Martinique (The Acolyte Book 1)

by Stevie Prescott

  I hardly realized I'd spread my thighs farther apart, seeking the balm of the pleasure, begging him for it. The burning pain had turned to seething fire, as he massaged something deep within me, a restless nerve that nothing had ever touched before. It was shattering, and I began to pant when his finger became rougher, flicking so hard I wanted to howl, like a bitch in heat. One of my hands gripped his wrist, my fingers tightening around it. I was pleading for more, too lost to realize it wasn't only in my mind, but was pouring from my lips, begging him to be faster, harder. He lowered his head, and with one broad hand lifted me to him, biting my shoulder. It pierced me, all the layers of turbulent sensation crashing together, and I cried out, while in another stroke he seemed to go mad, his body twisting, his hips slamming into me.

  I couldn't see anymore, but I heard, heard him in the air around me, in time with his thrusts, "Come, now, with me in your ass! Come!"

  He knew what I felt, and he reveled in it, while I exulted in the tight heat inside me that imprisoned him, driving him beyond the limits of his own control. He stiffened, and his moan was strange, endless and unbroken, the sound shooting into my stomach, down to his fingertip where he was still frigging me furiously.

  "Fuck, fuck, I can't stop!"

  He erupted inside me, spilling his seed into me from behind. His entire body convulsed against my back, drawn taut and softly jerking, and I came as he was still shivering with his release, my hand pumping his wrist. The spasms wracking me went deeper than flesh, into my bones. I was lashed to him as they gripped me, and finally faded, taking me into oblivion.

  I collapsed beneath him, and this time he let me, withdrawing carefully from me, rolling to his side and gathering me up against him as best he could in the narrow bunk, his chest heaving as he fought to get the breath back that I'd stolen from him.

  He pressed my cheek into the matted hair on his chest, and it was some time before he could speak. I thought they'd dried on my face, and didn't realize they were there, until his fingers came to rest under my chin, and his thumb brushed at my cheek.

  "Tears? No tears, my sweet." He buried his lips in my hair. "You're too much a woman for tears, aren't you?" He kissed my forehead, feelingly. "I'm sorry it hurt you, truly. But it is your fate, for your eyes to be opened. You know what is said. Bon sang ne saurait mentir." I had heard it before, but I went still, the words washing over me, and all they meant. The truth in the blood will come out.

  "Blood will always tell, chérie. Always. You were born for this. Still, I went too fast with you." His voice was teasing again. "It's your own fault. The moment I saw your beautiful little ass, I couldn't stop myself taking it."

  Playfully, he raised my face and licked at one of the tears, grinning. "You taste like the sea." The hazel eyes met mine. "But no more tears. I'll wait, until you ask me to do it again." The grin faded, and he said with maddening certainty, "You will."

  He gathered me up against him once more, and exhausted, I lowered my head back to his chest. The last thing I heard, the last thing of which I was aware, was his words, spoken very low.

  "I was right. You're one of the angels. Sweet Christ, you're the best fuck I've ever had in my life."

  I couldn't help it. Soiled, aching, filthy, I smiled softly. His deep voice rumbling through his chest, with his thick Gascon accent, had sounded so much like my father.

  Chapter Nine

  For the next ten days he kept me in his own cabin, only for himself, driving off any others of the pack, like a lion who'd found a particularly desirable piece of meat. What I would learn in that ten days, of myself and of him, would change me for all time.

  Though I continued to address him as mon capitaine, a form of address he seemed to enjoy, particularly in bed, I discovered that his name was Étienne d'Alembert, and learned a few fragments of his history. Though the Musselmen of this coast were forbidden spirits, being a Frenchman he was clearly never without them. When he opened a fine cabinet in his cabin, he produced a bottle of port, opening it, pouring a small draft into his own cup and tasting it before filling mine. And that was when I knew of a certainty that he was no product of a dockside gutter.

  "Have you no family?"

  "None that would greet me if we passed in the street. To them, I am dead."

  His words chilled me a little.

