Other Oceans: Book Two of the Hook & Jill Saga

by Andrea Jones

  Nibs saw her first this time. Broadening his paces, he caught up to her just before she reached the stairs to the companionway. “Miss, did you enjoy the party last night?”

  Liza slowed, then turned, disdainful as a duchess. Seeing Tom close behind his brother, she lifted her chin.

  “Red-Handed Jill can sure tell a story, can’t she?”

  She condescended to nod, briefly. Sizing her up, Nibs tried to determine how best to approach her, and his gaze lit on the sewing basket. “Going to do some mending, Miss? Jill tells a good story of how she once stitched a shadow to— what happened?”

  Liza hid her left hand behind her.

  “What’s up, Nibs?” Tom arrived, looking between them curiously. Liza’s expression was guarded; Nibs’ was repulsed.

  “It’s her hand, Tom! Miss Liza, let us see it.”

  But Liza’s face was set. Clutching the sewing basket, she didn’t move.

  Nibs reasoned, “We can help you, Miss. Don’t be afraid.”

  Liza wasn’t afraid. She was hurting, and vibrant. She eyed each of the young men. Then, like a soldier showing off a medal, she pulled her hand from behind her back and held it out for them to see. She was just as brave as these pirates. Maybe braver.

  Nibs’ and Tom’s eyes widened as they stared. Within a splotch of liquid red, the needle pierced the skin between her thumb and forefinger, its point and eye both visible. A trail of gray thread dangled down her palm.

  “Nibs, take the basket. Now, Miss, don’t worry.” Tom moved closer, slowly, to avoid startling her. He kept his voice even. “Just give me your arm, and I’ll set you down. Right here, see, right on the steps. There, now.” Guiding Liza to sit, he exchanged a look with Nibs, who grasped the basket and made way, shaking his head in warning.

  “Tom, think what you’re doing.”

  But Tom wasn’t thinking about his own skin. When Liza was settled, he didn’t release her arm. Instead, he sat next to her and secured her elbow in one hand, encircling her wrist with the other. He surveyed the needle. “That’s a nasty piece of work, that is, Miss. No wonder you didn’t want to pull it out yourself.”

  Nibs cautioned, “Remember Mr. Cecco, Tom!”

  Liza was watching Tom suspiciously. She despised his interference; the needle and the hurt were her own to deal with. Jealously, she guarded her privilege to pain. These trespassers had no right to intrude upon the intensity that brought her to life. Liza wanted to revel in the sensation, to determine its duration herself. But Tom Tootles was just a sailor boy, too simple to see that. Too meddling. And Liza lived under the captain’s protection. Tom wasn’t supposed to touch her, and he knew it! He should listen to his brother.

  Tom looked in her eyes and didn’t understand. But he knew what he should do.

  “Nibs, fetch Doctor Hanover.”

  Relieved, Nibs nodded. “Aye, aye.”

  But the girl started up, just as Tom expected, and he held her fast and pulled her back to sit on the stair. She shook her head in genuine panic, and Nibs halted, unsure what to do.

  If Tom was unsure, he didn’t show it. “He really ought to see to this, Miss.”

  In the distance, Liza glimpsed Mr. Starkey watching, his fists rising to settle on his hips. A glance at Tom and Nibs told her they hadn’t seen him yet. They were positioned on either side of her, and Nibs’ back was toward their tutor. To prevent the young men from sighting Starkey, she relented, relaxing her arm and laying it deliberately on Tom’s thigh.

  “All right, Miss, I’ll take care of you.”

  “Tom, no!”

  But Liza turned to Nibs and flickered her eyelashes toward him. When she was certain he wouldn’t move to summon her father, she assured herself that Starkey was watching, then engaged Tom again.

  He grinned. “What did you do, shoot for your ear and miss?”

  His humor seemed only to offend her. Tom still held her wrist, and she made a sudden, violent show of struggling— for Starkey.

  Afraid she might hurt herself, Tom persevered, gripping her middle and remaining calm. “I’ve been thinking of an earring for myself, Miss. A big gold one.” Once she stilled, he stretched his earlobe out for her inspection. “What do you think?”

  Her lip wavered, betraying the beginning of a sneer.

  “And Nibs here, he says he’ll pierce it for me. But I don’t trust him. I intend to go right to an expert. Do you think maybe you’d do it for me?” He smiled coaxingly.

