Teach looked weary of conversation. "Don't let me keep you."
"No more smalltalk?" Vane made a sad face.
"Not everyone relishes the sound of your voice as much as you, Charles."
Vane inclined his head. "Very well, then. Give my regards to Queen Anne, when you see her. I hear her tits were as great as coconuts, and her juices twice as supple. No doubt she spends her afterlife impatiently awaiting your arrival, legs spread and thighs dripping." He adopted a regal, feminine voice. "'Oh, my dear Edward, how can I ever repay you for murdering all those innocent people in my good name? Come, rest that bushy beard of yours betwixt my thighs, but do extinguish those fuses first! I'll not have all that smoke filling my royal cunt! It's crowded enough in there as it is.'"
If Teach was amused, it didn't show behind his beard. "Goodbye, Charles."
Vane managed to frown and smirk at the same time. "I stand corrected. Insanity has stolen your humor. And I had rehearsed that bit for days." He turned to Jethro. "And you, Jethro, have exhausted your usefulness on this little stint. Should you find yourself in a cell again, do not expect me to come to your aid."
Jethro nodded. "I'm grateful you did as much as you did."
"Oh, fuck off. You'll piss the favor away as you have every other." Vane favored Annabelle with a bow before leaving, not bothering to close the door behind him.
An awkward silence followed. Jethro broke it. "Gonna miss his company, I will."
"Dishonorable wretch of a man," Teach sneered. "Does he still cheat his crew out of their fair portion?"
"They've come to expect no better. He tortured the carpenter's boy just last week. Suspected him o' stealing a silver."
"Despite my affinity for torture," Teach said, "it be a thing best not turned on one's own crew. They'll have his head someday."
"I'm not so sure," Jethro sighed. "Fear him, they do. And even a stunted share o' Vane's fortune is greater than a fair share on most ships."
Teach finished his wine and dabbed his beard with a handkerchief. "Enough about Vane. My thoughts fall to Hornigold, as often they do of late. A malady soon to be remedied, thanks be to present company." Teach stood and poured Jethro a goblet of wine, handing it to him. "Tell me, how did you happen upon this information?"
Jethro sipped at his wine. His brow creased slightly. Annabelle suspected he didn't care for the vintage. He set the goblet down. "During my . . . holiday . . . in Nassau, I met a man destined for the gallows. Went by name o' Henry, he did. Served with Griffith on Harbinger."
Annabelle had only been half-listening, but the name Harbinger jarred her attention. A chill coursed her spine as she recalled Edward Livingston's sadistic face.
"He was very talkative, he was, 'specially after his companion agreed to help Woodes Rogers track Benjamin Hornigold and Katherine Lindsay."
"Lindsay?" Teach thought for a moment as he sank into his chair. "The woman with the lofty reward on her head?"
"The very same," Jethro wheezed. "She and Hornigold went after some treasure Griffith supposedly stashed away on an unmapped island before his untimely death, God rest him. Henry's cellmate bought his life by agreeing to lead Guy Dillahunt to the island and capture Hornigold. Henry didn't take kindly to being left behind, and spilled everything to me before they carried him off to his death. I have the island's latitude put to memory, I do."
Teach was grinning. "Dillahunt. That man does not quit once set upon a task. Hornigold's chances slim by the minute."
"Aye," Jethro agreed. "Rogers did not leave anything to chance. It's possible Dillahunt has already apprehended Hornigold."
"Then we must apprehend Dillahunt."
Jethro nearly spit out his wine. "Apart from the man that just left this room, there's only one other you do not want to engage in combat with, and that's Guy Dillahunt."
Teach smiled. "Dillahunt's ship will sink as easily as any other. The trick be to weaken the beast from the inside before I ever fire a shot. Weasels work beneath Dillahunt's very feet. I employ as many weasels as Vane, if not more. You should know the value of weasels better than anyone, seeing how easily you escaped your cell."
"I see your point," Jethro conceded. "But the trouble with weasels is notifying them when it comes time to strike. Easy to free a man from a cell. Not so easy to notify a man at sea. You would have to get close to Crusader, and her guns would do far too much damage."
