Tiola. With him, with van Overstratten. Making love. He had seen every detail; their bodies, skin glistening, forming the two-backed beast, her legs entwined around his hips as he thrust eagerly into her. She had cried out, her beautiful black hair, unbraided, hanging loose and sweeping the floor as she had tipped her head and arched her body to take him in deeper. As she always had done with him, with Jesamiah. Her scream of ecstasy had awoken him.
He didn’t bother stopping the tears; there was no one here to see. He had lost her. He had left her a second time, had chosen the sea over her and she, Tiola, had returned as wife to her husband instead.
It was not a random, fanciful dream. It had been Tiola telling – showing – him that she no longer wanted him. He couldn’t blame her, look how often he had let her down. Why would a beautiful, intelligent woman like her settle for being hurt over and over again by a useless scumboat of a pirate?
Lost in the depth of his grieving despair he failed to hear the stamp of boots or recognise the grate of the bolts – spun round, startled, at the creak of the door opening, his fingers hastily wiping at the embarrassing wetness dribbling down his cheeks. Almost vomited as his heart raced and his legs threatened to buckle beneath him. This was it. They had come for him. They were to take him down all those winding stone stairs into the darkness of that chamber below, where they had the equipment to slowly crush your feet or fingers, tools to pry out your eyes, pull out your guts and rip off your balls. The door opened further, he leant against the wall to keep upright; felt the shudder of abject fear ripple through his body and a warm wetness running down his leg. Closed his eyes, muttered a prayer.
A swish of silk, the delicate smell of perfume – the scent of roses. His eyes snapped open, met the green gaze of the redhead. Jesamiah rested his head on the brickwork, released a slow breath of intense relief – followed rapidly by a flush of intense shame, for the tell-tale wet patch on his breeches.
Motioning at the guard to remain at the door the woman stepped inside, fastidiously lifting her skirts high as she attempted to sidestep the worst of the mouldering excrement.
“This is not a very pleasant place to be,” she said in English, her nose wrinkling at the squalid stench.
“You get used to it,” Jesamiah answered, trying to mask his unease, his mind racing. What the fok was she doing here?
Noticing the dead man the woman gave a small, distressed gasp, went to him and squatting on her heels, touched a palm to his chest then the back of her hand to his cheek, confirming what she already knew, her action disturbing the swarm of flies that had settled on the stiffening corpse. “You poor, poor, man. May you rest in peace.”
“You knew him?” Jesamiah asked, the suspicion dark behind his question.
“No.” She stood, wiped her hand on her skirt. “His face is familiar, but no, I did not know him.”
“You, speak Spanish!” the guard barked in broken English as he lowered the musket in his hand and pointed it at Jesamiah. “Orders I have. You speak Spanish.”
The woman looked squarely at Jesamiah, said in Spanish for the benefit of the guard, “You have been released on parole into the care of Señor Escudero, my father-in-law. I assume you have no objection to a bath, a shave, clean clothes and a hot meal?”
If this was a new form of interrogation, then it was working. Her mere presence made Jesamiah want to spill everything he knew immediately and pour out his heart, but he had learnt long ago not to trust people he did not know. Especially pretty redheads. And this one was undeniably pretty.
“That would suit me admirably,” he drawled, casually crossing his boots at the ankle and folding his arms; squeezing every ounce of courage into appearing relaxed and confident. “But what must I do to earn it? Confess the truth of why I am here? Tell you I am a spy, that I have orders to sabotage the Spanish fleet or to slip poison into Don Damian’s wine? Sorry darlin’, can’t help you out. I recently took vows to always tell the truth.”
“I am curious to know why you are here, sí, but I am a woman, would you not expect me to be?”
Jesamiah shrugged, appearing indifferent. Don Damian would not be letting him out of here for no reason – certainly not because of the softness of his heart. This woman was here at the Governor’s command to wheedle information out of him.
Fine. He might oblige her, eventually, but on his terms, not hers or del Gardo’s.
