“If this…” she traced a gash at his thigh, “…was the result of a ship’s gun, did the entire gun crew pay?”
He lied. “I don’t know.”
Her brow creased. “In general, isn’t that how it works? You threw my pistol away before it blew itself to pieces. If a ship’s gun causes you harm, it will malfunction—it’s only logical.”
“Curses like mine aren’t logical.”
She thought a moment. “Oh, I think it is. It has to be. A guarantee of luck has to be deeply logical, or it’s nothing more than normal luck, which fails on occasion.” Her hand rose to touch the crescent line at his cheek. “And this? The man who did this must have seen his death coming.”
“No man died for that.”
“A woman?”
“No woman died. No one died. Enough.” He hauled her onto his lap. “You talk too much.”
“No, you talk too little. About something that must be the bitterest part of your life. The one thing people can trust with Captain Silvestri is that bad luck will follow the good…for everyone and everything thing but you. Except, that is the worst bit of fortune there is. What a joke.” Her voice petered off and her breathing deepened. He realized she slept.
What a long day. He stroked her head with slowness, barely stirring the cap of her silver-streaked hair. Thank God the necessity of a reply was gone. He wasn’t certain he could have hidden the sorrow her observation brought to the surface. Carefully, he lowered her to the blanket, draped the loose bit of the fabric over her bare body and quietly left her.
He walked on the beach for more than an hour.
***
She woke with the rising sun pouring onto her face. Lifting her head, she acknowledged he’d done it again. Disappeared before she woke.
“What the hell, he turns into a turnip when the sun rises?” she groused, pulling herself upright and letting the blanket drop.
The sound of morning songbirds, shrill and strident, filled the air. She was thankful there were no monkeys. Fun to watch, but she’d found them a real nuisance up close. Born thieves.
Well there were no monkeys, only an aged pirate who stole other things. She shook her head, distracting herself with a search for her clothing.
“Bastard could have left me something to eat.” She pulled her breeches up and tied them, slipped into her sandals and lifted her shirt. Out fell two green apples. She laughed and bent to pick them up. “Where in the hell did the intrepid Captain Silvestri find green apples?”
She inhaled deeply, relishing their scent. She’d told Alan the night before that her perfume was fast disappearing and soon she’d have none. But if he found a source of green apples, she wondered if a perfumer might distill the scent.
“Not one of those hobbies that caught on with me,” she reminisced, taking a crispy bite. She sat bare-breasted and finished one apple completely. Glancing around the area, she bent and buried half the apple core. She’d bury the second half somewhere else.
Once totally dressed, she thought about what to do about the blanket. She couldn’t leave it. The environmentalist in her wouldn’t allow that. But she hadn’t left the Quill with a blanket.
She unpacked her basket and carefully fit the blanket in, as a liner. She maneuvered the original items back in and found a small bag tied to the handle, hanging outside the basket itself. She freed it, opened it, and poured out the contents.
“Oh, shit!” A pool of gold, silver and pearls filled her palm. Gingerly she lifted the strand. A soft gold chain, bits of silver detail work and a handful of cream-colored pearls came into view. “My God. He said he’d taken a galleon. What the hell am I going to do with this?”
Wear it.
Yeah, right. No one would notice if she turned up with a small fortune hanging around her neck.
Found it?
Oh, yes. Some foolish bit of royalty lost it while taking a walk.
She sighed, held it up to her chest and regretted she’d left her Kraken mirror in her cabin. Well, she’d figure out something. She wasn’t going to leave it. She slipped it away and tucked it deep into the basket.
Her last discovery lay under the water bottle. A note.
Dear Emily,
Next time will be in my cabin. Follow the beach as it curves northwest. When you reach a rock bluff, turn inland. Keep the rocks to your right and you’ll come out near the Quill. If you keep a sharp eye out, you will see the purple flowers, growing in the damp areas of the rock face.
Find the silver ring, Pawes. I will find the gold.
