Of course I enjoyed the adventure of their stories, the storms, the battles, and the funny pirates they sailed with, but nowadays I found myself thinking more and more of their love story. The way Mother explained it, Midnight loved Mason dearly, clinging to his courage like a shield of armor, and to him she was the angel of his days and the goddess of his nights. They were as free as the clouds and wild as the sea. While drawing near the shores of Port Royal, with all these thoughts in my mind, my hopes for finding a dashing young rogue to sweep me off of my feet increased like the heat in the air.
X
Well, Port Royal was not made of dirt and huts, but it was nothing like London either. Once the English took the port, guerilla style warfare claimed the shores for a few years. Father told me that it was then that the English settlers spotted three Spanish vessels unloading cannon on the north coast. Some six-hundred hastily assembled Englishmen descended on the guerillas, who had foolishly concentrated their forces, and though Yssasi himself, admiral of the Spanish buccaneers, escaped, the Spanish hold was virtually wiped out.
Port Royal was now safely claimed as an English port, but it still didn’t feel very safe here. The harbor itself was naturally beautiful, the most divinely designed inlet one could ever imagine, but the city was a dreadful place. The buccaneers who fought to stake the port had begun building off of the poorly established Spanish settlement, and the English settlers were now building off of that. The buildings were haphazard, some new and fancy, some old and collapsing, but it was the people of the town who made it rough. Pirates, buccaneers, and whores roamed the walkways, mixing evenly with the common folk, and with little law about the New World, each one of us amongst the masses were taking our lives in our own hands.
There was a rebellious thrill about the violent air of the place, and though I desired to wander the area and explore the outskirts of town, Father insisted that I stay home unless I was with him. He even hired a sixteen-year-old boy named Franklin to watch over Mother and I while he was busy at work—which was most of the time.
As for our house, it was quaint. A few blocks away from the busy main streets, the area had a calmer feel, but the three steps leading up to the door were the only thing that divided this brick house from the shady alley it was set in. With no porch, it was the two large windows that gave the entrance its character, so Mother and I made colorful curtains to help the place look more welcoming from the outside.
Inside, the area was much more spacious than our place in London, but with the downstairs windows facing that shady, smelly alley, there wasn’t much for natural lighting. The lack of light was good because it was always hot in Port Royal. Hot as what I imagined Hell to be like. I was sticky all day, and I sweated through the night, hardly able to find a moment’s rest.
The bedrooms upstairs were fairly large, and from my window I could see the harbor. Father insisted on a place with a view of the bay, and though I was ever so grateful for that, it was usually too hot to be up there. Unless it was raining. Every time it rained—which was often—I perched myself in the windowsill and watched the heavenly liquid dump onto the sea. The ships in the bay swayed on the rolling tide, the wind whipped through the rigging, and the sky tumbled and roared like an angry God. I loved it. The sound, the smell, the sight.
My father hated the rain for it ruined his day of work. And anytime thunder struck the sky, Mother drifted off into her crazy frame of mind, stroking her quill and humming spooky lullabies. So, I wondered why the hell they named me Remington Rain.
While watching the rain beat on the alleyway from out of the front window, I asked her again, “Why did you choose Rain to be my middle name, Mother?”
She dropped her paint brush. Wiping the yellow paint off the rug, she mumbled, “I just liked the name. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” I pressed, sitting on the leather chair. “Then why do you act strangely when I ask about it?”
“Because you are a nattering little girl and you annoy me with your senseless questions,” she huffed and then called for Franklin.
With blond hair and blue eyes, Franklin looked like he could have been my mother’s son, and sometimes I think she wished he was. He catered to her like a princess, and she talked to him more than she ever spoke to Dinah, but I suppose that was because she didn’t have to worry about him stealing Father from her.
“Could you please come help me with this mess, my boy?” Mother smiled kindly.
Though Franklin was pleasant to have around, it irritated me watching him leap to my mother’s every ridiculous whim. As he cleaned up the paint like a dog lapping up his water, I stood up and grumbled at my mother, “You are the annoying one, Mother.”
She ignored me and asked Franklin to help her hang her most recent painting.
Since we had arrived in Port Royal two months ago, Mother had been painting like a woman obsessed. The white walls were covered in canvases colored with beautiful scenes of the sea, either ships or islands, and my favorite was of two waterfalls that crossed like an X.
“It will be perfect right there, my darling.” Mother smiled at Franklin.
As he worked to hang the beautiful piece, she began explaining her inspiration to me. “That ship is the lovely Esmerelda. She was a second rate slut and I wanted nothing to do with her, but she grew on me. My favorite memory was made in the chartroom of that ship, and though I didn’t know it at the time, that moment was very special.”
Stunned by her expressive outburst, so many questions flew through my mind that I was not sure which one to ask first. Hoping I hadn’t lost her already, I finally stuttered, “Where was that ship headed when you were on it?”
“Wherever we felt like going,” she wandered up the stairs. “Come along, Franklin, I’d like my pillows fluffed before I lie down for my nap.”
He wagged his tale behind her, asking how she would prefer the fluffing to be done.
I just shook my head.
