Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Watson’s lip curled inward. “Yes, sir.”

  Commodore Crowe returned to his letter writing. “You are dismissed.”

  Watson shot up from his seat. He stood rigid, his fingers balled into fists, staring down at his commander. Turning on his heel, his boots clicked on the wooden floor and the door shut behind him.

  “I do hope you will have time to assemble and intercept the Spanish,” Joelle said.

  “If they left when this letter suggests, I will not have time to launch a fleet. I will, however, have enough naval ships to intervene.”

  She bowed her head. “Wonderful. And my payment?”

  “Ah, yes.” The commodore waved his hand for his valet in the corner to come forward. “Give Miss Quint the parcel Lord English left for his courier.”

  The valet crossed the room to a yellow painted bureau along the adjacent wall. He returned with a sizable pouch of gold coins. The lads would be celebrating royally tonight.

  “I trust I can count on you for future, shall we say, endeavors, Miss Quint?”

  “Captain Quint,” she corrected. “My men and I are always open to opportunity. If the commission is agreeable and our terms met, Commodore, you can bet King George’s crown, we’ll prevail.”

  * * *

  Leaving the steps of Pigeon House, Joelle strolled through the avenues back to the wharf, back to her waiting crew. The glorious sun warmed her cheeks, adding to her good mood. The commission was over, and her men well compensated once again. Leviathan was dead, and with him, her guilt. To top that, she had a loose alliance with Commodore Crowe, meaning Watson would be leaving her alone for a while. She also had a renewed vigor. She had Sloan, her hope for solving the mystery of her father’s map.

  Joelle paused by the platform in the square where she first laid eyes on Sloan. Sloan the slave. His body, his muscles covered in a glistening sheen, his defiance darkening his clear blue eyes, the angry set of his mouth. The same mouth he used to drive her into blind desperate passion—or was it need—for him. The things he did to her body, her sensibilities, made her question just who enslaved whom, she or Sloan. She had thought of little else but having him violate her breeches and dominate her again, for the last three evenings.

  The night Rissa sailed from Tobago, she’d regaled Sloan, Valeryn, Sam, Willie and Henri with her experience on Mariposa. They’d laughed, celebrated and drank long past the middle watch bell. Joelle had watched curiously as Sloan’s mood had swung from smiles to melancholy to brief flashes of irritation and back again to good humor. He and Valeryn had an unspoken, strained communication passing between them, as well. Apparently, the entire ordeal had not dissolved their dislike for one another as she had hoped. Besides, she had been exhausted. She didn’t want to deduce what they were up to. She’d needed rest and she had slept alone. Despite her wish for company, she’d kept to her cabin to give her body time to regain strength.

  ’Twas difficult, to be sure. Both Sloan and Valeryn had come to her often enough. But she needed to think. To sort her scattered emotions. She couldn’t do either with them close, jumbling up any progress she made with her lining up coherent, sensible thoughts. So she’d sent them on their way, much to their temperamental chagrin, with kisses to their cheeks and promises to spend more time with each of them.

  This morning, while soaking in the tub, she’d made a decision of sorts. These men, Sloan and Valeryn, she cared for deeply.

  They deserved more from her.

  They deserved less from her.

  She had to stop thinking like a girl, and start thinking like a captain. Though business was concluded here on Tortola, there was another leg to the journey. She had a map to decipher. Once Sloan helped her end her mystery, perhaps then she could entertain the idea of what to do about her heart. For now, ’twas best she stuck with her course.

  Both Sloan and Valeryn had insisted on walking her to The Paladin and then again to Pigeon House where Commodore Crowe lived and worked. Their overprotective and competitive behaviors were amusing—for about a minute. Then they were downright annoying. She’d insisted they leave her with the commodore and either return to the ship or take their leisure at a tavern. They were not to wait for her. Now she wondered where they were. Did either of them do as she instructed? Did they take their leisure? Was it with drink or doxy? She really didn’t want to know.

  A gray wharf cat jumped up on the platform and sauntered to Joelle. She scratched the animal behind its ears. It plopped down and rolled on its back, purring.

  “Aren’t you a loving one,” she said.

