by Eris Adderly
It probably said something about him, the amount time he liked to spend alone, but what that was, Edmund was not certain. He enjoyed the company of his quartermaster, and this made sense as he’d spent more of his adult life around the man than any one other person. But other people? No. Only in short spells could he tolerate them.
Now there was Mrs Collingwood, of course. He didn’t mind being in her company. But that was no doubt a passing fancy, born out of the recent convenience of having some amusement on board, and the length of time that had passed since he’d involved himself with a woman and not paid for the privilege. And that had been a very long time.
Respectable women, he’d concluded in the early years of his manhood, were simply too much work. He prided himself on being an efficient man, and the effort it took to woo a lady seemed all out of proportion to the return it earned him. He’d learnt early on that a simple exchange of his coin for the favours he needed was much easier, and he could be on about his business.
Yes, business. He supposed that he’d learnt that way of thinking from his father if the man had taught him nothing else. Even the relationship between father and son had boiled down to a transaction at this point.
Nathaniel Blackburn was an impenetrable tower on a cold and unscalable peak. In the same way his son had done after him, Edmund’s father shunned women and love for the time they wasted, and had eschewed any arrangements of marriage in his unwillingness for even a moment’s focus on anything other than profits and power. The man purchased the fulfilment of his male needs as he did any other service, and it was the undesired result of one such union which had brought Edmund wailing into this world.
His father could have left his illegitimate offspring to the whore who’d borne the babe to raise. To this day, Edmund didn’t understand why that had not been the case, and had never been brave enough to demand reasons from his father. He’d grown up in the man’s household and that was that. The woman who’d given birth to him he’d never met, and he was truly thankful he wasn’t the sort of man who went in for women much older than himself, or a most unfortunate coincidence might have occurred during his time spent amusing himself among the prostitutes of Kingston.
Despite the small army of servants and slaves about the estate, the Blackburn household had been a lonely place to grow up. His father had the cane plantation to manage, and as the man had never given Edmund any siblings, he’d been mostly left to entertain himself.
Certainly there were tutors around to contribute to his education, and so he was not literally alone every moment. Nathaniel Blackburn had hired the best who were available to instruct his bastard son, for all the sense it made. All except a Latin tutor, Edmund laughed to himself. Island life had forced his father to make do with whomever was available in Kingston and, at the time in question, that had not included anyone who was schooled to teach the language of Popes and dead emperors. Thus he’d found the Widow Collingwood’s skill quite useful to make up for his lack in this area.
It was an odd set of affairs between Edmund and his father. On the one hand, the man paid for expensive tutors, fine clothes, and the like. On the other hand, his father avoided his company and was not timid about reminding his son of his lack of legitimacy.
He’d lost even the financial support shortly before his eighteenth birthday when one of his and Benjamin’s dishonest exploits down at the harbour had garnered a little too much attention. The old man had had no use at all for him after that. The ships of privateers and, after a time, The Devil’s Luck, had become Edmund’s new household once his father had cast him from the old.
Dragging the front corner of his hat back into place against the wind’s incessant pull, he grimaced as his line of thought continued to whittle away at him. He’d reasoned that perhaps his attainment of a captaincy, which he’d earned as a privateer, even before his acquisition of The Devil’s Luck, would have finally bought him some respect out of the man, but that had not been the case. Nathaniel Blackburn had simply laughed and asked whether Edmund’s new title made his mother something other than a whore before he went back to reviewing his ledgers.
The shining top of Benjamin Till’s bald head coming up into view as the man mounted the stairs to the quarterdeck pulled Edmund away from his personal symphony of self-pity. He nodded to his friend in greeting, taking note of the subtle spring in the man’s step.
“What say you, Mr Till?” Always they were formal out where the rest of the crew could hear, or at least they tried to be.
“That’s a fine prize you’ve got shut up down there in your cabin, Sir,” the tattooed man said with a lopsided grin.
The reason behind his quartermaster’s jaunty gait struck Edmund then, and he didn’t know whether to be proud or jealous of the man. He settled for a friendly jab.
“Fancy you, Seducer of Widows. How did you manage to pry her legs apart a second time? Some line and a series of pulleys?”
“Oh, it weren’t me that set about lifting her skirts, Captain. No, she laid the first hand down herself. Quite the treasure, that one.” Benjamin lifted his eyebrows in suggestion at this revelation.
“You jest with me, old friend,” he said, adjusting his hands on the wheel as he spoke. “I’ve only been able to part those thighs with threats, and not easily then.”
“Does it get under your skin then,” the bald man said, goading, “that the orphan from the monastery was able to make way where you could not?” Benjamin leaned in so he could make his next friendly taunt in a lower voice. “She parted for me like the waves in front of this very ship, Edmund. And I did nothing but be only the least bit kind.”
“Perhaps it does a bit.” He shifted his weight, uncomfortable as he answered Till’s question. “But we both know you’ve always had an easier time of it with women. The whores all but give you a free ride in every port we visit.”
“You could have her the same way, Captain,” Benjamin said, serious now, and stepping back.
