“Fast to take a seamstress over a surgeon? Not bloody likely.”
“But ’tis true. I swear it.”
“Well, you’ll have your chance to save her now,” Andrew announced. All Phillip could do was whimper slightly. “And then you can court all the bloody tarts you want. You’re not good enough for Celia, or anyone with a heartbeat. You’ll never have her now.”
“You’re raving like a lunatic, sir.”
“Perhaps I am. It doesn’t matter. You’re coming with me to make this right.”
“Coming? Where?”
“Down to the tavern,” he growled, the dagger now pointed at Phillip’s throat. “And bring every farthing you’ve got.”
*
After Andrew dragged Phillip into The Three Sheets Tavern, Phillip felt horribly out of place. The sun had now set, so a number of criminal-looking miscreants were already sitting about slugging back rum.
“Why are we here?” Phillip whispered, still wearing his elaborately embroidered black overcoat. Everyone in the place stared at him, and he could sense them appraising his personal items and sizing him up for a good trouncing.
“To save my daughter, you worthless bastard.” Andrew peered about the dark, fire-lit room. “He looks promising.” He pointed to a dirty, swarthy man in the corner with long, dark hair trussed in a braid.
“Promising for what? An evisceration?” Phillip was starting to feel nauseous.
Andrew stared at him sinisterly. “Exactly.” He grabbed him by the elbow and shoved him over to the tavern dweller’s table, angled himself in his line of sight, and nodded. “Might we have a word with you?”
The mysterious man said nothing, but motioned for them to sit. He had a dark mustache that trailed to the edge of his jawline. But what commanded attention was a scar that cut a swath from just below his left eye, across his left cheek to his upper lip, then disappeared into his mustache and emerged on the other side across his right cheek.
He did not look like a kindly man.
Andrew sat down, appearing somehow pleased by just how nefarious this stranger seemed. And when Phillip insisted on standing, he pointed to an empty chair at the table. “Sit, you foppish poltroon.”
Rapidly, Phillip did so. “Um, greetings. Allow me to introduce—”
“Shut your gob,” Andrew barked. “We’re not here to learn names, if you get my meaning.”
The man with the scar squinted. “What’s your business?” He spoke with a slight, yet indistinct accent.
“We seek someone to liberate my daughter from the horde of pirates that kidnapped her.”
“Which pirates?”
“I’m told the ship is named Original Sin.” Andrew glanced about in what Phillip assumed was an attempt to ensure no one was eavesdropping.
“Ah,” the man with the scar replied. “Madman Malvern’s crew. He once ate out another man’s throat for singing an unsavory chantey.”
“Mother of God,” Andrew blurted. “Is he truly a madman?”
The man with the scar took a swig of rum. “Compared to some, he is judicious and wise.”
Phillip was completely appalled and kept glancing at the tavern door to plan his escape. “Pierce,” he whispered, “this is madness.”
Andrew appeared oblivious to the danger of being in this wretched environment. “I need someone who will take on this Madman Malvern and return my daughter to me safely.”
“She sails on board the ship?” the stranger asked incredulously.
“For the last few weeks,” he answered. “I’m told he has despoiled her.”
The man with the scar stood and headed to the bar. Phillip looked imploringly again at Andrew. “He’s not interested. We should leave.”
The man then returned with a fresh bottle of rum and two more tankards. He sat and poured the rum, offering the liquor to his guests. “Drink,” he commanded them. Andrew took the pewter mug and emptied it, whereas Phillip held his in trepidation.
“Drink,” Andrew rumbled, causing Phillip to throw the libation into his mouth and cringe as the liquid burned a path down his larynx.
“I am Fuks,” the man said, offering no insight into his ethnicity.
“Beg pardon?” Phillip asked.
Instead of repeating the name, Fuks stared at Phillip appraisingly. “This lass is your daughter,” he said, motioning to Andrew. “But who is she to you? Your sister?”
