He smiled with satisfaction as he unwrapped his latest acquisition, the cup he’d found in the shop in Savannah. It was a bit smaller than his tankard and simple hammered metal—not even silver, to his surprise—the intricate carving circling the rim the only thing to set it apart as unique.
Pones coram me mensam ex adverso hostium meorum inpinguasti oleo caput meum calix meus inebrians
Kane ran his finger over the words, murmuring them quietly to himself. He was not an educated man, but knew enough Latin to recognize the verse, a childhood of spare the rod, spoil the child serving to beat a few pieces of Scripture into his memory.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.” The Book of Psalms, Chapter twenty-three, verse five.
It had been fortune, combined with invaluable information he’d paid heartily for, that led to procuring the relic. The Abaddon’s Curse had chased a Spanish vessel up the coast of Florida, finally boarding it just south of Georgia to relieve it of its rather considerable booty when he received word that Tremayne was heading to Savannah. Seeking out the cup proved a bit more of a challenge, but some well-placed coin yet again proved fruitful, and he’d obtained the cup at far less of a cost than he’d anticipated.
And managed to leave Georgia long before Tremayne arrived.
Kane laughed to himself. He wished he could have seen One-Eyed Jack’s expression when he realized he’d been bested yet again. Setting the cup down, he trailed a finger over the half of the map he’d nearly memorized after spending so much time studying it. Unfortunately, it revealed nothing new about the location of the treasure. Without the missing half, it was all but useless. There was no way to discern the location of the land masses, or even determine which sea filled much of the page.
The same could be said for the little he knew of the journal. He’d had only a page from it for a short time before Tremayne managed to retrieve it and return it to its place within the journal’s leather bindings. Kane had already committed the verse to memory, though, and it was enough, combined with the information he’d later obtained, to determine what he needed in order to find the gold.
Kane sighed, rubbing his chin in consternation. He had no doubt he could retrieve the cutlass from Tremayne when the time came, but there was really no point until the missing half of the map had been found. He had men searching—as he knew Tremayne did as well—but to no avail. As for the coin, well, he didn’t have it, but at least One-Eyed Jack didn’t either.
Begrudgingly, Kane had to give the boy credit. He had not expected him to last as long as he had. Driven by his mother’s death, Tremayne had proven single-minded in his quest for vengeance. Surprisingly so, actually.
Yes, he’d learned not to underestimate the young captain. The boy had become a force to be reckoned with. A rather annoying force, at that.
A knock at the door brought him out of his musings, and he realized he had no idea how long he’d been sitting there brooding. “What?” he barked.
His first mate, Barton, stepped in. “We’ve word on Tremayne,” he said. “He’s set sail for Tortuga.”
Kane straightened. “Tortuga?” He tapped a finger against his lips. “Interesting. I wonder why.”
Barton leaned against the door jamb. “Perhaps some recreation?”
“Perhaps,” Kane agreed. “Or perhaps One-Eyed Jack has procured some useful information after all.” Regardless, he had nothing else to go on at the moment, so finding out what Tremayne was up to held some appeal.
He stood and headed for the door. “Weigh anchor,” he said. “We’re for Tortuga.”
Barton grinned. “Are we going to take the Arrow?” he asked, pleased at the thought. Kane knew his men relished the idea of taking the ship—the only one that rivaled their own in reputation, and he had to admit, in reality.
“No, we’re not to engage the Arrow. Not yet at least,” Kane said as they headed toward the deck. “Stealth is the key in this instance. I mean to find out what Tremayne’s about. It’s possible he has information about the coin or the map.”
“You want me to follow him?”
Kane nodded. “Aye,” he said, patting the man on the shoulder. “Once we spot him, you’ll take a few men and see what he’s up to. And if he is in Tortuga solely for entertainment, perhaps it will be an opportunity to retrieve my cutlass.”
Barton smiled in response as they emerged on the deck and set about to raise the sails. Kane inhaled the fresh salt air, feeling a change in the wind.
Aye, things were finally going his way.
I believe I know where to look, or at least, where to begin to look. I’ve discovered an ancient record scrawled on a cave wall that speaks to the treasure I seek.
Interpreting the writings proves difficult, however. And I dare not ask for assistance, lest others discover my intentions.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 7 May, 1665
Commodore Stanton took the bait.
Rina stood alone at the stern of the Arrow as it cut through the waves at top speed. The wind whipped about, fortunate for them because it aided their attempt to escape. She could barely make out the Intrepid in the distance, the dinghy having disappeared from her sight long before. She’d held her breath as Stanton closed in with frightening purpose, only releasing it when it turned to follow the path of the little boat.
The blast of cannon fire, however, had terrified her.
“Don’t worry,” Jonathan had said, appearing at her side. “Jenkins is doubtless already on shore. Stanton is simply sending a message.”
“He speaks loudly,” she muttered.
“Aye, that he does.” Jonathan grinned. “But although the Crown wants me captured, dead or alive, Stanton would prefer the latter and to avoid the former.”
“Why?”
