such luck.‖ He looked down into his mug again, the silence in his head nearly deafening, and then suddenly Olaf was at his feet, clutching Sule‘s legs. ―I‘m sorry, I‘m so sorry, please come back to me. It can be the way it was, we don‘t have to ever do that again—‖ Sule stared down at him. ―What are you sorry for? I‘m the one who should be sorry.‖ He felt a lump in his throat, and his eyes began to sting. He pulled his legs free and climbed off the bench to sit on the floor with Olaf. ―I am the one who is sorry,‖ he said, looking down at his hands. ―Why did you run off, after we made love?‖ Sule frowned. ―Is that what—I thought you said that was a fuck.‖ ―I thought it would be. I was wrong.‖ Olaf took Sule‘s hands in his, just as he had on the bed. ―Tell me.‖ So Sule did. He poured out all of it: his enslavement and escape, his fights with strangers, his entire life that had been fueled by anger for so long, and now that anger was gone. ―I‘m… nothing now.‖ He shrugged, tightening his grip on Olaf‘s hands. To his surprise, Olaf laughed. In the past, Sule would have flown into a rage at being laughed at, but now he couldn‘t ignite even a spark. Before he could ask, Olaf said, ―You‘re not ‗nothing‘ without that anger. It was a poison, eating away at you, and it would have killed you one day. There‘s so much more in you than that.‖ Olaf stroked a hand over Sule‘s hair. ―You‘re a strong, brave man who‘s got a good brain and a good heart. I saw how kind you were when you helped me, even though you wanted me off the ship. If you truly had that emptiness inside you, you would have found a way to get rid of me.‖ ―I punched you. In the face.‖ ―You call that a punch? It‘s a wonder you ever won a fight.‖ Sule looked into Olaf‘s eyes, at his welcoming smile, and something inside him cracked open. ―God‘s blood, I‘ve been horrible to you.‖ He wrapped his arms around Olaf and felt arms go around his waist, warm hands on his back.
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―No, you haven‘t.‖ ―Yes, I have.‖ Olaf hesitated, then nodded into Sule‘s neck. ―Yes, you have. But you had your reasons.‖ ―No.‖ Sule shook his head. ―No reason to treat you like that.‖ Olaf pulled Sule closer. ―The poison, the anger, it‘s out of you now, right? Sule closed his eyes. The quiet that had frightened him was still there, but now he could see that it was cool and calm, like the sea after a storm has blown through. He nodded.
NO PLACE on the ship is quite as comfortable as a bed on land, but at least they don‘t have to sneak off the way they used to.
―EVERYONE on the ship knows,‖ Josiah said, rolling his eyes when Sule tried to mumble an excuse as to why he and Olaf were in the second mate‘s cabin with no shirts and a red bite mark on Olaf‘s neck. ―Except the captain, and we‘ve got a wager on as to when he‘ll figure it out. So don‘t go telling him, now.‖ ―No one minds?‖ Sule asked. ―Don‘t be daft,‖ Josiah answered on his way out the door. ―Crew sticks together.‖
―YOU‘RE on watch?‖ Olaf walked up to stand next to Sule at the port bow. ―Yes. It should be Nate, but….‖ ―That doctor says he‘ll probably keep the arm, might even have the use of his hand.‖ ―I hope so.‖ The two of them stood silently for a few moments, looking out at the moonlight reflecting off the water. The wind was so slight that William had ordered the sails furled and told the helmsman to stand down, leaving only Sule on duty.
296 | B. SNOW Olaf reached out and took Sule‘s hand. Sule smiled and tightened his grip. He felt his heart start to pound, but he also felt the quiet washing over him, and he wondered why he‘d ever hated losing his anger. ―You‘re still with me, even though I no longer burn hot.‖ Olaf smiled. ―You‘re still warm enough to heat my blood.‖ He started to unbutton Sule‘s shirt with his free hand. ―I‘m on watch,‖ Sule murmured. ―Stay on watch, then.‖ Olaf pulled his hand free and turned Sule to face the sea, then reached around in front of him to finish unbuttoning his shirt. Pulling it off and dropping it on the deck, he then unfastened Sule‘s trousers but let them puddle at Sule‘s feet. ―Keep your hands on the rail,‖ Olaf whispered into Sule‘s ear as he traced patterns across Sule‘s bare chest and back. It wasn‘t an order; Olaf never gave orders, but Sule had learned that Olaf‘s ideas were usually good ones. The night air was cold on Sule‘s chest, causing his nipples to harden, but Olaf moved in close behind him, warm and solid against his back, arms wrapped tight around him. Just when Sule‘s curiosity was about to burn through his patience, Olaf moved away, then tugged at Sule‘s feet, shifting them back just a bit so that he was leaning forward, hands still on the rail. The next touch Sule felt was a slick finger sliding between his buttocks, Olaf‘s other hand moving across his chest, over his neck and head, down to his stomach. Teeth gently bit the side of his neck as that finger pushed in and out of him, bit by bit, so slowly. Sule‘s eyes kept dropping shut with each stroke. Olaf could make Sule climax with just a finger inside him, and Sule could feel himself getting close. His eyes flew open in surprise when he felt Olaf pushing a second finger into him. That was new, and not very comfortable at first, but Olaf still moved slowly, gently, giving Sule‘s body time to adjust, and soon enough he felt his climax building again. But then Olaf pulled his fingers out, and Sule moaned in disappointment. ―Don‘t you dare stop now, you—oh.‖ Olaf had begun to push his prick into Sule, who tensed without thinking about it. But Olaf wrapped an arm around Sule‘s waist, kissed his neck, and Sule shut his eyes again, calling up that calm that Olaf had given him. Olaf moved back and forth, rocking gently, pushing himself in so slowly that
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Sule was the one beginning to lose patience, but Olaf would not be rushed. When he was finally all the way in, both men sighed. Olaf pressed himself against Sule‘s back and covered Sule‘s hands, still on the railing, with his own. As they stood there, leaning against the railing, Sule thought he would never feel better than he did at that moment. Then Olaf started to move. The fullness, the friction was so good, Sule let out a moan, uncaring if any of the crew heard him. Olaf kissed the skin between his neck and shoulder, then bit down on the muscles there, and Sule moaned again. Olaf rocked his hips, moving Sule with him, occasionally touching that sweet spot inside of Sule that made him cry out, his head rolling back onto Olaf‘s shoulder, his eyes squeezed shut with pleasure. Sule wanted desperately to touch his own prick, which smacked against his stomach with every thrust of Olaf‘s hips, but the only things keeping him from falling over were his hands on the railing, still covered by Olaf‘s. At that moment, Olaf stopped thrusting and lifted his hands off Sule‘s, wrapping his arms around Sule and pulling him upright against Olaf‘s chest. Without thinking, Sule lifted his arms and reached back, embracing Olaf, loving the feeling of warm breath and a rough, scratchy beard against the back of his neck.
OLAF unwraps one arm so he can reach up and stroke Sule‘s cheek, and Sule smiles. He‘s getting used to smiling these days. He turns his head to kiss Olaf, and even though the position is awkward, it‘s worth it to hear the hitch in Olaf‘s breath and feel their tongues slide together. Olaf wraps his hand around Sule‘s prick and begins thrusting again, and as he does so, Sule feels more than just the quiet filling him; he feels happy, happier than he‘s been since he was taken from his family. He‘s got a home again, on a ship full of men who are more than crewmates; they‘re his brothers. He has a lover who pleasures his body and warms his heart, quiets his anger and his fears. He‘s finally still, calm, happy.
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B. SNOW found her way into the magical world of M/M stories by way of fanfic and slash, and original characters began banging on her brain several years ago. If she can conquer her chronic procrastinitus, she may get that banging written down someday. Originally from the west coast, B. Snow and her husband now live in the Atlanta area, sharing a house with two very bad cats who are just lucky they‘re so cute. You can find more information at: http://bsnowwriter.blogspot.com/ and http://www.facebook.com/bsnow.writer.
ON THE WINGS OF LIR RILEY SHANE
HE WAS going to capture a pirate. Hugh Edwards couldn‘t believe his luck. For months he had debated whether or not to accept the offer his former tutor, Albert, had extended to him—an invitation to a private pleasure house… one that would meet the needs of a man like him. Excitement had warred with trepidation as he‘d approached what outwardly looked like an ordinary gentleman‘s club. If he were caught, the consequences would be far greater than the sheer embarrassment that had occurred the first time Albert had noticed Hugh‘s trousers filling out at the sight of him. At the time, Hugh hadn‘t been wise enough to panic over discovery. Now, he didn‘t want to think on what being caught with another man could do to him, to his family. His father made inventions for Queen Victoria herself. Hugh told himself that his lust for his own sex was foolish, not worth the risk. Yet denying his desires had become too much to bear. Hugh was tired of denying himself, and Albert had promised that the proprietor of this place and his… employees… were discreet. His decision to take his pleasures had gifted him with an unexpected boon: Patrick Kelly, captain of the Wings of Lir. The invention of airships some decades before had, Hugh learned, slowly brought about a resurgence in piracy. Airships had been created around the time of the famine in Ireland, and many investors sought to
300 | RILEY SHANE build their airship factories in Ireland where labor was cheap. Albert called the men fools, and Hugh could not disagree. Poor conditions and poorer management led to heavy numbers of thefts, and soon the air was besieged by pirates. It had taken a long time before the sky navy had been able to quell the pirate rebellion. Yet even now, pirates still sailed the skies: buccaneers who prided themselves on the number of merchant airships they could plunder. And one of the worst was Captain Kelly. Kelly had not come to the sky navy‘s notice until about a year ago, when he had begun targeting airships belonging to Lord Bradock, whose brother-in-law was the First Lord of the Admiralty. Hugh was a lieutenant on one of the airships that—at the urging of Lord Bradock— was tasked with capturing Kelly. They‘d come close to bringing down the Wings of Lir only a few days ago, but Kelly and his men had gotten away, doing enough damage in the process that Hugh‘s own ship had barely limped back to the dock. It would be another day or two before the airship was ready to set sail, and they‘d once again be on the hunt for that damn pirate. Now fate had smiled on Hugh. He had only taken a steam coach part of the way, not wanting even a coach driver to know the address he was visiting. As he‘d approached the pleasure house, the lights of the open door beckoned him. So too did the man inserting his invitation into the automaton guarding the door. It wasn‘t the color of Kelly‘s hair that made him distinctive, though the glint of red in the gaslight was what had captured Hugh‘s attention at first. Rather, it was the length of it. The man kept his hair long, like a barbarian. The dark red length fell, unbound, to his hips. Hugh had seen it whipping about him in battle and had been captivated, so much so that he‘d barely missed a meeting with a bullet. Kelly‘s arrogance in visiting the pleasure house tonight, undisguised and unafraid, would be his downfall. Hugh knew he couldn‘t call for aid. Not in the area he was in, not without explaining how he had discovered Kelly‘s whereabouts. But if he served the pirate up to the Admiralty on his own? He‘d have his own airship, at the very least. Kelly wouldn‘t admit to buggery; no sane man would add that to his list of crimes. Hugh‘s secret would be safe and a dangerous criminal would be captured. Stepping into the shadows, Hugh turned and ran back the way he had come. He had the perfect plan. All he needed were a few items from
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his father‘s workshop.
THE whelp was trying to poison him. Kelly wanted to laugh, but he kept his face sober. More cunning men than this obviously untried lad had tried to kill Patrick Kelly these past few months, and those men had been the ones to wind up dead. Had Bradock sent him? Kelly didn‘t think so. Bradock wouldn‘t waste a young, well-formed man like this one. The lad‘s coal-black hair curled around his face like an angel, and those incredibly blue eyes completed a face that looked heaven sent. It was those eyes that gave the man away. They were wide, nervous, yet eager. But it wasn‘t because of the pleasure house. He hadn‘t stopped to take in the sumptuous surroundings or the beautiful men whose company was for sale. No, the stranger had entered the room, immediately focused on Kelly playing cards with some other members, and casually joined the game. Kelly didn‘t tip his hand but instead looked to Tommy, his preferred companion here. A nod from him and a glance at the boy had Tommy doing his unspoken bidding. It wouldn‘t be the first time someone had tried to sneak into the pleasure house, either to murder or blackmail someone there. But when Tommy returned, a shake of his head indicated that the stranger‘s invitation was legitimate. Automatons guarded the entrances of the pleasure house; no one could bribe a machine. The invitations that allowed patrons entrance to the pleasure house were the work of renowned inventor Nathan Edwards. The clever little clockwork coins could not be replicated, and the automatons that guarded the entrance would be able to detect a forgery. It was possible the lad had murdered someone for the invitation, but Kelly had long ago learned to trust his gut. And his gut said the man beside him was not a killer at heart. Not to mention that, judging by the man‘s abysmal attempt at poisoning, Kelly rather doubted he would succeed in harming a blind and crippled dog. On the boy‘s finger was what looked like a signet ring. Had Kelly not been watching the lad out of the corner of his eye, he might have missed the almost imperceptible movement of the metal mechanism on the top of the ring when the stranger brushed his hand. Unwillingly, Kelly felt a pulse of desire for his would-be murderer, even as powder fell out of the ring and into his whisky glass. As the men at the table
302 | RILEY SHANE studied their cards, Kelly pretended to do the same while he lifted his glass and discreetly sniffed its contents. The young man was trying so hard not to watch him that Kelly almost laughed again. He did let out a snort when he realized what the lad had poured into his drink. Though the ring he wore was expensive and well-crafted, the powder it had held was cheap. It was a sleeping powder, potent yet rarely used since it left behind a faint but unpleasant smell when mixed with spirits. He set down the glass and raised an eyebrow at Tommy, who was watching him. As Tommy approached, the stranger turned, clearly distracted by the prostitute‘s sensual grace. For a moment, Kelly almost forgot his reason for summoning the man. Tommy‘s pale blond hair and dark eyes would complement the lad‘s dark-angel looks perfectly. Unwarranted jealousy crept up as Kelly saw them together in his mind‘s eye, slender limbs wrapped with practiced skill around a young, firm body, blue eyes gone hazy with want…. He drew himself out of his wayward thoughts, paused, and considered. He was jealous? Over this man? Interesting, but unlike him. Apparently the black-haired beauty next to him wasn‘t the only one distracted by Tommy‘s nearness. Deftly, Kelly switched his glass with the lad‘s. Then he sat back, his attention once again on the cards in front of him as he waited for the sleeping powder to take effect.