Alan Silvestri
She loved how he assumed she knew where north was. She ought to follow the advice of bosun Janey and get a compass of her own. The woman did like to chatter, but she was also a master of protocol and practicality. Since she liked wandering the islands they stopped at, she thought a compass would give her more freedom. The ship was a congenial place to live, but provided little privacy—save for the inside of her cabin, and with Tink’s lock picking abilities, even that wasn’t guaranteed.
She’d secured Alan’s first gift to the inside of her bag, and so far it escaped discovery. Next time she went ashore at a profitable port, she’d come back with it pinned to the outside and said she bought it or traded for it. As they’d conversed the night before, Alan assured her it was nothing Mick would recognize.
The walk back proved pleasant. She did find a fresh clump of the purple flowers, but took only a few. Now that she knew where they liked to grow, she’d leave them for another visit.
Last night was incredible. The entire afternoon shocked and surprised her with delight. Alan could keep going day and night. She raised an eyebrow. Wondered if the little, blue, magic pill crossed into this world.
Or the men here are naturally more vigorous.
It wasn’t unusual for the deckhands to entertain the female officers multiple times a day. She bit her lip. Even her ability to enjoy repeated assaults without feeling raw and sore afterward amazed her. She was stronger after the last few months. Lost weight, slept better—when she wasn’t dreaming about Alan and that damned nipple ring.
She reached up to cup her right breast, then shifted the heavy basket to her right arm. She’d thought about it for years. Tried to talk Tom into it. His concern about infection, about it doing some damage, his total lack of enthusiasm for it, dampened her thoughts. Now, with Alan, the idea wouldn’t leave her alone.
Did she change when she arrived here? Or did this new world magically bring back her old self?
She found no answers before she reached the Quill. Janey came running up, shouting loudly to the rest. She clasped her hand and even took the basket. “I told them you’d figure it out. Davis was ready to send out a search party, but Jezz and Mick believed me. Hurry! The Bountiful drew anchor this morning with an offer to join them in taking another French flute. Don’t you love how that sounds?”
Janey babbled happily about the ship anchored near the Quill and the chance to liberate the shipment of silks and satins their victim carried. Emily listened, saying little. Janey seldom left much room in her conversations for comment. But what she said always proved useful, so Emily didn’t mind.
“After that shipment we lifted last month, they’re being a bit more difficult. Between the Bountiful and the Quill, they won’t put up much of a fight. Neither of us are up to taking a galleon, though. We leave those to the Immortal and their bigger guns. The Spanish are nastier, anyway.”
They climbed into the cutter, and Davis took up the oars. He smiled at her, his eyes drifting down her body. That glance made her shiver. She ought to take him up on a night in her cabin. Emily’s thoughts drifted as they rejoined the Quill. She begged some time to catch up on sleep, promising to be ready when they reached their prey.
God knew, she wasn’t much help in the last raid, but perhaps she’d do better this time. She could look fierce, if nothing else.
Before she lay down, the ship slipped into the wind. She held up the mirror, admiring the neckl
ace—it looked incredible. Carefully, she lifted the precious piece of jewelry off, let it slide into the bag, before tucking the package into her pillowcase. She’d find a better hiding place after her nap.
She slid into sleep, one hand cradling her right breast, aching strangely. Did it ache at thought of being pierced, or at missing his hand? She had no idea.
Chapter Eleven
Three days later, the battle for the French flute began. Emily stayed close to Davis, per Captain Jezebel’s orders. The Bountiful took on the port side; the Quill took on the starboard. The Petit Monsieur put up a good fight, but they were outmanned and outgunned. But after the Quill negotiated their surrender, pulling close enough to lay a plank down between the ships, the tide turned.
Emily searched the captain’s cabin, and once finished, turned to leave. The fabric being loaded on the Quill dazzled her. The richness of the colors literally made her mouth water. The crew babbled with excitement, unable to wait before peeling back the covers on the bolts and spilling the silks, satins and velvets out into the air. The blues, gold, reds, purples, and browns. It stunned Emily. She wondered what they were going to do with this treasure.