After standing there like an idiot for a moment, thinking about all the bizarre things she’d said, I decided to go on my secret afternoon walk. Father was too busy to worry about how I’d been spending my days and Mother was too crazy to care, so with a quick mention of a nap of my own, I was able to lock my door, sneak out of my side window, and slip down between the rooftops with no one missing me.
Already looking like a full grown woman, and knowing plenty well how to defend myself, I hid beneath my cloak and made my way through the streets with confidence that thus far kept trouble at bay. Knowing I had that pretty little bodice dagger stashed neatly in my top helped to set my mind at ease.
Normally, I visited the market with my mother and Franklin, and during these visits I made a few friends there. Like Father, I enjoyed saying hello to everyone as I wandered about, but when sneaking out on my own, I simply observed the surroundings without a word. With the trade industry being an increasingly important part of the country's wealth, my father’s social status had become one of great respect, and most of the town folks knew him—or at least his name. If he somehow discovered I was wandering around in this dangerous town alone, he’d end up locking me in the house with Mother, her bird, Sky, and her puppy, Franklin.
My mind was too wild to be caged up like that. I was in the New World, with new sights to see and new people to meet, or at least watch. The pirates and whores along the main street were always a good show, the commoners at the market were amusing, and the eccentric buildings and walkways were a joy to explore, but my greatest interest was found near a little building just outside of town. Black Hawke Forge.
The smoke billowing from the chimney, and the noise ringing out from the workshop caught my intrigue. Though I wanted so badly to go in, I hadn’t yet. For some reason it felt far more forbidden than the rest of my rebellious adventures. It might have been the weapons or the dank location I was unsure of, but I had been building up the nerve to go in there, and today, I finally decided I would.
Taking a deep breath, I straightened
my lime green skirts and forced myself to walk through the wooden arched doorway of Black Hawke Forge. I had no idea what I would find inside, but the scene before me surprised me nonetheless.
Standing close to the center of the shop stood a tall, well-built man—long black hair tied back, the stubble of a beard coating his chiseled jaw—hammering a piece of hot metal on his anvil. It was almost orange in color as I saw him begin to pound it out, drawing as he went. Wet with sweat, wearing a leather apron over the long, lean muscles of his upper body, I could not see how he could stand the heat working so close to the forge. I watched intently as he drew the steel into a longer piece and it started to curve when the metal began to turn more of a red color. Back in the forge it went and he pumped the bellows to add air to the fire. I had never seen bellows of that size; it was almost as big as a horse.
I stood there in wonder, watching the molten magic unfold until eventually he set his work aside. After wiping the sweat off his dirty forehead with the back of his arm, he took his glove off and reached for my hand. “Hello there.”
“Hello, uh, I…” I stuttered, then forced myself to reach for his hand. But as his big, hard palm wrapped around my little soft one, I lost my words completely.
“Jackson Hawke. How can I help you?”
Once he let go of my hand, I stabilized my feet and gathered the sense to say, “I just wanted to look at your work.”
“Oh.” He squinted with a peculiar look on his face. “Excuse me for assuming that you’d be picking something up for your husband.”
“Oh, I’m not married. I just like knives.”
His smile widened immensely. “So, you’re pretty, you aren’t married, and you like knives? Did you fall from my kind of heaven?”
Sink me. Was that a compliment? I think it was. He just said I was pretty. My mother and father told me that all the time, but hearing it from this ruggedly handsome man made me think for the first time that it was true.
I didn’t even know what to say to keep the conversation flowing. Luckily he did. “What kind of knives do you like?” He led me towards his showcase shelf, where all the beautifully handcrafted pieces were marked with the outline of a hawk wing.
“I don’t exactly know.” I pulled my bodice dagger out, which caused his warm brown eyes to light up. “This is my only one, and all I know is that I want more of them.”
He took the piece from my hand. “This is nice. Where’d you get it?”
“My mother gave it to me in case I ever need to stab someone in the neck.”
He laughed. “I think I’d like your mother as much as I like you.”
As much as he liked me? Oh my. Gathering my wits about me, I said, “Yes, she has been teaching me how to fight, too. I don’t know where she learned her moves, but I bet she could fight right alongside the King’s Navy if she had to.”
Smiling with interest, Jackson Hawke asked me, “Do you have a name or do I just call you Knife Wielding Pixie?” He handed my dagger back, and I liked the face he made as he watched me slip it back in my bodice.
“My name is Remington Wilshire.”
His face turned sour. “Wilshire?”
Realizing that I should not have shared my true identity, but being too late to retract my statement, I snipped in defense to shield my own embarrassment. “Yes, do you have a problem with that?”
“No, no problem.” He chuckled. “Are you related to Thomas Wilshire?”
“I am. In fact he is my father,” I stated with pride.
He bit on his lip and squinted. “How old are you?”
Assuming him to be around twenty five, and liking him as much as I already did, I decided to flirt with him a bit. “How old do you think I am?” I asked with a sly smile on my face.
“Ah, that’s a lose-lose, question there, lassie.” He fanned his hand and headed to the table behind him where a large vise held the steel. “If I say you’re older, you’ll be mad at me for thinking you’ve aged too quickly, and if I say younger, you’ll snip at me for assuming you to be a child.”