HUGH came awake with a groan. His head felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds, and he couldn‘t move. Opening his eyes, he saw the reason for the latter, and it wiped out all care for the pounding in his skull. He was bound with the ties he had taken from his father‘s workshop. The ones his father had finished making for a client the day before. The bindings looked and felt like silk, but in reality they were so much more. They could bend and be hidden away in a jacket pocket as Hugh had done. The ties looked harmless until you were bound by them. They couldn‘t be cut, not with the new metal mixture his father had created that was made part of the thread. ―Fascinating ropes you have on you,‖ a smooth voice boomed out. Lifting his head, Hugh realized with horror that he was not only bound to a bed, he was completely naked. And standing in the doorway of the room was Captain Patrick Kelly.
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―Nothing to say, boy?‖ Kelly‘s eyebrows lifted. Hugh licked his suddenly dry lips, taking in the sight of the pirate. Kelly was clad in only a shirt, breeches, and boots. The opening at the top of his shirt revealed sun-bronzed skin Hugh wanted to taste. Locks of red hair teased the fabric of his trousers, drawing Hugh‘s eyes to the bulge there. His response was immediate and apparent for all the world to see. Lips quirked, the pirate murmured, ―It would appear no words are needed.‖ Hugh felt his cheeks heat with fury. ―Where am I?‖ he snapped. ―Ah, I forgot you missed the trip. Well then, may I be the first to welcome you aboard the Lir.‖ A mock bow accompanied the announcement. ―I‘m afraid you‘ll be missing the tour also, having tried to poison me and all. Now then,‖ his voice was genial, ―if you don‘t want to find yourself walking the plank and falling to your death, you‘ll tell me what fool sent you on your errand. And don‘t bother lying. I‘ve little patience for it on a good day, and less than none when I have to give up a pleasurable evening to deal with a reckless boy and a bit of cheap sleeping powder.‖ ―I‘m not a boy.‖ It probably wasn‘t the best answer he could give, but it was embarrassing enough to be in this state without having to endure the pirate‘s taunts. Kelly came closer and sat next to the bed. ―I can see that for myself, but I do believe you‘re avoiding the real question. I‘m not your average fool of a sky pirate, lad, and I won‘t be distracted by a lovely body.‖ He flicked a finger down Hugh‘s side, the caress leaving an erotic burn in its wake. Hugh opened his mouth once, twice before a sound came out. ―No one sent me.‖ ―Did you not hear me?‖ Kelly‘s voice was dangerously soft. ―I‘m telling the truth. I‘ve seen you before. I know who you are, what you‘ve done. When I saw you enter the pleasure house….‖ ―You set out to capture a notorious pirate on your own,‖ Kelly finished the sentence for him. ―What were you looking to gain? Money? Position? Power?‖ When Kelly said it aloud, Hugh‘s plan seemed far weaker than it had when he‘d hatched it. ―I—‖
304 | RILEY SHANE A wave of the pirate‘s hand silenced him. ―I believe you, because only an overeager pup like yourself would make such a mess of a job. Bradock and his cronies wouldn‘t allow for such a disastrous plan. Though I will grant you, that ring of yours and these ties are fine tools. Another man with those might have succeeded where you failed. Are they of your design?‖ ―My father‘s.‖ ―A pity, for I‘d have use for someone with that kind of skill on my ship.‖ He tilted his head and seemed to consider Hugh. ―Of course, perhaps you have other uses….‖ Lust and fear clouded Hugh‘s mind as his desire for the older man warred with his own naked vulnerability. Kelly smiled. ―Or perhaps not.‖ He leaned down until his face was only a breath away from Hugh‘s. His hair fell like a curtain around their faces, adding to the intimacy of the moment. ―Listen here, boy.‖ The lilt in his voice came through stronger. ―You don‘t know who I am, what I‘ve done. I only take to bed what‘s given or sold freely. Here‘s a warning: not all men do.‖ ―Are you seeking commendation for piracy? You attack ships belonging to good and honest men—‖ The sigh Kelly released gusted across Hugh‘s lips like a kiss, and as the pirate shook his head, the locks of his hair brushed Hugh‘s cheeks in a soft caress. He licked his lips again, and Kelly tracked the action. ―You‘re beautiful, my angel. But blind. And, I fear, not ready for the likes of me.‖ ―What?‖ He felt the stab of something in his arm, and the world began to haze over. ―Things are not always as they appear to be. Ask yourself why no one gave a rat‘s bulbous ass about the pirate Patrick Kelly until a year ago.‖ Kelly‘s voice sounded distant. ―Then tell me about your ‗good and honest men‘.‖
WHEN he woke, Hugh found himself in bed, Albert leaning over him. His mentor was frowning. ―Where am I?‖
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―My home. You were found on the steps of the pleasure house.‖ ―How did I get there? I was on….‖ The Wings of Lir. Kelly. Had it been a dream? He shifted, then glanced down at the nightshirt he was wearing. It wasn‘t his. Not a dream. ―I had hoped you would tell me. A messenger was sent to me, telling me to retrieve my wayward guest. I got the impression that you‘re not particularly welcome there, and I hope you will understand if I do not risk my membership by extending another invitation.‖ As if a tumble with a whore was on his mind right then. ―Where are my clothes?‖ ―You weren‘t wearing any.‖ He closed his eyes against the anger over his humiliation. ―It was only prostitutes and myself who saw you that way. Still, it could have been much worse.‖ Albert shook his head. ―What have you gotten yourself into?‖ ―I‘m not entirely sure,‖ he muttered. ―But I‘m going to find out.‖ One Year Later
WHERE cunning failed, outright strength would succeed. If Hugh wanted to capture that cursed pirate, he couldn‘t very well do so on one of the large, slow ships of Her Majesty‘s Sky Navy. They‘d encountered the Wings of Lir again, nearly six months ago. It wasn‘t long after they opened fire that Kelly‘s crew released hundreds of the smallest automatons Hugh had ever seen. The automatons swarmed throughout the airship like locusts, attracted to the metal of the airship‘s weaponry. They clogged the cannons, made the firearms useless. By the time the pirates were done with them, the airship had nearly been torn to pieces. None of Hugh‘s comrades had been harmed, but their defeat stung, particularly for Hugh. Kelly had spotted him in the thick of battle, he was sure of it. The knowing grin that had flashed his way brought back the feelings of bound helplessness… and unforgotten desire. After that encounter, Hugh resigned his commission with the sky navy. With the aid of his father, he managed to arrange a meeting with Lord Bradock. What better way was there to catch the elusive Captain Kelly than to be outfitted for battle by the man who hated him the most?
306 | RILEY SHANE Bradock had seen Hugh‘s hunger, had believed the carefully edited tale he had woven to garner the man‘s financial support. He‘d gotten what he wanted: a fine airship in the Falcon, a crew, money, and supplies. He had a year to capture Kelly or Bradock would take back all that he had granted. Half of that time was over, but Hugh wasn‘t worried. He was closing in on the man. The money Bradock gave him was most helpful when used for bribes; there was no such thing as honor among thieves. A handful of coins in the right hands had revealed that Kelly would likely attack one of Bradock‘s merchant airships that was departing from Glasgow. His assignment would have been easier had Bradock given him the dates and destinations of his merchant ships. But the lord refused all of Hugh‘s requests for information and had grown angry with him over the matter at their last meeting, when Hugh had asked what cargo was being stolen. There was something in the man‘s eyes… something Hugh didn‘t trust. The crew of the Falcon was a crude, shifty-eyed lot whose loyalty to Bradock‘s purse was likely the only thing keeping them from murdering Hugh in his sleep. Listening to the men, Hugh began to wonder about his employer. The time he spent captaining the Falcon forced him to consider what Kelly had said about good and honorable men. The nights, both on land and amongst the stars, left him with too much time for his thoughts to drift to the pirate. He remembered the feeling of Kelly leaning in close and wondered how it would have felt if he had closed the gap between them and taken Kelly‘s lips with his own. In his waking hours, he could cut off his thoughts at that, but in his dreams he wasn‘t so lucky. Many nights he woke sticky with his own seed, the fading memory of imagined pleasure making his pulse race. The man had left him naked in front of a brothel, and yet still Hugh wanted to taste him, touch him, hear Kelly call him ―my angel‖ in that soft Irish lilt. He was brooding in his cabin when pounding on his door startled him. He opened the door to see the rotting smile of his first mate, Tiber. ―What is it?‖ ―The Wings of Lir has been spotted.‖ Pushing aside his doubts, Hugh smiled at the man. ―Very good, Tiber. Prepare the ship; we‘ll not be blown to scrap metal by a damn pirate.‖
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IT APPEARED his angel had made a bargain with the devil. Kelly lowered the spyglass and grimaced. On any other day, he would have been amused by the boy getting in over his head with the likes of Bradock. His good humor was cut short by the fact that the Lir couldn‘t afford to be fired on with the cargo they were carrying. ―Should we open fire, Cap‘n?‖ O‘Malley asked. He shook his head. ―I don‘t want to risk any hits right now. Go to the engine room. Sound the distress signal and make it look like we broke something. And tell Ross I need to speak to him.‖ ―Ye think that‘ll stop ‘em from attackin‘? Respectfully sayin‘, Cap‘n, yer outta yer wits.‖ A sharp glare had O‘Malley retreating to do as he was ordered. Kelly rolled his shoulders and prayed to all the saints. He was risking a lot on the honor of a man he barely knew.
HIS men were not pleased that Hugh wouldn‘t let them fire on Kelly‘s airship. It could be a trap—Hugh wasn‘t foolish enough to trust a pirate. At the same time, it didn‘t sit well with him to fire on an airship in distress. They let the Wings of Lir approach and kept their guns at the ready. The pirates stood on deck, unarmed and unthreatening. ―Permission to come aboard?‖ Kelly shouted. Hugh nodded at Tiber, who pulled the lever for the metal plank to unfold. It bridged the gap between the two airships, and Kelly came across, hands out to his sides. When the pirate leaped onto the deck, he smiled. ―It seems we have a bit of a problem… Captain,‖ he said. Hugh‘s eyes narrowed at the smirk in Kelly‘s tone. ―I‘d say you were the one with the problem, pirate. Tell me why I shouldn‘t blow your airship out of the sky.‖ ―Killing unarmed men? I don‘t think that‘s like you.‖ ―You have no idea what I‘m like.‖ ―But I‘d like to.‖ Kelly‘s voice was so soft Hugh barely heard him. Then Kelly clasped his hands in a prayerlike gesture. ―My ship needs to dock before it falls straight into the sea. I need not tell you it‘s far less buoyant on the water than it is in the air. I‘m asking for safe passage.‖
308 | RILEY SHANE ―It‘s a trap,‖ one of the men muttered. Hugh ignored him, staring into Kelly‘s dark brown eyes. ―How do I know this isn‘t a trick?‖ ―I‘d give my word of honor, but I doubt you‘d believe me.‖ ―That would be correct. I‘ll need something more valuable in exchange.‖ ―Such as?‖ ―You.‖ ―Why, angel, I didn‘t know you cared.‖ Hugh fought the urge to blush and narrowed his eyes instead. ―Keep talking, and I might choose not to believe your tale of woe. If you‘re so honorable, then you‘ll trade yourself for the safety of your men.‖ Kelly glanced at his airship, then back at Hugh. ―Fine.‖ That was a surprise; he hadn‘t thought Kelly would agree to the bargain. ―You‘ll give yourself up, just like that?‖ A sharp nod. ―I told you once before, lad. Things are not always as they seem.‖ ―Do you have Lord Bradock‘s cargo on board?‖ ―There are no stolen goods on the Lir at this time, Captain.‖ Hugh believed him, but there was something in the way Kelly spoke that made him think there was more to the story. He turned to Tiber. ―Pull back the bridge and let them pass.‖ ―But—‖ ―We‘ll follow the Wings of Lir and check it for stolen cargo once it has landed. We‘re not attacking an airship without cause, Tiber, no matter whose airship it is. Should the airship be clean as Kelly claims, then we‘ll leave it be and take Kelly to Lord Bradock.‖ The men didn‘t look happy, but they did as Hugh commanded. By the time the Wings of Lir sailed by, Kelly had shaken off his seriousness, and a cocky grin was in its place. This time, Hugh smiled back. ―Lock him in the brig.‖ That wiped the smile off the man‘s face.
