“Yeah, I do. It’s only…I’ve never been on another ship. Anything I need to know?” She shrugged.
“Be polite and stay out of trouble. It’s a two day trip. Keep your knives handy in case some of the crew test you. I doubt you’ll need to do more than wear them. How is your side feeling?”
“Much better. I’m a bit stiff, but that’s about it,” Emily said. “Janey told me about the writer’s curse. Where’d you find that?”
“There used to be a writer on board. He came up with the idea, and between Mama Lu, Tobias, and Jeremy, it took.” Jezzie smiled crookedly. “Quite devious.”
“What happened to the writer?”
“He finished his book and returned to his world. Crosses over now and again, between book tours.” Jezzie turned away. “You best get over to the Day and make sure they can take you. A week? Pack enough to be comfortable. I doubt the dyers will be generous with much of anything. I’m surprised they agreed to this; they must need new ledgers bad,” she mumbles, leaving the cabin, “Someone likely hijacked their supplier.”
Emily wondered who the author was and if she’d ever read his books. Then she did what the Captain suggested. The next morning, she boarded the Lazy Day for an uneventful two day voyage to St. Marteen.
***
His messenger reported the strategy worked like a charm. He sailed about St. Marteen, waiting for the next step in his plan. After a quick stop near Nassau, undetected by the Quill, whose crew was taking their ease in the congenial port, he turned to the dyer’s city.
She’d been stuck in the dyer’s compound for four days by the time he arrived. He was standing at the single entrance to their private enclave when Emily appeared. Her clothing sported a great many stains and her hair stood on end even more than normal. This said a lot, considering the length it gained in the months since her arrival. She carried a large bag slung over one shoulder. With a scowl and an obscene gesture as the door slammed behind her, she stomped down toward town.
He slipped down an alley, signaling the two hired men to do their part with a curt nod of his head.
She was furious. They’d promised her a week; she’d slaved for two days over their ledgers, but was barely shown the basics at the dye vat. They’d hauled her out of bed before dawn to watch them perform some arcane ritual she assumed they considered spiritual. She figured what they thought a ritual was nothing more than chemistry, but wisely didn’t voice that opinion. Over and over, they’d interrupt while she stood, trying to decipher how they were putting the color recipes together and drag her away to show her nothing helpful.
She figured they thought they were being quite accommodating. Ha.
Finally, they’d let her get some hands-on experience grinding some dried flower petals to add to water but ignored her attempts to ask about how this might be transferred to her needs for paper dye. By the fourth day, she had her fill of being given the run around. All the helping her was a ruse. It must be. No one was this deliberately obtuse!
She’d asked for a chance to speak to the man in charge. When she was shown into his workroom, she’d thanked them for the hospitality, but also requested to purchase a small amount of dye for the covers of her books on now and then, as she wasn’t learning enough to do it on her own. He’d nodded, held up a hand and directed his sycophants to throw her out.
Hell.
No matter how much she ranted and raved about the deal they’d agreed to, they didn’t hesitate to toss her to the curb. In less than thirty minutes, the door slammed behind her and she was out. The day nearly spent, she stomped down the street, wondering where she was going to stay for the next two nights.
When they grabbed her, she didn’t stand a chance. A gag was thrust into her mouth, her satchel snatched away. She scrambled to reach her knives, but stopped with alacrity when the sound of pistol cocked near her head registered.
There was nothing to be gained by continuing to struggle at that moment. She resolved to wait for a more opportune time to attempt escape. If it came.
Her hands were tied behind her back and her knives removed from her belt. Her captors said nothing, and she couldn’t see much detail in the dim light. She was blind, and then a bag was pulled over her head and secured. She was picked up and dropped into a larger bag, then thrown over someone’s shoulder.
Her fear threatened to overwhelm any rational thought, and she fought not to cry, searching for anger to bring focus over how scared she was.