  Something furry rubbed against the skin of her calf. A black and white cat stuck its head out from under her skirts. Joelle laughed.

  “You, too,” she said to the cat. It disappeared back under the dress and nuzzled her skin more.

  Both cats wanted her affection. Just as Sloan and Valeryn. Such irony.

  She bent to pet the cat before heading off for the Rissa.

  Just as she crossed the square, a light carriage pulled alongside.

  “Miss Quint. Oh, Miss Quint.” A woman with silvery-blonde, tight ringlet curls waved at from her the seat. Elegantly dressed in a rose and white gown trimmed in lace, the woman beamed with a smile and lively bright eyes. “A word, Miss Quint, if you don’t mind.”

  “Um, certainly.” Curious. Who was this lady and how did she know Joelle’s name?

  The woman refused to wait for her driver to help her down. She climbed out of the carriage and extended a delicate hand. “I’m Olivia Crowe.”

  “Commodore Crowe’s wife,” Joelle noted in acknowledgment.

  She positively bubbled. “Yes.” She popped open a hand-held fan of ivory silk and rapidly fanned herself. “Dreadful heat. Just dreadful.”

  Joelle smiled. She quite enjoyed the heat. Even as she wore a gown, she had forgone the layers upon layers of undergarments to avoid becoming hot and sweaty.

  What would Sloan think of that?

  “My husband has spoken of you, Miss Quint, and of your ship. I am not ashamed to admit I’ve been intrigued by the stories of you. My, you are as lovely as they say.”

  A bit taken aback, Joelle politely shrugged. “Thank you.”

  “Indeed, with your beauty, I imagine whole legions would follow you, by virtue and by sin, alike.” Her hand fluttered to her chest. “Oh my. I’m terribly sorry. ’twas quite bold of me to say such.”

  “’Tis all right, Mrs. Crowe. I might be inclined to agree had I not found the stench of a horde of men offensive.”

  Mrs. Crowe threw her head back in laughter. “Delightful! You are just delightful. I’m having a party at my home this evening,” she said. “I host one as often as I can. There are not many social gatherings on the island.” Her fan moved as fast as her mouth. “Please don’t misunderstand, Tortola is a paradise, truly. Aside from Sunday service, there isn’t much else to do but gather for tea. Oh my, there I go again. Prattling on.” She smiled and shook her head as if it were a matter she simply could not control. “Please, Miss Quint. Do me the honor of attending tonight. The ladies would love to meet you.”

  “Well, I...”

  “Oh, you must! I won’t take no for an answer. There will be a few merchantmen in attendance. Wealthy ones who I have overheard hounding my husband for more protection from bandits. Perhaps you might secure a commission?”

  The woman may be all atwitter, but she knew exactly what to say to be persuasive. “Perhaps,” Joelle agreed.

  “Wonderful! And please, bring those two handsome men with you, Mr. Ricker and Mr. Barone. Such gentlemen.”

  A blush stole across Mrs. Crowe’s high cheeks. “What a lucky woman you are.” She climbed back into her carriage. “Until this evening, Miss Quint.”

  What just happened? Joelle had been thoroughly manipulated by the woman into going to her party without Joelle so much as getting a word in edgewise. She chuckled. ’twas a move Joelle would’ve done.

  She liked Mrs. Crowe.

  * * *r />
  Ricker was not at all comfortable with walking up the steps to Pigeon House. Not because he was summoned to the party with Valeryn. Not that he was wearing a new suit of clothes seemingly custom made for him that Joelle had sent to him, though that in itself agitated him greatly. But mingling with officers of the Royal Navy didn’t settle well. Seemed Joelle thrived on tempting fate and needless risk.

  He’d heard from Henri that the Rissa captains and the first mates were often invited to balls. He admitted not too many—all right, none—of these invitations were from the wife of a commodore. However, with their clandestine relations with powerful men throughout the Caribbean and the protection by some letter of marque here or circumstance there, they were often safe from any harm or arrest. This didn’t stop Ricker from worrying that Joelle might fall into a trap.

  Then there was his rivalry with Valeryn. With Joelle safe from Leviathan, he and Valeryn were going head to head for Joelle’s heart. Lay to it, Ricker would not let Valeryn get an edge by going to the party without him.