  "You're a Gascon, aren't you?"

  He smiled, "Very good, my sweet. Yes, I was born there. The most beautiful land on earth. Gascons are French, but we are different. As you are different, being of Martinique. Though my father wanted, above all else, to be thought a Parisian. He had no pride in what we are. He lives a respectable life in Bordeaux now, proper and profitable, making brandy. I joined the navy when war broke out with England. A gentleman midshipman in a shiny new uniform, and I loved my emperor."

  When he said no more, I braved the question, "What happened?"

  He still smiled, still seemingly relaxed.

  "After I was made lieutenant, I was accused of stealing from a prize we took, a rich British Indiaman. Oddly enough, I was innocent. But I was broken and flogged, while the guilty went free. It taught me what happens to the innocents of this world."

  "And so you became a privateer."

  He laughed, deep and low. "Please, my sweet. No niceties. They are not necessary here. I am not a privateer, and I do not spill my blood for any nation or cause. I'm a republican no longer. I fight only for myself, for my own profit."

  This, I was to find, was not entirely the case. He was out of Salé and Rabat, the cities on each side of the Bou Regreg River that had spawned a race of pirates unlike any other. The Salé pirates of North Africa had built for themselves a nation, with a constitution, and they were the most feared rovers on the Atlantic or the Mediterranean, not merely taking prizes, but hiring themselves out as mercenaries, kidnapping island governors for ransom, taking whole cities. Though some were French, more of them Spanish or Turks, in truth they were men of a dozen nations who had no other nation, and while both Morocco and Spain claimed possession of the cities, they were owned by none. No nation or king could hold them, no navy, including the British, subdue them.

  My captain possessed quite a collection of flags, and could sail under the pretense of being of any country on earth, including the duchy of Westphalia. But when he approached for attack and raised his own standard, it was no skull and crossbones, like Edmund Teach. It was solid black with an hourglass, its message crystal clear; time has run out, so prepare to meet your Maker.

  Looking back with the ancient eyes of a woman of thirty, I understand that, in his way, he loved me. He had every intention of taking me with him, back to Salé, and keeping me as his woman, where I might well have remained behind the infamous fortified gates of that enclave, had fate not intervened. I knew much of his way of life, perhaps more than he realized, for I was born in a nation founded by pirates. Men like Henry Morgan and the marquis de Maintenon were dusty fixtures of my history lessons.

  And so I understood the power of a captain within his own wooden walls. I knew that he held the whip hand, for me as well as everyone else on board, and his men gave him absolute obedience, ever fearful of his wrath. The horror of that day, the killing of the man who'd defied him, was not strange in his world. He had stood up with pistol or blade against one of his own many times, earning his place as their overlord.

  But with me, it was different. He was ferociously protective after that first night, like a miser guarding his gold. This was a thing I was only coming to understand, that a Master can also treasure what he dominates and freely uses, in fact may treasure it far above an ordinary husband, absorbed with his work and his club, living within the confines of a respectable life, since such feelings of possession are much more primal, and always just beneath the surface.

  His strange behavior began that very first night. After he'd ravished me so completely and so ruthlessly, he helped me into one of my gowns, lacing it for me, since I was still dazed and weak in the knees. He led m
e over the shattered deck of my own ship and across the gangway to his, depositing me in his large cabin at the stern of the three-master. Some of his men stood watch on deck, but it was as if they dared not even look at me, for fear some hint of lust might show in their faces, a challenge to his ownership that could make of them food for the fish, as well.

  He then removed the gown I'd worn so briefly, laying me out on the still enclosed but far more generous berth, with rich cabinets of cherry wood above and below. After that he disappeared for a time, leaving me to wonder at the reason. Water is a precious commodity aboard any ship, and yet, he heated water himself, bringing it to me and pouring it into a basin before he helped me to bathe, seeming to enjoy the task. He even poured out a makeshift bidet on the floor. I was embarrassed to go down on my knees and attend to something so private, but had to admit that it felt wonderful, not only for the luxury of not using the sea water, but for the loving fashion in which he helped me wash. He then stripped off his own clothes and used my water on himself, fastidiously, to wash away the remnants of that last, furious engagement.