I followed him to the table. “Just take a guess. I won’t be offended.”
Grabbing one of his array of files, he began cleaning the metal and casually blurted, “Eighteen.”
“Good guess,” I said. It was a good guess, just not the right one.
He looked me over with a satisfied grin that caused the lowest part of my belly to tingle. “All right, Remi knife loving Wilshire, are you going to buy a blade today, or did you just come in to keep me company?”
While blushing at the way he shortened my name, I giggled and explained, “I don’t have any money today, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay and watch how you make these weapons. It looks fascinating.”
“Sure. I reckon it’ll be a bit more fun if I get to show off while I work.” He flexed his rock hard bicep.
I twiddled my fingers, wishing I could touch it.
I spent the next hour in the shop with Jackson Hawke, watching how he forged molten metal into beautiful weapons. The work itself was as amusing as it was watching his arm muscles flex as he worked. We talked and talked the entire time without a dull moment in our discussion. I never wanted to leave but if I wanted to return—and I wanted to—I’d have to return home before I got caught.
Hopping off of the bench I was sitting on, I said, “All right, Mister Hawke. I’ve enjoyed every bit of this afternoon with you, but I have to get going.”
He set his tools down and walked me to the door. “Are you going to come see me again tomorrow?”
I placed my finger upon my chin and paused for effect, as if I was sorting through my important plans. “I believe I can do that. Around the same time?”
“Yes. I try to get my customers in and out in the morning so I can work through the afternoons without being bothered.”
“And I don’t bother you?” I poked his shoulder.
“No.” He smiled. “You might be a bit distracting, but you aren’t a bother.”
Looking down to hide my blushing cheeks, I giggled, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mister Hawke.”
“Just call me Jackson.” He grabbed my hand and kissed my knuckles.
Imagining the feel of his hot lips searing his hawk wing brand into my skin, I sighed like a dumbstruck lover and bid him farewell.
Heading home, feeling as light as a feather, I reminisced every moment of my afternoon with Jackson Hawke. He was handsome, and charming, and rugged as could be. I adored his accent, I was enamored by the way he carried himself, and his love for his work was so alluring. Though I hated the swamping Caribbean heat, I never once thought to complain while I stood next to the fire at Black Hawke Forge. Aye, I had just experienced the good kind of heat, and I knew the lingering memory would smolder in my heart well into the night.
Chapter 7
Home-wrecking Love Letters
Listening to the sound of pouring rain, I’m sitting in my room thinking about the time I’ve been spending with Jackson Hawke. Beyond the fact that he’s incredibly handsome, he’s also funny and optimistic, and since his mother was also a bit of a loon, he understands my struggle and is happy to offer me good advice. We have a lot in common, and the more time I spend with him the more alive I feel. I’ve never been so close with anyone, and the more I open up to him, the more I’m learning to like myself.
Not only is he a good friend, but he is also an exceptional teacher. In between jobs he’s been teaching me how to use the weapons he makes. I am completely impressed by his vast array of knowledge and useful techniques. Exhilarated by the improvement of my newfound skills, and enamored by Jackson’s persona, I’ve anticipated each visit like a jolly little girl, but the emotions that rise in my being when standing beside that man have been far from childish. Tall and big boned as I am, I still feel like a dainty little flower in his presence. Having a man like him eye me over like he does assures me that I’m ready to become the woman I see reflecting in his enticing brown eyes.
After puttin
g my quill away, I decided to tear up my secret note, and then figured it would be best to burn it like Mother did with hers.
Once the ashes were cleaned up, I propped myself in the windowsill. While listening to the sound of thunder roaring across the heavens, I continued to dream about my next encounter with Jackson Hawke.
I was ripped from my saucy reverie when I heard my father enter the house. Hearing him greet my mother, I went running down to meet him. Hugging him with all my might, I chirped with joy. “You’re home early!”
“Ah, I am,” he said, holding me close, “but I cannot stay. I only came to drop some things off before I head over to Wilshire Willows West.”
Uncle Lloyd was having an enormous mansion built here in Port Royal and Father had been overseeing the progress of the construction.
Though annoyed by his many projects that kept him from home, I attempted to sound interested. “How is it coming along?”
“It’s beautiful, my dear.” He smiled with pride for his younger brother’s great accomplishments. “The house is going to be fit for a king and the sprawling acres of sugar fields will increase our profits greatly. Soon enough we will be building a home like that ourselves.”
“Oh, joy,” Mother sighed from the sofa. “You’ll be richer, and busier, and even less fun than you are now.”
Father rolled his eyes at her, then returned his attention to me. “Uncle Lloyd and his family will be visiting next month, and we will have a great celebration to warm the house. I will buy you a new dress for the occasion.”
Looking like she saw a ghost, Mother shot up. “Will your mother be joining him?”
“No. Just his surviving son and his family.” Father winced at her. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know that my mother has fallen ill and won’t be with us much longer.”
Every Time It Rains (Uncharted Secrets, Book 3): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories Page 5