She’d wait for her chance and run. No, they’d tied her ankles together just before the bigger bag enveloped her. Damn, they were thorough.
They didn’t hurt her or even feel her up. Was she being held for ransom? Who would pay to get her back?
Janey’s comment about the crew of that other ship being sold to the pasha screamed through her mind and she whimpered. No, she was over fifty years old, plump, and wrinkled. Her boobs sagged. No self-respecting pasha would be interested in her for a sex toy.
Why, then? And who?
Did the dyers intend to dispose of her? Maybe it was some strange religious thing, and since she was an unbeliever, they were required to take her off the premises before slitting her throat? This wild surmising wasn’t helping.
They were nearing the water. She heard the distinctive sound of waves striking wood. St. Marteen possessed a wooden sea wall of sorts she remembered. They must be walking near the port! She struggled, hoping to draw attention.
Her captor slapped her ass. “None of that, or I’ll knock you out. No one cares, woman.”
Emily lost the one bit of hope she’d harbored, and tears streaked her upside down face. She was going to die. She didn’t want her existence to end this way. Sure, she figured her life was on the downslope, but she wasn’t ready to reach the bottom.
And she’d never seen Ireland. She’d always hoped to see Ireland before she died.
Would Alan miss her?
***
He waited near the cabin door, while they laid her on his bed. He tossed them a bag of coins, and the two ruffians from the port left the ship without speaking. Drawing closer, he observed the shudders wracking her body. His brows creased. She would be angry.
He tilted his head at her soft whimper.
Damn it.
Easing her to a sitting position, he undid the tie at the top of the bag. Drawing it down her torso, he spoke. “I thought to find you spitting mad and furious, plotting escape and contemplating some dire revenge.”
Her head tossed when he pulled the smaller bag off. She stared at him from wet eyes. No, that wasn’t anger. That was terror.
He shook his head. “Blast it, woman. I did not intend to frighten you.” Pulling a clean, white cloth from his pocket, he wiped her eyes and nose, trying to frame an adequate apology.
He removed the gag and gathered her into his arms, trying to offer comfort to balance the mistake. He should have been civilized. Offered an invitation! Damn it! How to explain that he feared her voluntary boarding of his ship might bring her to the attention of his cursed benefactress. He didn’t trust the crew and suspected they would report any attempt at a normal relationship to Glacious. His misguided attempt to protect Emily terrified her.
She tried to pull away, then ranted and railed at him, choking back the sobs that shook her body. Every foul name he’d ever heard, and some he hadn’t, poured from her. He stroked her sticky hair and said nothing, holding her close. He even hauled her legs up onto his lap and rocked her.
She finally wound down enough to cry, her face buried on his chest. She stopped trying to catch her breath and let her body find the equilibrium it needed. She took several deep breaths in recovery.
He heard her trying to say something and backed away to make room. She sniffed. “Untie me, please.”
“When I’m certain you aren’t going to attack me again.” He attempted some reconciliation. “My curse, you know.”
“Uh, huh, I’m not stupid.” She sobbed again and shook her head. “Damn it, I hat
e to cry. Anyway! I’m not stupid enough to attack you. I know better. Please, untie me.”
He stroked her face. “Why do you hate to cry?” Fifty years of wooing and seducing women convinced him that most women found tears cleansing. Unless they were using them to manipulate. But Emily didn’t hold the artifice to use them as manipulation.
He felt her draw away from his touch, but his other arm held her tightly. Her eyes met his. “I don’t like losing control. And I must look a mess.” Her head ducked. “All swollen and snotty.
“Nonsense, you look soft and feminine and....”
She looked up and gave a great sniff.
He wiped at her nose. “And a little snotty. Now, I truly thought you’d simply be angry. I planned on teasing you away from anger, perhaps channel it to other actions.” He attempted to soothe her with a play at joking and winked. She just stared at him.
He sighed. “I did not mean to see you reduced to terror. I am sorry.”
