by Andrea Jones
“My beautiful storyteller,” he murmured against her hair. With his hook, he toyed with its strands. “Tied to one husband you despise, one you love too well. Both haunting you beneath the shadow of my sword. You are caught in a tidy trap, Jill. How ever will you pen a happy ending?”
Then his smile lost patience and, with a firm hold, Hook forced her chin upward. He gazed into her eyes, wet and blue as the sea, irresistible to a sailor, be he swab or commodore. He declared, “I am persuaded you shall not escape— from me.” Hook didn’t speak again, but Jill, forsaking the thoughts he had read so precisely, heard his question as he swept her to his embrace.
And would you wish to do so?
Spoken or unspoken, her answer was unequivocal.
In the commodore’s quarters, the single hand of a single man disturbed the tapestries of the four-posted bed. Hook shed his velvet and Jill laid it, not so neatly this time, near her garments. The hook on its harness thumped down to pierce the Persian carpet. The sky-blue dressing gown lay huddled where it fell.
This couple had learned in recent weeks: however durable their union, their circumstances lent it a fleeting quality. Hook’s legend was immortal, but only days ago and by a narrow margin, the man himself evaded murder. Jill knew her devotion to him to be eternal, yet she had lavished love on his successor. Remembering, they gazed at one other with sharpened perception, taking in every detail as if for the very last time. Thieves they might be, but they didn’t dodge the truth; like the skull on the black flag that flapped high above them, Hook and Jill’s fate hung balanced on the blades of crossed swords.
Yet there was nothing tenuous in their lovemaking. Seizing one another, Hook and Jill pitched to the bed where they rolled together to thrust and parry, grapple and hold, dueling to the death. Pleasure so near the edge of agony honed their ecstasy. Aggression lay in the offing, awakened by the lady’s husbands, and it urged a ferocity between these lovers that they’d never indulged— like the infamous hook, a razor-sharp passion with a mortal point. Bloodlust, once aroused, demanded battle.
But the first foray couldn’t quell it. Though her breathing still shook, Jill’s hands tangled again in Hook’s hair, angling his throat for her lips’ assault. Scored by his whiskers, her face burrowed in the blackness there. Jill thrilled to his power, and it vibrated right through her core.
Like claws, her fingernails strafed his shoulders, raked his arms, trailing a path of scratches. Stinging, Hook gathered her wrists to pinion her, holding both her bloodied hand and her pale one hard against his chest.
She struggled in the pinch and in the pleasure of his grip. Unable to free herself, she raised her head to pursue him in hissing whispers. An inch apart, they fired vows of unconquerable constancy. Then he stopped the words, kissing her cruelly. On the edge of submission, ecstasy at hand, still Jill pushed to prolong her struggle.
He knew what she craved; he forced her down upon the mattress, his teeth bit upon her mouth to leave it throbbing. Biting back, she kicked and countered, then caged him with her legs, hugging as if to cleave him in two. The sense of his vigor, the heat of his body within her limbs stirred her barbarity to fever.
Hook gloried in the pressure of her grip around his thighs. Her brutality excited him. But it was just another of her weapons and, firm in his practice, he used it against her. With the stump of his arm— like her own scar, the wound from a prior hostility— he shoved at the bedding to lever himself on his back, his one hand pulling her by the wrists to lie atop him. Now her legs were pinned, and, rigid to the point of misery, he found his entry, still heated from his earlier incursion.
The more they fed their aggression, the hotter their ardor. They stormed one another and, fair fight or foul, all the while he raged inside her, waging war from within— civil war, at the end of which no victor conquers, no vanquished lies alone. With the weapons of love, the pirate pair engaged in their skirmish, and neither yielded until their fury flamed to the highest pitch…to hold there, glowing, until it burnt at last to ash.
As Jill lay on her commodore, exhausted but exhilarated, the Island breeze slid within the curtains, carrying the pacific sounds and scents of her home— water, palm, and pine. Under its influence, the fervor of their bodies began to cool. She administered kisses to the scar of his manacles, raw around his wrist. Tears stung again, pricked by the memory of how near he had sailed to oblivion. She pressed her lips against his own, tenderly this time, and inviting.