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HUGH stretched as he entered his cabin, trying to release some of the tension in his neck. There was muttering going on among the crew, and he‘d been concerned they‘d blow the pirates out of the sky regardless of his command. It struck him as odd. Not their hatred of pirates, but the fact that men such as they would rather destroy the Wings of Lir than raid it for cargo. What was on that airship? He‘d find out soon enough. ―Your position in the world has markedly increased since last we met.‖ He jumped, startled by that silky smooth voice. Kelly was on his bed, stretched out on his side like he hadn‘t a care in the world, one arm propping up his head. ―How—?‖ The other man pulled a small metal object out of his boots. Hugh had seen those clever little keys before. Their shifting grooves were the bane of any locksmith‘s existence. His father had a few in his workshop and even now was using them to create more secure locks. ―I imagine you know what this is, your father being Nathan Edwards and all.‖ ―You know who I am?‖ ―Oh, beautiful, did you think I‘d forgotten you? I couldn‘t possibly. I had to learn more about you after our last adventure.‖ His words were mocking, but something in his face made Hugh‘s breath catch. Annoyed with his own weakness, he pulled out a knife. Kelly arched his eyebrows. ―Do you mean to gut me from all the way over there? Not even your… blade… is that long, lad,‖ he said with a wink. ―I won‘t let you escape.‖ ―I have no intention of escaping. Not when I‘m exactly where I want to be.‖ ―You wanted to be on one of Bradock‘s airships?‖ ―In your bed, angel. In your bed.‖ Hugh opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, an explosion rocked the Falcon. He slipped, the knife falling from his hand. It slid toward Kelly, who rolled off the bed and kicked the blade away. Before Hugh could get to his feet, Kelly had him pinned against the door, his back to the pirate‘s front. Warm air brushed his ear as Kelly sighed.
310 | RILEY SHANE ―I do hate a missed opportunity, but alas, there just isn‘t enough time.‖ ―It was a trap.‖ ―Well, I didn‘t actually give you my word of honor that it wasn‘t, now did I? You should have asked for it.‖ Shouts from outside the cabin had Hugh struggling. Kelly merely leaned harder into him. ―Don‘t be a fool twice. You should know by now you‘re not the only captain with an eye for inventions. Remember the plague I visited upon your last airship? They‘ve been improved.‖ ―That‘s why you let me take you prisoner. So you could disable our weapons before your men attacked.‖ A nip on his ear made him jolt. ―Clever lad. You should have checked my pockets. Now, you have a choice: you can crawl back to Bradock or you can come peacefully aboard the Lir, and we‘ll be holding you for ransom. I can promise you that my men are far less likely to kill you than your own.‖ He turned slowly, and Kelly let him. Facing the other man, he weighed his doubts about Bradock against the stupidity of trusting a pirate. ―If my father pays the ransom, you‘ll let me go?‖ ―Ah, beautiful,‖ Kelly‘s eyes twinkled with laughter. ―You won‘t want your father to be paying my price.‖
HIS angel had a dazed look about him as he stepped onto the deck of the Lir. Bradock‘s crew was too busy scrambling to keep the Falcon in the skies to make any foolish attempts at an attack. They‘d make it back to port, though Kelly couldn‘t honestly say he‘d be sorry if they crashed. He‘d faced many of those men before—criminals one and all, who took pride in preying on the weak. He signaled Ross to take charge, and as the Lir set sail, he took his young man by the hand. Wide blue eyes stared at him as he led the lad below deck. ―Are you throwing me in the brig?‖ Kelly laughed. ―Not today, Hugh.‖ That brought the man up short. ―You used my name.‖
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―Did I? How interesting.‖ He wasn‘t ready to talk about that yet. ―I want to show you something, if you‘re ready to look past your pride.‖ ―Lord Bradock‘s goods?‖ ―No man‘s goods.‖ Comprehension seemed to dawn on Hugh as Kelly led him to the sleeping quarters. Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned their way. Not one of the boys or girls they‘d taken from Bradock this time could be more than fourteen. The bastard had gotten cannier in the past year; children were easier to subdue than their elders. ―It‘s safe now,‖ he reassured the youths. He looked at Bridget, who minded the rescued ones until the Lir got them to safety. She took charge of the room as he turned to go back up the stairs, and Hugh followed in his wake. The other man said nothing until they reached Kelly‘s cabin, but as soon as he closed the door, Hugh bombarded him with questions. ―What is Bradock using those children for? Are all of his airships used for this? Why haven‘t you informed—‖ His eyes narrowed as Kelly placed a hand over his lips. ―The children are bought or stolen and sent to brothels. Not all of his trade is in flesh, but plenty of it is. And yes, before you ask, we happily relieve that rotter of any cargo he carries, human or otherwise. Bradock‘s been using threats or bribery to keep this quiet since he started trading flesh, which, as best I can tell, was about three years ago. Even if he didn‘t… who would believe the word of pirates and street urchins?‖ ―I would.‖ He smiled at the fire in his angel‘s eyes. There was vengeance in those blue depths. ―You would now. Would you have listened a year ago?‖
HUGH felt his stomach pitch at Kelly‘s words. No, he wouldn‘t have listened a year ago. Not before he‘d met Bradock, and not when his ideas of what people should be had been so intractable. ―Here now, angel. Don‘t look defeated.‖ Kelly brushed a hand against his cheek. ―I don‘t know what to do. If I go back, confront Bradock….‖
312 | RILEY SHANE ―He‘ll try to bribe you, and when that fails, he‘ll kill you. Or he‘ll kill you on sight and be done with it.‖ ―He has to be stopped.‖ ―You‘re not telling me anything I don‘t already know, lad.‖ Looking at Kelly, Hugh made a decision he knew would alter the course of his life forever. ―You can‘t take me back.‖ ―Care to tell me why?‖ ―I won‘t go. Not until Bradock is stopped.‖ ―Are you angling for a position on board the Lir?‖ ―This isn‘t a jest.‖ ―No, it isn‘t. But I‘ll warn you, right and wrong up here in the skies isn‘t always the same as it is on land. You‘ve a lot to learn about being a pirate.‖ ―I‘m willing to learn.‖ He stuck out his hand. ―Do we have a deal?‖ Kelly took his hand, and the grin that flashed across his face was Hugh‘s only warning before the other man yanked him close. ―What if I still want my payment?‖ ―My body as ransom?‖ he breathed against Kelly‘s lips. Kelly nipped his lower lip in response. ―You can‘t have it. I‘m a pirate now, Captain Kelly. I don‘t give, I take.‖ With that, he crushed his lips against Kelly‘s, plundering the pirate‘s mouth as he wound his fingers through soft-as-silk hair. He pushed Kelly back until they reached the bed and the other man tumbled back, pulling Hugh down with him. They rolled, Kelly coming out on top with Hugh pinned beneath him. He felt his erection pulse as it rubbed against Kelly‘s through layers of fabric. Kelly took his mouth, and Hugh was lost in sensation. He felt his arms being drawn up, but he didn‘t care. Not until he felt familiar ties wrapping around his wrists. ―What are you doing?‖ ―I‘m not about to let some young whelp of a pirate get the best of me. I‘ll be the one doing the taking, beautiful.‖ Kelly‘s eyes shone with humor. ―I‘ve fantasized about this since the last time I had you bound to
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my bed. If you want to be free, you‘d best tell me now.‖ ―I want to be free.‖ The surprise and disappointment on Kelly‘s face was almost enough to make Hugh take it back, but he waited quietly until the bonds were undone. Kelly rose from the bed but stopped as Hugh began to remove his jacket. As he shrugged out of his clothes, the older man‘s eyes tracked his movements. Leaning back, Hugh raised his arms over his head. ―It would seem that you don‘t think of everything, Captain. Binding a fully clothed man? Now who‘s being foolish?‖ Kelly laughed loud and long before he hurriedly removed his own clothes. Then he straddled Hugh, and that beautiful hair Hugh had long dreamed about fell against his naked skin. He shivered at the contact, making Kelly smile. When the silken metal ties wrapped tight around his wrists once more, Hugh let out a sigh of contentment. Kelly shook his head and smiled. ―If I had known this would happen, I never would have let you out of my bed the last time.‖ ―I‘m not sure I would have wanted to go.‖ Warm, callused hands stroked his skin with teasing softness. A scrape of nail here, a light-as-air touch there… nothing was predictable where Kelly was concerned. The almost tender seduction made him feel drugged with lust. By the time Kelly‘s hand closed around his shaft, Hugh could do no more than whimper. ―Kelly, please.‖ ―You look even more beautiful when you‘re begging for me, angel,‖ he said as he stroked his hand up and down Hugh‘s shaft, pausing every so often to tease the sensitive crown. When Kelly released him, Hugh‘s eyes flew wide open. But Kelly was only reaching for something—oil, Hugh realized. He slicked his own length, and Hugh was spellbound by the sight, for once wishing his hands were free so he could do the task for Kelly. ―Next time,‖ Kelly murmured, seeming to read his mind. ―Raise your knees for me, Hugh.‖ He did as Kelly instructed, and his heart pounded at the thought of what would come next. Kelly coated his fingers with more oil before touching the entrance to Hugh‘s body. With gentle persistence he pushed
314 | RILEY SHANE in, first with one finger, then two. Hugh welcomed the invasion and thrust back, silently urging Kelly to move faster. ―Aren‘t you the eager one?‖ That cocky grin reappeared, but there was a warmth in the expression that made Hugh smile as well. Those smiles stayed on both their faces as Kelly entered him. His pace remained tender and unhurried, a pleasant surprise for Hugh. Tension built inside him as Kelly moved in and out until each thrust was ratcheting the pleasurable ache higher. He began to pull at the ties that held his arms immobile, and Kelly shifted, grazing against a spot inside Hugh that had him crying out. Kelly repeated the motion, and that boiling tension erupted, streaming out of his shaft as Kelly took his mouth, drinking the sounds he made. With a groan, Kelly broke the kiss and clenched Hugh‘s bound wrists in one hand. Kelly bit Hugh‘s lip, and Hugh relished the small pain as the other man‘s seed filled him. When Kelly let go of his lip, Hugh tasted blood. Gasping, Kelly pulled back slightly. He looked at Hugh‘s face, touched the wound on his lip. ―I‘m sorry for that,‖ he huffed out. Hugh shrugged as best he could. ―It will heal. I can barely feel it anyway.‖ Kelly separated himself from Hugh and released his bonds, rubbing feeling back into limbs that were rapidly going numb. ―Thank you.‖ ―Are you thanking me for rogering you?‖ Kelly smiled. ―You do have lovely manners, beautiful. We‘ll have to do something about that if you‘re going to make it as a pirate.‖ He rolled his eyes at that. ―You‘re mad.‖ Kelly pulled him over until he lay blanketed above him. ―Who but a madman would bring the man who tried to poison him onto his crew?‖ Hugh shook his head and laid it against Kelly‘s chest. ―I don‘t suppose that pointing out it was sleeping powder, not poison, would do me any good.‖ ―None at all.‖ Kelly grew quiet again and stroked a hand up and down Hugh‘s back. Hugh was content to lie there and listen to the beat of Kelly‘s heart.
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―It isn‘t a safe life up here, angel,‖ Kelly finally said, all traces of levity gone. ―Not when there are men like Bradock after you.‖ ―I know that,‖ Hugh murmured. Lifting his head, he met Kelly‘s gaze and smiled. ―But what Bradock has done… I cannot ignore it. Besides, there‘s freedom here on the Wings of Lir. A freedom to‖—he rubbed against Kelly—―be without fear. And if I were looking for the safe life, I would never have set out to capture a pirate.‖ ―I don‘t suppose that pointing out it was I who captured you would do me any good,‖ Kelly teased. ―None at all,‖ Hugh repeated back. Then he leaned forward and took Kelly‘s mouth in another plundering kiss. Limbs tangled as they began to move together once more. Problems like Bradock could wait for a day or two. The airship was on course as it sailed the skies, taking its young passengers to safety. How odd it sounded: pirates righting the wrongs of a ―good and honorable‖ man. Hugh didn‘t stop to let himself wonder at that, or the strange turn his life had taken; such thoughts could wait for another day. At that moment, he was simply content to step into the new life that waited for him on the Wings of Lir. More importantly, he was ready to explore the pleasures to be had in the arms of his pirate.
