The Sublime and Spirited Voyage of Original Sin

by Colette Moody

  “They’re too busy counting their loot to mutiny, Churchill. I’ll keep an eye on them, my friend. You just get us to Kingston.”

  *

  Celia had been trying to make herself scarce ever since the sudden, inexplicable attack and theft of the Spanish ship that morning. She had never seen anyone murdered, and watching people she had admired perform such a reprehensible act was rather shocking. She was still struggling to deal with the revelation.

  While the late-afternoon light remained, Celia assisted James as he finished tending to anyone injured during the combat, and the last person who had requested attention was Molly.

  “And did you receive any wounds?” he asked her.

  “Aye.” She pulled her shirt up and exposed her breasts.

  He surveyed her torso. “You have an injury here?”

  “Oh. No. It’s on me arm.”

  “So why do you have your shirt up?”

  “Since you’ve been looking at blood and the like all day, I thought you might want a glance of somethin’ a bit nicer.”

  He looked embarrassed as he helped her pull her shirt back down. “Thanks, they are quite lovely. Now, let’s see your arm.”

  Celia chuckled in amusement.

  As Molly displayed the modest wound, she seemed to puff up with pride. “Here she is. That right bastard tried to hack my fuckin’ arm clear off.”

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” James said. “Not very deep.”

  “Not for his lack of trying. I got my cutlass in the fucker’s chest before he got too far.”

  Celia winced as she thought of Molly running someone through. “It’s a shame so many had to die.”

  “And a shame so many died at Santiago’s hands before Cap’n got to ’im,” Molly replied as James washed the dried blood away.

  “So this Santiago was a rather bad sort?” James asked.

  Molly laughed. “That’s like sayin’ that Lucifer has a bit of a temper. He’s been lurkin’ about these waters for a few years now. He attacked every ship in his sights and helped himself to all their cargo. He supposedly had a letter of marque from the Spanish government that entitled him to pillage ships of any other nationality on behalf of Spain. I guess he was rogerin’ all those women on behalf of Spain as well—him and his crew.”

  “I did hear that he was quite scurrilous,” Celia said.

  “He once tortured his own crewman for raping a captive before he got a shot at her. Cut him open like a mackerel and hung him still kickin’ from the yardarm by his bloomin’ rib cage.”

  James gagged slightly. “Good Lord.”

  “Apparently it took him a long time to die. I was more than happy to see the shitter finally get what he deserved.”

  Celia mulled this over. “But what of his crew? Surely they didn’t all deserve to die.”

  Molly scoffed. “The ones that traveled with him were those who wanted to be just like him. That’s why he had so few men left. He’d already killed a lot o’ them, and some had run off, not wantin’ to be next on the yardarm.”

  “I suppose no one will miss Santiago,” James said as he finished bandaging Molly.

  “And Cap’n was a fire-breathin’ hellion to be sure. She’s as brave and able as any I ever sailed with.” She glanced at her newly wrapped arm. “That’s a fine-lookin’ bandage, Doc. Let me know if you want to tend to me other bits,” she offered, standing. “I’d hate to forget how to use them.” She winked at James, then sauntered away.

  “She’s certainly…unique,” James said with a frown.

  “Unique yet common at the same time. Quite peculiar.”

  “Quite. So, might you join me this evening for supper, Celia?”

  “I appreciate the offer,” she explained, looking awkwardly at the deck. “But I’ve had a rather trying day. I think I’ll skip supper and simply go to sleep.”

  His face fell. “Ah, I see. Well, perhaps tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s just that we really haven’t had much chance to become familiar.” His eyes widened. “Not familiar in a…familiar way,” he muddled nervously. The words seemed to flow from him like the rushing tide—without pause and with no dam on the horizon. “I certainly wouldn’t be asking you to bed me—not that I wouldn’t be interested in bedding you, obviously. You’re a terribly attractive woman, and bedding you might very well be the highlight of an otherwise dull and pedantic existence. Though I certainly don’t want to give you the impression that I have sat and pondered overly what bedding you might be like—though admittedly it is not abhorrent to me in the least.”

