The Orphan Pearl

by Erin Satie

  She drowsed, stroking her silk coverlet to feel the soft, slick texture against her skin. The dawn burned out, the sky turned blue, and she sat up in a puddle of sheets. She stretched luxuriantly, feeling relaxed and at ease for the first time in… years.

  Dread crept in when she looked over at the door, so she climbed out of bed, plucked one of the novels from the shelf, something light and witty, and curled back into the sheets with it. The cabin boy brought her breakfast and she ate at the cabin’s sturdy table, without bothering to dress. She sent the crystal pitcher out with her plates, and asked for it to be returned full. Then she returned to bed and continued to read.

  By the time she finished her book, the clock mounted to the wall read seven o’clock. Evening. She folded her arms over her stomach and stared up at the low ceiling, mind pleasantly hollow.

  The captain knocked at her door. He asked her, through the wood, if they should prepare to set sail with the next tide.

  “Not tomorrow,” Lily called out. “Wait another day.”

  She curled up in the crisp cotton sheets, snuggled her head into the pillow, and stroked the silk coverlet until she fell asleep. When tomorrow came, however, she told the captain to postpone their departure again. Sometime during the afternoon, while the cabin was hot and stuffy, she heard Ware’s voice.

  He descended the ladder. Approached her cabin. She knew his footsteps, his weight and pace. He’d come. He stood only a few feet from her. He knew she hadn’t sailed away, as she’d said she would.

  He didn’t knock.

  Neither did she rise to open the door. She wasn’t prepared to face him, or, for that matter, anything beyond the confines of the cabin. His footsteps retreated, hollow as he climbed the ladder, and tears welled in her eyes. She let them fall. The book she’d been reading dropped from her hand, and a few minutes later she was weeping into her pillow.

  She cried herself dry, great fat salty tears that drenched her cheeks and made them sting. She wasn’t sure what had started the deluge, why it passed. But at the end, wrung out and spent, she felt as though she had gotten to the bottom of something.

  She was still sniffling into her pillow when the sounds filtering down to her from the deck changed. Instead of footsteps, she heard low, serious voices. Not the crisp notes of orders given or received, nor the companionable chorus of comrades. Firm, careful voices. Strangers meeting under less than ideal circumstances.

  Lily opened the door to her cabin, so she could hear better. The words remained indistinct, but she recognized two of the speakers: the captain and Vasari Jones.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Calmly—she was surprised at her own calm, until she saw her hands shaking—she opened up the drawer built into the bed and loaded one of the pistols. It was solid, elegant, the steel barrel fitted to a wooden grip. It weighed heavily in her hand as she carried it up the ladder, and she kept her index finger well away from the trigger.

  Jones, flanked by two bigger, burlier men, stood on the schooner’s deck. All three wore plain, dark clothes, not livery, and the brutes—the shorter freckled, the taller mustachioed—appeared to be inching apart, trying to surround the captain.

  The only other member of the crew on deck was the cabin boy who’d been bringing her meals. He was strong and wiry, but couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and he stood at his captain’s back clutching a mop in what he must hope seemed a threatening manner.

  All five men greeted her with openmouthed astonishment. She didn’t have to ask why. She’d come up in her nightrail, hair trailing down to her waist, her feet bare. She must look like a specter, or a madwoman.

  “Why have you allowed these men on board?” she asked the captain.

  “My lady, I did not,” he replied, an edge of affront to his tone.

  “No? Well, Jones, it appears you’ve forgotten your manners. Do you have news? It had best be something very dire, to bring you here at such an inhospitable hour.”

  Jones cleared his throat. “I’ve come to take you home, my lady.”

  “Just that?”

  “Immediately,” he added. “Without delay.”

  “But I decline,” Lily said. “So. A disappointing reply, but there you have it.”

  “His Grace insists.” Jones tipped his head at the captain. “Spare this man a black eye and come quietly.”

  Lily shook the folds of her nightgown away from her arm, to reveal the pistol. Jones’s eyes dipped, and she cocked the hammer. The metallic click made him jump.