"A solution has yet to present itself," Teach admitted, "but that does not mean there isn't one. Who was your informant's cellmate?"
"A one-armed boy named Adams. Nathan Adams. Stubborn lad, that one."
Annabelle sat up in the bed, not bothering to secure her robe as it slipped away again. "What did you just say?"
Both men stared at her. "I said he's stubborn," Jethro replied, his eyes drifting downward.
"No, that's not . . . what did you say his name was?"
"Nathan Adams. You're familiar with the lad?"
"I was very familiar with him," she said without thinking. Then she glanced sheepishly at Teach. He gazed apathetically at her, and she immediately felt stupid for thinking he would care.
"Small world," Jethro said, eyes fixated on her breasts.
"Too small," she said, covering herself.
Something changed in Teach's gaze. Apathy gave to a curious sparkle. "How long did you know him?"
"We spent a month together."
The candlelight glinted in his pupils. "The boy fancied you?"
"He seemed to, for a time. I was his first woman. He said very sweet things and bought me equally sweet baubles. He demanded that I take no other man to bed while I was with him, and he paid handsomely to ensure his terms were met. Then he returned to sea, but not before . . . " she trailed off, not wanting to utter the name of the man who had raped and maimed her.
Teach leaned toward Jethro, and Jethro leaned forward with hyperbolic attentiveness. "Stunted romances often prove the most potent," Teach mused. "It's only when lust be afforded the time to gestate that love falters. A romance cut short, now that be a frustrating thing. The mind lingers on what it cannot have, God knows I know."
"Aye," Jethro said, nodding his head with a flaring grin, as though Teach had just imparted the meaning of the universe.
"I haven't thought of him in some time," Annabelle protested. It was true. The memory of Nathan went hand-in-hand with that of Edward Livingston, as one had followed immediately after the other. She could not banish one memory without banishing the next.
"Nay, I suspect you haven't," Teach said. "The boy, on the other hand, may not share your ambivalence."
"It was many months past," she said with a dismissive snort. "He's had many whores by now, no doubt."
"There are few whores that look like you, my dear," Teach reminded her.
Jethro's eyes widened as a thought struck him. "Indeed not," he said. "Forgive me, but what was your name, girl? I know you told me already, but so many years o' sun beating upon my skull have not been kind to my memory."
"I hope your mind does not falter in recalling Hornigold's location," Teach bristled.
"I was being modest on account of sparing the lady's feelings," Jethro said, gesturing wildly at Annabelle and toppling his goblet. Wine rolled over the desk toward Teach, soiling maps and colliding with The Iliad. Teach frantically snatched up the book, gave it a fierce shake, and rubbed it against his coat. He glanced crossly at Jethro, frowning through his beard.
Jethro looked horrified. "I'm so sorry, captain," he said, using his sleeves to wipe the wine off the desk.
"It's done," Teach said, setting the book down on a dry side of the desk. "You were saying?"
Jethro sat back down and fretted with his sleeves, which were dripping wine. "Her name did not seem o' much import until now. I'm afraid I did not put it to memory."
"Annabelle," Annabelle said. "My name is Annabelle."
"My god," Jethro gasped. "The boy mentioned you, he did."
"Now you're lying," Annabelle said, getting out of th
e bed. She held the pistol at her side.
Jethro observed the weapon respectfully. "It's no lie, missy. He said something about never seeing his Annabelle again. He went on at some length. Even said your name in his sleep, he did."
"His Annabelle?" She said, stunned.
"That's right. Destined for the gallows, he was, and at times quite downtrodden."
"Downtrodden?" She had never heard the word.
"It means 'sad'," Jethro replied with a condescending smile.
Annabelle looked at Teach. He was sitting back, staring sourly at his red-stained book. His gleaming blue eyes slowly lifted until they met hers. She had seen the look many times, but never focused on her. She didn't like it.
"Annabelle," Teach said at last, "would you excuse us."
Annabelle hesitated. "Where should I go?" She knew very few of the crew and did not feel like mingling.