But he resisted, pulling away to observe the rose of her face, and musing, “Really, my love, I must arrange to be kidnapped and killed more often. The prospect of death appears to heighten your passion.”
“It isn’t death that does it, Hook.” Jill always kept a smile near to hand; she had used it many times. “It is life.”
“Ah. Life.” He lulled her with a moment of counterfeit security. Then, abruptly, he shifted, careening her over and rolling his long, sculpted body above her.
She could barely breathe beneath her burden, but his next words, with a velvet edge, halted any attempt.
“Is it blackmail you practice, Madam, or bribery?”
Not daring even to blink, she lay still.
He clicked his tongue. “How low you do stoop to win your way.” He lowered his chin. “Your husband’s way.” Finally, easing his stance, he allowed her to draw breath. “But perhaps the blame lies with the company you keep.” His fingers, armed with rings, traced the throbbing artery along her throat, from her jaw line to her scar. Infused with sudden cold, she shivered, and he mocked, “I have been known to stoop, myself. Even lower.” His eyes signaled with a smoldering look, and, descending upon her, he retreated to the tender trenches of her thighs.
With strokes that tingled, the waves of his hair caressed her there. And then his lips. Above the gentle pulsing of the bay water came the sounds of her sighs, surging, slowly, in crescendo. As his mouth laid siege to her, he exacted his price. Unresisting this time, she surrendered it.
Thus it happened that the sands of the hourglass passed, precariously at first, then more pleasantly by the moment, before the commodore, a superb tactician and a thief of the highest order, drew on his garments again and caused his collar to be tied. In this duty his mistress— the wife, not widow, of two defrauded men— obliged him, having purloined from her lover’s attentions her own cache of pleasure…and for another hour at least, prolonged her husband’s life.
CHAPTER 5
Dispossessions
Mr. Yulunga feared no thing and no man. Ordinarily he would tread the forests of the Neverland alone, with only his dark coloring for cover and his boarding ax for protection. He’d done so, many times, when serving under the direct command of Captain Hook. But after the ship’s careening to scrape the bottom clean of barnacles, on this third day at anchor he led a party inland.
These men were Frenchmen, the pick of the hands on Red Lady, on which at Hook’s behest Yulunga now served his friend Captain Cecco as first mate. Both commanders had earned Yulunga’s deference, and he showed them due respect. Although largely immune to the hazards of the Neverland, he had learned to approach the Island, too, with deference. He’d warned his men of the resident perils of beasts, boys, and Indians, and when one of his sailors stumbled with a jingle of weaponry, Yulunga turned to him, raising a stern finger to his lips. “Keep quiet.”
Immediately the sailor nodded acquiescence, his eyes wary, awed by more than just the Island. Yulunga was a giant of a man, an African king, tall, broad, and fearless. The colors of his homeland, fiery orange, yellow, and red, brightened his ebony throat on a triple string of beads. His story was whispered among Red Lady’s crewmen; with his cruelty he had betrayed his native people. Betrayed in return, he bore the scars of slavery on his wrists and his ankles. From his shoulder to his naked back a lighter streak of flesh indicated the more recent judgment of Hook’s claw. Yulunga deferred to the commodore as the only man who had never flinched at the power embedded in Yulunga’s immensity.
It was, therefore, his woman for whom he brought the protection of the escort, a diminutive little thing, with brown hair and bare feet, and a figure just beginning to show her child. Even with his back turned, Yulunga was aware of the jostling taking place as the sailors competed for positions behind her saucy backside. Over his shoulder he ordered, “The scenery is agreeable, but keep your eyes on the forest.”
Mrs. Hanover was his property. Because she was unburdened by a heart and overburdened with bodily appetite, she made an apt partner for her master. A handful to handle, herself. With a dash of irony, Mr. Yulunga wondered as he trudged through the wilderness whether he and his men guarded Mrs. Hanover, or if they protected her potential assailants. Nearly everyone feared Mr. Yulunga; only the enlightened were wary of Mrs. Hanover.