316 | RILEY SHANE
RILEY SHANE is a native Californian who has spent the years since graduating high school bouncing around the world at every opportunity. When not being shanghaied by loud, demanding, often-crazy characters, Riley collects degrees and useless information. Most of the time you can find Riley buried under a mountain of books, but it‘s far easier to find Riley on the web at http://www.rileyshane.com, http://rileyshane.blogspot.com, and on Twitter (@rileyshanebooks). Contact Riley at
[email protected].
THE WINDS OF CHANGE MAGGIE LEE Nassau, New Providence Island, November 1717 Under the Sign of the Dog and Duck
―DAMN it, Seb, get a move on!‖ Theo Cook turned to scowl at his friend, who was strolling leisurely along the quay as though he had all the time in the world. Sebastiano quirked a quizzical eyebrow, but he did nothing to quicken his pace. Cook sighed, fighting down his frustration. Unfortunately, Seb was right; this was the fifth week they‘d spent idling away in New Providence with little indication that they‘d be leaving any time soon. There really wasn‘t any reason to hurry. Craning his neck, Cook scanned the calm waters of the sheltered bay to see if any new boats had docked, but the same tired sloops bobbed listlessly in their moorings. If things didn‘t pick up soon, he and Seb would be forced to sign on with one of these motley crews and take their chances stalking the small trading vessels that wove between the islands. He sighed again; though pickings would be slim, he supposed it was marginally better than watching their dwindling resources slip through their fingers day by day. Cook shook himself, trying to dislodge his unease. ―Today is our lucky day,‖ he declared hopefully.
318 | MAGGIE LEE ―You said that yesterday, Cook,‖ Seb pointed out mildly. Cook slid an arm around his friend‘s shoulders. ―The wind is about to change, you‘ll see.‖ Sebastiano smiled indulgently, and Cook felt his own mouth twitch in response. He kept an arm slung around his friend and forced a little more speed into their pace. It was already past noon, and the place was beginning to stir; the taverns along the waterfront were rapidly filling with dozens of sailors looking for work, and Cook didn‘t want to lose out on any offers that might come their way. He tipped his head up and sniffed the air. The wind would soon be blowing out of the northeast; in the next few days, all of the boats anchored alongside the quay would be slipping out of harbor and making their way out to sea. If he and Seb didn‘t secure a place by the end of the week, they‘d be stuck in Nassau for unforeseen weeks to come, and although this was the best place in the world when they had money lining their pockets, it was one of the most unforgiving places to end up penniless. ―Where to today?‖ he murmured, studying the shabby taverns crowded together behind the seawall. There wasn‘t much to choose between them; each served the same watered ale and rotgut, each was as squalid as its neighbor, and filled with the same disreputable cutthroats and cunning whores. ―Anywhere but The Dragon,‖ Seb replied. ―They won‘t extend credit until we pay off some of the tally.‖ ―About as likely as a flying pig,‖ Cook snorted. ―Anyway, their ale tastes like cat piss. No, today I think we‘ll give The Dog and Duck a tickle.‖ ―Are you sure?‖ Seb asked doubtfully. ―We owe them almost as much as The Dragon.‖ Cook patted his back. ―I told you, I have a good feeling about today. Besides,‖ he added, ―The Dog is Teach‘s favorite haunt. I hear he‘s due in soon.‖ ―I‘ve heard that same rumor for the past three weeks,‖ Sebastiano said evenly. Cook studied Seb‘s face, but there didn‘t seem to be any reproach behind the words. ―I know, mi querido, but today—‖ ―—our luck is going to change,‖ Seb finished dryly.
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―I feel it in my bones,‖ Cook said, ignoring the sarcasm. He slipped his hand in Seb‘s and tugged, and his friend followed reluctantly into the dimly lit tavern. They chose a table close to the door, and before long one of the barmaids approached, carrying a pitcher of dark ale and two battered mugs. ―Afternoon, sweetheart,‖ she said, winking at Cook. She nodded coolly at Sebastiano, who managed to keep most of his disdain off his handsome face. ―C‘mere, darling.‖ Cook pulled her onto his knee and settled her squarely over his half-hard cock. ―Did you miss me, Rosie?‖ he murmured. She wriggled suggestively, laughing loudly when Cook buried his face against her exposed breasts. His nose wrinkled at the smell of her floral perfume, barely masking the rank odor of sweat that rose off her unwashed body. Despite that, his cock still stirred. She rubbed herself against his groin and gestured with her head toward the back room. Cook caught Sebastiano‘s dark eyes and saw the resignation on his friend‘s face. He cupped Rosie‘s heavy breast and brought her puckered nipple to his lips, his tongue darting out to lick a cool trail around its nub, and Seb looked away, flushing deeply. When Cook hesitated, Rosie mewed a little sound of annoyance. She glared at Seb, her lips thinning. ―He still leading you about by the cock?‖ she said spitefully. Seb‘s face darkened almost imperceptibly. ―Don‘t be like that, Rosie darling,‖ Cook sighed. ―You‘re all the same,‖ Rosie grumbled. ―Too much time at sea with only each other for company. You forget what a woman is for.‖ ―That‘s a bit rich,‖ Cook muttered; after all, he‘d spent almost half his share of their last booty between her legs. But her implication stung anyway. Ignoring the pinched set of Seb‘s lips, he set Rosie back on her feet and followed her into the small room behind the bar, closing the door firmly on Seb‘s palpable disappointment. The dark room reeked, sweat and vomit vying with the earthier musk of spent lust. There were already several people coupling frantically, and Rosie wasted no time elbowing her way through and hiking up her skirt, her back pressed against the wall for support. Cook made quick work of it, his knees trembling as he pumped into her wet heat, and at the moment of climax it was Seb‘s face he imagined from behind tightly closed lids. Rosie dropped her skirt and smoothed her hair
320 | MAGGIE LEE while Cook tucked himself back into his breeches. He gave her a final peck on the lips and slipped a silver real between her ample breasts, and it was with an odd sense of relief that he sent her on her way. Outside, Seb was nowhere to be seen, and Cook decided to give him a little time to regain his good humor. He meandered along the dirt track the locals had taken to calling Bay Street, as though the name alone could add respectability to the ramshackle cluster of inns, taverns, and brothels that made up the port of Nassau. Some twenty years ago, this had been Charles Town, consisting of little more than a dilapidated stockade and a handful of palm-roofed huts. After the Spanish had burned the outpost to the ground, the fort had been rebuilt and the town renamed Nassau. A few years later, Henry Jennings had been driven out of his old haunt of Port Royal in Jamaica by Governor Andrew Hamilton and had seized the sparsely populated, ungoverned island of New Providence with its sheltered harbor and claimed it for his followers. Since then Nassau had become a haven for pirates; now some five hundred of their number used this place as a base from which to launch attacks on the merchant ships plying the waves between Europe, the colonies in America, and the Caribbean islands. Cook sighed loudly as he strolled past the busy alehouses, avoiding the press of hopeful men gathered in each doorway. With so much ongoing activity, Nassau had seemed the perfect place to rest up for a week and blow the booty from their last foray, and when their previous ship had taken to the seas again, he and Seb had stayed behind. Little did they know that they‘d get stuck here long after the last of the major sloops had sailed, and long after their gold escudos and silver reales had been squandered on ungrateful drabs and rotgut or gambled away on loaded dice or rigged games of basset. He reached the outskirts of town and managed to sneak into the tiny back room they rented without the landlord seeing him and demanding payment. Seb was standing beside the window, gazing longingly out to sea. He had stripped down to his breeches against the room‘s oppressive heat, and Cook took a moment to drink in the sight. His friend‘s lean body was finely toned by years of punishing work, first on European trading ships, then on the British privateer that had raided his vessel and pressed him into service. His olive skin, warm brown eyes, and jet black hair spoke of his Spanish birth, though years of working with the English had blunted his once thick accent. He
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occasionally slipped into his native tongue, mostly when his blood was stirred, or to teach Cook the rudimentary phrases he needed to philander or to plunder. Cook had first encountered Sebastiano Cortez in the late summer of 1716, shipping out from this very port on the Postillion, under the command of the French captain Olivier Levasseur. He was, quite simply, the most beautiful man Cook had ever seen, and he‘d been determined to have him whatever the cost. Seb had surrendered to him easily enough, and Cook had taken full advantage of his new friend‘s lusty nature as they‘d fucked their way through the waters of the Virgin Islands. When the voyage was over, he‘d been shocked to discover that he didn‘t want to cut Seb adrift as he had so many times before with other shipboard liaisons. Seb had somehow gotten under his skin, a combination of dark beauty, a fiery passion that made Cook‘s blood sing, and a steadfast devotion that Cook didn‘t truly understand, even as he reveled in it. Seb‘s head was turned westward, his eyes fixed on the horizon. ―They‘re coming,‖ he said softly. Cook crossed the room and came up behind Seb, sliding his arms around his friend‘s waist. Seb‘s skin was warm and smelled faintly of spice, and Cook pressed himself closer, burying his face against Seb‘s shoulder. A fragrant breeze blew in off the ocean, the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle heavy on the air. Outside the window a mangrove tree blocked the view to the east, but the western vista over the Caribbean was clear for miles. ―They‘re finally coming,‖ Seb repeated. Cook raised his head and squinted, unable to see so much as a speck on the calm water. But Seb‘s eyesight was keen, and he didn‘t doubt his friend‘s assertion. Even now Teach‘s vessels would be weaving through the cays, then slipping between the northern coastline of New Providence and the narrow spit of land at the western end of Hog‘s Island and into Nassau‘s sheltered harbor. ―How long?‖ he whispered against Seb‘s ear. Seb shrugged. ―An hour, maybe two.‖ ―Time enough, then,‖ Cook murmured. He dropped his hand and cupped Seb‘s cock, gently turning his friend around to face him. Seb grimaced. ―You smell of that whorelet….‖ ―Harlot,‖ Cook corrected absently, his fingers tracing the outline of
322 | MAGGIE LEE Seb‘s stiffening prick. Seb hissed out a breath, and Cook looked up at his pained expression and winced. ―Lo siento, mi querido,‖ he mumbled, not sure whether he was apologizing for the badly timed English lesson or for leaving Seb high and dry while he spent the last of their money on an indifferent whore. Seb‘s expression softened. ―Your language is ridiculous, you know,‖ he chided, and Cook recognized the peace offering and accepted it gratefully. He licked a wet line up the column of Seb‘s throat, pushing aside his heavy golden earrings to nip at the delicate skin below his ear. Hooking a hand behind Seb‘s neck, he wrenched at the eelskin tie that bound his hair, releasing it to cascade around his shoulders. Seb‘s liquid eyes found his, and he wet his succulent lips in anticipation. He leaned forward, but Cook pushed him back against the wall and held him in place, one hand splayed across his chest while the other teased at the hardness between Seb‘s legs. Seb rolled his head back, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, and Cook watched through narrowed eyes, relishing his ability to make his friend writhe and moan with nothing more than a simple touch. He stroked Seb‘s smooth chest, his hand looking red and raw in comparison to Seb‘s flawless, tawny skin. ―Teo,‖ Seb whispered. As always, the slight mispronunciation of Cook‘s first name sent a shiver down his spine. He looked up into desperate eyes as Seb covered his stroking hand and pressed hard against his rigid erection. ―Por favor, Teo,‖ he begged. Cook was done teasing. He tugged down Seb‘s breeches and, with one hand braced against the wall, went to work stripping Sebastiano‘s cock in firm, rhythmic strokes. He pressed their mouths together and swallowed Seb‘s moans, his hand blurring on Seb‘s prick until his friend arched his back and shuddered to noisy completion before relaxing against him, blissfully spent. He gave Seb a moment to pull in a few calming breaths, then murmured, ―Bend over for me.‖ His quick fumble with Rosie had barely taken the edge off his rampant desire, and Seb‘s glorious abandon was powerfully arousing. He slid a hand underneath Seb‘s cock and worked a finger up into his tight hole, making his intentions known. Seb squirmed, but he spread his legs a little wider, and Cook stroked in and out quickly, loosening the passage as
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best he could. He watched Seb‘s expression closely, and when his eyes went wide and his pupils dilated, Cook spun his compliant partner around and pushed him face down over the table, fumbling his own breeches open. He smoothed his hands over his friend‘s muscular back, feeling deceptive strength under soft skin. Rubbing his leaking cock against Seb‘s backside, he gasped as it slid between Seb‘s cheeks and nudged up against the puckered opening to his body, and a moment later Seb reached back with both hands and opened himself up. Cook shuddered at the gesture, so utterly trusting, and grasping his own cock, he pressed forward, fighting the dry resistance until Seb‘s body yielded and took him in. Cook moaned at the heat and tightness, and at the sight of Seb spread out so wantonly underneath him. He slid back, then slammed forward forcefully, grunting as Seb‘s muscles clenched around his prick; soon his fingers were digging into Seb‘s hips as he built a hard, fast rhythm, mindlessly driving toward his own gratification. He came with a hoarse cry, dragging Seb up and off the table and pumping deeply into him, feeling his friend struggle to keep them both upright. Trembling on unsteady legs, he panted harshly against Seb‘s back until his cock softened enough to slide wetly out of Seb‘s loosened hole. A moment later, Seb gently disentangled them and tumbled them onto the messy sheets of their narrow truckle bed. Stretching lazily, Cook tugged Seb‘s head down and kissed his wind-chapped lips, tasting the sticky residue of cheap rum. ―It will all work out,‖ he promised, cheerfully optimistic now that Teach was drawing near. Seb snorted in disbelief, but he didn‘t seem able to summon the energy to argue. Instead, he tucked in against Cook‘s side and soon fell asleep. Cook dozed fitfully as the hot sun inched across the room and the shadows lengthened. At times like this, he wondered why he ever fucked anybody else; nobody had ever given him what Seb offered so passionately and so freely. He tightened his arm, pulling Seb closer, and drifted into sated sleep.
