He resumed his pacing, making another pass of where the personal items of the passengers were being collected, and a scattering of fractured sunlight blinded his right eye. Jack blinked the ship back in to focus and discovered the sun striking a small pendant. Jack’s muscles locked up, all breath leaving his lungs. It couldn’t be. Striding forward, he snatched it up by a thin piece of string. The stone was but a shiny bit of tuppery, and he examined it more closely, looking for the flaw in the crystal’s facets. He traced the familiar lines with shaking fingers—there! He squinted, barely able to make out the tiny M he had carved there years before. The last time he had seen this it had graced Marie’s slender neck.
He palmed the table to keep him upright and didn’t lift his head. “Which man did this come from?” he asked softly.
The scribe ducked his head, riffling back through the paper recording the loot, squinting on a particular line of his spider-like scrawl. “Clegg dropped it in the pile,” he said, returning to his calculations.
“Clegg!”
For a heartbeat the activity on the deck stilled, then an able seaman shouldered his way to him, identifiable by the short wisps of ginger hair on his balding head in direct contrast to the full-grown, wiry red beard that you could hide a ginger tabby in without anyone knowing.
“Who did you seize this from?” Jack demanded, thrusting the pendant out that now swung from his clenched fist.
Clegg shrugged and scratched his sunburned head. “A skinny lad among the captured crew, I think.”
It took Jack every bit of hard-won discipline not to start tearing the damn ship apart looking for answers. This was the lead he had been waiting to surface. The pain that slashed him stole his breath. Marie had disappeared without a trace, a wisp of smoke upon the wind, elusive and uncapturable. The sharp edges of the crystal cutting into his palm and the pain grounded him.
“Bring him to me.”
The man paled and hurried to do as he had commanded. Everyone aboard knew that tone of voice. It meant come hell or high water, the Black Scot had set his course, and heaven help the poor bugger who stood between Jack and his aim.
They shouldered their way through the crowd, his gaze jumping between one terrified face and then the next, each one refusing to make eye contact with him or become the focus of the harsh, ruthless energy that swirled around him like that of a typhoon.
“Let go of me!” a voice squeaked just out of his vision, and his heart thumped louder. “I gave you what you wanted.”
“The captain wants to know, where did you got that pendant?”
Jack leant back and perched himself on the edge of the rail. His arms folded, he listened to the tail end of the conversation.
“It was mine.”
A dark scowl twisted Jack’s face—the boy was lying through his teeth. Perhaps a taste of his belt would pry the truth from him, for nothing would stop him getting answers.
A squirming bundle was dragged from the crowd, and Jack laid his eyes on a slight frame. Jack narrowed his eyes and measured him again—no, not a child, a youth. Jack took in his slight stature that had first fooled him, the thin and wiry limbs beneath clothes that bagged off him, at least a size too large. Clegg held his upper arm in an unbreakable grip, and despite the fuss he was putting up was steadily forcing the boy forward, separating him from the crowd.
They lurched to a stop. Jack’s gaze focused upon the crown of an overlarge tricorn hat; there must be something intriguing about his battered sea boots. He waited for a moment, and the lad said nothing. The silence marked after the previous caterwauling, Jack’s lips twisted—it appeared the youth had lost his tongue. He was used to having this effect on people, thanks to his infamous reputation preceding him. Barely any of it was true, but he encouraged it when it served his purposes well enough.
“You don’t need to fear me, boy, unless you lie.”
The lad remained stoic, and Jack was mildly impressed—great men had been known to piss themselves by now. But the slight trembling of the hands at the boy’s sides gave his true feelings away until he wisely clenched them into fists, masking it as anger.
Jack narrowed his eyes. Interesting. “Now, where did you get the pendant?”
“I found it.” The mutinous words were pushed out through gritted teeth.
Jack rolled his eyes at the statement of the obvious, his patience wearing thin.
“The captain wants to know where you found it,” Clegg added with a rough shove that sent the boy staggering forward.
He grabbed to keep his hat in place and whirled on Clegg. “Va te faire foutre!”
