She herself was simply too traditional. She wanted a spouse, not a lover—and not a female lover at that. Perhaps she had been simply swept up in the whole buccaneer way of life. That was probably what had caused her to lose her head.
She began to pay great attention to the washing of her feet. No doubt, the fact that Gayle had treated her with the type of attention she had sought from Phillip since they had met had affected her.
Celia thought back on her meeting with Phillip. It had been at a small affair held by the Ortegas, and she had worn a low-cut, burgundy dress she had created especially for the occasion. Phillip’s jaw had dropped so low at her entrance that she had seen it unhinge from across the room. They had spoken briefly that evening, though she hadn’t been terribly interested in what he had to say, she recalled. He had talked mostly about himself. She should have recognized that as a sign of not only how utterly self-absorbed he was, but also that she wouldn’t be able to share Phillip’s fascination with himself.
She sighed again and dunked her head back under the water.
Chapter Ten
Celia finally drew herself from the bathtub with great unwillingness, though she wasted no time drying and dressing. She didn’t want Gayle to return to her quarters while she was unclothed. As she ran the towel over her hair, she inventoried her resolve again. Yes, she was certain she could resist Gayle’s rather abundant charm.
She unlocked the cabin door and strode confidently out onto the main deck. Twilight was settling in the humid air, and the ship’s concertina player was again regaling the crew with lively music. She glanced about and saw Gayle speaking to Churchill and Abernathy, her arms crossed with poise and purpose, her red hair blowing madly behind her.
Celia swallowed loudly as the familiar queasiness in her stomach returned. “Shit,” she uttered softly, like a hymn, at the revelation that resistance perhaps wouldn’t be as simple as she had hoped.
Gayle turned and smiled warmly at her.
“Shit,” Celia repeated quietly.
“Feeling better?” Gayle called as she approached her.
“Aye, thank you.”
Gayle brushed a stray tendril of Celia’s damp hair out of her face. “I’m simply glad it helped. You’re welcome to a bath whenever you please.”
“I appreciate that.”
Gayle took a step back and surveyed Celia’s fresh clothes. “These fit nicely,” she commented with an appreciative tone.
Celia glanced at her pale yellow shirt and beige breeches and explained, “I altered them slightly to fit better.”
“Most impressive. And have you begun sewing anything with the fabrics I sent you?”
“Actually, I have.” She motioned for Gayle to follow her to her cabin, where she retrieved the green silk vest she had been working on and handed it to Gayle. “What do you think?”
Gayle held the garment out. “This is beautiful.”
“Try it on.”
“This is for me?”
“Aye.”
Gayle seemed taken aback but, after a brief hesitation, slipped the garment on. “How does it look?” she asked as she buttoned it.
Celia smoothed the fabric over Gayle’s shoulders in what was initially a purely professional attempt to gauge the fit, but rapidly became a rather discomfited moment of unexpected intimacy. “It looks”—she drew her hands back self-consciously but couldn’t control the fact that her voice had dropped in pitch and taken on a breathy quality—“absolutely gorgeous.”
Gayle’s gaze became sensual, and she turned around and showed her back. “How’s the fit here?”
Celia inspected the garment and noted how roomy it was through the back and waist. She tugged at the sides. “It could come in slightly. But would you still have enough room to draw your weapon and properly sunder your foes?”
Gayle turned to face her. “Hmm. I think so. After all, I do want my best features suitably showcased.” She assessed her own bosom, to which the vest conformed snugly. “Will this do?”
Celia tried not to look at Gayle’s breasts, but under the circumstances, she was unable to avoid it. “I think so,” she answered nervously.
“It’s flattering, then?”
“I would say so.”
“And why did you choose to make me something, when you had all that fabric that you fancied at your disposal?”
Celia glanced away. “For some reason when I saw this silk, I thought it suited you perfectly.” She looked into Gayle’s eyes again. “And it does.”
Gayle moved toward her. “Let’s eat.”
