Annja shrugged, but Suzela looked up at his words. Her narrow, dark eyes met Maxime’s; when she seemed sure she held his attention, she nodded slowly.
A week later, long days of constant work at the pumps and endless maintenance, Imena stood against Seaflower’s railing, gazing over her prow at an island jewel. The sheltered anchorage, so clear one could see fish swimming below, was the bright turquoise of her favorite jacket, brilliantly contrasting with sand as white as scoured clamshells. She was relieved to note her charts had not been out of date on the depth of the beach, which was more than wide enough for their purposes.
Gulls swooped and dived and screamed. Wading birds scampered along the tide line, stopping only to stab their long beaks into the wet sand in search of food. Behind the blindingly bright sand, tall grasses waved in the breeze, gradually merging into low, darker green scrub and finally into towering, densely leaved trees. As she watched, a scarlet bird winged from the trees to a rocky outcropping that was white with guano.
Imena wondered where the people were. The chart hadn’t indicated any inhabitants, but in her experience, that usually meant little. Across the island from this harbor, there might be entire villages. Though, she reasoned, the rocky terrain and dense forest made this area less suited for farming or livestock, excepting maybe pigs. There might be good reason for the silent, lonely shore.
Maxime leaned next to her, his large hands gripping the rail. “Is it full of pirates?” he asked. He didn’t sound as if he was joking.
“I don’t think so,” Imena said slowly. “This cluster of islands—if you can call some of them islands—is marked only on my charts. There might be people here, but I don’t think they’re pirates. Word would have gotten out by now. It looks to be a splendid harbor, for one ship at least. The coral reefs would be a problem for more, or for anything larger than Seaflower.”
“Then why is it on your charts?” he asked.
Imena considered lying, then reminded herself he’d be likely to keep her secret. “Some of my charts are imperial navy admiralty charts. I borrowed them from my mother.”
“Borrowed. Hmm.”
“You’d have done the same,” Imena said. “In fact, compared to you conspiring with Her Grace Camille to remove her husband from power, borrowing a few charts is scarcely noticeable.”
“You see, this is another reason why you would make an excellent duchess. You’d be in charge of my fleet, you know. Our fleet, that is.”
Imena punched his arm. “Stop it. Why don’t you go and ask Roxanne for something to do?”
“Because I’d rather stand here next to you,” Maxime said in a reasonable tone.
Imena looked out to sea again. She’d been busy with the ship and crew, but she couldn’t pretend she hadn’t been avoiding Maxime, and the feelings he aroused in her.
Just now, she had too much to think about. After living unexpectedly through the long run from the pirates and the storm, Donkey—no one had ever learned his real name—had finally succumbed to his belly wound, and they’d buried him at sea, stitched into canvas with ballast at his feet to carry his body to the bottom. It was no consolation to her that Nevens, who had a similar wound, and Philippe were both improving. Philippe seemed likely not only to keep his eye, but to retain some vision with it.
More than usually disturbed by worries for her crew, Imena had spent the previous few nights on deck in a woven hammock, leaving her cabin to Maxime. She’d woken every few hours to take note of the stars’ positions, but knew it had only been an excuse. She’d lain awake for hours, thinking on the crew who’d died on this voyage, and imagining scores of alternative actions she might have taken that would have kept them alive. In the cold dark hours of the morning, her past decisions surged and receded in her mind like surf.
Maxime said, “I know you’re the captain of this ship.”
“Stop reading my mind.”
He grinned, that slow grin that always made her want to touch him. “Another reason you would make—”
“Stop doing that, as well.” She folded her forearms and leaned on the railing. The fresh breeze tickled through her short hair and whipped her linen shirt tight against her body, pleasant contrast to the sun’s warmth. She gazed at the white sand and imagined stretching out on it, letting it cradle her tired muscles, its heat seeping into her.
Minutes later, when she risked a glance at Maxime, he also was looking at the beach. She wondered what he was thinking.
The rest of the day was taken up with delicate piloting, to find their way safely into the bay through its guardian maze of coral reefs. Bonnevie took the wheel. Kuan, in one of the smaller boats, went ahead of Seaflower to take soundings, while Malim and Nabhi rowed and Arionrhod made notes. Imena sent the shoreboat, this one captained by Roxanne, to explore suitable inlets that might provide concealment from other ships that might approach the harbor. Seaflower was a large ship, and there would be no hiding it beyond a certain point, but even a few moments might be critical for their safety.
Later, she ordered the remaining boats lowered and manned by the strongest of the foremast hands, led by Wiscz. Once they were past the reef, Seaflower needed to be towed to shore.