Andrew scoffed. “This cobbling oaf could never be the fruit of my loins.”
“Hmm. So who is she to you?”
“Well…” Phillip eyed the door again hopefully.
“He is her fiancé,” Andrew answered sharply. “Who let the pirates carry her away without lifting a bloody finger to stop them.”
“So you have no bollocks.” Fuks took another sip of his rum.
“But—”
“Not even the stub of one,” Andrew said with a nod. “But he’s only here for one reason.”
“Oh?”
Andrew motioned with his head to Phillip. “Put it up, you de-balled mook.”
Phillip slowly placed his swollen coin purse on the table and sighed in utter misery.
“And how much is she worth, then?” Fuks asked.
“Upon her safe return, five hundred gold,” Andrew answered softly.
Fuks whistled. “Do you know where they are?”
“On their way to New Providence from Saint-Domingue.”
“Hmm. And when did they leave?”
“The missive from Saint-Domingue arrived just today,” Andrew answered. “It stated they were not departing for a few days.”
Fuks finished his rum and slammed the tankard on the table dramatically. “Then there is time. You have a deal.”
Phillip’s stomach lurched. “Shit.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Faster, my love,” Celia moaned as she ground her posterior against Gayle’s pelvis and Gayle’s soft breasts pressed against her back.
Gayle sat behind her in the bathtub, one hand caressing Celia’s left breast and the other urging her to climax. Her teeth lightly grazed Celia’s shoulder and neck as Celia surrendered to the throes of her yearning.
Celia ran her hands along her lover’s thighs as waves of pleasure racked her body and she cried out softly. After several tremors, she relaxed again and slumped against Gayle, sending warm water streaming over the edges of the tub.
Gayle kissed her shoulder and held her close.
“You know,” Celia said, “that just keeps getting better.”
“Mmm.”
“Will each time be better than the last? How long can that continue?”
“Wouldn’t you love to find out?” Gayle’s provocative tone was a catalyst for goose bumps.
Celia turned over to kiss her. “Is that an offer?” she asked, when their mouths finally broke apart.
Gayle stared at her. “It is.”
They kissed again, sending more water over the side of the tub, but not caring in the slightest.
“Land to,” came a faint cry from above them. “New Providence off the starboard side.”
“So we’ll continue this later?” Celia asked in a husky tone.
“You bet your bewitching arse we will.”
*
By the time Original Sin made landfall in New Providence, night had fallen and the amber Caribbean moon was lazily ascending. Gayle was anxious to see her father again and learn what progress he had made in the few weeks he had remained behind, recuperating.
Gayle, Celia, Dowd, Abernathy, and Churchill trooped ashore to The Bountiful Teat, eager for a fresh drink and a visit with Captain Malvern the elder.
“I’m sure he’s better for this rest,” Churchill said as they trod through the dimly lit docks.
“Aye,” added Abernathy. “He’s a salty old bastard. He’ll outlive us all.”
Gayle chose to remain quiet on their journey over, and Celia wordlessly held her hand as they walked.
When they entered The Bountiful
Teat, Gayle was elated to see her father seated at the bar, a tankard in his hand. He seemed gaunt and significantly aged, but if he was drinking, he was certainly improved.
“What manner of landlubber is this I see?” she asked loudly.
Malvern smiled. “You didn’t forget me, then.”
“No matter how hard I tried.” As Gayle hugged him, she could tell he was stiff and awkward. “How fare ye, old man?”
“Fair to middlin’.” He groaned as he rose. The rest of the group had secured a larger table in the center of the tavern, and he slowly joined them there. Gayle steadied him as Smitty appeared from the back room.
“Gayle. There’s a sight for sore eyes.”
She kissed Smitty lightly on the lips. “Things go well, I see.”
“Aye, I’ve a charmed life. Rum, miss?”
“How well you know me, Smitty.” She felt a relief and ease that she had not experienced since her father had been wounded. “Enough for the table, and for yourself, of course. Join us.”
