He loosened his grip, eyeing her warily. “Did you just smell me, Smith?”
“You smell nice,” she murmured, eyes blinking sleepily. “Like soap and leather and . . . man.” Her head lolled back, and he thought she might have added delicious, but he couldn’t be sure.
With a little fumbling, he made it into his quarters, depositing Sarina on his bed as carefully as he could. When he straightened to move away, she reached for him with a whimper.
“Don’t go,” she mumbled.
Jonathan couldn’t help a fond smile as he brushed her hair back from her flushed face. “I’ll sleep on the cot tonight.”
“No.”
“No?”
Sarina looked up at him briefly before her eyes fluttered closed again. “I might have a bad dream. You might have a bad dream. You should stay with me . . . just in case.”
Jonathan hesitated, unsure how to proceed. He didn’t want to take advantage of Sarina in her current state, but at the same time, that cot looked extremely uncomfortable. He eyed it warily, shifting on his feet in indecision.
“Now you’re a gentleman?” Sarina asked wryly.
Jonathan snorted. “I’m no—“ he began. “Fine then. Shove over,” he muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull off his boots. He stripped down to his shirt and breeches and slipped into bed, pulling the blankets up over the both of them. “Don’t say I didn’t try to protect your virtue,” he said, glancing down at Sarina curled up beside him. She only snored lightly in response, already asleep.
Jonathan exhaled heavily. “Smith, you’ll be the death of me, I fear,” he murmured, reaching out to run a finger down her cheek. She sighed, leaning into the touch slightly, and he pulled away, watching her sleep for a moment. Unable to resist, he sat up and leaned down to press a chaste kiss on the side of her mouth.
“Good night, Smith. Sweet dreams.”
Her lips curved a little in response, and Jonathan chuckled under his breath as he reached over to turn out the lantern and settle into much-needed sleep.
Off the coast of South Carolina, Commodore Lucius Stanton sat at his desk in his quarters, brooding and sullen. He didn’t even bother to light a lantern, his mood so foul the darkness seemed a welcome respite, surrounding him in a sightless cloud so he needn’t lay eyes on those who’d failed him so completely.
Lieutenant Cameron entered, carrying his own lantern, and the commodore squinted at the unwelcome glare. Cameron quickly slipped the lantern behind his back to shield him from the light.
“Any word?” Stanton grunted.
“Nothing useful, sir,” Cameron replied. “The first mate, Baines, was spotted in town asking questions, but no one made mention of Tremayne.”
“Of course they didn’t,” Stanton spat, standing up so quickly his chair toppled over. “But where Baines is, Tremayne is. Everyone knows that.”
Cameron had no idea how to respond, so he said nothing.
“What of the witch?” he asked. Stanton knew that Tremayne consulted with his half-sister, a fortune-teller of some regard in the area. He prided himself on the knowledge of the pirate’s family and kept the information close and protected. He was the one who would bring Tremayne in, not some up-and-comer looking to steal his promotion from under his nose. No, he—and a few of his most trusted crew members—were the only ones who knew of Tremayne’s connection to South Carolina, and Stanton aimed to keep it that way.
“She claimed not to have seen Tremayne for nearly a year.”
“Of course she did,” he snapped. “Did you press her?”
Stanton could hear Cameron swallow thickly, his next words measured. “Her father is a viscount, sir.”
“I’m aware her father is a viscount, Lieutenant!” The commodore was distinctly aware of that fact. Dishonored by scandal and living in near isolation, Lord Tremayne still held the title and the wealth, which meant Stanton could not enact more aggressive means of persuasion. “I assume Lord Tremayne was equally unhelpful?”
“He assured me that he had washed his hands of his son,” Cameron replied, “and that if he encountered him, he would be sure to surrender him to the Crown.”
Stanton laughed humorlessly. “Noble citizen,” he muttered. “Tremayne was here, and we missed him—probably by hours, maybe even minutes. How did that bastard get by us?”
