THE Allen yielded three caskets of gold dust and a store of silver plate before her crew was cast ashore on the isolated island of St. Vincent and the ship put to the torch. Teach’s fortunes held over the next weeks as they plundered numerous profitable frigates, even adding to their flotilla when the French crew of the sloop Montserrat Merchant voted to join them rather than see their ship destroyed. Their wealth was steadily mounting, and after a particularly rewarding haul, Teach dropped anchor and broke open cases of Madeira wine and Jamaican rum captured from a Portuguese merchant ship. Two of the crew dragged out a fiddle and a pennywhistle and began playing an energetic reel, and soon the men were cavorting madly around the deck, blind drunk.
Teach thumped Seb on the back. “Didn’t I tell you?” he crowed. “We’re the fastest sloop on all the seven seas.”
Seb laughed and poured a measure of rum down his throat. “Aye, Cap’n,” he agreed, his eyes shining. Cook had just polished off his second bottle of sweet Madeira when the world suddenly tipped, and he found himself lying on the deck, watching blearily as men bobbed and weaved wildly around him. Seb hove into view, swaying to the music, and Morton appeared, his arm snaking around Seb’s waist. Cook struggled to sit up and speak, but he couldn’t get his mouth to work properly, and his head was spinning too fast. Moments later his vision blurred, and he blacked out just as Morton bent his head close to Seb’s beautiful, smiling face.
Cook woke some time later, his head thick with drink and his tongue afire with thirst. He lay still, eyes tightly shut, every part of him protesting his overindulgence. The ship rolled gently, tugging against its anchor, and Cook waited for a moment while his stomach adjusted to the swell. When he finally opened his eyes and cast about, Seb was nowhere to be seen, so he struggled painfully to his feet and lurched toward the ship’s prow, stopping along the way to rinse his mouth out with the dregs of a bottle of rum. He carefully navigated the unconscious men stretched out across the deck and cocked his head, hearing a faint noise in the darkness.
The night was still as Cook found himself drawn toward the muted sounds. He crept closer, stopping suddenly, his heart pounding painfully against his ribs. Seb was illuminated in the moonlight, his back pressed against Philip Morton’s chest, his head thrown back against the man’s shoulder. One of Morton’s hands swept across Seb’s naked torso, and the other was wrapped around Seb’s engorged cock, playing up and down its pulsing length. Seb’s dark skin glowed under the silver light, his nipples tightening as Morton’s fingers dragged across them. Corded muscles strained against Morton’s touch as Seb’s head thrashed slowly from side to side.
Cook couldn’t tear his eyes away, mesmerized by the sight. He didn’t think Seb had ever looked more debauched—or more beautiful.
Seb thrust his hips forward, driving into the talented fingers that Cook knew so intimately. As Seb writhed, Cook’s prick stiffened so quickly that he gasped out loud. Morton’s face was buried against Seb’s neck, but he lifted his eyes at the sound, and they locked with Cook’s and held fast. His pumping hand suddenly sped up, and Seb tensed and moaned aloud, spurting thick, milky ropes onto the deck that glistened in the moonlight. Morton held tight as Seb trembled in his arms, then relaxed with a lush sigh. With his eyes still fixed on Cook’s face, Morton bent Seb forward and began to thrust, revealing what Cook had not seen up to that moment, that Morton’s cock was buried deeply inside Seb’s welcoming body.
Stumbling away, Cook barely made it to the edge of the ship before he doubled over and retched into the water below, knowing that his queasy stomach had nothing to do with the vast quantities of wine he had consumed and everything to do with the look of sheer, uncomplicated bliss that had transformed Seb’s face.
The Winds of Change
THE easterly winds that gave name to the Leeward Islands were blowing up next day as Teach’s small flotilla set a course north toward the lucrative hunting grounds of the West Indies.
Cook had been spared a confrontation with Seb, who’d been temporarily assigned to the Revenge as Teach evened up the crew on each of his three vessels. Cook watched bleakly as Seb climbed into the jollyboat that would ferry him to the smaller ship, afraid to look into his eyes in case he saw how much the encounter with Morton had meant to him. In all the time they had been together, in the face of all the liaisons Cook had flaunted, Seb had never once strayed, and Cook didn’t know what he’d do if Seb’s expressive features revealed that last night had been anything other than a meaningless, rum-sodden fumble.