Hauling the ship onto the beach lasted well into the evening, through a spectacular red-and-orange sunset and into the early, cobalt dark. Nearly all the crew, including Maxime, took turns rowing the towboats or standing in knee-deep surf, hauling on lines, while Norris led one of One-Eye’s mates and the hostage Suzela in playing drums to aid in the work. One-Eye, the cook (who actually had two eyes, so his nickname, like many, was obscure), called out chants for response. They’d invented some new verses for this iteration, she realized. Some of them involved pirates and their disreputable sexual practices and terrible fates. One verse involved a sailor who was so greatly endowed that a lady whale fell in love with him as he swam.
Imena disembarked last, as was traditional. After assessing that all had gone well, and examining the split that indeed marred Seaflower’s bottom, she left the organization of camping arrangements to the crew chiefs. She waded a distance into the cool surf to squeeze her toes in the soft, wet sand. Later she would inspect to make sure all was happening as it should; but she counted this as being in dry dock, so Chetri would be taking the majority of her shifts as penalty for accepting hostages without Imena’s permission. Tomorrow, they’d begin their work by sawing out the damaged section of the hull and fitting replacement planking from their stores.
Stars were coming out, close and touchable as salt sprinkled on a length of black silk. She inhaled the briny, fishy scent of the sea, the sharper tang of freshly kindled campfires and the flowery smell of tea brewing in a bucket. She heard splashing and glanced left—Roxanne was chasing the Knife along the tidal edge. There was enough firelight to see that neither of them wore a stitch of clothing. Roxanne had even abandoned her hook. More decorous splashing drew her attention to her right. Annja, holding her long dress carefully above her knees, was wading into the shallows. She led Suzela by the hand. The other woman wore new clothing, trousers and sleeveless tunic similar to that worn by the rest of Seaflower’s crew. Imena recognized the neutral colors as formerly belonging to the Knife, though there had clearly been some alterations made so the clothing would fit Suzela’s much smaller frame.
Suzela glanced over at Imena and froze, dragging Annja to a halt. Imena waded over to them. “Watch for jellyfish,” she said. “Some of them sting. Likely not fatally, though, this close to shore.”
“Aye, Captain,” Annja said after a pause. Suzela watched over her shoulder, then pointed back at the beached ship.
Possibly, she was asking a question. Imena answered, “I’d prefer you remain in sight of the others while it’s dark, and in the day, make sure you only go about in groups of three or more, in case someone is hurt. That is, if the Knife doesn’t have enough for you to do.”
Annja said, “We’re to gather plants tomorrow.”
“Good. Take someone w
ith you. Nabhi would be good protection. Or Wiscz.”
Annja said, after another pause, “May we have Maxime?”
At first, Imena couldn’t identify her stab of anger, then realized, to her shock, that she was jealous. Ridiculous, when she knew he’d been making efforts to gain the hostages’ trust, and that they still seemed to believe his status was close to their own. Calming herself, she said, “He’ll be busy tomorrow. But you can have anyone else.”
Suzela bobbed, and Imena recognized the movement as an obeisance. Annja simply said, “We’ll ask Chetri,” and dragged Suzela away.
As if conjured by her thoughts, Maxime waded through the surf toward her. His hair was damp from spume. He wore nothing but a wrapped clout, the same as many of her crew had adopted for their long, soggy day, but she still spent several moments studying the expanse of his chest, damp from the sea, and the muscles flexing in his powerful thighs. Those thighs could hold her weight with no effort, flexing beneath her as—
“I was going for a swim,” she said. “Join me?”
“I hope you aren’t planning to swim in your clothes,” he said. “Norris would have a fit.”
Imena glanced down at her ragged knee-length trousers and salt-stained singlet. Norris likely wanted to burn these particular clothes. “If I strip, you strip.”
Imena wasn’t surprised when Maxime shed the clout. She’d rarely met anyone with so little modesty. Not, she mused as she followed a line of dark hair down his belly and to his prominent cock, that he had any reason to be ashamed. Any reason at all.
Sand slipped and shifted under her feet as the tide dragged in and out, lapping at her calves. She met Maxime’s gaze with her own, his eyes only dark gleams in the sparse light, but his smile was much brighter as she lifted her arms and tugged her singlet over her head. She had neglected to inform him that she’d bound her breasts for the day’s labors.
She dipped her singlet into the water to give it weight and flung it toward the shore, where it landed with a splat. She said, “What will you give me if I take off something else?”
“How many things are you wearing?” he countered, wading closer. A wave caught him off balance and he staggered, laughing as he regained his footing. “I must tell you, those wrappings are intriguing. I can clearly remember what’s beneath them, and the idea of unwrapping you slowly, revealing one soft bit at a time for my tongue to appreciate, is delectable.”