He pushed away from the wall, ambled towards her. “Well, let me satisfy your curiosity. I am here because Governor Woodes Rogers of Nassau has gone back on his word, which has annoyed me. Another man annoyed me, the reason being none of your business. A naval commodore wanted to commandeer my ship, which very much annoyed me. I wanted to do something which would annoy them in return, offering to fight on the side of Spain was the most annoying thing I could think of.” And if she thought he was going to tell her any more, she could go whistle.
The woman smiled, a smile that radiated from her sparkling eyes as well as her mouth. “I perceive you to be a very annoyed man.”
When he made no further comment she added, in English, “Don Louis Fernandez Escudero is an honourable man, he has sworn to give you hospitality in exchange for your agreement of parole.”
“Español, Español,” the guard growled, tapping the butt of his musket on the floor impatiently. “I must know of what you speak!” They both ignored him.
“He cannot be that honourable if he sends a woman into this stink to fetch me out.”
“He is an elderly man and cannot climb stairs. For other reasons also, he is unable to come.” She indicated the door. “You may, of course, remain here if you would so prefer.”
He did not prefer, but neither did he trust her.
“If you swear to not try and escape, you will come to no harm Captain Acorne.”
“Oh I’m sure I’ll be perfectly safe until you’ve got what you want out of me. After we’ve made love, perhaps? You’ll feign sleep and hope I murmur indiscretions into your ear while I’m sated with pleasure, then scuttle back to your master.”
“You think I would want intimacy with the likes of you?”
Very close, Jesamiah leant forward, tucked a loose strand of her hair behind her ear, brushed his lips against hers. “Oh but you do, darlin’, you do.” Kissed her again, a little firmer, more demanding. The guard shuffled; leered at them.
A squall of rain hurled through the window. Jesamiah pulled away, grinned lasciviously. “You’d best remember one thing, Señora. I don’t talk in m’sleep; an’ even if I did, you’ll be far too exhausted to hear. I’ll ride you hard, you’ll have no energy left to listen.” He was deliberately crude. He did not think del Gardo’s mistress, here with orders to gain his trust, deserved tender wooing.
He walked across the cell and retrieved his hat from where it lay on the soiled straw; knocked it against his thigh to remove the filth clinging to it before putting it on. He pointed at the dead man. “What happens to him? To Chesham?”
He did not get the reaction he expected. “Chesham?” she answered, genuine puzzlement creasing her face into a frown. “Is – was – that his name?”
“Aye, Francis Chesham. The English spy.”
It suddenly occurred to Jesamiah that he could not exactly remember what Jennings had said. Had it been; “he is an English spy,” meaning he was an Englishman and a spy, or was it, “he spies for England,” which could make him anything; Spanish, Creole or English. It was irrelevant now, though.
“Did you and lover-boy discover that? Say anything else of interest when you had him tortured, did he?”
Stern, she challenged, “I could ask a question of you. How did you know him?”
Jesamiah stepped towards the door. “You ought to be well satisfied Señora; del Gardo will be delighted to hear I know of Chesham and what he was, don’t y’think?”
Seven
Rain was angry. At herself, at her mother, at everyone. She had been with Jesamiah Acorne all night, playing with his hai
r, exploring his body. Caressing him, loving him; her delicate touch, to him, feeling like a light shower of rain.
She had put the dream into his head by whispering into his ear; had made him believe he had seen the Witch Woman bedding with that Dutchman.
~ He will turn to me, now. Now he thinks he does not have her, he will want me. ~
She had been wrong. He was totally ignoring her.
And now he was with this other woman, the red haired, pretty, human woman.
Rain had screamed and shouted and demanded that he pay attention to her, made love to her. Only he had pretended not to hear or see her. He did not love her at all! No one loved her! She may as well give him to her mother!
But she was curious.