Jack let loose a bark of laughter—the lad had more balls than brains in telling Clegg to go fuck himself. Clegg was less amused, the clout behind the ear sending the boy crashing to the deck. Jack shrugged; he would soon learn to hold his tongue if he hoped to grow into a man. The tricorn hat tumbled to the floor, and a long, dark braid, the colour of coal, swung free. Jack’s heart stuttered.
“Marie?” he whispered, fearing that the vision before him would disappear.
The youth’s shoulders stiffened and froze, and he kept his head bowed.
“Is it you?”
The unknown female slowly and with obvious reluctance lifted her head and, familiar, wide, smoke-grey eyes looked up to him through thick black lashes. Jack’s mind went blank and he swallowed hard, words failing him. The spectre of his wife climbed back to her feet and rubbed her palms over her trousers, glaring at Clegg like she wanted to put his head on a pike. Jack snapped out of it and, stepping forward, he pulled her into his arms. Jack closed his eyes—oh God, this was no spectre but a flesh-and-blood woman; this was real.
“Marie,” he breathed, mesmerised, tracing her cheekbones like he had done a million times in his dreams, his eyes narrowing on the mark that was quickly reddening near her ear before returning to her face. Staring into those grey eyes…they were almost silver, expressive mirrors that let him know what she thinking. Jack drew his head back, frowning, and right now her eyes were spitting with fury. She jerked her knee up, and he swallowed his tongue. A soft, pained wheezing hissed from his mouth, and the fire in his bollocks buckled his legs. Jack panted, too intent on not disgracing himself completely in front of his crew.
The she-demon had the audacity to smile at him and, a dangerous curving on her lips as her eyes sparked silver fire, she purred, “Hello, Jack.”
Marie was giving serious thought to diving over the side and into the sea when Jack had recovered enough to raise his head and stared at her like he had seen a ghost. Not that the quick dip would save her from retribution. The Jack she had known would have simply fished her out again, scrubbed her dry, and then sought his retribution. Marie studied her estranged husband and swallowed hard. He appeared sterner with flecks of grey at his temples, and if it were possible, even more fierce, heaven help her. The laughter lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened, but there was no laughter in his eyes now.
Instead, she had stood her ground and awaited him to vent his displeasure, his face red and, blowing out a breath like a winded nag, his face creased in pain. He straightened to his full intimidating height. His eyes gleamed and cackled with the lightning of a storm.
“Take…the woman…to my…cabin.” He wheezed.
“I’m to be the woman now?” She laughed bitterly. “How soon you forget, monsieur. I will not go with you, mon capitaine.”
Jack smiled cruelly. “You will go aboard my ship, madame, or I will throw every member of the crew of the Swallow overboard.”
Marie sucked in a breath and gazed at the stranger with her husband’s face. Usually, she would call his bluff at such an outlandish threat, but did she dare with the lives of the crew at stake? Though she was fairly certain he would not harm a hair on her head, that did not go for others. His eyes burned into her, that indomitable will brought to bear on her, and there was not a hint of softening. This was the Black Scot—he was an arrogant, ruthless man who had carved his reputation
from the untameable wilderness that was the sea.
Marie licked her lips, and his eyes dipped, following the motion. A hunger she had thought long quenched flickered, but it was soon squashed by the cascade of anger she had kept locked inside. His chest heaved, muscles tensed and prepared for battle, strained sinew in his body daring her to try him.
“Is that any way to greet your wife, Captain?” she asked caustically, playing for time while trying to calm her racing thoughts. She raised her chin a notch and stared him down, uncaring that his massive frame dwarfed her petite stature. She grimaced and was certainly no match for his strength. She owed him nothing. Marie would gladly face the gamble; damn his eyes and tell him to go to the Devil. But she would not gamble with the lives of her shipmates or the life of the captain who had given her a chance to earn her keep, even if he hadn’t known her true gender. She curled her hands into fists. He had her cornered, and the rat knew it. Growling a series of oaths under her breath, she threw her hands up in the air and turned towards the Sirène. She had no choice; she’d let him win this one.
