Corsair Cove

by Angela Ashton

  The informal call broke the silence once again. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s blinding rays.

  And if it were a dream, then the diamond should still be hidden inside the cove.

  He had a mission to complete. He’d collect the stone as quickly, as discreetly, as possible and return it to the king. His face flushed with the heat of his rage as the grievous passage he’d read flashed through his head. The bilge rat had slaughtered his family! At least, according to his dream. Was it a premonition, meant to warn him of things to come?

  With any luck, he’d change the felonious history books.

  A red and black speck bounced to his right, growing larger as the speck drew closer. He gaped in the direction of the skinny buffoon running toward him.

  “Cap’n!” The crewman he recognized as Stewart bellowed.

  Jacque was at a loss for words having the unshakable feeling he’d been here before, seen Stew running toward him, shouting at him as he ran along the beach.

  Baiting Emmanuel’s wicked trap.

  “Cap’n, we’ve been looking everywhere for ye!” The lanky Stewart halted a few feet away. A curious look marred his thin face. “Where have ye been? Keats has been lookin’ for ye! He’s a little surprise waitin’.” A brown tooth protruded over his lower lip when he grinned.

  Deja-vu came in the form of a tight fist, and punched Jacque so hard it nearly knocked him back on his ass.

  Indeed. This was the reason for his time-travel—correction—his dream of traveling through time. His one chance to right the wrongs, correct future fallacies, save his family, and his name. And he’d be damned if he’d let the blonde devil ruin his crusade this time!

  A sinister expression masked his face. The sweet taste of vengeance was strong in his mouth. “Aye? A surprise ye say? Well now, best not keep him waiting!”

  “Aye cap’n, I think you’re going to like it!”

  “Indeed.” The urge to stop and throttle the buffoon was potent, but he refrained. He paused, taking a healthy amount of air into his lungs and looked at Stewart. “Smell that mate?”

  Stewart sniffed a couple times, a puzzled dip decorated his brow as he replied, “What is it Cap’n?”

  “I think the winds are about to change.” A smug grin spread his face and he tapped his shipmate on the back and added, “Carry on mate, as ye said, my first mate waits to reward his Cap’n.”

  He’d show Keats.

  He wouldn’t so much as even look upon the comely wench this time!

  Jacque’s hand rested on the deadly cutlass hanging at his waist and wished he had one of his two flintlock pistols with him. Not expecting any trouble, he’d left them in his cabin aboard the Sainte-Anne when they’d anchored in the small Jamaican port.

  At least he still had his cutlass, that’s all he’d need today.

  Fact or fantasy, this time he’d be prepared, weapon at the ready and not lying forgotten in a pile of garments for Keats to steal away with while he was preoccupied in the throes of lust.

  Stewart led him to the familiar hut where he knew the promiscuous wench waited. Keats’ ploy to distract him. His underhanded scheme to catch him unguarded so the swine’s comrades could sneak in, steal his weapons and render him unconscious…only to awake to a mutiny on board his ship. His chest felt tight. The memory of that day brought bile to the back of his throat. His hand ached to feel the sweet brunt of vengeance.

  Emmanuel approached, a mischievous leer plastered on his face. Jacque wanted to peel if off and shove it down his shifty throat!

  “Ah Cap’n LaFleur, I do believe ‘tis is ye lucky day mate! No need to thank me now, take a gander inside,” he nodded toward the hut, adding with a cunning wink, “Ye can thank me later! Take ye time, mate. Enjoy yours–arrghh!”

  Before Keats was able to get the last word completely out, Jacque whipped the cutlass from his side and held it to the pulsing flesh of his first mates shocked throat.

  He relished the stunned terror that flashed across those callused beads, allowing the smuggest of grins to grace his face. Then, in a tone that saw every ear within hearing distance cower in fear, he stated, “I know what you’re about ye treacherous fools! I warned ye what would happen in the attempt of a mutiny aboard my ship. You should have heeded my words bilge rat, I never give more than one, aye mate?”