"See that Vane is satisfied with his reward."
She stared at him. "Fully satisfied?"
He nodded slowly.
Annabelle set the pistol on the bed and straightened her robe. She left without looking back, gently closing the door behind her. She descended to the cutdown forecastle, trying not to think about whatever Teach was planning for her.
She found two of Vane's men, one tall and lanky and the other squat and muscular, loitering before the broad ramp that had been extended between Queen Anne's Revenge and Vane's recently acquired sloop, Valiant. "What's your purpose, missy," said the squat man. He had a shiny bald head and deep-set, beady eyes that were nearly swallowed by the bulging folds of his face.
"I'm looking for Charles Vane, by order of Blackbeard."
The two men exchanged glances. "He's in his cabin," said the tall man. "Generally he don't fancy intrusions, but for you I wager he'll make an exception."
The two men moved out of the way, and Annabelle smiled sweetly at each of them as she stepped onto the ramp. She moved carefully across, lifting her robe slightly so she wouldn't trip and tumble into the black water below. She brushed past several gawking crewmembers, smiling at all of them along the way. "Captain's quarters, please?" she asked a heavyset young deckhand with rosy red cheeks and an innocent face. He stammered all over himself before pointing her in the right direction. "Thank you," she replied sweetly, and his cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red.
She did not bother to knock. She knew what type of man Vane was. He liked initiative in a woman. She swung the door wide, and her mouth fell open.
Vane was seated behind his desk at the opposite side of the room, one hand atop a painting of a nude woman, the other beneath the desk, stroking fervently. His coat was discarded on the bed, and his white shirt was hanging open, chest glistening in sweat. He looked up. If he was embarrassed, he failed to show it. He stood with his pants down to his knees. He seemed unashamed of his erect manhood. "I didn't expect you so soon," he said with a smile.
Annabelle turned her look of shock into one of pleasant surprise. She was good at that. She closed the door behind her. "I hope you haven't finished," she said, slinking toward him. She slid her fingers down her cleavage, parting the robe from her breasts. Vane's lustful gaze fell between her legs as the robe slipped to the floor. She watched as he grew harder. "I think you'll prefer me to a painting." She trailed a finger over the rough canvas of the nude woman as she rounded the desk to join Vane on the other side. He seized her waist, crushing her to him and kissing her. His tongue worked its way into her mouth, locking with hers. Her breasts mashed against his powerful chest. Her fingers found his cock, giving him a sharp squeeze. He gasped excitedly into her mouth. He slapped both hands against each cheek of her ass, hefting her onto the painting and splaying her across the desk. He parted her legs and shoved himself into her, setting his hands on her breasts and thrusting violently. Every thrust racked her entire body, like lightning surging through her.
She started to lift up, but he clutched her neck and forced her back down, glaring at her. "Don't you fucking move," he snarled.
"Then get down here," she said. She grabbed a handful of his auburn hair and jerked his face toward hers. He let out a little yelp, and then grinned in surprise. Both their mouths were open, but held an inch apart, breath hot on the other's face.
He pulled out halfway through climax, seizing his cock and spilling the remainder of his seed into her naval with several firm strokes. He fell back into his chair, panting.
She remained flat on her back as his fluids streamed down either side of her stomach and saturated the painting beneath her. "Take me with you," she gasped, still out of breath. She rubbed at the soreness between her legs. "I'm wasted on him."
Vane looked mildly concerned. "He does not fuck you?"
She shook her head. "I am a puppet for his schemes and nothing more. He's plotting something nefarious right now, with me at the heart of it."
"And you will do whatever he commands?"
She propped herself up on her elbows. "I think he would kill me if I didn't."
He fixed her with a pointed gaze. "Is that why you came here? Because he told you to?"
An involuntary smile crept across her lips. "Some commands are easier than others."
He leaned forward. "What if he told you to kill me? Would you do it?"
She gnawed on her lower lip as she considered that. "I've never killed anyone before."
"Now there's a curious reply," Vane said, fascinated.
"How so?"