Cameron cleared his throat. “We can dispatch more men in the morning,” he offered. “Canvass the town. Question people more thoroughly.”
Stanton waved a hand, righting his chair and taking a seat. “It’s no use. Tremayne is sneaky. He’d have left no sign of where he’s headed.” He lit a lantern, finally, examining the map stretched across his desk. “Nothing to do now but head south. You know he’s after Kane, and I’ve word he’s been spotted near Hispaniola.”
“Aye, Commodore.”
“Tell the men to keep an eye out for Tremayne. Hell, for any ships along the way.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Cameron tipped his head in acknowledgement and left to follow the commodore’s orders. Stanton examined the map before him, running a finger along the edges of the land masses, then swirling it through the blue of the sea.
“Where are you, One-Eyed Jack?” he murmured to himself. “What are you up to?”
He stared at the map long into the night, finally falling asleep with his head cradled in his arms and his commitment to catch the elusive pirate burning in his chest.
A grinding roar that threatened to split Sarina’s head in two woke her from a deep sleep. She struggled to force her eyelids open, but they seemed weighed down, the very motion sending a rush of pain through the sockets. She groaned, then immediately regretted the action as another wave of pain shot through her aching head.
What was wrong with her? Was she dying?
And what was that bloody racket?
She tried to stretch but found herself unable to, something warm and hard pressed up against her side, her hand resting on a solid—
Good lord.
Slowly, she took stock of her surroundings, realizing she was not in her usual cot, but in Jonathan’s large, and she had to admit, particularly comfortable bed.
And she was not alone.
Laying next to her and snoring loudly—the noise that had so inconveniently awakened her. Why was it so bloody loud?—lay Jonathan, sprawled on his back, his arm across his face.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Sarina was draped half on top of him, dressed only in her shift, which was currently gathered up around her thighs. Her leg was thrown over his, curled around his calf, her hand up underneath his shirt and resting on his warm muscled chest.
What had she done?
The night before was a muddled blur of rum and laughter . . . dizzy images of Max . . . and Jonathan. Yes, Jonathan had been there.
She rolled her eyes, then fought back another groan at the resulting agony spearing through her head. Of course Jonathan was there; otherwise, why would she currently be in bed with him?
She was in bed with Jonathan.
Bloody hell.
Rina steeled herself against the pain, moving slowly and quietly so as not to wake him. She tried to pull her arm away, but Jonathan stirred, his hand flying up to still her movement.
She froze, holding her breath as she watched him. Maybe he would go back to sleep.
His good eye drifted open.
No such luck.
He turned to her, blinking in sleepy surprise for a moment, then his lips curled into his trademark smirk.
“Good morning, Smith,” he said, voice raspy and sending an inexplicable rush of heat through Rina’s body. Her breath hitched, and he noticed, his hot gaze dipping to her parted lips. He rolled over, up onto his elbow, and reached toward her, cupping his hand around the back of her neck.
“I could get used to this,” he murmured, leaning toward her. He was going to kiss her. Rina’s heart pounded. Her head pounded. Her stomach . . .
Her stomach . . .
“Oh God,” she muttered, swallowing thickly as the nausea hit her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “I think I’m going to—“
Jonathan grimaced. “Chamber pot’s on the floor,” he said, just before Rina dragged herself across the bed, head hanging over the edge as she retched pitifully.
“Well, Smith,” Jonathan said, lying back with his hands tucked behind his head as she vomited what felt like her entire being into that chamber pot. “I have to say you certainly know how to ruin the moment.”
Rina groaned and wished—quite fervently—that she might curl up into a ball and die.
After weeks of following false information and trails leading nowhere, I finally feel I am making progress.
Mary has questions, but I fear giving her the answers. ‘Tis only for her own protection, although she fails to see the logic of my actions. Still, I know once I find what I seek, she will forgive me. And I can truly be the husband she deserves.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 14 March, 1665
“What happened?” Rina asked once the contents of her stomach had been fully eliminated. She glared down at the chamber pot, swallowing another rush of nausea as she rolled over onto her back with an agonized moan. “I think I might be dying.”