  Afterwards he put me to bed, climbing in beside me, but not for what I had expected. Perhaps he was simply as exhausted as I was, but for that night he merely slept, curled against me, his arm possessively draped over my waist. I was not, however, entirely surprised when, as the first faint light passed through the elegant wall of stern windows in the cabin, he stirred against me, wrapped around my back, and I awakened to his hand exploring me, enclosing my breast, palming it and playing with the nipple, before his hand slipped over my stomach.

  I went still, saying no word, as he pushed my hair over my shoulder, then buried his lips in the back of my neck, dragging his tongue across the flesh there, tasting of it, as his hand snaked once more around my waist. I had done more than come awake; my body had come alive, feeling his lips, his hand traveling low over my belly, and his erection prodding at my backside, with the enveloping heat of his body pressed against mine, seemingly everywhere. I said nothing, refusing even to turn around, which didn't, of course, stop him, any more than pretense of sleep would have done. His hand slipped between my legs, and he made a sound of delight at what he found. The traitorous little clit leapt to greet his skilled fingers, the stream already in spate, the headwaters never seeming to run dry.

  He pressed his knee between my legs, resting it there to open me to him. There was no polite knock on the door, no prodding at the entrance, but one fierce thrust, driving inside my womb from behind. I whimpered, still sore from the abuses of the night before, but his hands snaked up from my breasts to my shoulders so that he could force my body downward, and he plunged in again with a deliciously fierce sound, panting against the back of my neck in time with his hips as he flowed into me. It was a calm sea, but the bed, and indeed the whole cabin rocked with it, a motion to which I'd already become accustomed. It was a motion that seemed as much a part of him as his own flesh, and he moved with the ship, in the same even, surging rhythm as the sea.

  But it wasn't enough for him, the pleasure he took himself, which I suppose was part of what made him seem almost civilized. He had to carry me with him. The talented fingers returned, rubbing, circling, gently tugging, and when he heard me plead, he lifted his knee to part my legs further and then massaged harder. I didn't feel the soreness any longer. Bracing my hands against the wall facing me, I pushed my hips into the curve of his, opening my legs wider, taking him deeper inside. And once again he took me with him, until I cried out, as I felt his heat spreading inside me.

  A "flurry" was what seamen called it, a quick and mindless fuck usually indulged in with a dockside whore. When he rose, I turned onto my back with my eyes dreamily half-closed, while he strode around the cabin, whistling as he dressed, and somehow I didn't feel the word encompassed the whole of the thing, in terms of how it clearly made a man feel to greet the day in such a fashion. Still exhausted, and now flushed and sated as well, I drifted into sleep again.

  When I awoke he was gone, though I could smell the food he'd had laid out on the desk. I also saw, stepping out of the berth, that my trunks had been moved into the cabin we would now apparently share. Nothing was missing, not the smallest article, but rather every stocking and comb and book seemed to be there.

  Looking about me, I couldn't help but be impressed by the accommodations, wondering if any British admiral lived half so well beneath the raised throne of his quarterdeck. Something about this vessel struck me as being British, an intuition soon confirmed as I began to wander the cabin, finding the occasional manufacturer's name in English. Onboard any ship, no corner is left without a use, but the wall of windows at the stern gifted the cabin with an airy feel. There was a compact mahogany desk anchored to the floor, with a chair that could be opened into a step stool, and against the wall opposite the berth, a small Grecian sofa, upholstered in red. Apparently, this was to be my prison, and as it was hardly the Bastille, I set about to make myself as comfortable as I could.

  We were under sail, the Sophie lashed to us, the wind driving her to the lee quarter, and I could just glimpse her out the windows. Some of his men were aboard, sailing her and effecting repairs of the damage they'd caused.