*
When Celia awoke to the sounds of knocking, she was in her cabin splayed across the bed—still completely clothed, shoes and all. Her head pounded, and she rubbed her forehead as she tried to sit up.
The knock returned—a heavy clatter like the gods themselves were warring. She managed a weak “Who is it?” though the words seemed to splinter in her head like thousands of tiny spears ripping through her brain.
Gayle’s face appeared in the doorway. “’Tis the captain, madam,” she replied jovially. She frowned and then entered. “Do you remember who you are?”
Celia shut her eyes as tight as she could, but still the painful light filtered in. “A woman who can scarcely focus, much less stand,” she grumbled. “Tell me, how did I get this way?”
“I am sorry to report that the wine did you in, good woman.”
“The wine?”
“Aye. Perhaps if you cast your mind back to supper last night, you’ll recall my recommendation that finishing that second bottle by yourself might prove costly.” She knelt by the bed and beamed maddeningly.
Celia groaned. That did seem familiar, but felt like a dream—and she had been having those in such plentiful numbers lately that she was not currently able to completely distinguish them from reality. “That was you?”
“It was.”
“Were we on a large sea turtle at any point?” Celia asked, still uncertain what had been a dream.
Gayle appeared confused. “Not once.”
“Ah, well,” Celia said with a heavy sigh. “The wine was very tasty,” she recollected, struggling to swing her feet over the side of the bed.
“One of my favorites,” Gayle agreed with a nod.
Celia rested her throbbing head in her hands, then raked her fingers through her hair. “And did I come back to the cabin on my own?”
“I helped a bit.”
“A bit?”
“Well, your feet had stopped working, if you recall,” Gayle explained casually. “When I let go of you, you kept falling over.” She sat down next to her on the bed.
“I do remember lying face-down on the deck at one point, now that you mention it.” She turned toward Gayle. “But there was no large sea turtle? You’re certain?”
“Very certain.”
“So you helped me back to bed.” Celia couldn’t keep a slight inflection of indictment out of her tone.
“Aye.”
“And did you…” She couldn’t actually say the words.
“Did I what?”
“Did we…” She jumbled her fingers chaotically together in some sort of peculiar, yet demonstrative hand gesture.
“Milk an animal of some kind?” Gayle apparently wasn’t very good at this game.
“No, no,” Celia barked in frustration. “Did we…have relations? You and I,” she clarified when Gayle looked perplexed.
“Ah, you mean, did we have a tumble last night?” She seemed quite pleased with herself.
“We did?” Celia put her head back in her hands as she processed this information. “Was I enjoyable at all?” she asked, muffling her question with her palms.
Gayle laughed. “You were extremely enjoyable. But we did not have a tumble.”
Celia looked at her, surprised. “We didn’t?”
“Sadly, no.”
“Did I fight off your indecent advances?”
Gayle shook her head. “Now, you mustn’t tell anyone this, as I have a
reputation to consider. But I did not attempt to bed you, even though you were completely in your cups.”
Celia squinted at her in distaste. “I suppose I’m too hideous for you to lust after, is that it? My rump too wide?”
Gayle chuckled, moving a stray lock of Celia’s hair with her index finger. “Your rump is absolutely perfect, and there is nothing hideous about you, love, except this headache of yours from too much drink. You’re bloody gorgeous.”
“You think so?” Celia attempted a feeble smile.
“I’m utterly certain of it. Even totally askew, as you are now.”
“Oh.” She stopped short of thanking her for the compliment, because that last part seemed to have somehow negated it. “But…” she added, starting the sentence for Gayle.
“But…” Gayle repeated. “I want you to be wholly coherent when I touch you.” She leaned close to Celia’s ear. “I want you to want it even more than I do—without two bottles of wine in you.” She kissed Celia’s cheek softly and stood. “Now, are you ready to join the living?”
Celia, unable to respond to Gayle’s admission, nodded dumbly.
“Good. Meet me on deck.”
“You don’t plan to dress me up as rape bait for another approaching ship, do you? I’m really not well enough today to manage.”