  Like hell.

  Ricker would get her alone this evening. He vowed it. She had avoided him long enough.

  Pigeon House was large by island standards, but not large enough to accommodate everyone. Guests moved about the finely furnished receiving area and spilled out onto the lush garden lit by lanterns hanging from the tree limbs. A string quartet played in a corner at the far end of the room. Ricker and Valeryn shook hands with dapper gentlemen and bowed to elegantly dressed ladies. They were introduced by Commodore Crowe as privateers—a subtle acceptance to this respect but not too far from acknowledging the truth—and had lively, but amicable, debates over commerce and Spanish and French encroachments in the West Indies. ’twould all be very amusing had Ricker not had his mind on Joelle.

  He spotted her when they first arrived, standing among three men. She wore a stunning green gown with a pale cream lace pattern and a cream stomacher pushing out her breasts in a manner that quickened Ricker’s heartbeat. Only a hint of her bandage wrapped around her arm was visible. Green ribbons threaded through her fiery red hair, curled locks tumbled down all around her crown. An incredible gold and ruby necklace graced her swelled bosom and matching earrings dangled from her ears. By God, she was an Irish goddess.

  Her green eyes sparkled, but were clear as she listened intently to her companions. By their serious expressions and sure smiles, they talked of business. Joelle nodded when appropriate and replied with her own confident smiles.

  That woman knew how to do business. Ricker granted that, along with many other of her endearing attributes. ’twas a wonder she had to struggle so hard to be respected and deemed invaluable among men. Yet she had to prove herself time and again.

  Not with Ricker. She’d won more than his respect, she’d won his admiration. And something else he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, identify.

  He scanned the crowded room, peering through the cigar smoke, hoping to catch a glimpse of green. He’d lost Joelle twenty minutes ago. He and Valeryn were trapped in a conversation with a paunchy plantation owner with a strong opinion of the state of slavery—a topic Valeryn was pleasantly occupied with. Ricker did his best to keep his tongue. No good would come from speaking his mind here.

  A bubble of laughter wafted in from the gardens. He recognized that melodic voice. Ricker peered around the by-blow and caught sight of Joelle surrounded by twittering women wholly fascinated by her.

  He prepared to excuse himself.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Harvey,” Valeryn said. “A good slave can be invaluable. So long as the bloke knows his place, knows not to meddle where he shouldn’t.” He tilted his chin toward Ricker. “Especially around women. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Ricker?”

  “Not where liberties are taken, no, Mr. Barone,” Ricker agreed. “But then ’tis not for any man to decide another’s freedoms. His path and those who lie within it are his to choose.” His smile was tight, and his point was sharp. “Now if you’ll pardon me, gentlemen, I wish to thank the lady of the house for the invitation.”

  Ricker sidled up to Joelle and the group of ladies congregating beside the trellis laced with vines and fragrant white crawling roses.

  “Mrs. Crowe.” Ricker bowed and took her proffered hand, placing a kiss on top. “I offer my gratitude for inviting me to your lovely home this evening. Might I add, you look stunning. A shining star—” he paused, sweeping his gaze over the circle of women, “—among many.”

  “Why, Mr. Ricker.” Mrs. Crowe placed a hand to her bosom. “You do know how to flatter a woman.”

  Flushed cheeks, nervous giggles and coy smiles—his intended effect. Joelle merely raised an amused eyebrow.

  “I only speak the truth, Madam, as God would see it no other way.”

  Mrs. Crowe beamed, flipping open her fan to cool her now reddened cheeks. “Please, sir,” she said. “Tell tale of your adventures at sea as a—” her voice dropped just above a whisper, “—a pirate.”

  “Yes, yes. Please do,” one young lady chirped. Others nodded, eyes wild with curiosity.

  “Ah, such tales are best left to the profoundly more experienced. I, myself, have only recently joined Captain Quint’s crew.” Ricker clapped Valeryn’s shoulder as he joined the group. “Mr. Barone, here, well, he has stories to make your knees knock from both fear and the thrill of adventure. Don’t ya, mate?”

  “Oh yes, Mr. Barone.” Mrs. Crowe clapped her hands together. “Please do. Tell us a story.”