“Looks like we’ll soon be adding to our wealth.” Morton’s voice sounded close to Cook’s ear. “Rich pickings up around the northern islands.” Morton leaned against the rails, watching Seb’s rowboat slip away, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Cook turned, his stomach clenching when he recalled the image of Seb abandoned to pleasure in this man’s arms.
“Did you enjoy yourself last night?” he asked, cringing at the resentment so obvious in his voice.
Morton looked at him quizzically. “With Seb?” he asked, the affectionate familiarity grating on Cook’s nerves. “I told you I was going to give it a try. You should have warned me if it vexed you.”
“Why should it vex me?” Cook snapped, feeling like a fool. Morton had made his intentions toward Seb plain enough, and Cook had done nothing to discourage him.
Morton inclined his head and studied Cook keenly for a moment. “You didn’t expect him to assent,” he observed astutely. Cook looked away, afraid to betray the truth. He’d taken Seb’s faithfulness for granted, though he hadn’t offered the same in return. After months of unwavering devotion, he’d assumed that Seb would always be his for the taking. There was undeniable bitterness in discovering that Seb could be just as easily persuaded to stray. And there was no small amount of dread.
Cook was honest enough to admit that Morton had done nothing wrong in trying his luck, and he couldn’t deny that Seb had more than enough reason to welcome Morton’s advances. He’d never bothered to consider what Seb felt to be continually set aside in favor of a casual fuck with a nameless whore or a random shipmate. He wondered if he would ever get the chance to square things or if Seb had finally come to his senses and moved on to better things.
THEY continued their raiding, but success had made Teach increasingly reckless, and now he was as likely to burn the ships after they were looted, with little regard for the unseen merchants whose investment they were so carelessly destroying.
“We can’t continue like this,” Morton observed as he and Cook watched yet another frigate go up in flames. “He’ll bring the Royal Navy down on us.”
As if Morton had seen the future, the next day the HMS Seaforth, accompanied by the thirty-gun man of war HMS Scarborough, suddenly loomed over the horizon.
“We’ll stand and fight,” Teach bellowed, his eyes blazing wildly. “We have them outnumbered!”
Cook looked around, aghast. Although their flotilla outmanned the Royal Navy vessels, he knew that the inexperienced, unruly pirate crews were no match for the disciplined, well-trained British. A tense silence fell, each man keenly aware of the hangman’s rope that awaited should they be captured.
“There’s no sense in that,” a voice called. “What booty will we get from a navy ship?”
“We’ll show them who owns these waters,” Teach declared. Cook exchanged a puzzled frown with Morton. Attacking poorly defended merchantmen was one thing; taking on the might of the British Navy was something akin to madness.
“Captain, they’re on the move,” the quartermaster shouted, and the decision was suddenly taken out of their hands.
The British frigates were moving rapidly, sails fully unfurled and gusting in the wind. The Revenge was only five miles off their port side, but the unfortunate Montserrat Merchant was caught out alone in front. Before Teach could move to forestall them, the two Royal Navy vessels pulled up alongside the small sloop. The newly minted pirates screamed at the English sailors, their frantic French just so muc
h gibberish to men disinclined to give quarter. As Teach’s crew looked on in horror, the Seaforth and Scarborough opened fire, sending a broadside straight into the hull of the ill-equipped sloop.
When the acrid smoke cleared, Cook looked at what was left of the ship and swore under his breath. Cannon fire had cleaved the Montserrat Merchant clean in two, and both halves were rapidly sinking into the Caribbean. Bodies bobbed in the water, some alive and screaming for help, most blown apart and slowly turning the waters blood-red. The poor souls still on board were clinging to the wreckage, but it was obvious that they would soon join their fellows as the English cannons jerked and exploded once again.
When the Montserrat had been reduced to so much matchwood, the Royal Navy ships turned slowly, their cannons suddenly trained on the Revenge.