Jonathan smirked as he glanced at her, the wind whipping a thick strand of his long hair across his face. “So he can gloat, of course.”
She shook her head. “Men are an odd lot.”
“I could say the same about women.”
He returned to the wheel, and once she could see nothing in their wake but endless blue, Rina wandered idly around the deck, watching the men perform their duties. It felt odd not to be working herself, but Jonathan had yet to order her to wash his drawers or mend his stockings. She’d decided to take the reprieve while it was allowed and put aside her worries about Jenkins and his companions, turning her attention instead to Charlotte’s words. She’d had little time since the reading to really consider what she’d said, but now that they were on route to Tortuga, there was little else to do until they arrived.
She took a deep breath, unsurprised to find herself once again standing next to Jonathan at the wheel. It seemed she was unable to stay away from him for any length of time, even if she put her mind to the task. She was drawn to him by some unseen force—a force that both frustrated and mystified her. She wasn’t certain what it was about him that attracted her so. Certainly, he was a handsome fellow, tall and broad, with fine-tuned muscles and golden skin that all but glowed in the sunlight. Rina hid a blush at the memory of seeing him without his shirt that day she had to fix the mending, his strong back flexing under a slight sheen of sweat.
She swallowed hard, pressing cool fingers to her cheeks and glancing at him to be certain he hadn’t noticed her discomfort. She frowned slightly as she continued her perusal, carefully avoiding a direct stare. His hair was unfashionable, overly long and unkempt, save a few strands twisted in braids and tied with beads and bits of this and that . . . his scars and eye patch relieving what would otherwise be a face too beautiful to be real. In fact, they not so much detracted from his looks as added a dangerous edge to them—an edge that Sarina could admit, if only to herself, she found somewhat intriguing.
All right. Perhaps somewhat was understating it a bit.
And then there was his good eye. The power behind that deep blue-green gaze all but undid her
when he turned its focus on her. She had no doubt that had that force doubled with two eyes, she would do little but melt into a puddle at his feet at every opportunity.
“What’s got you thinking so hard, Smith?” Jonathan asked, leaning idly against a post, fingers of one hand barely resting on the wheel.
“Oh, errr . . .” She tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, fighting to maintain her composure. “Nothing, really. Just . . . Charlotte.” She tried not to smile too widely at her brilliant deception. “I was running over her predictions in my mind, trying to make sense of it all.”
Jonathan nodded. “Aye. Me, as well. It can be a difficult thing to know the what, but not necessarily the who, why, or how.”
“You’re thinking about the traitor.”
He frowned. “To know it’s coming, but no idea from which direction, or how to prevent it . . .”
“Do you wish you didn’t know?”
Jonathan shook his head. “No, of course not. ‘Tis always better to be prepared.”
Rina took a deep breath, glancing about the deck idly. Crawley stood talking with Hutchins, smacking him on the back with a grin before heading belowdecks, she assumed to get some sleep. Max and two other men were hauling a torn sail across the deck, rolled up and braced on their shoulders. A couple boys, on their hands and knees, applied grease to some rigging, their hands black with the slick mixture.
“Do you think it’s one of them?” she mused, half to herself.
“Hmm?”
“Your betrayer,” she said. “Could it be one of your crew?”
“I hate to think so, but I suppose it is possible.”
“Charlotte said it was someone close to you. Someone you trust.”
“Aye.”
“That’s a very short list.”
Jonathan raised a brow. “Aye.” When he didn’t say anything more, Rina turned to look at him. He stared unseeingly forward, deep in thought.
“What is it?” she asked. He blinked, as if he’d forgotten she was there for a moment.
“Nothing, really,” he said quietly. “It’s just that, with Charlotte, it’s difficult to get the true meaning of what she says sometimes. She says it’s someone I trust—and immediately we think of the people I truly trust—my family, Max . . .”
Rina waited, a brow arched expectantly.
Jonathan laughed. “Yes, even you, Smith. God help me.”
She smiled, waving a hand. “And . . .”
“Well, I was just thinking, there are varying levels of trust, aren’t there?”
“How do you mean?”
The wind shifted, and Jonathan adjusted his stance, spinning the wheel slightly, brow creased as he put his thoughts to words. “I trust Hutchins to ensure the sails are properly repaired, Rafferty to keep the cannons clean and in working order. I trust Victor to have the bread baked daily.” He pointed to the two grease-spattered boys that were now laughing and throwing globs of the slime at each other. “Hell, I even trust those boys to keep the deck and the head scrubbed.”
Rina sighed, absorbing his words. “So, really, it could be anybody, then.”
“Aye. I’m afraid so.” She felt his gaze on her, and he hesitated briefly before slowly adding, “And then there’s Ceron.”
She stiffened. “What about him?”
“Well, he is the newest to my crew—apart from you, that is. And, as you said, it could be anybody. I can’t afford to let him escape suspicion.”
Rina frowned. She wanted to argue the point, but Jonathan was right. He had to consider everyone a possible threat. Still, she felt a need to defend her friend.
“You know, it wouldn’t make much sense,” she said with a shrug. “He was imprisoned with me on the Intrepid and you rescued him. You were the one who approached him about staying on board, weren’t you?”