~ Why do you want him, Mother? You have collected the bones and the souls of many who have entered the eternity of your realm. Why do you want this Jesamiah Acorne? ~
~ He is of the sea. I want him because he is of the sea. ~ Tethys crooned as she lay languid, waiting and watching from the bottom of her murked depths. ~ I was there when he was begun, and I was there when he was born. I watched as his human father planted the seed within his mother’s womb. I shared the love with which he was made and I wanted him, even then, I wanted him as my own son. ~
Rain did not hear, did not bother to listen. She did not care for her mother. Why should she? Her mother had no care for her! She ran off over the sea, weeping her tears of rain.
~ Maybe I will let you have him, ~ she sobbed. ~ Maybe I will give him back to the Witch Woman. Or maybe I will let that one with the red hair, the green eyes and the lies, have him. ~
Tethys subsided lower into the depths and was silent. In the mud, among the clutter of the debris of wrecked ships, fish and human bones, rotting flesh and shredding skin, she settled, lay still. Unmoving, unfeeling.
She could wait.
For a little longer she could wait for the babe who had been born within her embrace. Could wait for the boy who had become a beautiful man. She was immortal; time was meaningless to her. She could wait for him to return to where he had been born, to where he belonged, to the sea.
She could wait.
Eight
The carriage ride was short, a mere twenty minutes along the coast to an expensive and tasteful house built on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Jesamiah had yet to meet this Señor Louis Escudero. The old gentleman had been upstairs when they arrived, and then Jesamiah had been too busy bathing, shaving, changing into clean clothes that he guessed had belonged to the lady’s dead husband, and wolfing down a meal that would have done the King of Spain himself proud.
Finishing the last kidney, Jesamiah leant back in his chair, folded his hands over his belly and belched loudly. Had the decency to grin and apologise. “My pardon Ma’am.”
Señora Escudero flicked him a mildly reproachful glance and poured coffee. “I take it the food was to your satisfaction?”
Sitting here in this fine house was infinitely more preferable than a prison cell, even if the windows were being rattled by a rainstorm that would rival Noah’s flood. By comparison, everything at this moment seemed satisfactory.
Leaving the table, the gold-rimmed china coffee cup in his hand, Jesamiah went to peer out at the tempest. The sea below the sheer drop, not a few yards beyond the walls of the house, was spuming foam over the rocks and up the cliff face. How was Sea Witch faring? Was she battling with this wind somewhere?
He sipped at the hot, black, sweet, coffee. Signing those papers before he had been permitted to leave the Tower had galled. They were his promise to not attempt an escape. That was a nonsense. Did they seriously think pieces of paper would hold him should he choose to go? An old man and a woman as his jailers – oh he was not disillusioned, he was a prisoner here, a bullet would be put in his back if he tried to leave. Which, he figured, the Governor was going to be disappointed about; Jesamiah had every intention of staying put. It was raining outside, there was good food, comfort and a very pretty woman inside. He was not stupid. Besides, what else did he have to do?
The Señora had witnessed his agreement on behalf of her father-in- law and Jesamiah had read her full Spanish name over her shoulder as she had signed.
“Francesca? Pretty name.”
“Only Don Damian calls me that. My friends and my family call me ‘Cesca.”
He had quietly digested the information, had not, yet, found the gall to assume she included him as a friend. Had signed his pledge against the surety of his ship. If he escaped, when the Sea Witch came back into harbour she would be fired upon and sunk.
“Don Damian,” Señora Escudero had said at his side, as he had disdainfully read the conditions, “does not expect your ship to return. He believes your men have abandoned you.”
“Then there ain’t much point in me signing is there?” he had answered. “But since she will return…” and he had put his signature with a flourish:
Jesamiah Acorne. Cpt.
His cutlass and pistol had been waiting for him in the carriage, his weapons returned as part of the honourable estate of parole. His ribbons he had kept, del Gardo not realising their usefulness, although he had disposed of them while wallowing in the wooden tub of hot water provided for him in the guest quarters upstairs. They were ragged and soiled; he would have to get some new ones from somewhere. Standing at the window, his fingers automatically went to fiddle with them, was frustrated to find them not there, twirled a strand of hair around his finger instead.