BY
THE time they made it back outside, the sun had gone down.
Fortunately they had made this journey dozens of times before, and were able to follow the well-worn path with relative ease. Seb had been right, and Teach‘s two ships were now docked in the
324 | MAGGIE LEE bay, the Revenge casting its shadow over the smaller Sea Nymph. They stopped beside the quay, watching as the boats were unloaded in the light of guttering torches. Several iron-bound caskets were carried off the Revenge that Cook knew contained golden doubloons and silver pieces of eight, plundered from Spanish merchant ships. Along with that booty were barrels of molasses from Cuba, bales of cotton from Jamaica, and sugarcane from Guadeloupe, all captured off the trading vessels that sailed from the islands to various European ports. The gold and silver would be shared amongst the captain and crew; the other goods would be offloaded to the smugglers who hovered like buzzards over carrion, waiting to pick off the best of the cargo. In turn they would load up the small ketches that lined the dock and ferry the goods back between the islands. The waterside was seething as dozens of sailors off Teach‘s small flotilla thronged the harbor in pursuit of women, liquor, and games of chance. Cook led them back to The Dog and Duck, quickly spotting Edward Teach, who was seated at one of the larger tables, surrounded by his crew. Pushing his way through the crowd, Cook stopped as the captain looked up and grinned. ―Cook,‖ he bellowed. ―Welcome. Sit down, man.‖ He nodded cordially toward Seb. ―Sebastiano. You look well.‖ Teach had always had a fondness for Seb, and Cook couldn‘t help but wonder at their relationship. Rumor had it that Teach had upward of a dozen ―wives‖ in different ports throughout the islands, not to mention several in Europe, so Cook knew it was unlikely that they had been intimate. Still, when Teach turned his brilliant blue eyes on Seb and locked gazes, Cook saw his chance. ―We‘re looking for a berth, Captain,‖ he said quickly. Teach beamed and clapped Seb on the back. ―Well, my friends, you‘re welcome aboard the Revenge,‖ he declared. ―We set sail day after next.‖ Cook exchanged a triumphant look with Seb. ―Didn‘t I tell you, querido?‖ he murmured into Seb‘s ear. ―Today is our lucky day!‖
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On Board the Revenge
COOK stepped onto the wooden planking that ran alongside the quay, squirming under the weight of his duffel. Seb was following close behind, and he murmured his appreciation as they drew alongside the Revenge. A single-mast, shallow-draught sloop sturdily fitted with twelve guns, she was as trim as any ship Cook had ever sailed. Captain Teach was already on board, and Cook had to admit that he cut an impressive figure. He stood some six feet tall and was dressed in a crimson frock coat; his deep-set eyes were sharp and intelligent, and his dark, bushy beard covered much of his face and was so long that Teach had to braid it to keep it from flying about in the stiff island breeze. Some of the crew had taken to calling him Blackbeard behind his back, though there were those who whispered that he had actually invented the nickname himself in order to augment his growing reputation. Even in dock he wore a brace of pistols, and his polished cutlass hung from a scabbard by his side. He was a formidable man, and it was easy to see why he was fast becoming the most feared pirate on the high seas. As they climbed aboard, they were greeted by William Howard, Revenge’s quartermaster, and when he‘d rounded up all the new recruits, he solemnly pulled out a leather-bound ledger. ―Articles of Agreement, gentlemen,‖ he said. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud. ―That every man shall obey his commander in all respects; that no man shall dice or game at cards for money; that pistol and cutlass shall always be clean and fit for engagement….‖ Cook tuned out Howard‘s droning voice, already well-versed in the rules that were designed to maintain discipline on board. When Howard finished reading, he held up a tattered Bible. ―Do you so swear?‖ he demanded. The assembled men mumbled their assent. Howard nodded. ―Those who can, sign your name; the rest of you make your mark.‖ Once they had signed the articles and stowed their duffels, they joined the rest of the crew in getting the ship sea-ready. As they carried fresh supplies on board, Cook weighed up the men who would be their companions in the long weeks ahead. Numbering over seventy on the Revenge alone, three out of every ten were Negroes captured from the European slave ships that regularly crossed the Atlantic Ocean. They kept to themselves, silent, watchful men who carried the scars of their brutal pasts on their backs. The others were mostly British privateers,
326 | MAGGIE LEE like Cook, who chose to continue pillaging even though they were no longer protected by their government‘s letters of marque; or former Royal Navy seamen escaping the harsh discipline and scant rewards of serving under the pleasure of His Majesty King George I. Like Sebastiano, the rest hailed from a dozen different seafaring nations, their ancient grudges forgotten in the pursuit of adventure and riches. After an hour humping barrels under the pounding sun, Cook had sweated through his cotton shirt and knew his face was bright red with exertion. Seb seemed unaffected, swinging from dock to deck as lithely as a dancer. ―Your friend is causing quite a stir.‖ Cook‘s head whipped around to find Philip Morton, the ship‘s master gunner, standing by his side. Cook cast about and noticed several pairs of eyes surreptitiously following Seb‘s progress. ―Do you two travel together?‖ Morton continued. Something about the way he asked the question and the way his eyes fixed so intently on Seb made Cook think that the words had some subtler, underlying meaning. He glanced sidelong, trying to read Morton‘s expression. ―We shared many a berth in the past year,‖ he replied carefully. Morton turned his head, looking directly into Cook‘s eyes. ―He‘s a very fine-looking man, your friend.‖ This time the meaning was clear, and a flash of understanding sparked between them. ―He is,‖ Cook replied, then added, ―my friend,‖ aware that his own emphasis left little doubt about the nature of his relationship with Seb. Morton‘s brows arched speculatively. ―I look forward to getting to know you better,‖ he said, and with a lingering look at Seb he turned and sauntered off. When Cook looked back, Seb had slowed his pace and was wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve. He glanced up, flashing an impish grin, his eyes bright with exhilaration, and Cook‘s breath stuttered as an unfamiliar rush of uncertainty swept through him. It seemed impossible that this exotic beauty had chosen to share everything with him; after all, Cook considered himself a plain enough man. Unlike Seb‘s luxuriant crowning glory, he kept his hair close-cropped; his skin was pale and burned easily, while Seb‘s dark complexion glowed with health and vitality; his vivid blue eyes could appear cold and hard, where Seb‘s were filled with warmth and humor.
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―Teo?‖ Cook was startled to find Seb standing next to him, a concerned look on his face. He managed a reassuring smile. ―I‘m fine,‖ he said. ―Just sun-struck.‖ ―You know better, Cook,‖ Seb admonished. ―Go cool off below deck.‖ ―Aye,‖ Cook said, shaking himself out of his momentary lapse. ―Seb….‖ Sebastiano turned back, frowning slightly at Cook‘s hesitation. He felt foolish, wanting to express how profoundly Seb stirred him but unable to find the words. In the end he shrugged. ―I‘m glad we found a place together,‖ he finished lamely. Seb smiled. ―Yo también, mi amigo,‖ he agreed. They worked steadily until the captain gave the signal; then the crew disembarked to swarm the taverns and whorehouses one last time. Teach had lent Cook an advance against his share of their first prize, and he spent the early evening settling the markers he and Seb had run up at the taverns along the waterfront. Their last port of call was The Dog and Duck, and Cook had just pressed three silver pesos into the innkeeper‘s sweating palm when he felt a hand slide around his waist and fondle his cock; a moment later, Rosie was whispering an invitation into his ear. His prick thickened at the sultry promise in her voice, and he turned and tugged her against his body. Her reddened mouth found his, and he kissed her deeply, his rising excitement pressing against her sticky petticoats. ―One for the road?‖ she breathed. ―On the house.‖ Cook shivered as her warm breath tickled his ear. He glanced over her shoulder to catch Seb‘s attention, stiffening when he saw that Philip Morton had slid into his place next to Sebastiano and was pouring a large measure of rum into Seb‘s glass. Morton leaned in to say something directly into Seb‘s ear, and Seb drew back and smiled shyly. Morton seemed momentarily dazzled; then his arm came up casually, and he draped it across Seb‘s shoulders and leaned back in to continue their conversation. Cook backed away from Rosie‘s busy hands, muttering, ―Another time, darling.‖ He pushed her aside brusquely, ignoring her foul-mouthed protest, and strode across the room. Seb nodded a greeting as Cook sat down opposite Morton, who pushed the bottle of rum across the table toward him.
328 | MAGGIE LEE ―No luck for Rosie tonight?‖ he asked. ―I have better things to do tonight,‖ Cook answered coolly, his eyes flickering toward Seb. ―I see.‖ Morton arched an eyebrow, and his arm slipped off Seb‘s shoulders. Cook stood abruptly, startling the other two men. ―We‘re leaving,‖ he said. ―You won‘t stay for another drink?‖ Morton asked, his question directed at Seb. Seb shook his head and rose. ―Pity,‖ Morton said. His eyes traveled the length of Seb‘s body, and it was all Cook could do not to drag his friend out of the tavern. As it was, he shoved a little too hard, and once outside Seb stopped suddenly, shaking Cook‘s hands off him. ―What was that about?‖ he demanded. ―It‘s our last night in port!‖ ―Exactly,‖ Cook said. ―Our last chance to be alone.‖ He held up the bottle of rum that he‘d swiped from Morton‘s table. ―I settled the account with our landlord. I‘m sure he‘d let us have the room one last night.‖ A slow smile spread across Seb‘s face, but then he sobered. ―You won‘t see a woman for weeks…‖ he started, but Cook waved him off. ―I don‘t care about that,‖ he said, surprised at the truth of it. Everything he wanted right now was standing in front of him, eager, willing, and more skilled in pleasure than any whore he‘d ever paid for. He backed Seb into a darkened corner and nuzzled his neck, then sucked hard, wanting to leave a mark. Pressing his lips to Seb‘s ear, he whispered, ―I want you to fuck me.‖ Seb shuddered at the request, so uncommon between them that he drew back and stared into Cook‘s eyes, as though checking for sincerity. Obviously satisfied with what he saw, he licked his lips and nodded. Half an hour later, Cook found himself face down on a stained mattress with Seb‘s swollen cock pumping its warm load into him. When Seb withdrew and settled beside him, Cook lay on his belly, balancing the knife edge between pleasure and pain, refusing to look too closely at the strange possessiveness that had overtaken him when Morton had turned hot and hungry eyes on Seb.