“Sweet Jesus, Seb,” Cook breathed, watching hopelessly as the smaller ship floundered in the water.
“All hands to tack ship,” Teach roared. “We’re going.”
Cook spun around. “You can’t just leave them.”
“They’re done for,” Teach screamed. “We have to save our own skins!”
“At least give them some covering fire,” Cook shouted. Teach waved him off, too busy bellowing orders in a frenzied attempt to escape the well-orchestrated British attack.
Cook turned back, dread coursing through him when he saw that the navy vessels were priming their guns, their decks bristling with armed sailors. He looked around frantically, his heart leaping when he caught sight of Morton striding toward him.
“Morton, for the love of God, do something,” he begged.
Morton looked out across the waves, cursing loudly when he saw the perilous situation Seb’s ship was in.
“Help him,” Cook pleaded, not caring how much his desperation showed.
Morton nodded sharply, and a moment later he was setting a lit torch to a fuse, and the deck underneath Cook’s feet shuddered as an explosion rocked the largest of the cannons.
The cannonball smashed against the hull of the Seaforth, but not before she had let loose her own guns, hitting Revenge’s starboard side. Cook’s heart thundered in his chest until the fog of burnt gunpowder cleared and he saw that Revenge was still intact, although her back end was badly damaged.
“Come on, move,” Morton urged, tension clear in his voice.
The Revenge seemed to stall for one dreadful moment, and then her topsail flashed out and filled, and she lurched forward. Morton barked out an order, and a second volley exploded against the side of the Seaforth, slowing her just enough to give Revenge the time she needed to harness the wind. The next tense hours saw them tacking full sail to avoid the pursuing vessels, until they finally left the slower frigates wallowing in their wake and slipped into the shallow waters off the island of Nevis, where the deep-draught Royal Navy vessels couldn’t follow.
Cook stood rooted to the spot as they sailed into harbor, his eyes fixed on the Revenge as she slowly limped in behind. He waited, frozen with fear, until he finally spotted Seb standing aft; only then was he able to breathe, the crushing weight of dread suddenly lifting off his shoulders, making his heart light.
“That was a close call,” Morton said, sliding up behind Cook.
“Too damned close,” Cook said bitterly. His eyes turned to Edward Teach, who was watching the approach of the ship he had so callously abandoned without so much as a flicker of emotion on his face.
THE door had scarcely closed behind him before Cook was pulling Seb into his arms and burying his face against his friend’s neck. He clutched tightly as he breathed deeply of Seb’s spicy scent, trying to get his chaotic emotions under control. They had been circumspect enough when Seb had disembarked from the Revenge, merely nodding to acknowledge each other, although Cook was sure that Seb easily read the profound relief burning in his eyes.
Morton had been more demonstrative, sweeping Seb into a great welcoming hug. Then he had discreetly pointed them in the direction of a backstreet boardinghouse, winking as Cook stammered out his thanks.
Cook pulled in a final shaky breath, then relaxed his hold and eased back slightly.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.
“I’m fine, querido,” Seb murmured, cupping his face between warm hands, his thumbs tracing a line over Cook’s cheekbones.
“No thanks to Teach,” Cook retorted. “If it wasn’t for Morton….” He trailed off, shaking his head, unable to voice what might have been.
Seb leaned in and captured his mouth, and they kissed long and deep. Cook was already hard, and he could feel Seb’s stiff prick rubbing against him. He moaned against Seb’s lips, and they scrabbled at each other’s clothing, breaking the kiss long enough to pull off shirts and breeches, then pressing back against each other and glorying in the feel of warm, naked skin.
Cook pulled back, smiling at Seb’s frustrated groan. He skimmed his hands down the soft curve of Seb’s belly, and Seb threw his head back with a loud sigh. Without warning, Cook dropped to his knees and slid his mouth over Seb’s pulsing cock, the heavy weight and bitter taste welcome on his tongue. Seb’s hands came up to cradle his head, and Cook let him set the pace, relaxing his throat to take in all he could.