The Bountiful took the oil, the molasses, and whatever gold they found, even the weapons from the sailors, the gunpowder and ship’s stores.
Emily gave the cabin one last scan, liking the small compass sitting on the table. With a shrug and an acknowledgement of the total disintegration of her morals, she pocketed it before turning to the door. Captain Jezebel stood outside the cabin, hands at her hips, surveying the action. Suddenly, a man leaped to Jezzie’s side, a pistol in his hand.
Emily froze when he pressed the pistol into the captain’s side and shouted his demands, “Stop or I will spill her guts to the deck! Get off my ship!”
Crap. What to do? She was the only one with a clear shot of the gunman’s back. She paused, slowly extracting a knife from her sheath, and turned it to throw.
She peered beyond Jezzie. As Davis stared at her, his chin bobbed, nothing blatant. She’d never killed a man….
“Not a smart move. You think we come here without our own secret weapon?” Jezzie spoke softly to the man holding her hostage.
Emily waited, her mouth dry at the thought of taking a man in back. But he threatened Jezzie…. He wasn’t real, right? If she were insane, then she wouldn’t be killing anyone.
His back presented a good target as he pulled Jezebel tighter to his side, shouting a reply, “You have nothing that will save you! If you order your crew to leave my ship, I will let you go!”
“March!” Jezzie called out. The rest of the crew stood frozen, hands to weapons. Waiting.
March? Oh, yeah. Michael March is how Mick introduced himself to her. Seemed like years ago.
Emily realized she hadn’t seen Mick after the fight. He’d been everywhere during the battle. He was a deadly shot, with pistol and big gun and his was the shot that took down the Petit’s main mast. But once they’d begun loading the cargo, Mick slid away. Not too surprising—hauling was grunt work. Mick didn’t do menial chores.
From her viewpoint, she couldn’t see Mick arrive, but she heard his voice.
“Dear Jezzie, you must make sure all weapons are confiscated.”
He sounded lazy and uninterested for the most part. Emily held her knife, ready to throw.
“How is he a secret weapon?” the French Captain taunted Jezzie.
Good question.
“You know the one man who survived striking Silvestri?” Jezebel asked.
“That is a fable!” He practically spit in her ear.
“He survived Silvestri’s curse! Struck him and survived! The curse still waits,” Jezzie shouted.
The crew of the Petit murmured among themselves, and then shouted at their captain to let the woman go!
“Shall I come and assist you?” Mick’s voice carried, full of an odd sort of deadly merriment.
“Non!”
“Non!”
Emily heard the shouts of fear and found the anxiety quite confusing. Jezzie’s back stiffened. The man holding the pistol trembled and screamed at the crew to not be so foolish! It was a myth, he said, a trick! His grip on the captain’s arm tightened as he pulled her even closer, the pistol must be bruising Jezebel’s side, buried so hard below her ribcage. Emily tried to decide on a course of action.
“Do it, Pawes!”
The knife flew at the sound of Davis bellowing at her. Emily didn’t even think about it. The sharp blade, purchased a week ago while ashore, sank deep into that broad back. Jezzie twisted free when the man screamed and spun. Emily froze at the sharp retort of a pistol. He’d fired at her!
Lucky for her, his aim was thrown off by Davis tackling him. But she was still hit? She crumpled to the deck, clutching at her side.
Damn! That hurt! She lifted her hand to her eyes and blinked at the bright blood. She came here to die this way?
Davis rushed into the room. “Pawes!”
Emily took a breath. “Am I going to die?”
He peeled the shirt away from her side and examined her wounds. “No. But I bet it stings. The ball struck that chair, and only splinters hit you. You’ll be fine. Why did you wait?”
“I’ve never killed a man before, Davis. You sure I won’t die? Get sepsis from the wood?” Her brain spun with the movies she’d seen, the horror stories of life before antibiotics.
“We’ll get the splinters out, don’t worry.” He lifted her and headed for the Quill.