  Before Valeryn could beg out, Ricker continued. “Please excuse Captain Quint and myself. I’ve a matter I need to urgently discuss.”

  “Of course, Mr. Ricker.” Mrs. Crowe nodded.

  “What a lovely young man,” he heard her say to her friends as he led Joelle away.

  Valeryn shot him an icy glower as the women enclosed around him. Poor bastard had no chance. Ricker suppressed a laugh. Joelle did not.

  “He’ll get you back for that,” she snickered.

  “’Tis worth the look on his face and the chance to finally be alone with you.”

  “Your urgent matter?”

  He flashed her a grin. “Among other things.”

  “Yes, about that...”

  With an impregnated silence hanging between them, they strolled through the garden to the side of the house. A fountain burbled in the middle of a small courtyard. Green fronds, large palms and bushes dotted with yellow, orange and red flowers surrounded the yard. A tall birdcage stood in one corner containing a handful of doves. The soft flutter of wings mingled with the soothing sounds of the quartet’s music inside, the cadence of conversation and the gurgle of the fountain’s water.

  Though just feet away from other guests around the corner, they were alone.

  Ricker’s fingers twitched with agitation. He wanted nothing more than to lift her skirts right there in the garden, bend her over a bench, and drive his cock into her. To feel her clench around him. To hear his name on her lips in the throes of passion. He inwardly groaned and pushed aside the image. For now.

  “You are an incredibly obstinate woman, Joelle,” he heaved.

  She nodded. “This I have been told more often than I care to admit.”

  “You’ve avoided me long enough. What is going on?”

  Joelle expelled a heavy sigh and sat on the edge of the fountain. “I’ve been scared many times in my life,” she said. “I suppose I am missing something within me. Some ability to know when I’m fearful to seek safety. Instead, I face fear with weapons drawn, for I have nothing to risk, nothing to lose.”

  “You speak as if that is a weakness,” he said. “I see it as a will to survive.”

  “Nay, ’tis reckless.”

  He agreed whole-heartedly. But that wasn’t something she needed to hear. “Perhaps, at times. However courage such as yours is a gift, a virtue too few can claim.”

  “You blandish me where you shouldn’t.” She shook her head for him to not argue. “I’ve only been truly frightene
d twice. Frightened in a way that I cannot describe, other than there was more than the overwhelming terror.” Her brow furrowed as she seemed to struggle for her words. “A sense of dread, finality, interlacing with hopelessness and loss.”

  Her eyes lost focus, looking down into the fountain, but seeing nothing. “I was just a little girl. My father’s carriage had passed through the orphanage gates. I broke free from Mother Lotte’s hand. I ran. I couldn’t catch him, my legs were simply too small. I called for him, screamed, cried. But he didn’t return. He didn’t even look back.”

  Joelle’s eyes now shimmered, like the fountain’s dancing water in the lantern light. Ricker’s heart ached and he placed his hand on top of hers resting in her lap. He wished he could kiss away her pain.

  “I climbed the tree, my tree, and watched him leave until I could no longer see him. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I’d never see my father again. My heart broke.”

  Ricker’s own heart grew heavy. He hauled her to him, hugging her until she pulled away. She stood, swiped at her tears, and blanked her expression of any sadness.

  “Dance with me,” Ricker said. He took her hand in his and placed his other on her hip.

  “Here? Now?” She glanced around the garden, a smile playing on her lips. “Well, I am fond of this song.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder, the weight so delicate, so feminine. He glided with her along the cobblestones, dancing, twirling around the fountain. Her clean lavender scent blended with the fragrant flowers. Her green, laughing eyes caught the warm glow of firelight like the droplets of rain on verdant leaves after a sunny morning shower.

  He could stand it not a moment more. Ricker tugged her to his chest and kissed her. Not a chaste kiss. Not even a heated kiss. Nay, he kissed her hard, ravishing her mouth as if gasping for his final breaths. She, too, must have been dying. Her tongue intertwined with his, her hands gripping at the back of his neck.

  Desperate, Ricker tasted, suckled, explored. He hadn’t realized he was forcing her backward. Not until they shuffled off the cobblestones, stumbled into the bushes, and her back smacked against the window.