“No, we’re nearing Jamaica.”
“We are? How much time has passed?” Celia tried to stand, but immediately sat back down.
“It’s late afternoon, I’m afraid. I had hoped you would stir on your own before now, but obviously that wine does more for you than simply taste good.”
“Apologies,” she muttered.
“None needed. I’ll have Hyde bring you a drink that should make you feel a bit more yourself. We’ll be stopping in Port Royal soon, and we’ll go ashore there briefly if you’re up to it.”
After Gayle left the cabin, Celia flung herself back on the bed, too pained to be either embarrassed or aroused, and wondered how to make the ship stop spinning.
*
Hyde brought Celia a drink he referred to as “bumboo.” Though it smelled so strongly of rum she didn’t think she could get it down, once she finally tasted it, she liked it and the fact that it made her head throb much less.
Night had fallen when she ventured out to the main deck. “Hello,” she said, joining Gayle at the rail as she gazed at Jamaica. “Did I miss anything?”
“Isn’t Port Royal beautiful?” Gayle asked wistfully.
Celia saw the flickering firelight in the various buildings and heard lively music drift over on the wind amid the sounds of cicadas and croaking frogs. Fireflies seemed to glint in every direction, and the sound of water lapping against the moored ship almost hypnotized her. “Aye,” she answered, awed.
“You should have seen it before the disaster.”
“Disaster?”
“Aye, it devastated the place. There was a great tremor, a quake. Then a tidal wave rolled in and buried thousands of people where they stood. Buildings sank into the ocean. ’Twas a ghastly tragedy.”
“When was that?” It must have struck this serene tropical Eden many years back, Celia assumed.
“Ten or so years ago.” She sighed deeply. “Christ, I miss it.”
“What are we doing here? Didn’t James say his sister was taken to Kingston?”
“Most of the island’s commerce has moved to Kingston, now that Port Royal is crippled. But I need to sell Corona d’Oro here and get some information. Do you feel like coming with me?”
Celia nodded. “That bumboo made me feel a little better.”
“I assumed that you must, since you’re fully upright.”
“What’s in that drink, anyway?”
“Sugar, nutmeg, and ‘the hair of the dog that bit you,’” Gayle answered cryptically.
“The what?”
“To get over too much drink, you need to engage in even more.”
“How peculiar.”
“But don’t drink any liquor while we’re in port.”
“You can be over-bitten by the dog, I assume?”
Gayle laughed. “Aye, and you just might lose a limb.”
Celia again donned a cutlass, at Gayle’s prompting, and the two joined Abernathy, who as usual was ready for a drink, and Caruthers, who still made Celia somewhat nervous. They walked through the docks toward a rather seedy-looking tavern and gambling hall on the edge of the island called The Sign of Bacchus.
“Why do you need to sell the Corona d’Oro?” Celia asked softly as they trudged along. “Why not keep it and amass a fleet?”
“A few reasons,” Gayle replied. “First, I don’t have enough crew to properly man her. She’s a large vessel, and I’ve barely enough men to sail my own ship. Also, I’m worried that her reputation is too notorious in these parts. Everyone in the Caribbean despised Santiago as a brutal rotter. I don’t need people engaging me because they have a score to settle with him.”
“That makes sense.”
“And I don’t want a fleet. The more men you have, the more attention you call to yourself, and the more ways you have to divide your loot. After a certain point, you would have to actually sack entire townships to earn enough wealth to keep everyone happy.”
“So you don’t have grand dreams of vast riches? You don’t plan to retire someday soon to your own island somewhere, ridiculously wealthy?”
Gayle slowly responded. “I would like to retire one day and not want for anything, but I don’t need vast riches. Obviously I wouldn’t turn down being ridiculously wealthy, but that’s not my goal.”
“What is your goal?”
“To be happy—nothing more. I don’t need to be famous, or infamous, for that matter.”
At the tavern Celia surveyed the surroundings and realized what a palatial and inviting drinkery The Bountiful Teat had really been. She even pined for it momentarily. This place was much darker and decidedly more sinister. It smelled of an amalgam of mildew, urine, and at least one other key ingredient—decaying flesh, perhaps?
