Tale Of A Traveler (Tales Of A Navigator): Endless Horizon Pirate Stories

by Cristi Taijeron

  Tale Of A Traveler

  Tales Of A Navigator

  CRISTI TAIJERON

  Copyright © 2015 Cristi Taijeron

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1517654511

  ISBN-10: 1517654513

  Edited by Janine Lieber

  Cover Artwork by Megan Dinsdale and Cristi Taijeron

  Reign-Creative.com

  Interior design by Cristi Taijeron

  Endlesshorizondesigns.com

  To those who have learned their life lessons the hard way

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Sarah

  Thank you for making Moriah a woman well worthy of the love and respect any good woman deserves.

  Barnabas

  Your passion for piracy on the high seas is like a wild wind feeding the fire of my imagination.

  Megan, Author of Finding Eden

  The cover on this one needs to be framed on my wall.

  You’re the best.

  Stacey

  Thanks for picking the perfect title to match the cover art

  and the overall essence of the tale.

  Nicole

  Your beautifully detailed description of London helped me bring the old city to life in a way

  I could not have otherwise.

  Oderlesseye

  Your poetic and humorous way of expressing pirate history has extended my knowledge of the era and

  deepened the meaning of this particular adventure.

  Mac Macgrath

  Thank you for sharing your pirate coat for the cover.

  The colors and the pose fit the scene perfectly.

  Stephan Mendoza & Ravenous Ruby

  Thank you both for your support along the way.

  AUTHOR’S nOTE

  Tales Of A Navigator was inspired by the hero in the Justified Treason series, Sterling Bentley. This buccaneer navigator came alive in the light of true pirate history, and I became fascinated with his life story and the possibilities his past might reveal about who he was. Wanting to hear more of his world-traveled adventures, and to see how he came by the scars he bore, learn why the women of his past love or hate him, and find out how he earned his name as one of the most respected navigators on the wrong side of the law, I started writing these short stories. In these tales, I not only experienced the milestones in Sterling’s young life that made him into the man who blatantly chose his life of piracy, but I also found a world of short and daring tales full of action, adventure, and honor on the high seas. I hope to continue adding to this set as time goes on.

  Tale Of A Traveler

  As Told By Sterling Bentley

  London, England 1663

  Waking up to the feel of warm wet lips kissing down my abdomen, I opened my eyes to see where I was. Not recognizing the room I was in, or the mop of curly red hair draped across my belly, I let the mysterious woman undo my breeches as I attempted to sort out my thoughts.

  Considering the way my head was throbbing and my gut was aching, I figured my confusion regarding my whereabouts had something to do with the amount of rum I drank last night. Eyeing the view of the stone wall outside the window, I remembered I was at Barlow’s Brothel Inn and Tavern in London. And the burning pain on my chest reminded me I had gotten a tattoo. Ah, yes, I turned seventeen yesterday, and having a ton of loot from my last raid, I’d gotten drunk as hell to celebrate. So, the festivities continued as this mysterious redhead sucked and licked and kissed all over me.

  Wrapping my hand in her locks, I helped her move up and down on me just the way I liked it. Mmm, whoever she was, she was good at this. Just as I started thinking about how I’d hunt her down for a job like this every time I came to London, she looked up at me. The sight of her familiar green eyes changed my mind in an instant. It was Holly the Whore from Hell.

  Shit! How the hell did I end up in her room? Of all the dangerous places in the world…I knew damn well there would be hell to pay for this erotic encounter, but as she licked me from base to tip, purring like a panther, I decided not to complain about my random appearance in her bed. Not yet anyway. Nor did I feel the need to fuss when she climbed up on my lap.

  Sliding herself down on top of me, her deep green eyes rolled back, her thin lips opened wide as she moaned, and her freckled sprinkled cheeks reddened. Damn, she’d be one sweet treat if she wasn’t bat monkey crazy, but she was. And it showed through the intensity of her movements. Red hair flinging around and tits bouncing up and down, she moaned and sighed and slapped on my chest like she truly enjoyed the job that she often screamed about hating.

  Ah, today, the whore who had been known to bite and occasionally stab her patrons, was riding me like a wild horse, howling about how much she loved my green eyes and golden locks, and was especially vocal about how much she loved my cock. Damn, she was loud, and wild, and good enough at this to make me forget I wasn’t feeling well. And good enough for me to finally see why so many men risked the dangers of entering her room.

  Enjoying the thrill of the risk, I squeezed tight to her boney hips and added a few thrusts of my own until she finally satisfied herself on top of me. The sight and sounds of her coming unwound finished me off as well.

  Flopping over at my side, she draped her thin, freckle-sprinkled limbs over my torso and snuggled against my heaving chest as she caught her breath. Once she calmed enough to speak, she panted, “I didn’t think it was possible to enjoy sex like that anymore. But you…” she stroked my goatee, “you’re so saucy, and so sweet. I could fuck you every day and never get tired of it.”

  “Sweet?” I huffed, struggling to catch my breath as well. As the pounding of my fast beating heart lessened, my misery came back in full force.

  “Like sugar.” She kissed my cheek.