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The Blackbirder
―SAIL two points on the starboard bow!‖ The lookout‘s voice caused a flurry of activity as men crowded to the side of the ship, shading their eyes against the midmorning sun in the hope of spotting the potential prize. Still almost twenty miles to the southeast, they wouldn‘t be able to determine the vessel‘s purpose for hours yet. ―Bring her about, Mr. Howard.‖ Captain Teach‘s voice carried clearly over the excited babble of the men, his instructions echoing from bow to stern. They had slipped out of harbor three days ago, as soon as the wind had shifted, leading a convoy of vessels past Hog‘s Island and Silver Cay and into the vast blue ocean. The ships had scattered once they‘d navigated the cays, each taking a different path to try its luck. Revenge traveled in consort with Teach‘s smaller sloop, the Sea Nymph, and was presently patrolling off the coast of Martinique. Cook glanced sideward as Seb shouldered in beside him. ―A threemaster,‖ Seb said, his eyes trained on what appeared to Cook to be an empty ocean. Minutes later, Teach pulled out his spyglass. ―She‘s French,‖ the captain said. ―A three-master,‖ he confirmed, and Seb winked at Cook, looking justifiably smug. ―I count seven guns each port and starboard,‖ Teach continued. ―Mr. Howard, run up French colors. Let‘s see if we can lure the little lady in.‖ One of the men rummaged in an old sea chest and pulled the French flag from a tangle of other nations‘ colors, running the motheaten scrap of cloth up the flagpole, where it snapped to attention in the oncoming wind. Teach trained his spyglass back on the ship, which plowed on steadily through the waves making no effort to evade them, obviously reassured by their false colors. ―La Concorde,‖ Teach said slowly, reading the name off the ship‘s side. ―She‘s fast,‖ he murmured appreciatively. ―A blackbirder, I‘ll warrant.‖ Cook shuddered. Of all the ships carrying merchandise across the Atlantic, he hated the slave ships and their wretched cargo most of all: the stench of cowed and terrified humanity, the surly crew, weakened by
330 | MAGGIE LEE scurvy and dysentery after months at sea, and the querulous officers, watching their profits literally disappear before their eyes. He caught Seb‘s eye, easily reading the revulsion on his friend‘s face. Not many of their kind were keen on the blackbirders; if nothing else, they carried little in the way of booty outside of their human cargo, which was of precious little use to seafaring men. But Teach had obviously taken a liking to the trim vessel; he signaled Howard, who shouted, ―Make ready, men,‖ and Cook hurried to join the rest of the crew in preparing for attack. Revenge maintained course, sailing directly toward the French vessel, with the Sea Nymph keeping pace off her port side. Cook gagged as they closed in on La Concorde. The foul stench that permeated all slave ships could be smelled from miles out. ―She‘s a blackbirder sure enough,‖ Teach said. Cook glanced at the captain but didn‘t see any of his own disgust on the man‘s face. He‘d heard that Teach had first sailed into these waters on a slave ship out of Bristol, and he appeared to have few scruples about the sorry cargo. ―It‘s time to show them our true colors,‖ Teach called. Within moments, the French flag had been pulled in, and the sign of the Death‘s Head was waving in its place. Cook could well imagine what the sight would do to the crew of the French ship, lulled into thinking they were allies only to find themselves sandwiched between two pirate vessels, trapped as though between the pincers of a crab. ―Gentlemen, let them know we mean business,‖ Teach ordered. Cook ran to the side of the ship, yelling at the top of his lungs and waving his pistol; the rest of the crew followed suit, and soon the air was filled with the menacing roar of hundreds of voices, all screaming for the destruction of the lone French ship. This close, Cook could clearly make out the faces of the enemy crew and see fear underneath the pallor of fatigue. As he watched, the ship‘s captain pushed his way through his men, casting a practiced eye over Revenge and Sea Nymph, quickly calculating how vastly outnumbered and outgunned he was. With an eloquent shrug, he reached for his pistols and made great show of placing them on the deck; then he raised his empty hands in surrender. Cook smiled grimly; not a single shot had been fired. ―Prepare to board,‖ Teach called, and next thing Cook knew, he was swinging from a rope between the two vessels and landing next to Seb on La Concorde’s weathered decking.
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On board, the smell was even more appalling, and the crew looked in worse shape than Cook had first thought. There were barely twenty of them by Cook‘s reckoning, and those on deck had the slack, bruised skin of men suffering from scurvy. To a man, the crew were thin and sallow, the dry crusting around their colorless lips speaking of lack of water, the blood flecks and gap-toothed mouths attesting to their diseased state. By now Teach had boarded La Concorde, and the captain of the French ship made a curt bow in his direction. ―Capitaine Pierre Dosset, à votre service, monsieur,‖ he said. ―Je vous présente le lieutenant Francois Ernaud. Nous sommes….‖ ―Speak English, man,‖ Teach cut in, scowling fiercely. Captain Dosset inclined his head. ―We are a merchant vessel, sir,‖ he said, betraying barely a hint of an accent. ―What business do you have with us?‖ Teach grinned. ―Why, the business of relieving you of your goods, Captain,‖ he said amiably. ―Surely you understand the purpose of those who sail under the black flag?‖ Dosset frowned. ―We have nothing but slaves on board. They are of no use to you; you must allow us to continue on our way.‖ Teach drew himself up to his full height, easily towering over the sulky Frenchman. ―I‘ll be the judge of what is of use to me,‖ he growled. ―Now, I want to see your manifest. Make haste!‖ Cook joined Teach and Howard as they crammed into Captain Dosset‘s well-appointed cabin. After ransacking the contents of several drawers and trunks, Teach made himself comfortable at Dosset‘s desk, flicking through the ship‘s log and cargo manifest. ―You picked up five hundred and sixteen Africans off the Gold Coast in September. How many are still alive?‖ ―Four hundred and fifty-five,‖ Ernaud replied crisply. ―We‘re bound for Fort de France.‖ Cook exchanged a satisfied smirk with William Howard. La Concorde was barely sixty miles from its destination, just days away from profiting off the lives of the unfortunates sweltering in the hold below. ―Forty crew,‖ Teach said, reading off the ship‘s manifest. ―How many are still fit?‖
332 | MAGGIE LEE ―Twenty-three,‖ Ernaud replied, with a shade more compassion in his voice. ―Well, let‘s take a look, then,‖ Teach said. Cook had known the dreaded words were coming, but he shuddered nonetheless. Back on deck, the dispirited crew of La Concorde was sitting in a circle, huddled together. Seb and the men from the Revenge had pistols trained on them, though they were scarcely needed; any fight the French once had in them had long since fled. Cook moved reluctantly to the hatch that led to the ship‘s hold, and pulling in a deep breath, he popped the clasps, recoiling violently as the stench of death and decay flooded his nostrils. Despite thinking himself prepared, he couldn‘t avoid retching noisily onto the deck. ―You there!‖ Teach signaled to the French crew, so used to the smell that they didn‘t so much as flinch. Several of them struggled to their feet, and with further signals from Teach, they disappeared down into the hold. Moments later a black head appeared at the hatch, and a fearful procession of debased humanity crawled slowly out of the belly of the ship. They cringed in the sunlight, squinting and shielding their eyes; shackled together with heavy iron manacles, they were all naked, women and men both, and so emaciated that their bones protruded through taut ebony skin. They were coated in their own filth, and Cook had to step back several paces to keep the rest of his stomach from emptying. When the hold was empty, an eerie silence descended over the ship as crew and cargo surveyed each other warily. Then Teach‘s voice rang out. ―Mr. Howard, secure this vessel.‖
HOURS later, Cook was thankful to be back on board the Revenge and several miles downwind of La Concorde. He hung over the side of the sloop, breathing in deeply of warm, sweet-smelling air. Below, the bluegreen waters of the Caribbean were crystal clear, so transparent that he could make out fish swimming in the depths. ―Here you are.‖ Cook looked up to find Philip Morton standing beside him, holding out a wooden trencher heaped high with salmagundi. For a moment his stomach rebelled; then it clenched as hunger nudged aside nausea. He took the plate gratefully and sat with his back resting against the warm wood of the hull.
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Morton hunkered down beside him, and they ate in silence, shoveling the spicy mixture of fish, poultry, and vegetables into their mouths. ―I hear we‘re setting sail for Bequia,‖ Morton said. ―The captain has taken a shine to that French blackbirder. He means to convert her for his own use.‖ Cook shrugged, not really caring what they did with the gruesome vessel. ―Where‘s your beautiful friend?‖ Morton asked. ―With the party that stayed on board the slaver,‖ Cook replied. Morton‘s eyes narrowed. ―You‘ll likely miss him tonight.‖ Cook looked at Morton, easily reading the invitation in the man‘s eyes. Morton was a handsome devil, his clean-shaven face and unruly blond hair making him look young and incongruously innocent. Cook didn‘t resist when Morton‘s hand reached out to rest on his knee. ―I thought it was Seb caught your fancy,‖ Cook said. Morton smiled, and his hand moved higher on Cook‘s thigh and squeezed lightly. ―I appreciate beauty in all its forms,‖ he said, his voice suddenly husky. Cook snorted. ―You don‘t need false flattery with me.‖ ―False?‖ Morton echoed, sounding bemused. ―I never expected modesty….‖ He trailed off and looked sharply into Cook‘s face, his eyebrows shooting up in amazement. ―By God, do you not know yourself?‖ he asked incredulously. ―Those wild eyes, that tight arse, those luscious lips, just begging to be kissed.‖ His hand slid the last few inches, rubbing against Cook‘s rapidly swelling prick. ―And this,‖ he breathed. ―I‘ve wanted this since the minute I clapped eyes on you.‖ Cook gasped as Morton squeezed hard, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. He licked his lips slowly, and Morton‘s eyes widened, the question on his face as clear as though he‘d spoken it aloud. Cook nodded briefly and clambered to his feet, leading the way to the ship‘s prow. There was precious little privacy on the open deck, but darkness provided some cover, and Morton was well-practiced. They fumbled open the flaps to their breeches; then Morton‘s callused fingers closed around Cook‘s length as he guided Cook‘s hand to his own stiff prick. ―Your friend won‘t mind?‖ Morton breathed.
334 | MAGGIE LEE Cook frowned. ―Why would he? He knows this means nothing.‖ Apart from a mildly reproachful look once in a while, Seb had never complained when Cook‘s attentions wandered. Morton shrugged, his hand closing more tightly around Cook, forcing all other thoughts out of his head. They worked quickly, Cook watching Morton‘s flushed face as he pumped vigorously, grunting as Morton‘s hot seed spilled into his loose fist. In return, Morton‘s rough palm scraped the sensitive skin of Cook‘s length, and he groaned loudly as he came in a sudden, violent burst. A moment later they were both tucked in and tidied away. ―I wonder if I would find your friend as accommodating?‖ Morton mused, his appraising eyes fixed on Cook‘s face. ―More to the point, would I find you barring the way if I approached him?‖ ―Sebastiano does as he wills,‖ Cook replied shortly. ―I might just test that assertion,‖ Morton said. He shook his head. ―If I had that beauty in the palm of my hand, I‘d be sure to keep him close.‖ Cook shrugged; Seb had never shown any interest in following up on the speculative looks and whispered invitations he regularly received. Still, that knowledge did nothing to ease the sudden knot in Cook‘s gut at the thought of Morton‘s adept hands working Seb the way they had just so thoroughly serviced him.
A
DAY later, the three vessels docked in Bequia‘s hidden bay and unloaded La Concorde’s miserable human cargo. Cook watched as they waded ashore, his eyes searching for Sebastiano amongst the men who had been left behind to steer the ship into harbor. His mouth dried when he caught sight of Seb, black curls escaping from a tightly clubbed braid, his expression unusually grave. Seb raised his head, his eyes unerringly finding Cook‘s, and a tired smile quirked his lips. Cook wanted to slide his arms around his friend‘s waist and pull him close, but he wasn‘t about to make a fool of himself. Instead he asked, ―¿Cómo estás?‖
―Better, now that I‘m off that damned frigate,‖ Seb sighed. ―It was bad?‖ Cook asked. He knew that Seb had no stomach for La Concorde’s economic practices and precious little regard for those who made their living that way.
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Seb nodded silently, his eyes fixed on the slaves huddled together in terror. ―Poor bastards,‖ he muttered. He eventually tore his eyes away and glanced at Cook. ―How goes it with you?‖ he asked. Cook shrugged. ―As always,‖ he replied. ―But I missed you sorely.‖ Seb‘s mouth tightened at the unaccustomed sentiment, and his eyes swept the area until they fell on Philip Morton. His head swiveled for a moment between Cook and Morton, looking at each intently, but if he put two and two together, he was experienced enough not to show it. By the time the sun began to dip behind the low hills to the west, the former slaves had been decked out in a bizarre assortment of clothing raided from the sea chests of the French sailors and supplemented by donations from Teach‘s crew. Men and women alike wore breeches and cotton shirts, and each had been given a scrap of cloth filled with hardtack and salted turtle meat. Several of the crew had been assigned to conduct the group to the outskirts of the nearest settlement and see that the locals understood that they were freed people. Cook doubted they would stay that way for long; the Europeans whose slave cargoes were intercepted in the Middle Passage usually sent swift replacement ships to round up their property, and there seemed little chance that these would remain at liberty for more than a few weeks. When the last of them had straggled out of camp, attention turned to Captain Dosset and his shipmates. Teach had ordered his smallest vessel to be gutted, and the men had stripped her of guns and supplies, sail and rigging, until she appeared a shadow of her former self. Teach then rounded up the French crew and ordered them on board. ―And what of my ship?‖ Dosset demanded. Teach smiled tightly. ―I think you‘ll find she‘s my ship now, Captain,‖ he replied amid jeers and howls from his men. Dosset scowled. ―Will you at least give us food and water?‖ ―You‘ll have as much as you gave those unfortunates,‖ Teach snarled, his head gesturing in the direction of the retreating slaves. Dosset blanched, but he recovered quickly when storage barrels were loaded on board, enough food and drink to last for the several days it would take to reach Martinique, provided they rationed wisely. ―You may keep Sea Nymph with my compliments,‖ Teach said, waving his hand magnanimously. ―We‘ll consider it a trade.‖
336 | MAGGIE LEE Dosset‘s lip curled in disdain, and he barked out a sharp order. Within seconds, several oars appeared, and while Lieutenant Ernaud counted out a beat, the weary French sailors began to row. Teach‘s crew yelled and whooped from the water‘s edge as the sloop drifted slowly back out to sea, although they gave up the sport long before the vessel disappeared over the horizon. Cook was glad to have Seb back beside him, and that night they threw a blanket down on deck, enjoying the salty night air and the gentle swell of the ship beneath them. After the rest of the crew had fallen into rum-soaked sleep, Cook slid a hand over Seb‘s hip, worming his fingers under his shirt to stroke the warm expanse of skin. Seb groaned quietly and caught Cook‘s hand, guiding it past the waistband of his breeches until Cook was cupping Seb‘s hard cock. He didn‘t waste any time, just moved his fingers quickly up and down the taut length until Seb tensed and came with a muffled cry, and Cook barely needed more than a stroke or two of his own prick to finish himself off. Seb squeezed his hand and murmured his thanks, then rolled onto his side and quickly fell asleep. The last thing Cook was aware of was Seb‘s deep, rhythmic breathing, the murmur of waves lapping at the ship‘s hull, and Philip Morton‘s sharp eyes watching intently from the darkness.