“Abernathy,” Gayle asked discreetly, “what’s the name of the bloke who runs this fine place?”
“Deadeye Magee.”
“Is he sightless?” Gayle asked.
“No. Not completely, but he can supposedly make anyone blind with just one drink—some concoction he brews himself. He calls it Satan’s Foul Seed.”
“That sounds scrumptious,” Celia commented sarcastically to herself.
“Have you tried it yet, Abernathy?” Caruthers asked.
“Aye. And while things blurred a bit, I’m still drawing breath.”
“Well, if anyone can stomach it, Abernathy, it’s you,” Gayle commented. “You could swallow flaming lamp oil and still think the barman diluted it.”
Caruthers laughed so hard he snorted like a pig.
“There Deadeye is,” Abernathy said, pointing to a stout, dirty man behind the bar with a cloudy eye that didn’t move with the other. “I’ll tell him you wish to speak to him.”
“Bring back a bottle of rum,” Gayle said. She paused and looked at Celia. “And a bottle of water.”
Abernathy turned up his nose at the mention of water, but he nodded acceptance and shuffled over to address Deadeye Magee. Celia sat with the other two at a squalid table in a very dimly lit corner.
After an awkward silence, Celia turned to Gayle and asked, “At some point last night, did I stand on a chair and crow like a rooster?”
Gayle grinned. “Now that you mention it, I believe you did.”
“Christ. Don’t you think that would have been courteous to mention?”
“Mention?”
“Aye. Something along the lines of ‘by the way, last night you were pretending to be farm animals.’ Like that.”
“It seemed more polite not to. Kinder somehow.”
Before Celia could respond, Abernathy returned with a bottle of rum, a bottle of water, and four glasses. Gayle filled a glass with water and set it in front of C
elia with a wink. “Here you go,” she said. “Make tonight farm-animal free.”
Celia glared at her as the rest of them poured rum into their glasses, clinked them in celebration, and started to drink.
Deadeye Magee soon pulled a chair noisily up to their table and sat down, his girth making the chair creak tiredly. “You wanted to see me, girly?” he rumbled at Gayle, his voice deep and gurgly.
“Aye. I heard you have a bounty out for the pirate Santiago.”
He squinted his good eye at her, then spat something dark on the floor, much to Celia’s disgust. She downed some water to keep from staring at him and grimacing in revulsion.
“I might,” he wheezed. “What’s it to ye?”
“Easy money.”
Deadeye Magee’s laugh was throaty and obnoxious. “You think you can rid the seas of a brawny bastard like that? A little slip of a bitch like you?”
Gayle’s face showed no emotion. “Aye.”
He continued to jeer, wiping the tears from his eyes. He laughed deafeningly, but as he began to move his arm back to his side he seemed caught off guard by the dagger that now firmly held his shirt sleeve to the tabletop. Gayle winked at him.
“Now look here,” he began forcefully.
“Shut your cake hole, old man. I’m here to collect the reward.”
His eyebrows arched. “On what proof?”
“I have two things to show you. The first is moored not far from the docks.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s the Corona d’Oro. I’m told you might be interested in purchasing her.”
He spat on the floor again. “You’re fuckin’ serious.”
“I am. We took her unscathed.”
“Well,” Magee seemed to mull on this for a moment, “if what you say is true, I’ll give you six thousand gold for her.”
“Nine thousand. She’s an impressive vessel.”
“Seventy-five hundred,” he countered, trying unsuccessfully to remove the dagger from his sleeve.
“Nine thousand,” she repeated. “It’s not negotiable.”
He scrutinized her with his lone, functional eye. “If you can prove to me that stinkin’ freebooter is dead, you have a deal—nine thousand total for the reward and the ship.” Still he struggled to pull out the dagger, but couldn’t. “But I’m not convinced yet.”
The Sublime and Spirited Voyage of Original Sin Page 9