“S’not stupid,” he slurred.
“It is!” She kicked it again.
Max belched.
“That’s disgusting,” Rina said, nose wrinkling.
“Beg yer pardon, Your Majesty.”
She waved a hand in dismissal, swiping up the jug to take another swig. “You shouldn’t give up on Charlotte,” she said, losing her balance and sitting down heavily on her crate. “You can’t let all of this nonsense get in the way of true love.”
“You’re one to talk,” he snapped back, taking the jug from her.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I mean you and Jonathan, of course,” he said, stifling another belch. “The touching and looking and breathing . . . it’s ridic . . . ridic . . .” Max shook his head. “Ridiculous!” he exclaimed with a satisfied smile.
Rina blinked. “Breathing?”
“You know . . .” He pressed his hand to his chest, feigning a gasp. “All the gasping and breath-catching and panting—“
“I never panted!”
“I was talking about Jonathan.”
At that, Rina’s face heated. Max wagged a finger at her accusingly. “You like him.”
“I do not!”
“You do!”
Rina gave a resigned sigh. “It doesn’t matter.” She leaned forward onto the crate they were using as a table. It was surprisingly comfortable. “The thing is, he’s a pirate,” she confided.
Max snorted. “I’m aware of that.”
She laid her head down on the crate, forehead resting on the wood slats as she mumbled, “His life is the sea and all that rubbish. There’s no place for someone like me.”
Max was silent for a long moment, and when Rina rolled her head on the makeshift table to look at him, she half expected to find him asleep. Instead, he regarded her with heavy-lidded eyes.
“You shouldn’t give up on him,” he said, mirroring her words from earlier.
“To what end?” she asked, weight heavy in her heart. “After this is all over, we’ll go our separate ways.”
“A lot of things can happen before this is all over.”
“I suppose,” she conceded. “But nothing that will change the outcome.”
Max smiled. “You can’t know that. Charlotte always says the best thing about the future is it can always be changed.”
She straightened, head swimming. “Do you really believe that?” She had a fleeting thought that she might regret it in the morning, but reached for the jug anyway.
Max took another gulp before handing it to her. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, “but Charlotte does. And she should know.”
Rina nodded and took another drink as they lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts—a silence only broken by the slosh of rum and the gentle sounds of the sea as they cut a path to their next destination.
The expedition has landed in Boston, and is journeying south. Each day I draw nearer to my goal. Yet fear of them, and of the dread pirates in this area, forces me to take care when I’d much rather act quickly.
Once I find what I seek, I now know I must also find a way to protect it.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 2 February, 1665
Jonathan scanned the horizon through his spyglass but could make out nothing in the darkness. No sign of a pursuing ship, and they were so far out into the open sea that there was no sign of the shoreline, either. Only his compass and the stars above assured him of their course. He slapped the glass closed and stowed it in his coat pocket.
“I’m to my quarters,” he told Crawley as he surrendered the wheel. “We sail through the night. Wake me when we draw close to Savannah.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“And if there is any sign that bastard, Stanton, is about—“
Crawley nodded. “I’ll send word immediately.”
“Good.” Jonathan cast a glance across the deck, wondering where Sarina had disappeared to. “Good,” he repeated distractedly as he turned to head for his quarters, a strange kind of excitement brewing in his chest. His mind had been occupied since they’d returned to the ship, focused on their destination and evading Stanton. But now that the danger seemed past, he had a sudden urge to see Sarina again, memories of their encounter in the barn flashing through his memory, searing his skin.
He wasn’t certain, to be honest, exactly what would happen once they were alone together again. He knew what he wanted—what his body craved—but he also knew what his mind reasoned in more rational moments.
It seemed mind and body were at crossed purposes when it came to Sarina Talbot.
Still, he had to rest, didn’t he? And to do so meant returning to his quarters. The fact that his steps quickened as he neared the doorway leading below had more to do with the call of his bed than the fact that Sarina would be there also, lying on her cot just across the room.