  She looked down, unable to repress the smirk as he so willingly walked into her snare.

  “This needle has proven it can do the job, but it’s already busy. We’d best give it a rest now, don’t you think?” And he seized the eye of the needle, and yanked.

  The girl flinched in pain, and her shoulders shot up. Her mouth opened in a soundless shout, then she closed it, unhappily, as her shoulders fell. At the same time, Mr. Starkey’s fists fell from his hips.

  “There now. I’ll just wipe it clean for you. I see you’re not afraid of blood, but it seems the gentlemanly thing to do.”

  Gentlemanly. Liza knew firsthand what gentlemen were capable of doing.

  Tom drew the rag from his pocket and wiped the needle, then found a clean spot and dabbed the swelling red bead from her skin. Judging by the glare on her face, she wasn’t grateful, and the sly look that replaced it puzzled Tom. With a lurch of his stomach, he thought again how different this girl was from Jill.

  “Here, Nibs.” He passed the needle to his brother. “Put this in the basket, where it won’t hurt anybody.” He got up, offering Liza a hand that he wasn’t surprised she spurned.

  “That’s all right, then. You can thank me later, Miss. When you’re over the shock.”

  Thinking she looked well over the shock now, Nibs handed the basket back to her but kept his opinion to himself. He peered over his shoulder up the deck, then jerked upright. “Let’s go, Tom! Mr. Starkey’s seen us and he’s taking off his coat. I think you’re in trouble.”

  Tom was watching Liza. “You go on. I’ll follow.”

  “Best hurry, mate!” Nibs touched his forehead to Liza. “I hope you’re all right now, Miss Liza.” He jogged away toward Starkey, to begin explaining why Tom had been touching Jill’s girl against captain’s orders— and he wasn’t sure he could explain.

  Tom bent down to level a questioning stare at her smirking, smiling face. “I don’t understand you, Miss. You pretty yourself up, but then you act like you don’t care about the men. I did you a kindness, and you seem glad to see me in trouble for it. And now you’ve managed to bloody your hand. Like Jill. You’re as strong as she is, I can tell, and I see you watching her, like you want to be Jill. But what I want to know is, who you are.”

  The look she aimed at him was contemptuous with disbelief. No one wanted to know who Liza Hanover was!

  “Well, I do know one thing. I hope you’ll think about explaining it to me one day. I pulled that needle from your skin, but you’re still hurting.” Tom turned away to stride up the deck and take his punishment. Catching Starkey’s scowl, he cursed himself for a fool. He’d been a damned idiot! The captain always knew best. He should have let the doctor handle her, no matter how she objected. Aboard Hook’s ship, neither a soft heart nor a soft head was an excuse for disobeying orders. And Jill would say the same.

  He deserved whatever he got.

  Liza collected herself and climbed the steps toward the master’s quarters. She crossed the companionway, and on reaching the door she heard a shout. She paused to observe Mr. Starkey aim a vicious blow with the back of his fist that sent Tom reeling. As Tom stumbled, Starkey caught him by the shoulders, shoved him roughly toward the forecastle, and kicked him into the armory. Starkey stormed into the armory after him, and the door slammed shut.

  Nibs hung back and turned away, bowing his head.

  Liza licked the blood off her hand and smiled. She guessed she wasn’t the only one who was hurting now.

  § § §

  She was
learning a lot more than how to read.

  The first lesson began at the dining table, amid parchment, ink, quills, a bowl of fruit, two tiny glasses, and a bottle of sherry. Settling into her studies earlier that morning, Liza wasn’t fooled by her father or her mistress. He was more patient with Liza than she ever remembered, no doubt because he wasn’t really concentrating on her. And Jill was always Jill, honestly deceptive. An effective teacher, herself.

  Privately, Liza had acquainted herself with all of her mistress’ belongings and their hiding places, but when asked to fetch her sewing things, she didn’t point out the fact that the lady’s own sewing basket lodged in the drawer under the captain’s bunk. Jill would only have laughed and admitted the truth— she needed Liza to go. But the girl gladly left the pair alone to fetch it, as commanded, from her quarters. It suited her purpose.