OVER the next days, they worked to convert the French ship to Teach‘s specifications; stripping out the bulkheads that had been set up in the hold and carefully setting small brimstone fires to drive out the smell; tearing out the forecastle and re-rigging the vessel; then adding the guns that had been removed from the Sea Nymph. By the end of the week, the work was complete, and Captain Dosset would have been hard-pressed to recognize his old ship. Teach issued a double ration of rum so the crew could celebrate the launch of their new flagship. At the height of the celebration, he unveiled a painted nameplate with their ship‘s new name proudly displayed. ―Queen Anne’s Revenge,‖ he declared, for the benefit of the many who could not read. ―Mark my words, brothers, with this sloop underneath us, we‘re all going to get very rich!‖
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And a Bottle of Rum
―THREE-MAST brigantine two points off the port bow and closing fast!‖ Teach raised his spyglass, and a moment later a satisfied smirk spread across his features. ―Shake a reef out of the ‘fore topsail, Mr. Howard,‖ he ordered. ―Let‘s see what the Queen Anne’s Revenge can do!‖ The brigantine slowly revealed herself as they closed in. ―The Great Allen,‖ Teach said. ―I think she‘s out of Boston. She‘ll be carrying a pretty penny. Run up the Union flag.‖ Cook felt a thrill shiver through him, alive to the excitement coursing through the ship. Teach lifted his spyglass again, then let out a string of colorful curses. ―Damn her to oblivion! She‘s spotted us for a fake. She‘s making a run for it.‖ At a gesture from Howard, the Jack was pulled in and Teach‘s distinctive insignia, a skeleton toasting the devil, was hoisted up the flagpole. ―Put the ship before the wind,‖ Teach shouted. ―The chase is on.‖ The well-trained topmen swarmed up the rigging and unfurled the sails, the canvas sheets falling like the curtains in a music hall; others manned the oars and began to pull strongly in rhythm, and soon they were slicing through the water as easily as a sharpened cutlass through flesh. ―Helm hard to port,‖ Teach roared. Cook re-balanced himself as the ship turned sharply, riding the swell and roll of displaced water. Morton was grinning madly, and Cook glanced up to see that they had almost caught up to their prey and that the Revenge was harrying the Boston trader‘s far side, pressing her toward them. ―By God, she means to make a stand,‖ Teach said, sounding impressed. From what Cook could see, the Great Allen had a fair number of cannons on deck, but between Teach‘s two sloops, she was vastly outgunned. Still, the next moment proved Teach right as a loud crack rent the air and a cannonball exploded against the Queen Anne’s side, shattering several of her timbers and sending shards of wood flying in all directions. ―On my mark,‖ Teach roared. ―Fire!‖ In a great boom and flash of gunpowder, Morton‘s cannons leapt to life, and when the haze of yellow sulfur dissipated, Cook saw that the Allen’s mizzenmast and main topmast were smashed, her hull pockmarked with holes, and her sails hanging in shreds. There was little
338 | MAGGIE LEE time to celebrate as Howard urged the men forward. Cook found himself swinging onto the trader‘s splintered deck and was so hard-pressed by the enemy that he soon lost sight of Seb. Putting all else aside in an effort to secure the ship, Cook slashed his way steadily forward while ducking and weaving to avoid his foes until he heard Teach‘s deep voice booming across the ship. He glanced up to the quarterdeck in time to see Teach level his sword against the throat of the Boston trader‘s captain and to hear the captain‘s strangled shout of surrender. He cheered alongside the rest of his crew as the Great Allen’s men dropped their weapons with a loud clatter, giving up the unequal fight and loudly begging for quarter.
THE Allen yielded three caskets of gold dust and a store of silver plate before her crew was cast ashore on the isolated island of St. Vincent and the ship put to the torch. Teach‘s fortunes held over the next weeks as they plundered numerous profitable frigates, even adding to their flotilla when the French crew of the sloop Montserrat Merchant voted to join them rather than see their ship destroyed. Their wealth was steadily mounting, and after a particularly rewarding haul, Teach dropped anchor and broke open cases of Madeira wine and Jamaican rum captured from a Portuguese merchant ship. Two of the crew dragged out a fiddle and a pennywhistle and began playing an energetic reel, and soon the men were cavorting madly around the deck, blind drunk. Teach thumped Seb on the back. ―Didn‘t I tell you?‖ he crowed. ―We‘re the fastest sloop on all the seven seas.‖ Seb laughed and poured a measure of rum down his throat. ―Aye, Cap‘n,‖ he agreed, his eyes shining. Cook had just polished off his second bottle of sweet Madeira when the world suddenly tipped, and he found himself lying on the deck, watching blearily as men bobbed and weaved wildly around him. Seb hove into view, swaying to the music, and Morton appeared, his arm snaking around Seb‘s waist. Cook struggled to sit up and speak, but he couldn‘t get his mouth to work properly, and his head was spinning too fast. Moments later his vision blurred, and he blacked out just as Morton bent his head close to Seb‘s beautiful, smiling face. Cook woke some time later, his head thick with drink and his tongue afire with thirst. He lay still, eyes tightly shut, every part of him protesting
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his overindulgence. The ship rolled gently, tugging against its anchor, and Cook waited for a moment while his stomach adjusted to the swell. When he finally opened his eyes and cast about, Seb was nowhere to be seen, so he struggled painfully to his feet and lurched toward the ship‘s prow, stopping along the way to rinse his mouth out with the dregs of a bottle of rum. He carefully navigated the unconscious men stretched out across the deck and cocked his head, hearing a faint noise in the darkness. The night was still as Cook found himself drawn toward the muted sounds. He crept closer, stopping suddenly, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. Seb was illuminated in the moonlight, his back pressed against Philip Morton‘s chest, his head thrown back against the man‘s shoulder. One of Morton‘s hands swept across Seb‘s naked torso, and the other was wrapped around Seb‘s engorged cock, playing up and down its pulsing length. Seb‘s dark skin glowed under the silver light, his nipples tightening as Morton‘s fingers dragged across them. Corded muscles strained against Morton‘s touch as Seb‘s head thrashed slowly from side to side. Cook couldn‘t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by the sight. He didn‘t think Seb had ever looked more debauched—or more beautiful. Seb thrust his hips forward, driving into the talented fingers that Cook knew so intimately. As Seb writhed, Cook‘s prick stiffened so quickly that he gasped out loud. Morton‘s face was buried against Seb‘s neck, but he lifted his eyes at the sound, and they locked with Cook‘s and held fast. His pumping hand suddenly sped up, and Seb tensed and moaned aloud, spurting thick, milky ropes onto the deck that glistened in the moonlight. Morton held tight as Seb trembled in his arms, then relaxed with a lush sigh. With his eyes still fixed on Cook‘s face, Morton bent Seb forward and began to thrust, revealing what Cook had not seen up to that moment, that Morton‘s cock was buried deeply inside Seb‘s welcoming body. Stumbling away, Cook barely made it to the edge of the ship before he doubled over and retched into the water below, knowing that his queasy stomach had nothing to do with the vast quantities of wine he had consumed and everything to do with the look of sheer, uncomplicated bliss that had transformed Seb‘s face.
340 | MAGGIE LEE The Winds of Change
THE easterly winds that gave name to the Leeward Islands were blowing up next day as Teach‘s small flotilla set a course north toward the lucrative hunting grounds of the West Indies. Cook had been spared a confrontation with Seb, who‘d been temporarily assigned to the Revenge as Teach evened up the crew on each of his three vessels. Cook watched bleakly as Seb climbed into the jollyboat that would ferry him to the smaller ship, afraid to look into his eyes in case he saw how much the encounter with Morton had meant to him. In all the time they had been together, in the face of all the liaisons Cook had flaunted, Seb had never once strayed, and Cook didn‘t know what he‘d do if Seb‘s expressive features revealed that last night had been anything other than a meaningless, rum-sodden fumble. ―Looks like we‘ll soon be adding to our wealth.‖ Morton‘s voice sounded close to Cook‘s ear. ―Rich pickings up around the northern islands.‖ Morton leaned against the rails, watching Seb‘s rowboat slip away, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Cook turned, his stomach clenching when he recalled the image of Seb abandoned to pleasure in this man‘s arms. ―Did you enjoy yourself last night?‖ he asked, cringing at the resentment so obvious in his voice. Morton looked at him quizzically. ―With Seb?‖ he asked, the affectionate familiarity grating on Cook‘s nerves. ―I told you I was going to give it a try. You should have warned me if it vexed you.‖ ―Why should it vex me?‖ Cook snapped, feeling like a fool. Morton had made his intentions toward Seb plain enough, and Cook had done nothing to discourage him. Morton inclined his head and studied Cook keenly for a moment. ―You didn‘t expect him to assent,‖ he observed astutely. Cook looked away, afraid to betray the truth. He‘d taken Seb‘s faithfulness for granted, though he hadn‘t offered the same in return. After months of unwavering devotion, he‘d assumed that Seb would always be his for the taking. There was undeniable bitterness in discovering that Seb could be just as easily persuaded to stray. And there was no small amount of dread. Cook was honest enough to admit that Morton had done nothing wrong in trying his luck, and he couldn‘t deny that Seb had more than
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enough reason to welcome Morton‘s advances. He‘d never bothered to consider what Seb felt to be continually set aside in favor of a casual fuck with a nameless whore or a random shipmate. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to square things or if Seb had finally come to his senses and moved on to better things.
THEY continued their raiding, but success had made Teach increasingly reckless, and now he was as likely to burn the ships after they were looted, with little regard for the unseen merchants whose investment they were so carelessly destroying. ―We can‘t continue like this,‖ Morton observed as he and Cook watched yet another frigate go up in flames. ―He‘ll bring the Royal Navy down on us.‖ As if Morton had seen the future, the next day the HMS Seaforth, accompanied by the thirty-gun man of war HMS Scarborough, suddenly loomed over the horizon. ―We‘ll stand and fight,‖ Teach bellowed, his eyes blazing wildly. ―We have them outnumbered!‖ Cook looked around, aghast. Although their flotilla outmanned the Royal Navy vessels, he knew that the inexperienced, unruly pirate crews were no match for the disciplined, well-trained British. A tense silence fell, each man keenly aware of the hangman‘s rope that awaited should they be captured. ―There‘s no sense in that,‖ a voice called. ―What booty will we get from a navy ship?‖ ―We‘ll show them who owns these waters,‖ Teach declared. Cook exchanged a puzzled frown with Morton. Attacking poorly defended merchantmen was one thing; taking on the might of the British Navy was something akin to madness. ―Captain, they‘re on the move,‖ the quartermaster shouted, and the decision was suddenly taken out of their hands. The British frigates were moving rapidly, sails fully unfurled and gusting in the wind. The Revenge was only five miles off their port side, but the unfortunate Montserrat Merchant was caught out alone in front. Before Teach could move to forestall them, the two Royal Navy vessels
342 | MAGGIE LEE pulled up alongside the small sloop. The newly minted pirates screamed at the English sailors, their frantic French just so much gibberish to men disinclined to give quarter. As Teach‘s crew looked on in horror, the Seaforth and Scarborough opened fire, sending a broadside straight into the hull of the ill-equipped sloop. When the acrid smoke cleared, Cook looked at what was left of the ship and swore under his breath. Cannon fire had cleaved the Montserrat Merchant clean in two, and both halves were rapidly sinking into the Caribbean. Bodies bobbed in the water, some alive and screaming for help, most blown apart and slowly turning the waters blood-red. The poor souls still on board were clinging to the wreckage, but it was obvious that they would soon join their fellows as the English cannons jerked and exploded once again. When the Montserrat had been reduced to so much matchwood, the Royal Navy ships turned slowly, their cannons suddenly trained on the Revenge. ―Sweet Jesus, Seb,‖ Cook breathed, watching hopelessly as the smaller ship floundered in the water. ―All hands to tack ship,‖ Teach roared. ―We‘re going.‖ Cook spun around. ―You can‘t just leave them.‖ ―They‘re done for,‖ Teach screamed. ―We have to save our own skins!‖ ―At least give them some covering fire,‖ Cook shouted. Teach waved him off, too busy bellowing orders in a frenzied attempt to escape the well-orchestrated British attack. Cook turned back, dread coursing through him when he saw that the navy vessels were priming their guns, their decks bristling with armed sailors. He looked around frantically, his heart leaping when he caught sight of Morton striding toward him. ―Morton, for the love of God, do something,‖ he begged. Morton looked out across the waves, cursing loudly when he saw the perilous situation Seb‘s ship was in. ―Help him,‖ Cook pleaded, not caring how much his desperation showed. Morton nodded sharply, and a moment later he was setting a lit torch to a fuse, and the deck underneath Cook‘s feet shuddered as an explosion rocked the largest of the cannons.