“Yeah, Okay. But what are you doing here?” She relaxed against him. “Damn it. I’m glad to see you. I didn’t know who or what was happening. Janey told me about being attacked by white slavers and though I know they wouldn’t want me, being old, but my imagination took off.”
He listened while she rattled on about being old and wrinkled, even called herself a worthless hag. Rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and fell back on the bed, taking her with him. She shrieked when he rolled over and pinned her to the bed.
“Uh! My arms!”
He raised himself, taking his weight off her body. “In a moment. Now, you are not old. You certainly carry some wrinkles. Everyone does. Your breasts are not droopy, and you are enormously desirable.”
She snorted at him and he growled, darted down and covered her mouth with his. He took his time, savoring the feel of her fighting him, and finally growing soft and complacent. He raised his hand and squeezed her breast, hard.
Her body arched toward him. Satisfied, he raised them both back to a sitting position and bent to untie her ankles. “You are not a dried-up, useless hag. You seem fixated on youth, and that truly must stop.”
She shoved him back with her feet. Not hard enough to be considered an attack by his curse, but hard enough to show some displeasure. He glanced up at her. “Don’t push my curse, dear Emily.”
“It must be handy, when you do dastardly things, to toss your curse at your victims. ‘Oh, hurting me will only hurt you more!’” She parroted him with derision, eyes open and eyebrows raised. “And does anyone ever say, ‘so worth it’?”
She kicked him in the face.
He fell back, feeling the stir of his curse when she struck him. He whirled and caught her when she overbalanced and fell from the bed. A moment slower and her head would have struck the deck. He clutched at her, heart beating fast.
She wiggled out of his grasp, pushed herself away. Propped against the drawers supporting his bed, she glared at him.
He smiled, never betraying the rush of terror she’d given him.
He took a breath, let it out slowly. “No, no one has ever said that. Until now.”
She snickered.
“Emily, dear.” He surveyed her sweaty and tattered visage. “You need a bath. I’ll have one prepared.” Climbing to his feet, he left her on the floor. “Stay down, safest place for you right now.”
Turning away, he spoke with authority, his voice level and carrying no lilt. “Do not attempt to engage my crew. They are more loyal to the ship than to me. We have tonight and tomorrow before the Quill looks to retrieve you. Let’s make the most of it.”
“I’ll need my hands to bathe!”
“You’ll have mine.” He chuckled at her silence and set about giving the orders necessary to see the ship leave port and a bath prepared for his guest. His spies reported she’d purchased the small silver ring Mama Lu made certain intercepted her path. He reached into his pocket and fondled the lovely gold one the magic woman gave him. They’d reach a calm bay by the dawn, and she’d be ready.
Chapter Thirteen
Once the initial adrenaline spun down, Emily felt her body give up. He’d stirred her with that kiss, making her go limp. After her near fall, she tried to enjoy knowing where she’d ended up. Not aboard a slave ship, not heading for the Middle East, but sitting aboard Silvestri’s ship. The uncertainty of being kidnapped disappeared. He wasn’t going to keep her; he’d spoken of a time limit. He’d be back and she wondered what he planned this time. She’d never been courted before, and for lack of a better word, she recognized this bit of drama was his attempt to court her. Even if the goal of that courtship was nothing more than some damned good sex. She could live with that.
She stretched her legs and surveyed her sandals. Damn, the stitching was giving way again.
Tevas were sturdy, but nothing was meant to be worn every day for months on end. If she didn’t get out of here soon, she would need to purchase some shoes. Some real pirate boots might impress the locals at the next pirate festival, once she returned to her California.
Would she ever attend those again? After being here?
Maybe.
She’d be able to laugh at the things that the enactors got wrong and marvel at the things that ended up dead on. If anything she observed here was truly right. Truly accurate.
A hot shower would be nice.
And a pizza.