  Celia blinked twice and studied this frazzled man, but said nothing.

  “Should I stop speaking?” he finally asked weakly.

  “Please.”

  “I do apologize. I so want to say the right things, and for some reason—”

  She held up her open hand. “That’s fine. I’ll see you later, James.”

  He nodded vigorously, as though in the throes of a seizure, and kept nodding as she left.

  Having nowhere else to go, she headed to her cabin. She was surprised to see the door open and to observe Frederick—the lad they had recruited from the fabric merchant—stacking several bolts of cloth on her bed.

  “What’s all this, Frederick?”

  He seemed startled. “Cap’n asked that I deliver this to you so you can make whate’er you please.”

  “And was this all filched from Santiago’s ship?” she asked gravely.

  “This green one was. But these two the Cap’n purchased for you in New Providence.”

  Celia scrutinized the cloth, then remembered commenting on how much she liked the pieces. How thoughtful of Gayle to have taken note and bought them for her. “So I’m to make anything I please?” she clarified, fingering the fine silk appreciatively.

  “Aye.”

  “Thank you, Frederick. And please tell the captain the same.”

  “Aye, miss.” He shut the door behind him.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and ran her hands over the fabrics. They were some of the most exquisite she had ever seen. She rarely got an opportunity to work with such amazing materials. Closing her eyes, she tried to think of what she wanted to create, trying to block out the image of a brown-toothed Spaniard bleeding to death.

  Chapter Nine

  Gayle found the next few days at sea rather frustrating. Though Original Sin wasn’t a large ship, somehow Celia had found ways to avoid her. They hadn’t dined together since the skirmish with Santiago, and during any exchange between them Celia had been brief, cordial, and utterly aloof.

  Gayle glanced back down to her chart of the islands. If these strong winds continued throughout the day and into the evening, they would be in Kingston by tomorrow afternoon. She wasn’t certain Celia would even care to travel back to Florida with her on Original Sin, as she was suddenly so disaffected—all but teeming with disgust for Gayle and her piratical practices. Celia hadn’t even thanked her directly for the expensive fabrics.

  She sighed. She wouldn’t have a chance to show Celia her “softer side,” as Churchill had called it, if they were never in the same bloody room.

  She exhaled loudly and sat up. She was running out of time with Celia, and she needed to be assertive before her opportunity passed.

  *

  Inside her cabin, as Celia busily sewed the beautifully patterned green silk, she attempted to focus, but again her mind wandered. She had been very disconcerted over the last few days.

  What had begun with a single, albeit very disturbing erotic dream had now progressed into something bordering on preoccupation, involuntary though it was. True, seeing Gayle in battle had horrified her, but something about the sight of her in such command and with such physicality had apparently stirred her and made her dream even more frequently.

  She was now having several a night, and little varied except trivial things like their location—sometimes in a lavish bedroom, sometimes on a beach amid t
he rushing waves, and sometimes, most peculiarly, on the back of a great sea turtle. What on earth might that represent? When the dreams first began, she thought she could simply roll over and drift calmly back into slumber. But overwrought, when she did at last nod off, another sexual encounter with Gayle spun her right back up.

  Embarrassed and afraid her expression would somehow lay bare these troubled thoughts, she couldn’t even make eye contact with Gayle.

  She momentarily wondered if Gayle had paid the gypsy woman to put a curse on her, perhaps a curse of lusting. She laughed at herself. She really needed to get more sleep.

  Even her sewing—what she had focused her attention on for the last three days—was ultimately for Gayle. When Celia had brushed her hand over the fine embossed emerald silk, she immediately envisioned it on Gayle as a lush vest, her fiery garnet hair tumbling over her shoulders in contrast. Compelled to create the garment, she had worked on it almost constantly, though she did wonder how she would actually bestow it upon her. She winced and hoped they wouldn’t need any fittings, as those might prove awkward.