Soft and warm, pliant in sleep.
Jonathan swallowed, shaking his head to clear it. He was a grown man, for heaven’s sake, not a besotted school boy. His life was laid out before him. A life on the sea—most likely a short one—centered on vengeance and treasure and pleasure . . .
Pleasure.
A flash of memory assaulted him—Sarina in his arms, clinging to his neck as her mouth opened below his. The warm wetness of her tongue, the soft curves surrendering tantalizingly to his fingertips, the quiet whimpers . . .
Jonathan stopped abruptly outside his door, fighting an urge to slam his fist into the wood. He needed to gain control of himself. Sarina Talbot, despite recent evidence to the contrary, was a lady—a lady destined to return to polite society, a place where he could never again set foot. Once she’d seen justice for her father’s murder, she would take her part of the treasure and make a life for herself . . . get married . . . have a family.
Another man would feel her pleasures one day, a man more deserving. A man able to give Sarina what he could not. The thought left a sour taste in Jonathan’s mouth, but he knew it was the only way.
After all, Jonathan knew the realities of the world. There were ladies. There were servants. And there were whores.
And he knew which were destined for him.
With a deep breath to solidify his resolve, Jonathan squared his shoulders and entered the room.
He needn’t have been so worried, however, because when he looked over to Sarina’s cot, he found the blankets neatly tucked and undisturbed. His gaze swept the room.
“Smith?”
But there was no response. With a frown, he made his way to his desk to light a lantern, but the illumination still did not reveal her presence.
Where was she?
Jonathan took the lantern to the door, sticking his head out and quickly scanning the hallway.
“Smith?”
When greeted only with the silence belowdecks and the faint sounds from above, Jonathan’s thoughts first flew to Rafferty. It would be just like the wench to go flitting about the ship in the middle of the night with no thought to her safety, and—despite his recent punishment—Rafferty would no doubt take advantage. The bastard was never one to think of the consequences of his actions, and a few moments of pleasure would far outweigh any lingering pain from the lash, or Sarina’s bucket, for that matter.
Not to mention, Jonathan was certain Rafferty felt he had a score to settle with Sarina. His pride had taken a beating, and Jonathan had noticed the hateful looks cast her way, had perhaps dismissed them when he should have taken action. With a grimace of determination, he strode purposefully across the deck, ignoring Crawley’s questioning glance, and went below to the gun deck. He held the lantern aloft, peering around the cannons and piles of balls and shot and weaving between the swinging hammocks filled with snoring crewmen. He paused outside the door of the small room where the master gunner bunked, glancing back before lifting his fist to knock.
He stopped, hand raised midair, at the distinctive sounds coming from within. Holding his breath, Jonathan pressed h
is ear to the door, shock turning to red-hot fury at the masculine moans of uninhibited pleasure drifting through the wood. Without another thought, he burst through the door, clutching the lantern in his white-knuckled fist.
“Unhand her!” he exclaimed, eye wild as he reached for his sword.
He needn’t have bothered.
Rafferty gaped up at him from where he lay on his narrow bunk, sheets and blankets shoved down around his legs. He stared at the captain, frozen in shock, his face pale in the lantern light, the bruises under his eyes and around his swollen nose dark against his skin. Jonathan’s brow furrowed in confusion after a moment when he realized his master gunner was alone in bed. He spun around quickly, searching for Sarina, but the room was decidedly empty. Turning back to Rafferty, who still had yet to move, his gaze traveled down the man’s form, widening in shocked awareness where his right hand disappeared beneath the thin blanket.
Jonathan quickly looked back at Rafferty’s face. The gunner seemed to gain back his faculties, because he sat up quickly and reached down to pull the blankets up a bit higher before clearing his throat.
“Is there a problem, Cap’n?” he asked. “Are we under attack?” He reached over the edge of his bed for his trousers, ready to report to his station.