  That day, as we moved down the coast of Morocco, he put in at a small port called El Jadida, where we took on food and water. He returned that afternoon, to my astonishment, with gifts for me, including oranges and a bolt of fine-spun cotton. He then produced, with a lopsided smile, something else he'd purchased in the maze of souks I'd seen from my windows.

  It was a heavy necklace of gold, twisted in a band like a Roman torque, with faceted jewels of polished amethyst set in both ends. Its fashion was no surprise to me, for this North African coast had once been an important province of the Roman Empire. I put it around my neck at once, shyly offering my thanks, knowing that my life now depended solely on him. It was so lovely it was something a noble might have worn, yet, I had read my history, and for me it symbolized a thrall's collar, the halter of a slave. I found myself wondering if he'd had enough education to understand this, and was stating something deeper in his gift, or if he'd merely thought it pretty.

  And then, with one of those strange remnants of a gentleman, he suggested I change into a gown for dinner. My small mirror was one of the only things that had been left on the other ship. Feeling like a nun without it, an absurd comparison upon further consideration, I did my best to go through my usual toilette, fighting, more than anything else, my unruly and unwashed hair. I swore when I made a particular tangle even worse, hearing several strands break, and he raised a brow.

  "I'm sorry. It's difficult to see what I'm doing without a mirror."

  Standing behind me, he said, "You're a lovely creature. You don't need to see it. It would only make you vain."

  A bit snappishly, I replied, "That's quite poetic, but it doesn't make it any easier."

  In a cocky tone, he bantered, "I could go back to the souks and find you one, but I'm quite tired. After all, my sweet, you have been a great deal of trouble."

  I told myself my pique was born in exhaustion, in fear, in annoyance over his smug attitude of possession. I told myself a variety of untruths, for at the time I couldn't have faced that I was deliberately goading him. I wanted to raise his temper, for some unknowable reason. The pit of my stomach ached with the need to get his blood up.

  "If I have been so much trouble, then return to the souks and buy yourself a woman. You can then save yourself any further trouble from me. After all, a woman to you is only a knothole. One is very much like another."

  Warningly, his fingertips pressing into my shoulders, he said, "Despite your temperament, chérie, that is not true. You are not like any other woman."

  I slammed my hand onto the desk, snapping, "If that's so, then perhaps you could give me time to dress before I am undressed once more!" I'd knocked over one of the lanterns when I did it that was, thank God, not yet lit.

  He was silent, unsettlingly so. And then
he did something that made my insides flutter. He took the brush from my hand and began to run it through my hair, slowly, savoring the task, working it through the bright length, tugging when he came upon a knot, which forced my head back. On the last stroke, I froze, my stomach going taut.

  "Tu as été le vilein, ma petite fille."

  He'd whispered it, not playfully, the same words my father might have used, the words of a Frenchman to a child. You have been a naughty little girl. My heart was thundering in my ears, as he went on in a low, sinuous voice, "How shall I punish you? I am not certain. I would not want to damage your lovely skin. But you must learn that you will pay the piper for such behavior." He sighed, adding, with false reluctance, "Come with me."

  Taking me by the arm, he pulled me toward the red horsehair sofa. When I tried to yank free of his grip, he only laughed, making me feel just as helpless as I was in truth, thereby increasing my anger.

  Yet, he knew. How could he have known? It wasn't merely that he strode through the cabin like my father and that his accent and authoritative tone was so much like his, but in this, too, it was as if he could see into my darkest, hidden thoughts. In one nearly effortless heave he pulled me across his lap, and I felt something hard pass against my arm as he did it, realizing he still had my hairbrush in his hand. Panicked, I kicked with my legs, and felt it come down hard on my clothed backside, with the equally sharp, "Keep still!"

  I shut my eyes, now truly afraid despite that I'd brought this thrashing on myself, as he yanked up my skirts, baring my cheeks, then smacked me with it again, using the hard, wooden side. In truth, with my bottom bare, he hadn't hit quite so hard, but with more of a whiplash in his wrist that stung terribly. I shouted at him in rage and frustration as well as sharp pain, calling him a bastard.