  Annoyed by her touch, I moved my sweaty face away from hers. While rubbing my forehead in a futile attempt to ease the pain, I realized that my hand hurt. Examining the damage, I found dried blood caked all over my knuckles.

  “What the hell is this? Did I get in a fight?” I asked, hoping she’d remember more about the blur of the night before than I did.

  Poking my nose, she giggled, “Yes you did. Some dirty old man yanked me by my hair so you punched him.”

  She went on to tell me about this wild fight I had apparently engaged in. Hearing that I had ended the brawl by smashing the man’s face against the table and knocking him out, I said, “I wish I remembered performing a move like that.” But in my mind I chuckled, Leave it to me to be the whore’s hero.

  While wondering what else had happened while I was wandering around drunk and mindless, my headache increased and I started feeling nauseous.

  “You don’t remember anything else that happened between us?” She spoke with an unusually soft tone. In fact, she had been strangely charming all morning. I didn’t like it. Afraid to hear from where her kindness derived, I shook my head no.

  She squeezed me tight and playfully hummed, “Well, for one, I was your good luck charm while you played cards.”

  Slapping her hand off of me, I buckled my belt and huffed out the blurry memories that comment brought to mind. “I remember losing half of my fortune on a lame mule hand of cards, but there was a brunette on my lap when that happened.”

  Looking disappointed, she sat up and snipped, “Of course you lost whe
n that dirty slut was on your lap. But you and I, we won a fortune bigger than the one you sailed in with.”

  Clearly remembering the fortune I sailed in with, I chuckled about my luck. “Of course I wouldn’t remember the one time I finally won that wretched game.” Then my hazy mind processed the fact that she said you and I.

  At that moment, I wanted to jump up, grab my belongings, and get out of there. But finding myself paralyzed by the sickness welling in my gut, I stayed where I was and grumbled, “I myself won a fortune. And where the hell is it, anyhow?”

  She tickled down my chest. “Well, after you told me that you loved me…”

  Vomit gurgled in my throat. “What the hell would I say that for, Molly?”

  It seemed her green eyes turned red like her hair. “My name is Holly, you son of a bitch.”

  I didn’t care what the bloody hell her name was and I sure as shit didn’t love her. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of her room as fast as I could. But if I moved, I’d throw up. While I calculated my plan of escape, she hissed, “You sure as hell knew my name when you asked your father to marry us.”

  That was it. I jolted up into a sitting position, preparing to lunge to my feet and run. But I couldn’t. Dizzy from my sudden upward motion, the room spiraled around me. Rather than standing up, I leaned over the edge of the bed and threw up. Most of it landed in the opened drawer of her nightstand.

  The moment I caught my breath, she used her feet to push me off the bed. My leg was tangled in the sheet, slowing my journey between her and the floor. As I slowly toppled over the edge, I grabbed her nightstand to keep from falling. No use. The nightstand and I toppled over onto the rug.

  Far more concerned with the cause of her statement than the discomfort of my face-first landing, I gasped in horror from where I lie, “I didn’t marry you, did I?”

  Flinging herself out of bed, the angry strumpet stomped across the room and wrapped up in a silky little robe. “No, but your father gave me money to buy a dress and said we could have a ceremony in the morning. When you carried me down the hall and kicked my door open you said you wanted to keep me as your own. I have been dreaming about our wedding and our future together all night long.”

  Unconcerned with the rest of her ramblings, I dramatically wiped the sweat from my forehead. “What a relief!”

  “Relief?” she shrieked. “Were you lying to me?”

  Taking note of the fact that I still had my shoes on—figuring I was one step closer to making my run for the door—I pushed myself up and said, “If I don’t remember it, it doesn’t count as a promise or a lie.”

  Attempting to steady myself on my feet, I realized that I would not be running anywhere. While holding onto her bed to keep my balance, I looked at the mess of vomit all on the rug and shuddered in disgust. “Looks like you have a mess to clean up over here, Polly.”

  “All because of you!” Releasing a hellish shriek, she pushed me from behind. Hitting her bed face first, I sprung back up from the mattress and used the speed from the forceful bounce to sprint past her. Noticing my overly expensive plum colored coat on her chair, I grabbed it and tried to slip my arms in the sleeves on my way out. But my plans for getting somewhat dressed were interrupted by the sight of her flower-filled vase flying in my direction.

  Dropping my coat, I dodged the projectile just in time to watch the porcelain shatter across the wall over my head. It would have missed me even if’n I hadn’t moved.

  Observing the colorful flowers and shards of porcelain now scattered across the rest of her messy room, I laughed, “Sink me, woman. You ought to work on your aim.”

  She did not think my joke was funny. Grabbing a mirror bottomed tray, she shouted, “How’s this for practice!”

  The heavy piece flew at me like chain shot from a great gun. Unable to leap out of the way in time, I was hit; the sharp edge of the tray slicing my side open like a rapier blade.

  Eyeing the blood running from the wound, I said, “Better already.”

  “I hate you, Sterling Bentley. Get the hell out of my room before I pull your long, messy hair out!” she screamed with her skinny arms flailing overhead.