  She flushed when she suddenly remembered Gayle pulling up her dress and strapping the pistol to her thigh. Now that she wasn’t panicked, she found the contact extremely sensual.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she muttered, trying to force her thoughts back to the seam she was basting. Dear Lord, what must she do to get this lasciviousness out of her mind? Must she simply go to Gayle’s quarters and pounce upon her, acting on the desire to finally exorcize it?

  She imagined that experience for a moment. Rising and striding to Gayle’s cabin, entering without knocking. Gayle would be startled, of course, but she would simply walk inside and bolt the door. She would say nothing, unless it was something provocative like “I need your hands on me,” or perhaps “Captain, I have something I need hoisted.”

  She scowled. On second thought, that scenario wasn’t nearly as sexy as she had initially imagined it to be.

  A knock at the door brought her back to reality, and she tossed the vest into a dark corner. “Come in.” She was surprised to see Gayle enter. Her stomach sank, and she was certain she was blushing.

  “Are you busy?” Gayle asked.

  “Hardly. I have naught but time here.”

  “Might I have a word with you?”

  Celia fixed her eyes on the floor, avoiding her gaze. “If you wish.”

  “You have seemed a bit under the weather of late,” Gayle began softly, sitting beside Celia on the bed.

  Celia abruptly stood. “Have I?”

  “Aye. You spend little time on deck, and you have supped neither with me nor with the men. Are you well?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Well, I thought perhaps a hot bath might aid you.”

  “A hot—”

  “Bath,” she repeated.

  Celia panicked. “And where would I take this bath?”

  “Well, this cabin is obviously too small. And it would certainly not be appropriate for you to engage in a bath out on deck where the crew takes theirs.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “So I thought I would offer the use of my quarters. It will afford you privacy, but enough room to manage.”

  Celia closed her eyes. Hadn’t one of her dreams taken place in a bathtub? “Shit.”

  “Pardon?” Gayle sounded perplexed.

  “I said ‘quit,’” she quickly lied. “Quit worrying about me. I’m fine. You needn’t exert the effort.”

  “’Tis no effort, Celia,” she said, as she stood to face her. “Your demeanor concerns me. I want you to be well and happy.”

  Celia’s resolve melted at this heartfelt admission. And Gayle looked so deeply into her eyes that, unnerved, Celia nearly forgot to continue breathing. “That’s quite nice of you.”

  Gayle smiled slightly. “I do have my occasional nice moments. It might do you well to take advantage of them when they come along.”

  “I wouldn’t want to burden you.”

  Gayle’s expression softened into what Celia determined was either tenderness, desire, or perhaps complete amusement. Damn that she couldn’t read her better.

  “’Tis certainly no burden. I have missed our suppers together.”

  Celia’s mouth opened but nothing came out of it. She closed it and then opened it again. “As have I,” she conceded softly.

  “Then it is settled. Come to my quarters shortly with a fresh change of clothes and I will ensure you have a relaxing bath. When you are finished and refreshed, we will dine.”

  Celia studied Gayle’s face and found she liked the amiable expression there. She then noticed Gayle’s hands, which rested lightly on her hips. They were strong and capable-looking. For a moment, a flash of what Celia had dreamt those hands had done to her filled her mind. She blinked the thought away in irritation.

  “Fine,” she finally sputtered.

  “Splendid.” Gayle clapped eagerly. “I’ll have Cook begin heating the water.” She turned and left the room.

  Celia sat on the edge of the bed and put her forehead in her hands. “Shit,” she said again.

  *

  When Celia knocked on Gayle’s cabin door, she was startled at how quickly it opened.

  “Excellent timing,” Gayle said, motioning for her to enter. “The bath is mostly filled and the water quite warm.”