Keeping the enlightened to a minimum was Yulunga’s job. He had witnessed the damage she’d caused. In her hunger for Hook, this little woman had started off a chain reaction that deposed two ships’ commanders, overset the order of both crews, and propelled Mr. Cecco to his captaincy. The commodore placed a load of responsibility on Yulunga’s shoulders when he trusted him to tame this virago. Speculation ran rampant, but no one under the rank of first officer really knew what transpired between the girl and the commodore as he’d lain a prisoner in her bed— not even the girl herself. Yet the result was understood. Hook had nearly died of her.
Yulunga inhaled the perfume of the Neverland’s greenery, not as heavy but just as fertile as that of his birthplace. The grassy turf underfoot seemed oddly solid after months of pitching decks. This new path through the forest would become more negotiable with every expedition. Seeing puzzlement in the Frenchmen’s faces as they navigated, Yulunga slowed and spoke in an undertone.
“The Clearing was established only recently as a gathering place for Hook’s pirates. But don’t worry. The shortest route from Neverbay will soon be beaten smooth.” Amused by the men’s enthusiasm, he reckoned that the foliage stood little chance to re-root itself until the Roger and her mate, Red Lady, upped anchors and went about their lucrative business on the sea— or until the rest of the sailors learned to fly, like bo’sun’s mates Nibs the Knife and Tom Tootles. As youngsters, the two had infested these woods among the Island boy’s pack. That first day the ships lay in port here, they had cruised around the Neverland, reporting back to Hook before joining the festivities at the home of their twin brothers. The Frenchmen of Red Lady had been amazed to see a pair of pirates airborne, soaring toward shore, and the new buccaneers grew eager to experience the magic of this place. All the more so now as Hook’s fairy, Jewel, zoomed past.
“Sacré coeur!” cried a sailor, forgetting caution while he clutched his cap and pointed at the pixie. Chiming, she fluttered her fingers toward Yulunga, then trailed a comet tail of glitter in her hurry. She had answered her master’s summons to the Roger, and after an invigorating visit, she was off on his errands. The men’s eyes rolled toward Yulunga when she’d gone, as if bracing to see the massive mate, too, jump up and streak through this enchanted air.
Yulunga chuckled at the thought of his own bulky body borne upon the winds, then he regarded his slender girl. She, too, exhibited astonishment at the fairy’s apparition, yet she didn’t dare open her mouth to exclaim. But where Yulunga demanded silence from his men, he frowned on reticence in the woman. “No word from you?”
She only looked down.
Yulunga grunted, and the party struck out again. “One more voyage, Mrs. Hanover, before you must stay behind to be tended by Lily and the others— if they accept you.” Once her brat was born, she could return to Red Lady and continue her duties. For now, her bare feet felt their way along, padding over roots and brambles, her ankles exposed as she raised her fine maroon skirt to negotiate the flora. Bred in a European city, she was unaccustomed to woodlands, and Yulunga could tell by her ashen face that the strange sight of the fairy had unnerved her. The dress he had given her was becoming, with a neckline cut low above a cream-colored triangle that set off her figure, but her only ornament was the golden ring that matched its mate in Yulunga’s ear. She had earned that piece and, one day, if she behaved, he’d reward her with its partner. After that, he’d get a larger pair, thick with gold, and wear it, just to taunt her. He had no doubt she’d find a way to win that pair, too. Yulunga smiled to himself, then in a low tone admonished his men.
“Look sharp there, and keep an eye open for natives in these parts. You don’t want to be surprised by an arrow in your heart. Watch for the Lost Boys, too, as I warned you. They are smaller, but no less deadly.”
“Oui, Monsieur. Yes.” The party’s voices were obediently hushed, their English spotty, but by the hands on their weapons and their guarded faces as they looked around, Yulunga knew they understood.
Mrs. Hanover, too, sharpened her lookout. She threw a glance at Yulunga before inspecting the forest. She had heard the tales of Indians dwelling on the Neverland, but she never could tell when Yulunga was teasing and when he was serious. The rumors conflicted; Indian warriors killed pirates, yet their women were known to offer hospitality. Three of the Lady Jill’s adopted sons lived among them. As for the ‘Lost Lads,’ or whatever they were called, to such a sophisticated girl the idea of grown men on guard against a ragtag passel of boys seemed ludicrous. Still, she was wary. Yulunga might be in earnest. In Mrs. Hanover’s few weeks as his mistress, she’d learned many of his ways, but no matter how she delved, he always seemed to harbor another depth to plumb.