  “I will dissolve al-Yatima in a bucket of vinegar before I let my father have it,” she said evenly, curling her finger around the cool metal of the trigger for the first time. “And I will put a bullet through your brain before I let you take me.”

  The captain stared hard at the gun, and then his gaze shifted up. Their eyes met; she saw him measuring her nerve, and didn’t want to guess what he’d read in her expression.

  Then, with shocking suddenness, the captain shoved the cabin boy back, shouting, “Go!” even as he threw himself at the nearest of Jones’s two goons, the tall one with the mustache. Both men fell, while the boy circled round them to reach the rails. He scrambled over the side of the ship and down to the quay nimbly as a monkey, swallowed by the night as he dashed over the cobblestones.

  The captain had the advantage, having landed on top of the man he’d wrestled to the ground, and appeared to be controlling him easily. That still left Lily outnumbered. Two full grown men against one woman. One bullet would not even those odds.

  “Come closer.” She squeezed the grip of her pistol tighter and spread her feet, bracing herself. The ship rolled beneath her, but after days on board, she moved with it. “Test my aim.”

  The freckled tough lunged at her.

  And Lily, who’d learned from the cradle never to make a threat she wouldn’t follow through on, raised her pistol, sighted through the bead, and aimed for the man’s eye.

  Jones dived at his freckled companion as she squeezed the trigger. The barrel spouted a plume of fire, and then a trail of thick, acrid smoke began to leak from it. Both men tumbled to the deck, landing hard, while Lily’s bullet flew past them, sparking against the quay and sending up a spray of shattered granite.

  Jones swore, wincing as he heaved himself upright. But the freckled man cringed where he lay on the deck. He was terrified; she thought she smelled urine.

  “Don’t just lie there,” snapped Jones, kicking his companion. “Get up.”

  Lily backed up a step. The pistol held one bullet. She’d used it. The captain could hold one man; that man was securely pinned.

  “Don’t make this more difficult than it already is. You know that your father can compel you—”

  “By what right? I’m a widow.”

  “Can you prove it? Is your union recorded in a register somewhere? Would your marriage be legal here—you were raised Anglican, were you not? Presumably you were not married in an Anglican ceremony—or could it be set aside?” Jones advanced slowly. “All the proof in the world would not get in the way of His Grace, when he is determined. You have none.”

  “I have a death certificate,” Lily protested. “That ought to be enough.”

  “Shall I explain how he could overcome that obstacle, as well? Or will you accept the inevitable?” Jones eased closer. “I don’t need to tell him that you threatened me. I can give him any story you like.”

  “You will have to drag me away.” Lily tossed her hair and clutched her spent pistol. She could still bludgeon with him with it. “I can bite and scratch with the best of them. You’ll have scars to remember me by before the night is through.”

  And then the cabin boy’s piping voice sounded from the quay. He’d returned, and… not alone. Behind him four sailors, members of the crew, fanned out around the gangplank.

  “Go quietly and we’ll let you pass,” said the captain, still crouched over the mustachioed man.

  “You’ve made a mistake,” said Jones, kicking the freck
led man again. “Only a fool defies the Duke of Hastings.”

  “And what sort of man tries to kidnap a woman in the dark of night?” countered the captain, but he released the mustachioed man and let him trail down the gangplank. Jones herded the freckled man along, taking up the rear.

  Lily leapt onto the rail to watch them go. Down the quay, around the corner. The shorter, freckled man couldn’t walk straight.

  She had almost killed him.

  She had almost killed a man.

  A constable came running, and one of the marine police. The captain sent each away in turn. He explained that she was hysterical and had shot at a shadow, and promised to keep her under control. Lily didn’t gainsay him. She could almost see herself as he spoke the words, and the image in her mind’s eye was as mad as he painted her. The officers faded into the night, and the captain approached her with a blanket held open before him, a screen to her shocking undress.

  She ignored it. “Where was the crew?”

  “On shore, m’lady. While we hold to the docks…”

  And why shouldn’t they enjoy their leave? Did she expect them to wait at their posts, counting the minutes until she stopped crying?