"If I asked twenty people if they would kill someone, ten would say they couldn't do it, though some might find it easier than they think if pressed into action. The other half would say of course they would, though some might find it more difficult than they imagined. But you . . . you simply say you've never done it. No denial or feigned resolve. In my considerable experience, that is the sign of a true killer." His lips pulled away from his teeth in an evil grin.
She sat up and slowly leaned toward him. "Take me with you."
"Would that I could," he sighed. "I have enough enemies as it is, and don’t wish to make one of Edward Teach. You are right to fear him. Even from afar, he is dangerous. And if he would kill you for disobeying him, imagine what he would do to me for allowing it?"
"One day he'll be dead. You said it yourself."
Vane stood and lifted his pants, tucking his shirt back in place. "Aye, his time is running out, but even with a sliver of life he is not to be underestimated. Like all men, he will meet his end. Until that day, I shall dream of your bountiful tits every night, and curse the morning sun when it stirs me from slumber."
She looked away, making her disappointment plain.
"Do thank him for the reward," he said. "You are preferable to a palm and a painting."
"I'll relay your joy," she flatly replied, falling back down on the desk.
He fixated on her maidenhood. "I don't believe you've finished."
"It's difficult for me." She hadn't had an orgasm since she was raped. She wasn't sure it was even possible anymore.
"Lucky for you, I fancy a challenge," Vane replied. He sat back down and grabbed her by the legs, sliding her toward him and ducking his head between her thighs.
"Shouldn't I clean up first?" she protested, but he was already prodding her. The tip of his tongue quickly found the right spot and lingered there, working diligently. She shuddered instantly and clawed at the painting.
He lifted his head only for a moment. "No need. I relish the taste of myself."
HORNIGOLD
Hornigold's nose throbbed in agonizing waves. He stripped off his shirt, dipped it in the water, and pressed it to his face, but the blood would not stop seeping from his nostrils.
Over the bunched cloth he spied her. She was waist deep in a little black lake nestled in the rock beneath a long, narrow waterfall that drained from the summit. Her left cheek had a thin gash, but he doubted it was anywhere near as bad as his face must have looked. It was still too dark to see his reflection in the water, and he was glad for that.<
br />
The sky was gradually lightening, deep purple hues intruding upon the eastern horizon. He wasn't sure how far they had walked. After their quarrel, neither felt like returning to camp. They had ventured out here to find treasure, and they weren't about to leave empty handed after dealing each other so much pain. At least they could agree on something.
He glared jealously at his sword, which was sticking through her belt. "This is mine now," she had informed him, after crushing his nose. She let him carry the shovel, but had wisely lingered behind him and maintained a safe distance as they walked. The torch had extinguished in the sand, so they had to let their eyes adapt to the darkness before they got very far.
She had taken off her black bandana and was washing her hair, not that any blood could be detected in those red tresses. Infuriatingly, the slice in her cheek somehow added confidence to her expression. It slanted from her cheekbone to one of the tiny creases flanking her mouth. She actually has dimples, he realized. Barely detectable, but there they were. She must have smiled a lot as a child.
She shuffled out of the water, breeches wet and tight around her hips, arms raised as she fastened her bandana over the top of her head. He could clearly see the small dark circles of her nipples poking against her wet white shirt as she stretched. A rush of blood surged through him. He turned away as yet another jolt of pain pulsated through his nose. His face was probably ruined forever, and Lindsay was more fetching than ever. He hated her.
She will let her guard down, sooner or later, and then I'll take my sword back.
She stepped in front of him, setting a hand on her hip. "It's nearly dawn. Your nose looks terrible. We should get back so you can get it looked at."
"The doctor's dead, remember?" He was revolted by how nasally he sounded.
"I'm sure someone can patch you up."
"No," he insisted. "It's fine."
He lowered the shirt to reveal his face, and her lips peeled away from her teeth, and her shoulders quivered in disgust. She quickly looked away, adopting a vacant look and scratching the back of her neck.
"Is it that bad?" he said.
She shrugged, not looking at him. "Of course not. We must press on." And then she added meekly, "Soon you'll have enough to afford a new nose."
The Devil's Tide Page 12