  Keats shrank beneath the poisonous roar. He opened his mouth to speak but was silenced by the cold steel of Jacque’s blade as it slashed his scarred flesh at his neck. He swayed only a few seconds, blood spurting violently from the fatal wound and splattering Jacque’s face and clothing as he fell to the ground.

  Jacque took a triumphant breath and turned to the approaching remnants of his bewildered crew with a steel jaw. “Anyone else feel an itch to try on the Cap’n’s hat?” The men gaped at him with a combination of wonder and fear and shaking their heads. He gave a curt nod and after a final scrutinizing glance over the insolent lot, returned the bloodstained sword to his waist.

  “Very well, ye mutinous scurvy dogs!” He scanned the crew, his gaze meeting and holding each and every wild eye, seeking and finding unspoken answers to his many questions. Who could be trusted amongst the remaining blackguards? Not many, though there were a few.

  And that’s all he’d need to man the ship should the need arise to lighten his load. In a tone that left no question as to why he was commander, Jacque bellowed, “I am offering half of the king’s treasure to anyone that brings me even a whisper of mutiny! But take heed. Be prepared to prove yourself. If ye falsely accuse, your life shall serve as reparation. Now be gone with ye, and back on the ship within the hour!” Dust blew up in the wake of the crew’s departure, though a few stragglers remained in place as though they’d not sense enough to take shelter in light of the storm.

  “But Cap’n, I thought we weren’t to depart before dusk?”

  Jacque broke the distance between them in two strides. “Ye dare to challenge me authority, Timmons?”

  “No sir Cap’n’!” he gushed in a shaky voice, dropping his head in shame. “My sincere apologies, sir.”

  Jacque stalked away, pausing to look over his shoulder for a victorious sneer toward the hut. Somehow the sweet fruit awaiting him inside that he’d been so eager to partake of before had lost its luster.

  There was only one woman he wanted to be with…and she didn’t even exist.

  Stewart caught up to him as he stalked the direction of the Sainte-Anne.

  “Cap’n? Pardon me sir, please Cap’n, I think ye should have a look in the hut. We found—”

  Jacque spun on bitter heels and growled at his crewman. Had he been wrong about Stewart? He’d suspected the young sailor had been forced to take part in the mutiny, had thought the witless twit’s loyalties would always remain under his command.

  “Damnit Stewart, I’m not interested in what lies in that hut. Why don’t ye have a go at her yourself?” He turned his back and threw out, “Don’t approach me again unless you’ve found a fiery brunette with a peculiar scent and shapely enough to bring a grown man to tears!”

  “But Cap’n, the lass is brunette! And curvier than the rolling hills of ye father’s vineyard.”

  Jacque faltered in his step.

  Brunette? Impossible. The wench he’d found waiting in the hut had hair as bright as to challenge the sunlight. What game was the weasel playing at?

  Jacque stood a mere inch from Stewart’s face. “Brunette, ye say?” He lifted a finger and pointed at the hut but remained focused on the man’s paled face. “In there?”

  “A-Aye Cap’n. As ye say. We were standin’ on the shore discussin’…” he broke off, his voice shrieking with astonishment. “The wench just washed up like a fish! She came right out of the sea! Ye probably don’t believe it, hell I wouldn’t believe it myself had I not seen it with my own eyes.”

  Jacque broke into a sprint toward the infamous hut. Heart hammering against his chest, he kicked the door open and entered the humid shack.
His knees buckled. He threw a hand out to catch a beam to keep from falling. The woman sat on the dirty moth eaten blanket, knees drawn to her chin, head down and sobbing violently. He’d seen that dress before…he’d know that shape anywhere...

  Esa! Tears blocked his airflow. His heart skipped a beat before it gave a hard joyous thud. It was her! His pulse quickened to a dizzying speed. It wasn’t a bloody dream after all. It was real—she was real. Hadn’t he known it all along?

  His heart soared and at the same time, broke for her. He knew exactly how she felt, having gone through similar emotions when he finally came to accept he’d been catapulted to another century.

  One minute he was standing in the doorway and the next he was pulling her into his lap, running a hand over her hair, down her back and attempting to sooth her with loving words.

  “Esa! Thank God you’re alive my love,” he cradled her, placing salty wet kisses atop her head, her hands anywhere he could reach.