  He held up the blanket. “You must be cold.”

  “I’m not cold.” She waved him away and stared out into the darkness, lit by a dirty half-moon. A strong wind carried the smell of pepper and cinnamon to her nose, whipped her hair into snapping tendrils, plastered her thin nightrail to her body. The wooden rails were smooth against the soles of her feet.

  At any other moment, she would have raged. The anger was there, roiling up inside of her. Selfish, blinding anger. It shamed her.

  Her father had tried to bend her to his will, yes. But she’d been ready to shed blood. To mark a divide in her life, a canyon so deep it would, forever more, define before and after for her. For what? How many times had she promised herself that no one else would die for the pearl? And still, she’d pulled the trigger.

  It was the final step in what she could now recognize as a series of ever more abject failures. She had failed her father, her brother, her oldest friend, her dead husband. She had failed herself, profoundly and utterly.

  Ware emerged from between the warehouses, sprinted for the ship, and took the gangplank in two quick strides. He wore rumpled, dusty clothes, a limp cravat. His hair bristled in every direction. When he saw her, he slipped his coat loose from his broad shoulders and held it in front of him like a shield.

  Lily brandished her spent pistol. “Stay back.”

  Unlike the captain, he didn’t retreat. He tossed the coat over his arm and jumped onto the rail, facing her. On her level, a few feet away, hands empty. Not threatening her, not asking anything.

  “You’re safe,” he said. “There’s nothing to be frightened of.”

  She shuddered.

  “Look at me, Lily.” He advanced a step. “You’re safe. They’re gone.”

  “They’ll be back.”

  He held her gaze, calm and steady, and took another step closer. “But not tonight.”

  “But what if—”

  “Not tonight,” he repeated, and closed the distance between them.

  She started, but he wrapped his fingers tight about her wrist, holding the pistol still and pointed safely at the water, and with the other he gripped the back of her neck. She had time to gasp before he slanted his mouth over hers.

  §

  She responded like a keg of gunpowder primed to blow. Balanced precariously on the rail, she pressed the whole length of her body against Ware’s. So tightly the metal buttons of his waistcoat sent up little flares of pain where they ground into her ribs, and the thick bar of his cock dug into her belly through the fine cotton of her nightgown.

  He kneaded the pistol loose from her grip. The hammer released with a soft snick and the pistol dropped with a clatter to the deck. She used her freed hand to clutch him closer. When he stroked his thumb along her jaw, she opened her mouth obediently and met the slick heat of his tongue with her own.

  She itched to strip him of his clothes and tear away her nightgown. But he kept the kiss deep and thorough and slow. It gentled her. When he sank his fingers into the soft flesh of her rump, she sighed.

  “Wrap your legs around me,” he murmured into her ear.

  She hooked one leg around his hip and he tightened his grip, lifting her. It was effortless. His arm didn’t tremble. He didn’t wobble on his narrow perch. She snaked an arm around his neck and let him take her weight. His hips were lean, bony, his rear a fist of taut muscle.

  She squeezed her thighs, levering herself high enough that she had to dip her head to brush her lips across the velvety outer whorl of his ear. She nipped, but her only reward was a slight intake of breath.

  “Hold on,” he said, low. “I’ve got you.”

  He jumped to the deck, landing with a smooth bounce. She looked past him, momentarily self-conscious, but he threaded his fingers through her hair and tugged. She whimpered. Her eyes slid shut as he kissed her again.

  “Look at me,” he coaxed. “Don’t worry about anyone else.”

  And then they were moving again, the world whirling around her as he spun, dropping nimbly down the ladder and carrying her to the cabin. He crossed the threshold and slammed the door shut.

  “Lily.” He set her down, hands on her hips, fingers splayed wide. “Are you with me?”

  She swayed forward, onto her tiptoes, and reached for the fall of his trousers.

  “Wait—”

  The flap dropped, and she curled her hand around his cock. She made a fist, the nail of her middle finger just digging into her palm, and squeezed. His penis flushed a deep, dark red. “For what?”