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The cannonball smashed against the hull of the Seaforth, but not before she had let loose her own guns, hitting Revenge’s starboard side. Cook‘s heart thundered in his chest until the fog of burnt gunpowder cleared and he saw that Revenge was still intact, although her back end was badly damaged. ―Come on, move,‖ Morton urged, tension clear in his voice. The Revenge seemed to stall for one dreadful moment, and then her topsail flashed out and filled, and she lurched forward. Morton barked out an order, and a second volley exploded against the side of the Seaforth, slowing her just enough to give Revenge the time she needed to harness the wind. The next tense hours saw them tacking full sail to avoid the pursuing vessels, until they finally left the slower frigates wallowing in their wake and slipped into the shallow waters off the island of Nevis, where the deep-draught Royal Navy vessels couldn‘t follow. Cook stood rooted to the spot as they sailed into harbor, his eyes fixed on the Revenge as she slowly limped in behind. He waited, frozen with fear, until he finally spotted Seb standing aft; only then was he able to breathe, the crushing weight of dread suddenly lifting off his shoulders, making his heart light. ―That was a close call,‖ Morton said, sliding up behind Cook. ―Too damned close,‖ Cook said bitterly. His eyes turned to Edward Teach, who was watching the approach of the ship he had so callously abandoned without so much as a flicker of emotion on his face.
THE door had scarcely closed behind him before Cook was pulling Seb into his arms and burying his face against his friend‘s neck. He clutched tightly as he breathed deeply of Seb‘s spicy scent, trying to get his chaotic emotions under control. They had been circumspect enough when Seb had disembarked from the Revenge, merely nodding to acknowledge each other, although Cook was sure that Seb easily read the profound relief burning in his eyes. Morton had been more demonstrative, sweeping Seb into a great welcoming hug. Then he had discreetly pointed them in the direction of a backstreet boardinghouse, winking as Cook stammered out his thanks. Cook pulled in a final shaky breath, then relaxed his hold and eased back slightly.
344 | MAGGIE LEE ―I thought I‘d lost you,‖ he whispered. ―I‘m fine, querido,‖ Seb murmured, cupping his face between warm hands, his thumbs tracing a line over Cook‘s cheekbones. ―No thanks to Teach,‖ Cook retorted. ―If it wasn‘t for Morton….‖ He trailed off, shaking his head, unable to voice what might have been. Seb leaned in and captured his mouth, and they kissed long and deep. Cook was already hard, and he could feel Seb‘s stiff prick rubbing against him. He moaned against Seb‘s lips, and they scrabbled at each other‘s clothing, breaking the kiss long enough to pull off shirts and breeches, then pressing back against each other and glorying in the feel of warm, naked skin. Cook pulled back, smiling at Seb‘s frustrated groan. He skimmed his hands down the soft curve of Seb‘s belly, and Seb threw his head back with a loud sigh. Without warning, Cook dropped to his knees and slid his mouth over Seb‘s pulsing cock, the heavy weight and bitter taste welcome on his tongue. Seb‘s hands came up to cradle his head, and Cook let him set the pace, relaxing his throat to take in all he could. When Seb‘s hips stuttered forward, Cook felt his own dick thicken and throb. He closed his fist tightly around it, and while Seb slid in over and again, he picked up the same rhythm with his pumping hand. Seb suddenly stiffened and moaned out loud; then he pulled out of Cook‘s mouth and fell to his knees in front of him, and they both reached to finish each other off, their mouths once more locked together. Afterward, they crawled into the narrow bed and settled in close, Seb nuzzling a kiss against his neck as Cook stroked a hand through his friend‘s unruly curls. He fought against the sleep that wanted to claim him and cleared his throat. ―Seb?‖ ―Hmmm?‖ Sebastiano sounded drowsy. ―Did it bother you, all those times I fucked other people?‖ he asked softly. Seb stiffened against him and raised his head. ―It was sometimes… difficult,‖ he replied, clearly choosing his words carefully. ―You never said anything.‖ Seb shrugged. ―That doesn‘t mean it wasn‘t painful,‖ he murmured, looking away.
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Cook nodded. All those times he‘d strayed, he‘d convinced himself it wouldn‘t hurt Seb because it meant nothing, until he‘d seen it for himself and realized that it always meant something, and it always hurt. Seb‘s eyes suddenly clouded over. ―Teo, you should know something—‖ Cook laid a finger over Seb‘s lips, halting the unnecessary confession. ―It doesn‘t matter,‖ he said firmly. ―What‘s in the past should stay there.‖ Seb had always treated their relationship with the greatest care, his only slip being a single drunken night with the very persuasive Philip Morton, something Cook was in no position to condemn. ―I‘ve been a damned fool,‖ he said ruefully. ―I don‘t know why you put up with me.‖ Seb turned his head and smiled sweetly. ―Porque te amo, Teo,‖ he said simply.
THEY found Morton sitting by himself in one of the greasy quayside taverns when they eventually stumbled out of their tiny room and into the starry night. He raised a questioning eyebrow, then smirked as Cook sat down gingerly on the hard wooden bench. ―I see you two got reacquainted,‖ he said dryly. Cook grimaced, squirming as he tried to get more comfortable. After Seb‘s declaration of love, they had fucked again, Cook offering himself to Seb‘s careful, though eager, attentions. He didn‘t regret a second of it, but he couldn‘t deny the throbbing ache that vied with his deep contentment. Morton grinned while flagons of ale were deposited at their table, but he quickly sobered. ―What do you intend to do now?‖ he asked quietly. Cook shook his head. ―I don‘t trust him anymore,‖ he said, his eyes flickering to where Teach sat. ―He‘s supposed to lead his men, not abandon them at the first sign of danger.‖ He shuddered when he remembered the Montserrat Merchant’s crew, screaming out their last breaths begging for deliverance that did not come. The thought that he might lose Seb to the Royal Navy‘s cannons, or to the gallows, or to any number of dangers that daily dogged them, was more than he could stomach.
346 | MAGGIE LEE ―Have you heard of King George‘s Proclamation?‖ Morton asked. ―Aye,‖ Cook replied, shaking himself. ―The King has promised pardon to all pirates who surrender before September next year. What of it?‖ Morton looked around hastily, then dropped his voice. ―The King is sending a governor to New Providence to accept surrender. ―And?‖ Cook prompted, frowning. Morton‘s mouth quirked into a small smile. ―A man could make a fine life for himself in Nassau,‖ he said softly, looking at them both. ―Without fear of judgment, however he chose to live.‖ He paused for a moment, then added pointedly, ―Or whoever he chose to live with.‖ Cook exchanged a look with Seb, watching hope flare in his lover‘s eyes. ―Is that what you plan to do?‖ Seb asked. Morton grinned. ―If I could persuade either of you to accompany me, I‘d be off like a shot.‖ Seb‘s cheeks flushed bright red, and he looked away quickly. Cook couldn‘t help laughing; Morton was incorrigible, but at least he was honest with it. Morton‘s grin faded, and he looked uncharacteristically serious. ―Things are changing, shipmates,‖ he said quietly. ―The Europeans won‘t just stand by and watch their investments go up in flame, and the colonies are becoming more powerful all the time. What we witnessed out there, that‘s just the beginning. I think our days are numbered, my beautiful amigos.‖ ―You‘d be wise to take your own advice,‖ Cook suggested. Morton shrugged. ―I know no other life,‖ he said. ―Besides, nobody cares what I do. But you….‖ He trailed off, then shook his head. ―You have enough plunder to live decently, and you have each other. It would be a shame to let this chance slip through your fingers.‖ He rose and walked off, patting them both on the back as he disappeared. Seb turned his head. ―What do you think, Cook?‖ he asked. Cook stared at Teach, who was loudly holding court in the center of the tavern, waving his pistols in the air as he spun a fanciful and wholly self-serving version of their latest encounter. The mad gleam in his eyes had intensified, and Cook suddenly realized that Teach was
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rapidly losing touch, wrapped up as he was in promoting his own escalating legend. Morton was right: their world was on the brink of change, and only those who could adapt would survive. He reached down and covered Seb‘s hand with his own, not caring who saw them. ―Will you come with me?‖ he asked softly. ―To Nassau. We could make a life together, just the two of us.‖ Seb raised an eloquently skeptical eyebrow, and Cook shrugged. ―I can change, mi querido,‖ he promised. Seb‘s mouth twitched into a smile. ―Sí, Teo,‖ he said. ―As easily as the wind.‖
348 | MAGGIE LEE Epilogue Nassau, New Providence Island - December 1718
COOK shaded his eyes against the brilliant sun and scanned the clear waters, clutching tightly to the crumpled pages of the Boston News Letter. The newspaper was over a month old, but its contents were no less painful for being weeks past. As he watched, the lone figure swimming strongly against the current turned, and Cook raised his arm, waving his friend back to shore. Seb swam back easily, and Cook‘s breath caught as he rose out of the water. After months of nothing more strenuous than fishing and swimming, Seb‘s lean body was still tightly sculpted, his olive skin was now darkened by the sun, and his wild black hair fell halfway down his back. Being a landlubber clearly agreed with him, and Cook wasn‘t surprised that Sebastiano was all he had needed in the last blissful months. Seb walked toward him, water dripping from his naked limbs, and he cocked his head in question at the sorrowful look on Cook‘s face. ―More bad news, mi amor?‖ he asked gently, concern clear on his expressive face. Cook nodded. ―Teach,‖ he croaked. ―Madre de Dios!‖ Seb breathed. He reached for the newspaper, his hands trembling as he read. In the early hours of November 22, Edward Teach, Blackbeard as he had come to be known to the public, had been killed by the Royal Navy‘s Lieutenant Robert Maynard in a fierce battle off Ocracoke Island. After a year of relentless plunder and mayhem, he‘d finally pushed his luck a step too far. ―What of Morton?‖ Seb asked, his eyes hastily scanning the article for more details. Cook shook his head, surprised at how much the loss hurt. Seb‘s eyes grew wide. William Howard, Teach‘s quartermaster, had been hanged in Virginia mere months before; with this latest devastation, most of the old crew was now gone. ―Teo?‖
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Cook looked up into gentle brown eyes and tried a smile. ―It‘s a good thing we got out when we did,‖ he said, grateful all over again for Philip Morton‘s foresight and encouragement. He glanced around, taking in their small house, little more than a beach hut but perfect for the two of them, and Sebastiano, happy and whole before him. He reached and pulled Seb up against him, knowing that they were safe here, far enough from the growing port of Nassau to avoid prying eyes. Governor Woodes Rogers, the man who had accepted their surrender and issued their pardon, had tamed this place, turning it into a profitable and lawful trading post. It was still full of pirates, but these days they kept to themselves and led careful, if not entirely exemplary, lives. Seb‘s cool, wet skin was like a balm. Cook closed his eyes, recalling both Morton‘s face at the moment of release and Sebastiano‘s, transported by bliss as he trembled in Morton‘s arms. Both images tugged painfully at his heart, although for entirely different reasons. He shivered as the wind began to pick up, blowing in from the northeast. Soon the trading vessels lining the dock would be slipping anchor and taking to the seas again. Cook slung an arm around Seb‘s shoulder and guided him toward their cabin. ―Vámonos a casa, mi corazón,‖ he said, still surprised at how deeply he relished the newly learned words.
350 | MAGGIE LEE
MAGGIE LEE discovered historical fiction when she was in her teens, and soon after stumbled across the world of M/M romance; she now takes great delight in combining both passions in her writing. Her interest in history is wide-ranging, from medieval Europe to America‘s Old West to the ancient worlds of the earliest civilizations. When not reading or writing, Maggie enjoys traveling and watching movies, and she‘s never met a musical she didn‘t like!
Look for more adventurous tales from DREAMSPINNER PRESS
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com
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