  The fruit bowl and the sherry glasses were full then. When Liza returned, sucking on her hand, the glasses were empty, and she found her mistress and her father ensconced in the window seat with only the fruit bowl between them. The lady’s dainty bare foot rested on his shoe, and he was wiping her fingers with a napkin, as if each one were made of fine crimson china, and he had just enjoyed a meal. The blood rushed to fill Liza’s head again, throbbing.

  For the next half hour, she listened partly to her father and completely for her master, watching the hand wearing the signet ring spread curlicues over the pages. Jill had thanked Liza for the sewing basket and set to work, enthroned on the window seat with silken pillows and a piece of ladies’ lacy mending. The picture she presented was a delightful contrast of royal privilege and domestic necessity. The doctor taught Liza her letters, and pretended not to find the scene enchanting, but the lady’s every stitch sewed him more securely into her design.

  Everyone jumped as a knock beat the door. Liza’s pen dropped an ink blot, and Jill pricked her finger. Smee entered without waiting for permission, his seafarer’s eyes taking in every detail of the situation. Liza stretched her neck, searching behind him, then slouched, disappointed. Hanover rose to his feet.

  “The captain requests that you join him for luncheon in the galley, Ma’am. And you, Doctor. He’s in a social mood today.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Smee.” Jill laid down her mending and turned a smile toward the girl. “You’ve made good progress, Liza.” She rose and walked past the surgeon without looking at him, her arm extended and her skirts swishing. “There, Mr. Smee, see what you’ve done. You startled me so, I pricked myself.”

  Smee smiled sheepishly and took her hand in his. Inspecting the red drop through his spectacles, he whipped out a cloth to dab it. “My apologies, Ma’am.”

  “Why, Mr. Smee! I do believe you’ve mistakenly borrowed my handkerchief.”

  Smee’s surprised expression changed as he shifted his gaze past Jill, to Hanover. “No, Ma’am. There was no mistake about it.” He regarded the doctor as if defying the man to object. “Knowing your ways, I thought you’d not be minding.”

  Hanover’s jaw clenched.

  “Not unless you were anyone else, Mr. Smee. As I recently remarked to the doctor, you are always the exception.” Turning then, Jill addressed the surgeon, her hand still cradled in Smee’s. “So you see, Mister Hanover, if you, too, care for a token, you must steal it. I believe you will find another handkerchief under my pillow.”

  His jaw slackened, and fell open. Smee’s eyebrows shot up. Sitting still, Liza stared at her own prick-wound, and felt the silence tumbling down all around her.

  Jill turned from them all and adjusted the wardrobe door to appraise her appearance in the mirror. As she slid open her jewel drawer, her reflection smiled conspiratorially at Mr. Smee.

  “Liza, fasten my opals for me please, and you may come to the galley once you’ve cleared away.”

  Both Smee and Hanover recovered in time to contend silently for the honor of holding the cabin door for the lady, and then they all left Liza, and she did clear away.

  She cleared away the glasses, throwing her head back and tipping each one high over her tongue to taste the last drops of nectar. Removing the fruit bowl, she plucked the napkin from the window seat, with its sweet, sticky smearing of juices. She cleared away the sherry bottle, right under her skirt, down the stairs and into her quarters, where she hid it far back in the lowest drawer of her dresser. Later she would bring two glasses. And fruit, when it was practical. Everything else she could find in the galley, when the time came.

  Just like Jill, she wouldn’t let a lover go hungry. Not in any sense of the word.

  Sitting back on her heels, kneeling like a proper servant girl, it occurred to Liza that she no longer regretted her kidnapping, nor resented her captivity. As her mistress had foreseen, she was freer, and happier, really, than she’d ever been before.

  Drawing her finger along the rough wood of the floor, she shaped the letters her father had taught her, wedged neatly in the alphabet between A and L, the three letters that formed her first written word.

  J— i— l— l.

  She didn’t mind that word anymore, not at all. When she thought about it, Liza was grateful for Jill. She was learning a lot from her.

  Bending over her hand, she squeezed a few drops of blood from the wound, and with her finger traced another letter on her palm, in pretty red ink. Then she spread her hand wide and smiled at it.

  H.

  § § §

  Mr. Smee made his way slowly down the steps to the gun deck, stretching his brawny arms and looking forward to removing his boots. Since Red-Handed Jill joined up, the captain didn’t need Smee to attend him most evenings, and the bo’sun had a few more minutes to himself at the end of each day. Solitary minutes, sometimes, but Smee had plenty to occupy his thoughts tonight.