“It’s good to see you all.” Malvern sat back down stiffly and his eyes steadied on Celia. “You…didn’t you help tend to my wounds?”
She nodded silently.
“Has she joined the crew?” he asked Gayle.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“I’ve joined the captain,” Celia said, with a seductive expression.
Malvern’s eyebrow cocked in surprise. “What an excellent predilection for the ladies my daughter has. You are quite easy on the eyes, sweetness.” He regarded Gayle appreciatively. “Have you let all this captain business go to your head, lass? Is she part of your plunder?”
Gayle shook her head as Smitty arrived with a tray full of drinks. “She’s here to fulfill a gypsy’s fortune, quite by choice.”
He winked at Celia. “Well, good luck taming her. She’s a bit of a stormy petrel.”
“She’s brought us some rather good luck of late,” Abernathy said, grabbing the tankard placed before him.
Gayle laughed and then watched her father reach for his rum with his left hand. Suspiciously, she appraised his right arm. He wasn’t moving it at all. “So how are you feeling, Father?”
“Better.”
“Well enough to take command of Original Sin?”
Malvern set the drink down and rubbed his bristly gray beard with his left hand. “I think my sailing days have ended, lass. It’s time to swallow the anchor, I’m thinkin’.”
“Why is that?” Churchill asked.
“Because he’s not left-handed,” Gayle interjected, taking a swig of rum.
Malvern chuckled. “I never could get anything by you, lass.”
“Can you move it at all?” she asked in concern.
He looked down at it. “A bit. I can’t hold anything. My fist won’t close. It makes for a rather useless swordsman, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps you just need to practice,” Dowd said.
Malvern shook his head. “This is my chance to get out alive, mates. God himself damaged my arm—to save my bloody life. I’m inclined to listen to him.”
“What’ll you do?” Abernathy asked.
“It’s time to dig up the hoard and retire to the islands…get myself a good woman.”
Gayle was intrigued. “So we’re off to find your stash, old man?”
“You are. I’m staying here.”
“Why?” Churchill queried. “Don’t you want to command Original Sin one last time?”
Malvern’s expression grew dark. “I don’t think I’m meant to, mate. I have these cursed dreams…every night.” He took a long swig of spirits. “Something’s telling me to stay put, to belay here.”
Gayle had never seen her father so weak and daunted before. She wasn’t sure what his dreams had shown him, but he was a superstitious, unwavering man, so she didn’t see any point in arguing. “You’re a trusting soul, Father. How do you know we won’t take your riches and keep them all for ourselves?” She asked the question playfully, but she genuinely wanted an answer.
“You’ll all get a share. And you’ll get the ship, of course. I just need enough to live on here. Enough to keep me in my boots with kill-devil, and in the company of a winsome wench or two.” He swallowed more rum. “Preferably both at the same time if I can manage it.”
“Then you shall have it,” Gayle said. “So where is this hoard of yours?”
A smile crept slowly over his face. “Closer than you’d think.”
*
Off in the dim glow of a small bonfire, many yards away from The Bountiful Teat, Captain Fuks, smoking a clay pipe, leaned against a tree. He strained to focus as someone approached. He hoped it was his quartermaster, but reached for the hilt of his cutlass just in case.
“Crenshaw?” he asked suspiciously.
“Aye, Captain Fuks,” came the whispered reply.
Crenshaw—a tall, strapping fellow—stood before him with a woman, though he could not make out her face in the dark.
“And who would this be?”
“Desta,” she said. “I was told there was a doubloon in it for me to come here and answer your questions.”
Fuks did not try to hide his disdain. “And what’s to keep me from slashin’ your fuckin’ throat right now, you simple bitch?”
“The pistol I have pointed at your bloody gut, you rancid bastard.”
He squinted to make it out. The pale moonlight did seem to glint off something she held there. “Well done, Crenshaw,” he spat. “You didn’t disarm her first? I would expect a cabin boy to know better, and much more so a fucking quartermaster.”