“Are all men here so strong?” she muttered, more to herself than to him. She lifted her bloody palm and winced at the bright, red wetness. “Oh. I don’t like that.” She fainted.
She woke less than an hour later, placed on her side on a table in the ship’s galley. The ship’s cook painstakingly extracted each splinter. The slow tug of a particularly long extraction greeted her as she came to. Davis stood by, wiping away the blood. Emily winced, reaching consciousness. “Ouch.”
“Sorry, lass. I won’t leave any—I’ve got a poultice ready.” Cookie kept working.
Emily looked out into the galley, her mind spinning. It hurt like hell, but she distracted herself by trying to figure it out. Mick was a secret weapon? Mick struck Alan and survived? How did that make him a secret weapon? Her head spun again, and bile rose in her throat.
“Cookie? I don’t want to mess up your table.”
Davis instantly switched sides of the table and held out a pan, making sure she didn’t splatter vomit about the galley. He mopped at her face. Finally, she finished.
Cookie patted her hip. “One more and I should be done. You let me know if you feel anything feverish or your skin swells in the next few days. Pay close attention, you hear me?”
“Anything?” Emily snickered, trying to find humor in the idea.
“Here, take a sip of this.” Davis held out a cup.
“Not a good idea to give me anything.” Emily tried to pull away. “I’ll only throw it up.”
“This will make you better. Mama Lu’s formula. Cookie’s going to use one of her remedies on your side.” Davis explained.
“Mama Lu, the miracle worker.” Emily sighed, but allowed Davis to help her swallow the drink.
She tried to take a deep breath, but it made her moan.
“You’ll sleep now and wake up in a few hours feeling better.” Davis smiled at her and stroked her forehead.
“What did Jezzie mean? About Mick?” Emily tried to stay focused, but the mental clouds rising from the drink filled her head. Before he could answer, she slipped into sleep.
***
Alan went straight back to Tortuga, to report on the newest dream and see if Mama Lu could give him any fresh answers. Emily’s questions filled his head with dread. He’d refused to consider the issues she’d raised after things turned sour with Mick. That idiot used to ask him, prod him, and they’d talked late into the night about the fallacies of his curse.
But he’d never told Mick the en
tire origin of his curse. He’d shared pieces of the story, trying to dissuade the man from seeking out Glacious. Mick could be such an idiot. Only Mama Lu knew everything. He’d gone to her seeking release and found someone with an uncommon gift of empathy. Expecting only magic, he’d found a friend. The wise woman promised to keep searching, and they’d become close. Over time, he’d discovered she held her own grudge against the ice queen. She didn’t go into details; he didn’t pry.
Mama Lu listened to him explain the new dream. Emily hadn’t admitted to their having the exact same dream, but she’d let enough clues drop that he felt certain they’d suffered the same lust filled nights. He’d smiled when asked why they didn’t dream about the bath also. And with that “also” he’d known the piercing dream was shared.
Mama Lu stroked her nose with one finger. A corner of her mouth lifted, then the opposite eyebrow and she beamed across the table at him. “This be the answer I been wondering ‘bout!”
“Answer to what?”
“Since yer last visit, I been having visions from the albino Kraken. He wants to crack Glacious’ ice palace, take her down into the deep. This ain’t only about paying you back. You say Pawes shot you? And survived? That’s two. I think that will be enough. Now, you make that dream come true, Alan. You get her to your ship and pierce her nipple. Have her do yours…catch the blood from both and this is what you do….”
He listened, resigned to follow the spell. She finished and he raised some questions.
“What if I use the needles?” he asked. “Place them in a glass vial, together. She’s going to shy away from my trying to catch a drop of her blood in a glass.”
“Fine, that works as well. What about the sexual fluids?” She leered, one eyebrow raised nearly to touch her braided hair.
“Easy to keep her too distracted to wonder what I’m doing there. I can sneak that easily enough. I have an idea of how to get her on board. Not certain how to get hold of the mirror.” He paused. “Lu, I don’t want to hurt her. Or…or lose her.”
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