Jonathan chuckled. “The perils of overindulgence, Smith,” he said—a mite too gleefully, she thought.
“Do you have to speak so loudly?” she muttered, her head throbbing. “And can you stop breathing, please? It’s giving me a headache.”
“Stop breathing?” he repeated. “’Fraid not.” The bed dipped, and Jonathan got up, shuffling around the room before coming back to sit next to her. She groaned at the movement, but then startled as Jonathan laid a cool, damp cloth on her forehead. It felt so good on her clammy skin, she couldn’t keep in a relieved sigh.
“Here,” he said quietly. “Drink this.”
Rina peered up through half-opened eyes to see him holding a cup of water. Slowly and carefully, she propped herself up on an elbow to take the proffered drink. Once it touched her tongue, she gulped it eagerly.
“Easy,” Jonathan warned. “Unless you want that to end up in the chamber pot as well.”
She grimaced, sitting up fully to sip at the cup as she handed the cloth back to him. “Thank you.”
“Think nothing of it,” he replied, gaze intent.
Rina squirmed under his scrutiny, focusing her attention on the cup and its delicious contents. Unfortunately, as often happens, it soon emptied, leaving her with nothing to distract her.
Jonathan reached for it. “Better?” he asked as he set it on the side table, discreetly shoving the chamber pot away with his foot.
She nodded, avoiding his gaze and picking at the blankets absently.
“So,” she said, swallowing nervously. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Question?”
“About what happened last night,” she explained. “How I, uh, ended up . . .” She waved at the bed, then realized the sheets were down around her hips and quickly pulled them up to her chin.
Jonathan snorted. “It’s a little late for modesty, isn’t it, Smith?”
Sarina flushed. “I didn’t, uh, we didn’t . . .” she stammered. “Did we?”
Jonathan leaned forward on his arm grinning wickedly. “You don’t remember?”
“Umm . . . not really,” she said, voice cracking.
“Well, Smith, I must admit, I’m hurt,” Jonathan murmured, reaching out to trace a finger over the top of her hand where it peeked out of the blankets. “After all we shared together—“
“We shared?” Her eyes widened. “What exactly did we share?”
“Everything.” He wiggled his eyebrows and Rina gulped, her stomach flipping, but not from nausea this time.
“Surely you wouldn’t . . .” She gaped at him, horrified. “I was hardly in the condition to . . .”
Jonathan laughed, wincing when Rina pressed her hands to her head. “Sorry,” he said, lowering his voice. “Don’t worry, Smith. Your virtue is intact.”
“It is?” She sighed in relief. “I mean. It is. Of course it is. I wasn’t worried.”
“Of course you weren’t.” Jonathan smirked. “Not that you didn’t try to force my hand.”
“I did not!”
“You did.” Jonathan shook his head ruefully. “Quite shameless, really. Don’t you recall telling me I smelled delicious?”
Rina’s hands flew up to cover her flaming cheeks. Because she did remember something of the sort.
“And then you begged me to share your bed.”
“Oh no,” Sarina moaned into her hands.
“. . . and then stripping your clothes off in the middle of the night—“
She gaped at him. “I didn’t!”
“Oh, but Smith . . .” He eyed her shift, then glanced pointedly to the pile of clothing—her dress—hanging haphazardly off the back of the chair, as if it had been flung there in haste. “You most certainly did.”
Rina groaned, flopping down on the bed and pulling the covers over her head. Perhaps she could just live there, hidden under the pillows and blankets, and no one would ever know her shame.
Jonathan laughed, pulling at the blankets. “Come now, Smith. No need to be shy with me. Not after all we’ve been through.”
“I want to die,” she grumbled into the sheets.
“No need,” he said, finally granting her a reprieve. “Nothing happened.”
She peered up at him sideways, her face still smashed into the mattress. “Nothing?”