“I didn’t think I’d need to, Captain. She’s just a tavern wench.”
Desta took a step back, assuring that neither man was out of her line of vision, then slowly took their weapons, tossing them several feet away. She scrutinized the man with the disfiguring scar on his face. “Where is the money you spoke of?”
Fuks nodded to Crenshaw, who produced a gold coin from his pocket. He held it up before her and she took it with her left hand, still firmly gripping the pistol with her right. Satisfied, she spoke again. “What did you want to know?”
“Some of the patrons in the tavern you work at,” Fuks said. “I’m seeking a wench who may be among them.”
“A particular wench?”
“Aye. A young beauty by the name o’ Pierce. I’m told she’s been of late on the arm of a certain pirate captain.”
“Which captain?”
“Malvern.”
Desta grimaced as she realized it was Gayle they sought. And the wench this man wanted must be the brunette who was with her, the one fawning over her in a most bothersome manner. “I know of whom you speak,” she finally said.
Fuks sneered, his golden tooth visible even in the dim light. “And what does she look like?”
“Dark-haired, blue-eyed—the kind of woman who’d boldly take those that don’t belong to her.”
Fuks appeared surprised. “Surely the cap’n can’t be rogerin’ you as well.”
Irritated, she pointed the gun directly at his head. “What else do you want to know?”
“What else can you tell me?”
She felt smug. “I know that the crew is off on the morrow to retrieve a buried hoard. They speak of its riches like it has no equal.”
“A hoard, eh?”
“Aye. From the Spanish Main, no less. They say it’s nearby, in fact.”
Fuks looked at Crenshaw, his interest obviously piqued. “Well, we may just have collared two treasures for the price o’ one.”
Crenshaw laughed nefariously.
As much as Desta wanted to squeeze the trigger and finish this ugly bastard, she needed to tend to her wounded pride first. Gayle would be very sorry that she had chosen to ignore her and instead spend her time with that strumpet—very sorry indeed.
Chapter Eighteen
At Madman Malvern’s direction, Gayle drew up a map. True to his word, the location where he had buried his hoard was quite cl
ose to New Providence—in fact only a day or so away in the Berry Islands.
This cluster of small, mostly uninhabited islands was a vast collection of natural quays and beaches…and the perfect place to bury treasure, as those unfamiliar with this unsettled land would find it confusing and labyrinthine.
The hoard supposedly lay ripe for the picking beneath the white sands of a place called Deadlight Quay, which Original Sin made out for early the next morning, before dawn. The weather was bright and breezy, and the ship raced through the water.
In the doctor’s quarters, Anne sat dejectedly nursing a tankard of grog.
“So how long are you staying on board?” she asked James, who was wiping down his medical implements.
“I’m not sure. I’m hardly what one would consider a sea dog. Most of the time I’m spewing over the side, but I told them I’d stay on if they recovered you from McQueen.”
“Quite unexpectedly thoughtful of you,” she said, sipping her drink.
“It would only be proper of me to remain until they can find another doctor.”
“And you are nothing if not proper, James.”
“Hmm, speaking of proper,” he said, facing her, “you never have explained to me what you were doing in that house of ill repute.”
“If you must know, I was there seeking company.”
“Company?” His eyebrows raised in interest. “Company of a sexual nature?”
“Well, I did get my shilling’s worth, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“By God’s great forelocks. And when were you going to tell me of this…this inclination of yours?”
Anne shrugged. “It isn’t really your concern.”
“Not my concern? Have you gone completely mad?” He shook his head. “I should have listened to Celia when she suggested you had such proclivities. She was right about you all along.”
“Celia?” Anne saw the same fire in his eyes as she suspected burned in hers at that moment. “And what did that bellicose shrew have to say about me?”
The Sublime and Spirited Voyage of Original Sin Page 15