  The night was as silent as it ever got on board the Roger. The ship and the sea made their sounds, joining together as fans of spray jumped through the gunports. A luminance shone through the crack under the surgeon’s door— and also under Smee’s. Squinting at it, he walked lightly down the deck. He pushed his door open. Peering in, he tensed his muscles, ready for anything. Then he relaxed. He knew that orange kerchief; Nibs was standing by the bunk.

  “Mr. Nibs! What brings you—?” He stopped.

  At the groan of the door, Nibs had turned to face the bo’sun. Now he stepped away from the bed. He didn’t bother to explain.

  Smee shut the door, and his chin lowered. “So. Tom Tootles.”

  Tom looked up at Smee through one eye. The light of the lantern on Smee’s table showed his other eye to be puffy and discolored, swollen nearly shut. A two-inch cut leaked blood from his right temple to his eyebrow. He hunched on the edge of Smee’s bunk, his arms folded across his stomach.

  Smee angled his head. “I wondered if you’d be crawling out to see me. Thought you might come sooner, though.”

  Gravely, Nibs said, “Sorry to bust in on your quarters, Mr. Smee. Tom didn’t want anyone to see him yet. He got through duty in the galley, then stayed below ’til dark.”

  “By ‘anyone’ I expect you mean the lass.”

  Tom looked away.

  “Can’t say as I blame you. It’s a right ugly face you’ve got, lad. That cut’s sure to leave you your first mark. How’s the rest of you?”

  Answering, Tom moved his bruised jaw joint as little as possible. His posture belied his words. “I’m all right. No cuts except my head. Can you stitch me up, Sir?”

  “Me? We’ve got a surgeon for such jobs now, haven’t you heard?”

  Tom’s eye shifted toward Nibs.

  “Tom would rather not bother the man, Sir, seeing as it was his daughter made the trouble.” He hesitated, wanting to say more, but thinking better of it. “Jill talked him into coming to you, Mr. Smee.”

  “That’s all right, lad.” Smee unlocked a cabinet in the corner and pulled out a bottle. “First thing to do is to dose you. Take this, and then I’ll give you some more.” He uncorked it, took a cup from the cupboard, an
d poured out a generous measure of rum, which he handed to Tom. “We’ve got to deaden the senses.”

  Tom swallowed some, his senses far from dead as the heat of the liquid ran down his throat to his belly. He paused, then drank again, resisting the grimace because of the painful muscles it might require.

  “Light that other lantern, Mr. Nibs.” Pouring some of the liquor on a cloth, Smee smiled crookedly through his red beard.

  Tom muttered into the cup. “Damned fool.”

  “What was that?”

  He squinted blearily up at Smee as the man dabbed at the dried blood, then set his teeth and said it louder. “I was a damned fool, Sir. I never should have looked twice at her.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve learned something. A lesson like that can guide you all the rest of your life.”

  Nibs had hung the lantern and kept himself quiet, but he defended his brother now. “Tom wasn’t trying to hurt her, Mr. Smee. He only meant to help!”

  Smee gestured to Tom to hold out his cup. The bottle clinked on the rim as he poured again. “Keep drinking, lad.” He tossed the reddened rag on his worktable and corked the rum, then pulled a box from his cabinet. Rummaging through it, he collected a needle, a spool of fine, sturdy twine, and a knife. “What do you say, Mr. Tootles?” Smee kept his back to the boys.

  Tom’s gullet was burning now, just like his cut, but he swallowed some more rum. “I’d be all right, if I’d followed orders.”

  “Aye. And why didn’t you?”

  “I wanted to be a hero. She needs one.”

  Smee turned around to look at Tom. As he studied the young sailor, a thoughtful expression crossed his face.

  “A hero, lad?”

  “I don’t suppose you’d sympathize with that, Mr. Smee.”

  “Wouldn’t I though? You might be surprised to learn that the captain kept me from a nasty knife fight over a woman. Years ago. She was just a tavern girl, but I’d have gladly died for her that night. I never thought of her again ’til now. I can’t even recall her name.”

  “But, Sir, you always have luck with the ladies. You don’t have to disobey orders to get their attention.”