He shrugged. “Nothing important,” he said. “Just a bit of friendliness inspired by too much rum. You’re hardly the first to succumb.”
“Friendliness?”
“Crawley once offered his fortune to a comely wench in exchange for a dance, you know. And Hutchins would be wed to half the whores in Tortuga if anyone took him seriously.”
“How did I end up in my shift?” she asked nervously.
Jonathan chuckled. “You did strip your gown off in the middle of the night,” he said. “After threatening to brain me for being so bloody hot.”
Rina flushed, but couldn’t keep from laughing herself. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll never touch rum again. I was right to think it was evil.”
“Oh, don’t abstain on my account, Smith,” Jonathan said with a leering grin. “I rather enjoyed you with fewer inhibitions.”
She raised an eyebrow, the effect a bit diminished since her head was still half-under the pillow. “Don’t get your hopes up,” she muttered. “My inhibitions are in fine form once again, and I don’t plan on losing them any time soon.”
Jonathan shook his head with a sad frown. “Pity.”
She sat up to throw the pillow at him. Unfortunately, Jonathan was a bit faster on his feet and evaded the attack, grabbing his jacket and boots as he headed for the door.
“We should be near Savannah,” he told her as he reached for the knob. “If you plan to accompany us ashore, I suggest you and your inhibitions get dressed.” He grimaced, his gaze dipping to the floor. “And I know I promised no chamber pots, but I think in this case, it’s your responsibility.”
Rina couldn’t even find it in herself to argue. She dragged herself to her feet as Jonathan left the room, splashed her face with cool water and scrubbed her grimy teeth. Surprisingly, once she’d emptied her stomach and cleaned up a bit, she felt quite a bit better. Her pounding headache had eased to a low throb—hardly pleasant, but definitely tolerable. She began to get dressed, then her gaze fell on the bag Charlotte had sent for her. She still hadn’t had time to examine its contents, but decided she probably should, since Charlotte obviously thought it was important.
Sarina opened the bag and peered inside, a slow smile lighting her face.
She’d never doubt Charlotte again.
Jonathan was still grinning when he emerged on deck, the early-morning sun making him pause to become acc
ustomed to the light before he continued toward Crawley, stopping along the way to speak with a few crewmen and check on their work. As expected, Max was already chatting with the quartermaster, his voice cracked and raspy, eyes red and bleary, but his attention focused on the task at hand. He turned toward Jonathan as he approached.
“Dinghy’s ready, Cap’n,” he said.
Jonathan nodded in acknowledgment. “Tell Hutchins and Ceron to accompany us,” he said. “Jenkins as well. We need more eyes to find what we’re looking for as quickly as possible.”
He turned to Crawley. “I know you’ve not slept—“
“Don’t need sleep, Cap’n,” Crawley said quickly. “Bit of coffee and I’ll be right as rain.”
“Good man,” Jonathan replied. “Keep a weather eye out for Stanton,” he warned. “Keep moving and watch for my signal.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“And don’t forget—“ The rest of his command was lost when he saw Max’s glance over his shoulder and resulting smirk.
“I take it Rina will be going with us again,” he said.
“Sometimes it’s easier to succumb to the wench’s whims than to fight them,” Jonathan said gruffly.
“Wench?” Max said wryly. “You sure about that?”
“What are you talking ab—“ Jonathan spun around to see what Max was looking at, the question dying on his lips.
Rina had traded her green gown from the night before for a simple white shirt, open at the collar, and dark breeches tucked into knee-high black boots. Her hair was pulled back in a tight queue and topped by a black tricorn. A dark blue coat with brass buttons hung open on her slight frame—though it fit perfectly, as if made for her, the flared hem swinging about her knees. A sword swung at her hip, and as she strode toward him, she gripped the hilt, her chin lifted in challenge.
“What are you . . .” Jonathan gaped at her. “Why are you . . .”
“Aren’t they wonderful?” Sarina asked, spinning around so the skirt of the coat flared out. “Charlotte gave them to me. And they actually fit!”
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