  What was she doing here? How had she arrived?

  Not that it made any difference. All that mattered was that she was here, now and in his arms.

  ~ * ~

  She stiffened. Jacque? Was that Jacque’s voice calling to her from beyond the grave?

  “Esa, ‘tis all right lass, I promise I’ll make it all right. Shhh…” the beloved voice encouraged and soothed as it was meant to. A hand caressed her head, her back, held her protectively against a strong and distinguished chest.

  And a unique scent invaded her nose.

  It all screamed Jacque LaFleur! Yet, it wasn’t possible. The blood pouring over his fingers played for the thousandth time in her mind’s theater. He was dead. He couldn’t be here.

  She was afraid to look up, afraid she’d find another man holding her, afraid she’d only imagined it was Jacque’s voice she’d heard speak her name…afraid the mirage would dissipate. She was dreaming, and never wanted to wake up.

  The voice came again, whispering in her ear, hot breath caressing the sensitive flesh, “I love you lass.” Soft kisses pressed against her cheek, her head.

  Jacque, she wanted to cry, but refrained. Afraid of moving an inch, she wanted to feel his strength, his love as long as the dream lasted. Gawd, how she wished he were really here! But she’d heard the shot, seen the fatal wound, saw the dark pool of blood that saturated his shirt before he fell from the boat!

  “Esa, look at me lass, ‘tis me…Jacque.”

  She had to see, had to know if it were a dream for he sounded and felt as though he were actually here, holding her in the comfort of that familiar embrace. She unclenched her eyes long enough to take a peek. Her suspicious gaze met with a red shirt, wide white ruffled lace spilled from the opening. It was Jacque’s shirt, the one he’d been wearing when she’d first seen him. She’d recognize it anywhere! How was it possible?

  Swallowing a gulp of fear, Esa dared to lift her eyes a little higher and saw the familiar black swirls of hair amidst the muscular chest. Her pulse quickened, eager to match the face to her vision. In the next instant, she was looking into the glistening eyes of the man she loved.

  “Jacque!” She threw her arms around his neck and squeezed so tight she heard him cough. Easing her hold just enough to allow him to breathe, she sobbed into his shoulder until she was able to speak coherently again. “It’s you. It’s really you!” She kissed his cheek, his lips, anywhere her lips landed.

  “Aye lass, ‘tis me. I’d hope you’d not let any other man hold ye so close?” he teased, but she could see he was just as happy to see her, if not more surprised.

  She ignored the remark, too stupefied by their circumstances. “But, how? You were—” she stopped, her mouth hanging open as her startled eyes finally settled on the scruffy beard. She yanked the shirt farther open, inspecting his chest. Where was the bullet hole? She brushed the hairs aside, finding nothing but perfectly sculpted muscle beneath.

  “Jacque?” Her head reeled as though she’d just stepped off a carnival ride. “What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know,” he said holding her close. “But I’ll not have ye worry over it, it’ll do neither of us any good. We’ll take it a day at a time, better yet, an hour at a time, and see what happens. Don’t be afraid, I’ll guard you with my life, I promise.” He claimed her open mouth in a lingering kiss.

  What else did Father Time have in store for them?

  Would she be able to adjust to life in the 18th century as easily as Jacque had adjusted to hers? At least she wasn’t alone.

  She had Jacque, and that’s all she ever needed anyway.

  Seventeen

  Jacque put the finishing touches on the disguise by stuffing some extra clothes in Esa’s shirt. Her hair was tucked beneath a hat and he used some soot to paint a five o’clock shadow as he prepared to sneak her onboard the Sainte-Anne.

  “Keep ye head low and don’t speak to anyone. They’ll be so busy readying themselves, with any luck they’ll pay us little mind.” He snickered as he added the finishing touches, folding his arm over his chest and placing a finger thoughtfully on his chin as he surveyed his work. “Hmmm…what shall we call such a hearty fellow?”

  Esa narrowed contemptuous eyes. “Tiny’s taken.”