Jonathan shook his head, turning away from the man’s gaze. “No . . . no . . . I thought I heard . . .” he stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence.
Rafferty stiffened slightly. “S’no rule against a man I’ his pleasure on his own time, is there?”
“Of course not.” Jonathan backed toward the door. “Just . . . be sure ye get enough sleep,” he blustered, covering his embarrassment with a gruff order. “I’ll not have ye falling asleep at yer post!”
Rafferty eyed him carefully before reclining back on the bed. “Aye, Captain.”
Jonathan nodded, turning toward the door. “Carry on,” he muttered before walking out and closing the door tightly behind him. He leaned back, pounding his head lightly against it.
“Sir?” Rafferty called from inside.
“Nothing,” Jonathan replied, turning to walk away before he embarrassed himself any further.
He shook it off, thoughts quickly returning to the task at hand. Holding the lantern aloft, he picked his way back through the gun deck, pausing when he spotted the large frame of Jamie Ceron, arms and legs dangling out of his hammock as he snored lightly. He approached him, reaching out to nudge his shoulder.
“Ceron,” he hissed. Then louder, “James!”
James startled awake, nearly falling out of the hammock as he tried to get to his feet. He gave up, half-sitting instead.
“Captain? What is it?” he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Have you seen Sarina?”
“Sarina?” he repeated. “No, not since you came back from the mainland.” James’ thoughts evidently followed Jonathan’s, because he straightened, alert at once. “Rafferty.”
“No,” Jonathan assured him. “I just checked. Rafferty is alone.”
“Oh, well, that’s good then.” James relaxed slightly but made to get out of the hammock. “I’ll help you search for her.”
“No.” Jonathan held up a hand. “No need. Most likely she went for a walk about the ship and is back in my quarters already.”
“Are you sure?” James asked, but he was already yawning.
“Sleep. I’ll come back if I need you.”
James nodded and closed his eyes as Jonathan left, turning down the hall leading to the hold. Perhaps Sarina was snooping about—that would be so like her—and lost track of time. He poked his head in several of the storage rooms as he made his way methodically down the passageway, peering around the stacks of crates and barrels. He half thought he might come upon Max as well. The man rarely drank, but it was not unusual, after a visit to Charles Towne, for his first mate to end up in a dark corner with a jug of rum or two. Jonathan overlooked it for the most part because Max always showed up at his post the next morning, ready to work, bleary eyes and an unshaven jaw the only indication of the previous night’s indulgences.
Not that Jonathan would begrudge his friend a night of drowning his sorrows in any regard. He had more than earned it.
Jonathan rounded the corner and paused, tilting his head at the muffled sound of voices behind the door in front of him. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but after a moment, raucous laughter broke out, and he could identify one of the voices as decidedly female.
Sarina.
Jonathan breathed in a rush of relief, quickly followed by gritting his teeth in frustration and annoyance. Here he was, worried about Sarina’s safety, waking his crewmen up at all hours in his concern, and she’d been down here laughing without a concern in the world with—
Who was she with?
She laughed again, light and bubbly, a lower-toned chuckle accompanying the sound. Jonathan could stand it no longer. He burst through the door, ready to brain whichever of his men had the audacity to approach his woman . . . to laugh with her . . . to—
He came to an abrupt stop at the scene before him. Sarina perched on an upturned crate across from Max, who had apparently abandoned his own crate to sprawl on the floor, back propped against the wall. A small lantern sat on another crate between them, a jug of rum balanced precariously on the edge and a second, empty jug on the floor at Sarina’s feet. The laughter cut off when he entered the room, and they both stared up at him with mirroring expressions—mouths slightly open and wide eyes blinking slowly.
“What is going on here?”
“Jonathan!” Sarina sprang to her feet. “I mean . . . Captain . . . I mean . . . Captain Jonathan!” She started toward him, stumbling slightly over the empty rum jug. She stared at it as if mildly offended for a moment before continuing on.