“Picard, Soto. Guard her, and if she so much as moves, tie her to the main mast.”
Marie chuckled darkly and shot Jack a fulminating glare. “If they touch me, I will cut off their bollocks and feed them to the sharks.” Her lips curved in a dangerous smile, her gaze fixed on the two individuals who moved either side of her. “Remember, I am wife of the Black Scot.” Marie’s nose wrinkled with derision, the words bitter on her tongue. “I am capable of that and far more.”
The men winced and stepped back a pace. Pleased to see that she hadn’t lost her touch after all these years, it laved her wounded pride, and Marie continued in the direction of the Sirène.
“Monsieur Grayling, still quartermaster, I see,” she said brightly, eying the weathered old seadog who had once served under her father and then Jack.
“Marie.” Grayling gave a nod of acknowledgement.
Her spine straight, shoulders back, and with her head held high, she scrambled aboard the Sirène, leaving Jack and his band to finish stripping the ship of its valuables. Her eyes burned. Damn him. May the man roast in eternal hellfires. Why did it have to be he who boarded the ship she was working on? Why did he have to be watching the plunder being counted at the precise moment her pendant was added to the tally? She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, probably both. After years he had found her.
The two men escorted her to the captain’s cabin, careful in the extreme not to touch her, and with a nod, ushered her through the doorway. Why did she feel that if she passed over the threshold, then there would be no going back, she would be in Jack’s domain, in his power? Screwing up her courage, she took the step and surveyed the sparse quarters. A pirate ship was made for spartan practicality, but being captain afforded Jack a few luxuries. The prime one being the space for his own cabin. There was a small bed instead of a hammock, a large desk with charts and instruments spread across it. A decanter filled with an amber liquid drew her attention. The door shut behind her, and the key grated in the lock, the hairs on the back of her neck standing at attention.
The deck bobbed beneath her feet, signalling they’d cut the grappling lines. Marie sighed, eyeing the four walls. Well, that had not gone to plan. She rolled her shoulders attempting to relieving the tension; as soon as the cry had gone up they were being stalked, a sense of foreboding had swamped her. But still she had clung to the hope that it wasn’t him. The ocean was vast—what were the odds that it was Jack? Apparently not good. The black flag had been shouted out, and Marie had swallowed her tongue. The crossed cutlasses dissecting an hourglass, the meaning clear, your time was running out and you better be prepared to fight for the little you had left. She had tried to hide among the crew, but it didn’t matter, Jack had still found her.
Marie blew out a breath. Now what was she going to do? What even was she? His captive? His prisoner? She damn well wasn’t his wife! Sidling over to his desk, she helped herself to the decanter on the side and lifted the stopper. She held it under her nose and sniffed—brandy, French, she believed.
She poured a generous glass and, shelving her hip on the desk, sipped. The burn down her throat offered her a small measure of comfort. She never in the wildest dreams thought she would see his handsome face again, and even after all this time, her heart raced and her cunny grew wet. He still had the power to stir her blood when she wanted to hate it. She hated him for the sway he held over her and herself for being so weak.
Marie had fooled herself into believing she no longer craved to be held in his arms. She wrapped her arms around her middle and hugged herself. The long lonely nights were the worst, and the memory of Jack haunted her bed…
She took a larger gulp, needing it to fortify herself for their coming confrontation. She grimaced—and there would be a confrontation, of that she had no doubt. Time passed. Jack appeared content to leave her to stew, and boredom set in. Marie released a sigh and, setting the now empty glass down, turned her attention to his desk, riffling through his draws until she found what she was look for. Her lips curling, she removed the highly polished chestnut box and raised the lid, her heart twinging. A pair of gleaming pistols lay upon the velvet lining. Well-made with excellent accuracy, they had belonged to her father, one of the few things he’d brought from his home in France. They had been her wedding gift to Jack. She lifted the pistols and with expert hands started to load them with powder and at the last minute refrained from ramming the ball down the barrel. She laughed bitterly, and the hollow sound echoed in the empty cabin. Even now, when she wanted his head on a platter, she couldn’t harm him.