“I very much doubt that, Mr Till,” he replied with a dry smirk, “Our last encounter left her in a crying heap on the floor of my cabin. No, I doubt she’ll be seeking out my attentions of her own accord any time soon, no matter how much I would prefer it.”
“You’ll think me out of line, my friend, but I believe you most certainly could have her willing and wet as the sea, if you’d only stop acting the beast.”
The suggestion was both mildly insulting and novel, and he didn’t know whether to be annoyed at his friend or curious. The former approach seemed pointless, so he settled for the latter and asked Benjamin then, “And how should I manage to do that?”
“Well you might try not to immediately demand her submission, for one thing,” Till said. “Speak to her of pleasant things, matters you hold in common. It needn’t be that difficult.”
Edmund sighed as his friend went on. Much as when they were boys, when the two years between them had made a far greater difference in experience, Benjamin was once again teaching him about practical matters Edmund had not managed to learn as the lone bastard son in an unwelcoming household.
The helmsman returned only a short time later to retake his post, and the captain and his quartermaster made their way down to the main deck. Before moving off to his own cabin, Benjamin made his final point about the whole situation.
“You’d better try your hand at some other ways with this woman if you mean to see her come to you. And you’d best be about it before she figures out about her uncle and the letters. She’s a bright girl, Edmund, you won’t keep it from her for ever.” His friend gave him an informal salute to show he’d meant no disrespect with his words and turned to move off, leaving Edmund alone with a new puzzle to worry at.
Could he get this woman to come to him of her own will? I’ve rejected no challenge yet, he thought, and surely I won’t start with this one.
* * * *
Edmund had given her the two days as he’d promised, with freedom from his advances, but today they were up and he w
ould wait no longer.
The first night he’d needed to ignore her in his bed had been difficult enough, but the true test of his discipline had come on the second evening. After learning his closest friend had succeeded where he hadn’t, and the widow had gone to Benjamin of her own accord, it was all Edmund could do not to plunder her charms again that very night.
But having her against her will was no longer his wish. His goals had changed.
It was not that he wanted sole claim on her. No, that was not the reason Till’s bout with her had frustrated him. Edmund was happy enough to share with his closest friend, as they’d ever done. Hannah Collingwood was quite the treasure, as Benjamin had put it, and it would be greedy of him to hoard her to himself. What had bothered him about it was that Till had done practically nothing and she’d all but leapt into the man’s arms.
Why should it matter whether she wanted him or not? Her body was just as soft to squeeze, as tight to plunge into either way. Perhaps the example his friend had shown him, whether intentional or not, had illuminated a new possibility in his mind. Perhaps there was something missing for Edmund Blackburn when it came to women.
Could he remember a time when a woman had asked for him or called his name without the bribe of coin? He wasn’t sure. Did it imply some weakness in him that he might want to be desired? The uncomfortable thoughts had gone with the way he’d felt, lying upon the berth with her in the dark.
She’d already been asleep by the time he’d retired last night; her body huddled in her established pattern as far to the inner edge of the mattress as possible. When he’d slid into the bed himself, he’d spent a tortuous time lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, and willing himself not fall upon her like a bird of prey. If he went back on his word before the two days were done, he’d never have what he wanted out of her.
And what do you want out of her, Blackburn?
The closest thing he’d had in recent years he might even begin to call a lover was that saucy Miss Charlotte he’d seen the last few times he’d anchored at Nassau. True, her tongue was sweet, and she must have enjoyed him enough not to always ask him for coin. But if he wanted to converse for a time after, her eyes would always glaze over as soon as he began to speak of anything less immediate than rum and fucking.
And yet he remembered at sixteen being enamoured with the daughter of one of the other plantation owners, a dark eyed girl whose name he’d buried away and couldn’t remember any more. At some point, his father had figured out the reason he was mooning about, and had pulled him aside to deliver a gruff reminder of his place. He could hear the man’s words in his head still.
That girl is going to be married off to someone with estates, titles. Stick to whores, Boy—no one of good breeding is going to be interested in a bastard with no prospects.
Yet there was no whore who intrigued him the way Hannah Collingwood did.
What did he want? There were no simple answers to that question, and so he’d pushed it away.
Edmund had allowed himself the thinnest sliver of indulgence as he lay there next to her sleeping form the previous night. He did so—he rationalised—only to prevent himself from going mad, although he was not certain it hadn’t ended up adding to his frustrations rather than alleviating them.
Moving onto his side to face her, he’d brought his body to line up with hers. The space of mere inches separated them, but he didn’t go so far as to press his warmth to hers. In the dim light from the lanterns hanging outside the ship, he’d been able to watch her expand and contract in her sleep with her breath.
Despite having no access to soaps or perfumes, he was still aware of her pleasant, feminine scent. He’d brought his face to her hair and inhaled, luxuriating in his ability to partake of her in some small way without having to still her struggles or restrain her panicked hands.
Why do you torment yourself so? Why not just have her now?
One hand. One careful hand was all he’d allowed himself to set atop her hip in the quiet darkness. His primal urges had keened and wailed for him to cast aside the layers of fabric between them and drive himself deep within her burning core. His rational mind knew, however, that if she was jarred awake in such a rapacious manner, he would destroy all his hopes at a stroke. One hand at her side would not wake her, he was sure, but his need was achingly hard, and worse, beginning to swell against her bottom.