He confused her sometimes, but she drew satisfaction from the fact that Yulunga had, conversely, tapped only the surface of herself. If she played her hand correctly, he might take years to discover her depths. By that time, by the time he grew tired of her, she would hold a position of her own— ship’s surgeon— and she could stand on her own two feet as an officer. Every day she studied her father’s medical tomes, beginning with the chapters concerning childbirth. One day she would be as skilled a physician as her sire, indispensable to her commander. Mrs. Hanover smiled to think of it, then gasped in pain as her toes tripped over a knobby root.
Yulunga’s huge black hand caught her. So did another, lighter hand that was never far away. Mrs. Hanover sent a quick, grateful look to the china blue eyes and the Gallic smile that shone so disarmingly upon her. Yulunga grunted an acknowledgement to Pierre-Jean, and from then on he guided her, half pulling, half lifting, and the blond sailor fell back a step. Mrs. Hanover felt Pierre-Jean watching, as always, but she took care to ignore him now, leaning on Yulunga’s arm instead.
With no effort, her African lover bore her along until the red smoke in the sky coiled overhead and a parrot could be heard screeching its heart out. The sound of children’s voices surprised her, and she hesitated on the damp clay of the path, staring through the thinning branches until Yulunga’s tug pulled her from the woods.
Two nearly naked men approached, one bearing the parrot, now bobbing and lurching, on his shoulder. He laughed and propped a nut between his lips, and the parrot retrieved it with a kiss. The two men were identical, tanned to bronze and boasting shaggy blond hair streaked with darker shades. Their bodies obviously understood and, just as obviously, relished hard labor. From the tools and lumber scattered round the Clearing, Mrs. Hanover surmised that these twins were building the structure rising from the earth in one corner of the Clearing. Behind the men tagged three children with black hair and a minimum of clothing that looked to be sewn from animal hides. Unsure whether she was within her rights to stare at the men, Mrs. Hanover studied the children instead. Perhaps her own child would play here and be dressed like this. A slim chance existed that it would have dark skin like these children, or darker. But…more likely…
“Mrs. Hanover,” Yulunga commanded, “show your respects to the lady’s sons, the Men of the Clearing. If they agree, they will one day be your providers.”
Mrs. Hanover plucked up her skirt and curtsied. The twins grinned, responding in turns. “You’re w
elcome here.”
“One more child won’t make any difference. Come, everyone, and meet our ladies.”
Having been a child herself until recently— she was only fourteen— Mrs. Hanover wondered if the man referred to herself or to her baby, but she kept quiet and followed Yulunga. He introduced the Frenchmen, who shook hands politely but whose avid gazes rummaged the open space, like wolves scenting prey. Clearly, they sought the women of whom they had heard from the previous nights’ celebrants. Only Pierre-Jean still watched Mrs. Hanover, his long blond pigtail lying over his shoulder, blonder still in the sunlight that lit up his French blue jacket. His eyes engaged her, but his hands remained at his sides. All the sailors knew that as Mr. Yulunga’s property, Mrs. Hanover was untouchable. For now.
A tall, buxom native woman emerged from a hut. She clapped her hands and the children ran to her like a flock of black-downed chicks. As the Frenchmen spotted the female, Mrs. Hanover felt electricity ignite the air. Too much time had passed since they’d sailed into any port, and Mrs. Hanover knew exactly what these men craved. She had made a study of sailors, spying and eavesdropping since her first days aboard the merchantman on which her father took employment. Evidently the tall woman understood sailormen, too. Shooing the youngsters inside, the lady sent a knowing smile toward the pirates, then flicked a glance at Mrs. Hanover before disappearing into a fine white house.
This house astonished Mrs. Hanover. Whereas she had expected a wigwam or some sort of lodge built of mud and sticks, the House in the Clearing was very like the home she had known in England, an odd contrast to the tangled wilderness all round it fairly bursting with birdsong. And from the scent of lavender wafting through the air, she determined some kind of garden was cultivated behind it.