Marie strengthened her resolve—it didn’t mean she couldn’t fight, it didn’t mean she had to be meek and biddable. Her task complete, she laid them within reach, sat back in Jack’s chair, and rested her feet upon his desk, directly opposite the cabin door, her narrow-eyed gaze trained on it. Now she was ready to face Jack.
Chapter 3
Alive. Jack barely dared breathe the word. She was alive. He paced the quarterdeck, feeling the eyes of his crew drilling into his back, no doubt wondering if he had run mad.
He was not given to bouts of indecision, and the men knew that, but if he went into his cabin now it was a toss between whether he would thrash her to within an inch of her life for the heartache she had caused or kiss her until neither of them could remember why they were angry with each other. Both options held appeal. Jack paused, staring out over the vast empty blackness, hands clasped behind his back. The cool night air rested heavy on his lungs—it tasted sweeter tonight, and the stars seemed to shine brighter.
Footsteps rhythmically clicked upon the deck behind him. “So little Marie is alive and as much a spitfire than ever.” The voice belonged to his quartermaster, Grayling. He was Jack’s eyes and ears among the crew—he felt their mood and was the only one who could overrule the captain. He was a good man, and Jack had relied heavily on him when first elected to captaincy.
Jack gave a single, clipped nod, his gaze remaining fixed on the horizon, and kept his tongue firmly behind his teeth. He had learned a long time ago that the old seadog would make his point when he was good and ready and that trying to rush him would result in further delay.
“The question is, what are you going to do now, Captain?”
Jack raised a brow, damned if he knew. “Do?”
Grayling rested his weight against the rail. “Aye, you know you can’t let her striking you pass unanswered.”
Jack ran a hand over his face and rubbed at his tired eyes. He knew, gods did he know it, and the hellion also knew better. He flexed his hands on the rail. “She will be dealt with, but it is a private matter between man and wife.” He enunciated the last word, leaving no room for doubt that she was anything other than his. “Let the crew know, but I will not make a public spectacle of it for that reason.”
Satisfied, the older man nodded and moved off, leaving Jack once more to his thoughts, all of them centri
ng on the tempting prisoner in his cabin. He removed the knife from his boot and began the comforting action of sharpening the blade. He tried to remember how to handle Marie. When they had first wed, she had been something of a notorious wildcat. He couldn’t help but fondly recall those early years. There had been some days where he was sure they would kill each other. But he had stood firm, let her anger pound off him like waves hitting the cliff surface, with nothing she did dissuading him from his course of action. If she bit or scratched him, Jack had simply upped the consequences and let her know it was her own doing. Then when the mutiny had drained out of her and her arse red and too sore to sit, he made sure she knew she was forgiven.
Jack pushed out a breath and hardened himself. This was not how he had imagined their reunion at all. For the serious infraction, his wife was due for a strapping. Reaching his decision, he slid the knife back into his boot and made a detour via the galley, retrieving something they had picked up while hunting off Madagascar. If Marie couldn’t control that temper of hers, the brown root now in his pocket would brand this particular lesson in her mind.
Jack paused outside the door of his cabin for a moment, the eyes of his crew burning holes into his back, and he stiffened his spine and his resolve. There would only ever be one captain on this ship. Certain that he had a firm rein on his temper, he opened the door in a decisive movement. He poked his head over the threshold and found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol.
“Gods teeth!” he cursed and threw himself upon the deck.
The gun cracked, and a plume of acrid smoke wafted past his face.
“Get out, Jack. The next one I will aim at your head!” Marie shouted at him.
His heart punched repetitively against his fourth rib, and he sucked a breath into his lungs, the retort of the pistol echoing in his ears. His good intentions vanished, and fury simmered in his blood. Jack glared at the vixen he was married to with narrowed eyes. So that was how she wanted to play it? He pushed up to one knee, the words of the crew burning his ears, the general consensus that he was a “Brave bastard.”
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