Closing her eyes, she shifted to make her hands more comfortable. She thought about pizza, the tart bite of good tomato sauce, the crunch of sourdough crust and the burn of red pepper flakes. Her belly grumbled and her mouth watered. But it served to keep her distracted while the fussing continued in the front of the cabin. She’d seen the sailors enter, ignoring her as they carried in a large tub and filled it with bucket after bucket of water.
She drifted into a nap and woke to Alan lifting her to her feet.
“This shirt is hopelessly stained, don’t you agree?” he asked.
His eyes glittered in the light of several newly lit lanterns. The flash of a knife struck her eyes and she heard the fabric of her shirt being torn away. She opened her mouth to object, but shut it. He was right. The dyers seemed to take particular delight in seeing her dingy white shirt splattered with off-colored dyes. It galled her to hear them mutter derisively about some batch of dye, then nonchalantly fling it in her direction. Once she’d caught one actually wiping his hands on the back of her shirt. It was useless to object, so she’d borne their derision without making a fuss. It was just a shirt and they were going to show her how to dye things! Ha.
“Ah, a new corset! But nicely light and flexible. I thought I felt something odd.”
“Don’t cut it off, please. It took a lot of searching to find a modern bra that fit me, so my not-droopy boobs wouldn’t droop.” She glanced down at the bra. “You unhook it at the back, Alan.”
Fighting would waste time. She’d rather in be the bath she’d noticed when he’d lifted her. An old fashioned copper tub with clouds of steam rising from the water.
She couldn’t wait.
He carefully examined the bra after he’d removed it.
She was glad she’d found one without straps. He might have discarded her objections and cut them away otherwise, since he seemed determined to leave her hands tied.
Tossing it to one side, he remarked, “Quite ingenious.”
“Well, the leather bustier got too hot.” She stopped talking when he knelt and pulled the tie of her breeches open. They were too large for her. She figured she’d dropped nearly twenty pounds since arriving. Not for lack of food, but lack of junk food as well as all the exercise. She didn’t mind the loss. Not at all.
He let them drop to pool at her feet and leaned back to rest on his ankles, eyes roaming up and down her body.
She sighed, her body reacting to the examination. Even his eyes warmed her to the point of boiling.
He was certainly spry for a man his age. He shot to his feet, shaking his head, and led her to the bath.
She balked at stepping into the clean water.
“Wait! Let me wipe some of the grime off my feet first!”
He paused. “That is what the bath is for.” He spoke slowly with a studied emphasis, as though she were an idiot.
She grimaced at him. “Yes. And I’m going to be lying back in a tub of grimy water if I don’t at least wipe them off first, barbarian.”
“Fine, no need to be touchy. I’d never thought of it much. Always assumed the grime rested at the bottom of the tub.” He congenially babbled on, hauling a worn towel off a nearby chair, dipping it into the water and washing her feet.
The gesture totally undid her. Her fingers flexed behind her back, wanting to bury them in his head of silvery hair and hold him with a tenderness she found surprising.
A man washing her feet was a new experience.
He took such care. Making sure she was balanced against a nearby vertical beam, lifting her feet one at a time, slowly wiping, rubbing. She watched, mesmerized. He completed freeing her feet of grime all the way to the flesh between her toes and lifted his eyes to meet hers. He smiled as his gaze dropped to gaze upon her pussy, less than a foot from his face.
She gasped when he surged to his feet, lifted her and, with a single step, gingerly deposited her into the steaming water.
“Jesus!” she gasped. “Hot!”
“Isn’t that the idea?” He chuckled. He pulled the chair closer and proceeded to use a fresh cloth to lather up a rough bit of soap. He paused, stripped off his shirt, and then, proceeded to scrub her clean.
He was intent and she appreciated the attention. The dyers were frugal with water, and though she saw their steam baths, she wasn’t allowed their use.
Shitheads.
“I wish you’d undo my hands, Alan.”
“You’ll splash me, and I’m wet enough.” He drew back and winked at her. “For now.”
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