  He chuckled. “Nay, something ferocious so they’ll want to steer clear of ye vile temper.” He paused again, circling her as he pondered an appropriate handle.

  “Ferocious and vile? Makes me want to steer clear of myself!” she snarled.

  He snickered and slapped his head as though he’d thought of the perfect name. “I’ve got it! How about Esa?”

  “Very funny LaFleur. You’ve turned into a real comedian.”

  “I’m a quick study, remember?” he retorted, mischief playing in his eyes. The smile grew and with his next breath he added, “I’ve got it. How about Redd Foxx? “

  Esa erupted in a fit of laughter. He’d taken a liking to the man during his affair with late night television.

  “Shhh…I might be able to make ye look like a man, but ye still laugh like a wench!”

  A scowl creased her brow. “Redd Foxx? Redd Foxx?”

  “You’ve something better?”

  She shrugged, trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s perfect! Redd Foxx…they’ll think ye as mean as the Devil’s hound.”

  She laughed again and he hushed her once more. “Did ye not hear a word I said? If these cutthroats so much as suspect I’ve brought a woman onboard, we’ll both be dead before nightfall. And I don’t expect the forces that be will see fit to intercept a third time.”

  “I’m sorry Jacque.” She saluted him and spoke in a deep manly voice, “I’ll do whatever ye say mate, er Cap’n.”

  It was his turn to laugh. “Not bad, but still enough to raise a wary brow or two. You just stay put in the cabin and you’ll be safe enough. We just have to get you from here to there first.”

  ~ * ~

  They boarded the Sainte-Anne a little early so as not to draw too many inquisitive stares. She followed several feet behind Jacque, as he’d advised.

  His ship was huge! And frightening as hell to look upon. Murky as night, with a black, white and red Jolly Roger waving high and proud above the menacing schooner. No wonder he’d laughed at the Abigail. It beheld a skull with skeletal arms against the black backing; one arm held a cutlass with a severed heart speared through the tip. The other held a pistol and seemed to be pointing it at the onlooker, as if to caution, “You’re next!”

  Shaking off a chill, she watched as it was lowered by a crewman. The same adrenaline ran through her that she felt just before entering a haunted house, exciting in an eerie sort of way. She almost expected masked men to pop out and chase her about the peer.

  Was that why Jacque wore those colors? Was it some type of signature, like a Scottish tartan or a gang’s colors?

  “Ahoy Cap’n,” a bald man greeted through a gaped tooth grin as they stepped off the gangway. Esa lowered her head and kept her hands hidden. “Will Tiny be stepping into Kea
ts’ shoes?”

  Jacque nodded, “I’ll give it some thought and get back to you.”

  “But he’s next in line, got more seniority than—”

  “I said I’ll get back to you.” His authoritative tone left no room to argue. The bald man furrowed a brow and stalked off.

  Jacque was right. No one seemed to pay any attention to her presence. But he didn’t take any chances and wasted no time ushering her down the stairs leading to his private quarters. She wished she’d had time to truly appreciate the architecture of the massive vessel. No such luck.

  Once they were inside the cabin, Jacque moved to one side of the timbered room and shoved something inside an old trunk before dropping the lid. What looked like a dark sleeve of a coat kept it from closing completely.

  “Welcome home,” he beamed, returning to her side and taking her hands in his. “I’m sorry Esa, I hope you’ll excuse the mess. I have to leave ye for a spell. I won’t be away long love, but I must see to my ill-behaved crew. You’ll be safe here.” He pecked her cheek and threw her a warning glare adding, “Keep the door locked.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Doubting eyes rounded on her as he started out the door. “Do not think to leave this cabin, Esa. I can’t emphasize enough the danger you’d be putting yourself in. Understand?” When she smiled and nodded, Jacque’s eyes shrank to disbelieving slits as he turned the doorknob. He knew her too well.

  Danger was as good a reason as any, and enough to keep her hidden from the ravenous sea brigades. So why didn’t he trust her? Well, she’d show him. She’d exercise some control over her curious nature and wouldn’t hurl them both at the mercy of the ocean.

  “Wait,” she blurted as he started to close the door. “What day is it?”

  “Can we talk about this later?”