“Smith? Are you drunk?” He looked at Max accusingly, but the first mate simply shrugged, taking up the jug for another gulp.
“I’m not drunk!” she exclaimed, swaying before him slightly, then hiccupping. She pressed her fingers to her lips. “I beg your pardon,” she said, glancing back at Max before bursting into giggles. Max started to laugh as well, sliding even further down the wall, and Jonathan fought the urge to throw them both overboard.
“Baines! She’s loaded to the gunwales! How could you let her get like this?”
“Hey!” Sarina narrowed her eyes, poking him in the chest. “Don’t get mad at Max!” She poked him again. “He’s a good”—poke—“man.” Poke. “Even if he is a pirate.”
“Ho, me hearty!” Max called from the floor, raising the jug in salute. At Jonathan’s glare, he added, “Not my fault, Cap’n. The wench has a taste for rum.” He belched loudly, and Sarina giggled again.
“I beg your pardon,” Max slurred.
“I do like it,” Sarina whispered loudly, leaning toward Jonathan with a conspiratorial wink. “It makes me feel . . . warm.” She swayed on her feet and reached out to steady herself, her palm landing on Jonathan’s chest. He hissed at the touch, taken by surprise at the heat of her hand seeping through his shirt. She looked up at him, eyes glassy, and licked her lips, her gaze dropping to his mouth before slowly rising to meet his. Jonathan’s breath caught in his throat, mesmerized by the invitation in her eyes, and for a moment he considered accepting it.
Then she hiccupped again and began to giggle, and Jonathan abandoned all romantic thoughts with her in such a state.
“Come on, then, Smith,” he said with a resigned laugh. “Let’s get you to bed, yes?”
“To bed, yes!” She exclaimed with a leering grin, turning to wave to Max. “Good night, Max. I’m going to bed with Jonathan!” She laughed again, reaching for Jonathan’s arm as he opened the door.
He shook his head at her with an amused half smile. “Make sure to put out the lantern,” he told Max. “I’ll not have you burning down my ship.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Max slurred, leaning forward to blow out the lantern before curling up on the floor
and tugging his discarded coat over his shoulders as a makeshift blanket. He was already half asleep by the time Jonathan closed the door behind them.
Sarina stumbled, clinging to his arm, and he disentangled himself from her grip, shifting to hold her around the waist. She leaned heavily against him, her scent mingling with the rum on her breath in a surprisingly pleasant way. Jonathan led her through the passageway, bending down to whisper as they neared the gun deck.
“Be quiet, now,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. “The men need their rest.”
Sarina shivered in response, but said nothing as they made their way through the crowded area, then up to the main deck and out into the fresh air. She leaned back, nearly falling over.
“Look at all the stars!” she exclaimed, stumbling and sliding out of his grip and collapsing to the deck in a heap, her skirts billowing about her. She blinked in surprise, then burst out laughing. Jonathan heard another choked chuckle from across the deck, where Crawley was watching them in amusement.
“Everything all right, Cap’n?” he asked wryly.
“As you were,” Jonathan muttered, bending down to sweep Sarina into his arms. She half-shrieked, arms linking around his neck as he adjusted his grip.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her tone a mixture of indignation and confusion. “I’m quite capable of walking, you know.”
“Apparently not,” Jonathan retorted as he continued toward his quarters, the lantern dangling from his fingers at her side. “Bloody hell, Smith. You really can’t hold your spirits, can you?”
“I can hold them just fine, thank you,” she grumbled. “Although, if you think about it, that’s rather ridiculous, isn’t it?” She hiccupped. “How can you hold spirits? They’d slip right through your fingers.” She wiggled her fingers to emphasize her point. “Unless you have a cup . . .” Her words trailed off as Jonathan pulled her closer, guarding her head as they ducked through the doorway leading belowdecks. Jonathan felt her nose pressed against his neck, and she inhaled deeply.
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