There was more going on here than he was being told, but so what? His belly was full and ‘Cesca was one of the prettiest women he had seen in a long while. Add to that, there was a clean-lined two-masted brig moored to a small jetty at the bottom of the cliff.
The Kismet. He could read the name painted along her stern. Kismet. Fate. Jesamiah did not believe in fate, he preferred to look after his own destiny.
Watching him, ‘Cesca saw how his eyes coveted the vessel; assessed correctly that the call of the ocean would always shout the louder in his ears above any other voice. Yet… yet she had heard that Captain Jesamiah Acorne was a man who enjoyed his women. Any woman who could anchor his affection would be one of exceptional quality. Or who possessed a high talent in seduction. Did Don Damian intend her to sleep with this pirate? She assumed so, although the malicious bastard never usually cared to share his possessions, not unless he had an opportunity to watch. She shuddered. She had been made to endure that humiliation already. Never again. She would kill herself before being passed around like a parcel to his evil friends a second time.
Unconsciously she touched her fingers to her lips. The pirate’s kiss had been pleasant, erotic. The only other man who had kissed her like that had been her husband.
“You are English?” Jesamiah asked, turning away from the window to smile at her. “Tell me, what is a beautiful English woman doing here in Hispaniola?” He wanted to add, what is a beautiful English woman doing in Don Damian’s bed but thought better of it. He would ask later, when he had worked out the rules of the game that he was unintentionally involved in playing.
“I am a Catholic. Despite the claim that England is now tolerant of us, I found I was more comfortable among those who share my papist belief in the Christ.”
“That still does not explain how you come to be here.”
She returned his smile, that sparkle in her green eyes so alluring. “It is no great secret.” She laughed, the sound trilling, melodic, delightful. “I met a man and fell in love with him. He happened to live here. As his wife, I naturally came with him.”
Jesamiah raised one eyebrow, the question plain.
“I was a travelling actress. I met my husband when we were in Cadiz, performing one of Master Shakespeare’s romantic plays.”
“And now?”
Head high, she matched his look eye to eye. Knew exactly what he was asking. “And now I am a widow and summoned to entertain Don Damian del Gardo whenever he wants me. I am a good actress. I pretend I am hono
ured by his attention.”
Jesamiah sipped his coffee, shifted his glance to the Kismet. “You could refuse him.”
“No one refuses Don Damian del Gardo and lives to see another dawn, Capitán Acorne,” a voice responded gruffly in passable English.
Both Jesamiah and ‘Cesca swung around to see Señor Escudero entering the room, walking slowly, relying on the support of his cane and a servant’s arm.
Jesamiah swallowed an automatic reaction of revulsion, feeling his guts leap from his stomach into his throat. The man’s face was hideous, the skin scarred and puckered on the left side and he had only one eye, the other was a shrivelled, empty socket. His feet were twisted and bent, his hands gnarled, the nails missing from several fingers.
Immediately, ‘Cesca hurried to help him into a chair; from her attentiveness she was undeniably fond of him.
“I see my appearance shocks you Capitán Acorne. It shocks many people, save for those who did this to me.”
“Forgive me, I did not intend to insult you, Señor.”
Louis Escudero flapped a misshapen hand in dismissal. “You are probably wondering why del Gardo has seen fit to release you into my care. You are here because he knows for certain neither I nor my beautiful daughter-in-law will go against him.” He touched his hand to his face. “Once already he has had me tortured, and discovered I had nothing to tell. And now he abuses ‘Cesca and holds her son to ransom. If we betray del Gardo, Capitán, my grandson will be killed in the same manner as was his father. We have had enough pain and misery, we will risk no more. You, therefore, will be adequately supervised while in our care.”
Something Jennings had told him tugged vaguely at Jesamiah’s mind, but he could not remember it. He said instead, “And if I happen to let some useful information slip, then maybe you can bargain with the bastard to leave your family alone?”
Señor Escudero nodded congenially. “’Cesca said you were an intelligent man. I see she was right.”
Pirate Code Page 19