When Seb’s hips stuttered forward, Cook felt his own dick thicken and throb. He closed his fist tightly around it, and while Seb slid in over and again, he picked up the same rhythm with his pumping hand. Seb suddenly stiffened and moaned out loud; then he pulled out of Cook’s mouth and fell to his knees in front of him, and they both reached to finish each other off, their mouths once more locked together.
Afterward, they crawled into the narrow bed and settled in close, Seb nuzzling a kiss against his neck as Cook stroked a hand through his friend’s unruly curls. He fought against the sleep that wanted to claim him and cleared his throat. “Seb?”
“Hmmm?” Sebastiano sounded drowsy.
“Did it bother you, all those times I fucked other people?” he asked softly.
Seb stiffened against him and raised his head. “It was sometimes… difficult,” he replied, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“You never said anything.”
Seb shrugged. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t painful,” he murmured, looking away.
Cook nodded. All those times he’d strayed, he’d convinced himself it wouldn’t hurt Seb because it meant nothing, until he’d seen it for himself and realized that it always meant something, and it always hurt.
Seb’s eyes suddenly clouded over. “Teo, you should know something—”
Cook laid a finger over Seb’s lips, halting the unnecessary confession. “It doesn’t matter,” he said firmly. “What’s in the past should stay there.” Seb had always treated their relationship with the greatest care, his only slip being a single drunken night with the very persuasive Philip Morton, something Cook was in no position to condemn.
“I’ve been a damned fool,” he said ruefully. “I don’t know why you put up with me.”
Seb turned his head and smiled sweetly. “Porque te amo, Teo,” he said simply.
THEY found Morton sitting by himself in one of the greasy quayside taverns when they eventually stumbled out of their tiny room and into the starry night. He raised a questioning eyebrow, then smirked as Cook sat down gingerly on the hard wooden bench.
“I see you two got reacquainted,” he said dryly.
Cook grimaced, squirming as he tried to get more comfortable. After Seb’s declaration of love, they had fucked again, Cook offering himself to Seb’s careful, though eager, attentions. He didn’t regret a second of it, but he couldn’t deny the throbbing ache that vied with his deep contentment.
Morton grinned while flagons of ale were deposited at their table, but he quickly sobered. “What do you intend to do now?” he asked quietly.
Cook shook his head. “I don’t trust him anymore,” he said, his eyes flickering to where Teach sat. “He’s supposed to lead his men, not abandon them at the first sign of danger.�
� He shuddered when he remembered the Montserrat Merchant’s crew, screaming out their last breaths begging for deliverance that did not come. The thought that he might lose Seb to the Royal Navy’s cannons, or to the gallows, or to any number of dangers that daily dogged them, was more than he could stomach.
“Have you heard of King George’s Proclamation?” Morton asked.
“Aye,” Cook replied, shaking himself. “The King has promised pardon to all pirates who surrender before September next year. What of it?”
Morton looked around hastily, then dropped his voice. “The King is sending a governor to New Providence to accept surrender.
“And?” Cook prompted, frowning.
Morton’s mouth quirked into a small smile. “A man could make a fine life for himself in Nassau,” he said softly, looking at them both. “Without fear of judgment, however he chose to live.” He paused for a moment, then added pointedly, “Or whoever he chose to live with.”
Cook exchanged a look with Seb, watching hope flare in his lover’s eyes.
“Is that what you plan to do?” Seb asked.
Morton grinned. “If I could persuade either of you to accompany me, I’d be off like a shot.”
Seb’s cheeks flushed bright red, and he looked away quickly. Cook couldn’t help laughing; Morton was incorrigible, but at least he was honest with it.
Morton’s grin faded, and he looked uncharacteristically serious. “Things are changing, shipmates,” he said quietly. “The Europeans won’t just stand by and watch their investments go up in flame, and the colonies are becoming more powerful all the time. What we witnessed out there, that’s just the beginning. I think our days are numbered, my beautiful amigos.”
“You’d be wise to take your own advice,” Cook suggested.
Morton shrugged. “I know no other life,” he said. “Besides, nobody cares what I do. But you….” He trailed off, then shook his head. “You have enough plunder to live decently, and you have each other. It would be a shame to let this chance slip through your fingers.”
Cross Bones Page 38