She’d stirred in her sleep then and he’d gone incredibly still, not even daring to take his fingers away, lest the movement be the thing that brought her around. After a long, intense moment of nothing, when he was sure she’d remained with her dreams, he’d let out a careful sigh and rolled back to stare at the ceiling again, his erection twitching in irritation at having been roused for no reason.
It was thumping against his thigh even now, at the mere memory of Hannah Collingwood in his bed. He hoped that today it would not be for nothing.
Edmund tried to cool himself into a more presentable state before he left his stateroom to go find her.
Acting on a piece of Benjamin’s advice, he’d given her leave to roam about the ship as she would. His quartermaster had put the word out that Mrs Collingwood was still off limits to the crew, and that they were not to molest her if they saw her out on the decks. Rowland Graves had been given an especially stern warning. Edmund didn’t trust the man, and had resolved to start looking for a new surgeon once they’d brought this whole Prometheus affair to a close.
Till’s reasoning had been that if she felt less like a prisoner, she would be more likely to react in a favourable manner toward Edmund. He didn’t like it, but he was willing to admit that it made sense. His friend had also given him the even tougher advice that Edmund should try to leave her be for as much of the entire day as possible, to give her some time with her new measure of freedom before he descended upon her. This had been a bit more difficult, but he’d managed to only nod or exchange small greetings with her whenever their paths had crossed on the ship that day.
He’d been surprised at her return of his offered pleasantries. He thought she might have ignored him, but she was at the least polite, and there was perhaps once a smile on her lips. The sun had been in her eyes at the time, though, so he could not be sure she was not simply squinting into the light to look at him.
Edmund had waited long enough. It was well past full dark now, and she hadn’t returned to the stateroom. Probably to continue avoiding you, he thought. Other than the minimal evening watch, most of his tired crew would be asleep at this point, so his lovely widow should be simple enough to find.
Sliding his arms back into the sleeves of his coat, he made his way out of the cabin and council room, up onto the main deck.
The Devil’s Luck was slicing away along her course. Her lanterns burned and lit the deck here and there with warm light. A rumbling of male laughter came from somewhere deep below and the thin notes of a flute trailed out into the air in accompaniment. The tune probably came from Winters, the young sailor he always saw trailing along after Ellis George. Edmund shook his head.
He started at his end of the ship and worked his way forward, casting his eyes about for the widow. He was beginning to wonder if she’d gone below for some reason, perhaps to seek out the company of that maid of hers, when he spotted her.
Mrs Collingwood stood on the port side facing away from him, looking out over the gunwale into the night, only a few feet from the staircase that led to the top of the forecastle. His steps faltered and he stopped walking toward her altogether for a moment before chiding himself into motion again.
Will you hesitate before her now? A woman you’ve been inside already? Are you a man, Blackburn? Do they not fear your name in every port? Move!
As he approached her now he thought he could hear her humming along with the melody drifting from below decks. Edmund smiled to himself at her ability to find distraction in what must be, for her, unthinkable circumstances.
“A fine evening for a tune,” he said,
stepping up beside her and forcing his voice to be casual.
She started at his words and her fingers fluttered to her breast as she rounded on him with a gasp.
“Captain! What a fright you gave me! I thought I was alone up here.”
“You are not alone, Mrs Collingwood.” He tried to settle her with what he hoped was a friendly smile.
“Yes, I can see that,” she said, composing herself. She eyed him for a moment before setting her hands back to the gunwale to look out again over the sea and stars. What had he just seen on her face? Confusion? Frustration? A thought unsaid? He couldn’t tell and flexed his knuckles in anxiety. One never had to operate this carefully with a crew full of men.
“Mr Till tells me you were reading The Storm.” He tried again to engage her, giving silent thanks to his friend for this bit of information he could use to do so.
“Did he?” she asked, sounding polite, but reluctant to take his conversational bait.
“He did. Tell me, Mrs Collingwood, what did you think of it? Is Mr Defoe not a brilliant author?”
“I suppose he is, Captain. I suppose he is that …” She trailed off, lost to whatever else it was on her mind.
“You didn’t enjoy his account of the events, then?” he pressed her, wanting to root out what had put that faraway look on her face.
“ ‘Enjoy’ might not be the word I would use. The man can certainly paint a picture with his pen, there’s no doubt. Were you raised in England, Captain?” she asked, turning to face him, her question unexpected.
Just like everything about her.
“No. Jamaica,” he said with a smile. “Can you not see how the island colonies have corrupted my morals?” Edmund tried to jest with her in hopes of drawing her out of the sombre mood she seemed to be in. She rewarded him with a wry half-smile and a short, bitter laugh.
“Yes. Well. I was brought up there, Captain Blackburn. I weathered that storm myself.” Her eyes grew distant again and he wondered what sorts of horrible memories had caught her up. Watching her face draw that subtle fraction tighter as she no doubt recalled her experience with the disaster, Edmund was overcome by the desire to prevent her from ever feeling such pain again. A face like hers should not have to look this way.