  I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of her room before she drew more of my blood, but I didn’t want to leave without my effects. Scanning the area for anything that may have belonged to me, I found myself overwhelmed by the disaster. It looked like a hurricane had blown through the place, leaving clothing scattered about, furniture tipped over, and loot everywhere.

  Finally finding my prized cutlass, I lifted it in the air and laughed out loud to express my relief, but my custom embroidered baldric and scabbard were nowhere to be found.

  While shuffling through the mess, I realized she was blaming me for thrashing the room. Having a faint memory of throwing everything off her table before I laid her down on it, I teased, “You weren’t complaining about it last night.”

  Screaming like an enraged jungle woman, she threw a perfume bottle at me. Feeling the heavy glass hit me under the eye, I growled like a bear in the forest. I wanted to throw a chair at her, but settled for throwing one against the wall. As the wooden legs busted apart, I watched my gold pieces go flying everywhere.

  “Goddamn it, woman! You’re ruining my life like no one ever has before,” I shouted as I got down on my knees to gather my gold.

  While I picked up the pieces, she stomped on my hand with her barefoot and snarled, “That’s mine, you dirty bastard. You gave it to me last night and now you owe me for the damages you have cast upon my room.”

  I was about to make some smart-mouthed remarks about her owing me for bashing my face with that perfume bottle, and for taking advantage of me while I was drunk, but when I looked up, I saw that she had the barrel of my own pistol aimed at my face. Shit.

  She took a step back. “You said you were going to marry me, and I thought I was finally free of this whore life I’ve been cursed to live. You fooled me with your lies and I hate you for it.”

  For a moment I felt bad for her, but her problem wasn’t mine. On the other hand, the gun she was pointing at my face was indeed my problem.

  “It wasn’t a lie, darling. I like you, I do. You’re as pretty as a flower and it’d be my good fortune to call you my own. Maybe we could…” The moment I saw her rigid posture relax, I sprang at her legs and tackled her. My gun to flew out of her hand as she fell to the ground.

  Pressing my body on top of hers to hold her still, I took a moment to catch my breath. Though I was relieved to get her latest weapon out of her deadly little paws, the effort it took to do so required far too much movement for my tumbling gut. Feeling the need to throw up again, I held it in as I braced her hands over her head and clarified, “I’m not going to marry you, and I don’t love you. I was drunk as shit, I don’t remember making any of those outlandish promises…” I swallowed the urge to vomit. “You don’t want to marry me, anyhow. I destroyed your room, I threw up in your dresser, and I keep saying your name wrong.”

  Attempting to wiggle her way out of my grip, she screamed, “Yes I do! Why wouldn’t a slut like me want to marry a pirate like you? You’re wealthy, powerful, and handsome.”

  Flashing her a cocky smile, I said, “Thanks for the compliments, love. But I’m not a pirate. I’m a buccaneer. There’s a difference, you know.”

  “You are a pirate!” she kicked and screamed. “You’re a liar and a pirate, and I hate you!” Then that wretched little vixen spit in my face.

  “You nasty little bitch,” I roared as I pushed her tiny body far away from me.

  Hopping to my feet, I felt the room wobble beneath me. In the drunk sick blur that engulfed my senses, I saw my gun across the room and my money all over the floor. But the most clearest visual of all was of The Whore from Hell running for my gun.

  I’d had enough. I was closer to the door than she was to the gun, and I didn’t have the energy to tackle her again. Running out the door, I slammed it shut behind me and rammed my
cutlass through the handle to lock her in.

  Once I made it out to the street, I heard Holly cursing me from her window. “You’re a dirty rotten whore of a man, Sterling Bentley! A fen-sucked liar and a black-hearted pirate. I hope you die a gruesome death!”

  Hurrying out of her line of sight before she fired that pistol at me, I broke into a vicious sweat and started feeling sicker than ever. Clear of danger, I leaned over a waste bin outside of a storefront, and threw up. With the last ten minutes of my life replaying through my mind, I laughed between heaves, “That was a hell of a way to start the damn day.”

  X

  Staggering along the harbor walk, sweating rum and smelling like vomit, I grumbled to myself about the mess I was in. Normally, I’d leave my wenches behind with the scent of their perfume on my collar and lustful memories bouncing around in my mind. But today, I had a throbbing welt from a thrown perfume bottle on my face, and the only thing I could think about was the horrible headache I had. “Stupid,” I cursed out loud, then felt around the cut on my side. It was still bleeding. Damn it all to hell. I came into port with more wealth than I knew what to do with, and now I had nothing more than my injuries, my breeches, and my shoes to call my own.

  Summing myself up, I realized I had no room to argue with that whore for calling me a dirty rotten pirate. Yet, as pathetic as I was feeling, I consoled myself by praising the fact that she didn’t get away with my life, by bullet or by marriage. Blow me down, that was a close one.

  Finally reaching the docks, hungry as hell, thirsty as could be, and sweating up a typhoon, I found my father, Captain Mason Bentley, leaning against a barrel on the dock alongside our ship, Phantom.

  Lighting a Spanish cigarro, he greeted me with a sarcastic grin. “Good morning, beautiful.”