  Celia shuffled in and examined the large oval metal tub, its steam rising lazily. She set down the clothes she held and stood uneasily. “I’m sure it will be lovely,” she remarked, trying to fill the awkward silence.

  “Aye. Hyde just has to bring one more load of hot water.”

  Celia examined Gayle, who was wearing a blousy tan shirt and black velvet breeches that fit her very well. “You appear somewhat refreshed yourself.”

  “Aye. I indulged myself earlier this morning. It’s a panacea of no equal.”

  “Well, sea life does seem a bit filthy.”

  “It can be. I usually have the crew at least wash the day before we make port. Sometimes I need to twist their arms a bit, if you get my meaning. Nothing’s as upsetting as the smell of a ripened, unwashed arse. And out of consideration to whores everywhere, I try to send my lads into town as fresh as possible.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “I do try.”

  “And do you give them the same courtesy?” Celia waited for Gayle’s response with interest.

  “I’m not really much of a whoremonger. I don’t know what some of the lads have been telling you—”

  “They are impressed with your ‘wenching’ abilities, I believe is how they referred to them. They apparently feel that you spend as much time fondling breasts as you do breathing.”

  Gayle looked uncomfortable and for a moment said nothing. She crossed her arms and then bit her thumbnail sheepishly. “They are prone to exaggeration,” she finally said.

  “Hopefully. As I’ve seen you take quite a few breaths since I entered your quarters. You would have a great deal of fondling to do tonight to catch up, were that the case.”

  “True. And since you and Molly are the only women on board, I’ll obviously have to have more than one go at both of you.” Celia could only stare in response to the comment. Gayle cleared her throat repeatedly. “At any rate, wenching and whoring are two different things, you know.”

  “You’re not going to tell me that the wenches pay you, are you?”

  Gayle laughed. “No, but I may use that tale the next time I boast to the crew. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all. Feel free to embellish it even further if you please.”

  “That may be difficult, but I’ll mull on it.”

  Hyde knocked and entered with another large pot of hot water, which he dumped into the bath. And at Gayle’s nod of thanks, he departed silently.

  “Well…” Celia began stiffly.

  “Ah, right.” Gayle moved toward the door as if to leave, then turned around. “Oh, I have this soap I got in Cuba. It s
mells of flowers.” She picked up a gray brick of the substance from the table and handed it to Celia.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, pulling her hand anxiously away from Gayle’s when their fingers touched.

  “You are most welcome,” she said with a hint of desire.

  Celia gazed at the floor again. “And how long will I have before you return?”

  “However long you wish. If it would please you, I could stay and keep you company.”

  “No, thank you. I shouldn’t monopolize your time so. I’ll be done soon, and I’ll come and find you.”

  “As you wish.” Her eyes searched Celia’s before she left the cabin.

  Celia dashed to the door and bolted it, then leaned wearily against it. She should never have agreed to this bath, she admitted to herself. Though it had sounded absolutely heavenly, and nothing of a sexual nature had happened, she was tremendously anxious about the whole thing. Every time she looked at Gayle, the captain seemed to be eyeing her as though she were a fresh melon, ripe and succulent.

  She sighed and moved to the bath, putting her hand in the water to determine the temperature. As she stripped her clothing off, she contemplated what would happen if she were to let things progress. She didn’t need to be the next notch on Gayle’s baldric. It was clear that Gayle had been with so many women that they had ceased to even register as memories beyond a casual thought of “I remember old what’s-her-name. She was a pleasant way to pass the time.”

  She slowly lowered herself into the bath and used the soap to scent the warm water. After several minutes of focused scrubbing, she sank beneath the water to soak her hair. She emerged, brushed her wet hair away from her face, and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  This really did feel marvelous. She exhaled loudly. She supposed she had forgotten what a strong-willed woman she was. As intrigued with the notion of how carnal relations with Gayle might be, ultimately she had no desire to be the next nameless tart in a long line of wenches—a line no doubt peppered liberally with some whores who had to have been paid.