  “Christ,” he muttered, rocking into her grip.

  She tried to push him toward the bed, but she hadn’t even gone a step before he spun her around and shoved her against the bulkhead. Her back pressed against the hard wood and she cried out, startled.

  “Shh.” He smoothed the hair away from her face, his light touch trailing along her scalp. “You’re fine. Everything’s fine.”

  She darted forward and closed her teeth around his lower lip, biting it, even as she fastened her hips tight against his and undulated against him. He groaned and bucked, curving around her—chin tipped down to free his lip, his forehead meeting hers at a single point.

  “Lily,” he rasped, wedging one hand between their bodies and pushing her away.

  “Yes,” she whispered, tongue darting out to taste the salt on his neck. “Yes.”

  He rucked up the skirt of her nightgown, baring her thigh. She lifted her heel and turned out her knee, opening herself. Inviting him to explore.

  He couldn’t resist. His hand inched along the groove where her hipbone softened into belly until he cupped her sex, firm and possessive. She looked up at him through her lashes, mouth open on a pant, breasts outthrust.

  His full lips were parted, a little shiny in the lamplight. Coarse black stubble darkened his jaw. And his eyes were soft as she’d never seen them before, the velvety black of a tame, trusting beast.

  One finger parted the folds of her sex in a quick, furtive swipe. “You’re wet.”

  She reached down and guided his cock into position. “I know.”

  “All right.” He raised her up against the bulkhead again, holding her tight as a clamp. “All right,” he repeated, and penetrated her.

  She tried to tilt to his thrust, to rush the sweet slide of his flesh into hers. She couldn’t move, not even an inch. She tossed her head and tried to twist loose of his grip, to no effect.

  But he was immovable as granite. He inched into her. It could not be called a thrust, it was so slow. And yet it wasn’t tender, either. He was big enough to stretch her, to leave sharp, pinching pain in his wake. At the last, she held her breath, half-stunned, her vision blurring.

  And then he did it again. She didn’t understand. This wasn’t sex. It wasn’t quite pleasure, either. It was
more like being invaded. She was utterly, uncomfortably conscious of something foreign inside of her, moving independently, without her participation.

  “I don’t—”

  He froze. “Do you want me to stop?”

  The message was clear. She had two options: to let him do as he pleased, or end the encounter. He sounded so calm that she didn’t doubt he would withdraw, while she was desperate for more.

  She closed her eyes. “No.”

  “Good.” He rolled his hips, a small motion, but pleasure bolted up her spine.

  Her hands flitted restlessly up and down his arms. He was still mostly dressed; waistcoat, cravat, shirt. Beneath his clothes, his muscles were locked tight, hard and unyielding.

  He rolled his hips again, and she felt a breathless catch of pleasure. She tried to repeat it, to grind herself against him, but she couldn’t move. With a small snarl, she began to thrash. To shove, even, heaving against his shoulders. It did no good at all. He held her immobile, moved in maddening little pulses.

  “I’m going to bite you,” she seethed, struggling. “I’m going to slap you. I’m going to—”

  “Do you want me to stop?” he repeated.

  “I hate you,” she raged.

  He silenced her with an openmouthed kiss. She seized his head with both hands, sucking his lips, thrusting her tongue between his teeth, lashing it against his. The relief was so tremendous she almost cried.

  He pulsed again, and a little, high-pitched noise escaped her mouth. Breathy surprise. Helpless pleasure.

  “Oh God,” she whispered. She was going to come. “Oh, God.”

  “That’s right,” he murmured, relaxing his hold a little and kissing her back. “Almost.”

  Nothing she’d ever felt before came close. She melted. Her whole body vibrated like water at a high simmer. She went liquid and the only solid thing in the world was the great thick cock rigid inside of her, hot as a brand.

  “Lily,” he said, his lush voice pulling her like a lodestone.

  She met his solemn dark eyes. She felt insubstantial between the wall at her back, the solid muscle at her font, hardly a body at all.