He considered that with a nod.
“So, why betray you?” she asked. “What could he possibly have to gain?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with his father,” Jonathan suggested. “A father who was a pirate, whose life at sea took him away from his family. A life that eventually led to his death.”
“But that wasn’t your fault,” she pointed out. “He knows it was Kane. Wouldn’t that be motivation enough to fight with you rather than against you?”
Jonathan was silent for a long moment. “I’ve not told him we’re after Kane.”
“Why ever not?” she asked, surprised. “It would seem a wise course of action.”
“Few know the true nature of our journey, other than to seek out booty,” he replied. “Those with knowledge would not speak without my direction.”
“Perhaps it’s time you told him,” Rina said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. Apparently, she did not do a very good job of it, because Jonathan tilted his head, studying her.
“Why do you come to his defense so vehemently?” he asked, his jaw tight, although whether from suspicion or some other emotion, she wasn’t certain.
She shrugged. “He’s my friend.”
“Perhaps you need different friends,” he grunted.
“Perhaps you need to seek out the truth before you point the finger of blame at what could very well be an innocent man!”
They stared at each other for an angry moment, and Rina waited for him to explode, to pound his fist, pace the deck, and rant in that oh-so-irritating way of his. Instead, his lips quirked.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said simply, and turned back to place both hands on the wheel.
Jonathan checked his compass as the sun slipped to touch the horizon, despite the fact that he’d navigated this course a hundred times before. The Arrow eased between a small chain of islands to port—if they could even be called that, since they were actually just reefs that barely broke the surface of the waves—and a larger island to the starboard side.
Isla de Cotorras.
Isle of the Parrots.
He spotted Boccen Bay just ahead, its waters deep enough for the Arrow, and surrounded nearly on all sides by thick trees. Between the reefs and the hidden port, they would be safe from view through the night, at least. Moving into the bay would prove a tight fit, but Jonathan knew his men were up for the challenge.
“Ready about!” he called as they drew nearer to the bay, the order echoed across the deck as they always were. “Windward ho! Bring a spring upon her cable, men!” With satisfaction, he watched his men jump to action, two manning the capstan, their arms whirling at blurring speeds, as others helped to drop the sails at just the right moment. Smoothly, they maneuvered into the narrow channel deep enough to admit them, with barely a bump or a scrape to mark their way.
Jonathan ordered the anchor dropped, then relinquished the wheel once they’d come to a bobbing stop in the middle of the bay. He spotted Sarina standing at the bow and made his way over to her. The setting sun cast her hair in a myriad of colors from brown to gold, and as she turned to smile at him, her eyes—the color of fine whisky—sparkled in the most beguiling way, stealing his breath.
Jonathan’s steps faltered.
“Are you all right?” she asked, her smile replaced by concern.
He waved a hand dismissively, moving to stand next to her but unable to meet her gaze. “Fine. Just a bit of grease on the deck.” When Sarina turned to look for it, he hurried on. “We’ll stay here for the night.”
She blinked, grease smudge forgotten. “Really? I thought we were going to Tortuga.”
“We can’t make it there before sunset. We don’t dare make way on open water with Stanton on our tail, but these islands are far too treacherous to sail after dark.”
She nodded. “It’s not far, though.”
“No. We should be there by midday, if not sooner.” Sarina sighed and looked out over the beach, and Jonathan took advantage of the moment to steal another glance at her. It was a dangerous thing, he knew, because looking was quickly becoming not enough.
Not nearly enough.
&n
bsp; The times he’d touched her—tasted her—burned in his gut, and like a drowning man needed air, he found he needed more. All his arguments against it paled in his single-minded desire to reach out and—
“How did you come to know this Pearl?” Sarina asked.
“What?” Jonathan stammered, still caught up in his thoughts.
She turned to him, head tilted in confusion. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
He cleared his throat. “Fine. Pearl you say?”
“Yes. I wondered how you met her.”
Well, that was a complicated question, wasn’t it? Jonathan didn’t know why he should feel guilty about the fact that he came to know Pearl over a jug of rum and a rather eager whore named Flora. Or that their relationship had been built by Jonathan’s frequent patronage—and that of his crew, of course—seeking drink and the other more exotic entertainments she offered in her establishment.
He shouldn’t feel guilty about it. He was a man, damn it. And a man had needs. He had a right to quench his thirst—or his lust—whenever necessary, didn’t he? It only made sense.
Yet, he had a feeling that the lovely Miss Talbot might not agree. She was, after all, a lady.
So instead, he said vaguely, “She owns a local business, and we’ve had occasion to do business with her.”
“You said that, but what kind of bus—“
“By the way.” Jonathan acted like he hadn’t heard her. “I have a surprise for you.”
She started, and Jonathan fought down a victorious smirk.
“Surprise?” she asked. “What kind of surprise?”
“Well, if I told you that it wouldn’t be a surprise,” he replied with mock exasperation. “I swear, Smith, for an intelligent woman, sometimes you say the most inane things.”
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