Imena swallowed. “You didn’t say what you would give me.”
“The question is, what will you give me?” Maxime stepped closer. “If you really want me to provide services for you, I ought to get something in return. A lick here and there. Perhaps a nibble.”
Imena licked salt from her lips. “I definitely enjoy nibbling your shoulder.”
“Where?”
She didn’t normally speak of such things. But how difficult could it be? “That bit there,” she said, gesturing. “Next to your neck. The tendon along the top, there, and the muscle beneath.”
His shoulder flexed, as if he imagined her teeth caressing there. “I would let you do that,” he said. “I want to lick the lower edges of your rib cage. Where the skin is thin. You seem to like it when I touch you there with my fingers, so I assume—”
“I like it when you hold the back of my head in your hand,” Imena confessed. She stepped toward him, then back again, as a wave pushed her off balance. “I like to hold you by the hair while I taste you.”
Maxime rocked toward her. “You probably taste of salt right now.”
“Yes.” Without looking away from him, Imena untied the waist of her trousers and let them fall into the sea. Maxime retrieved them and heaved them to shore so they landed next to her singlet. She said, “If a jellyfish stings me in a tender place, I’m going to blame you.”
He didn’t appear worried. “Let me,” he said, wading forward and unhooking her breast bindings. It was awkward, him unwrapping her breasts while she struggled out of her drawers, the waves and shifting sand pushing them off balance and into each other, but they managed. The noises around Seaflower had completely faded from her notice. She registered the campfires only as a faint scent in the air. It reminded her of camping in the highlands with her father, and later more adult excursions with the lover of her youth.
“Let’s swim,” she said to Maxime, though her body ached for the touch of his. Even the palms of her hands throbbed with her desire to touch him.
“Anticipation makes everything better,” he said, and flung himself into the water, emerging quickly, gasping and flinging water from his shoulder-length hair. “Ratshit! It’s not deep enough here!”
Imena waded to deeper water as quickly as she could manage, but not quickly enough to avoid Maxime tackling her around the waist and bearing her down into the surf. As soon as she was soaked, he let her go, and she rose to her feet in a surge of water. “Cold as a pirate’s heart!” she exclaimed. Her nipples had drawn so tight that they hurt. Maxime was beaming at her. Laughing, she lunged and easily brought him down, her limbs wrapping his like seaweed.
Together they rolled, struggled, disentangled and lunged for deeper water. Once, they stopped, treaded water and kissed, holding tight to each other’s waist so they wouldn’t float apart. Maxime’s lips felt impossibly soft against her chapped skin; she flicked her tongue out to trace his teeth and gently met the tip of his tongue with her own before drawing back a little. She leaned in again and sucked his upper lip into her mouth, nipped lightly and then gnawed at his lower lip while he hummed with pleasure.
His hands slid lower, shaping her rear, lifting and pressing her into him. His cock was shockingly hot in contrast to the cold water. She murmured, “I thought cold water would have some effect,” and he laughed.
“Not with a naked woman in my arms, sweet.” He ran his open mouth along her neck and shoulder and then added, “Particularly one who squirms like you’re doing now.”
“I’m treading water.” Imena bit his neck in return, hard enough to hurt a little. “I wanted to have a swim, remember? I can’t swim with you hanging on to me.”
“What do I get if I let go of you?”
“My continued regard,” she said, rasping her nails against his lower back, and catching his gasp in her mouth. “Also, after a swim, I’ll be very warm and relaxed, and…”
Maxime bent his head and nipped at the top of her breast, then sucked gently at the spot. “And?”
“And you can have your way with me.” Imena bucked against his grip, and when his arms loosened, wriggled free and set out for shore.
She liked best to swim beneath the water, her legs pressed together and beating like a dolphin’s tail. The slight, persistent headache she’d had since her head injury ceased to bother her while cold water was washing over her skull. When she broke the surface to breathe, she easily spied Maxime, who swam more prosaically with his head bobbing in and out of the waves. Imena sucked in another breath and dived; the water wasn’t terribly deep here, but it was enough. She swam underwater until she grew closer to shore, and the water was no longer deep enough; then she switched to Maxime’s technique, her arms cutting the water while she snatched breaths.
Her headache had eased, and she felt long and loose and pleasantly warm as she coasted in to shore, but when she rose from the waves, her limbs abruptly shifted to awkward weights, and she was reminded of how tired she was. She would have to swim again tomorrow if she had time. During the day, she would be able to glide among the coral and view the colorful fish that always clustered there.
Maxime staggered out of the water a few steps behind her. “You’re fast,” he said admiringly. “Again tomorrow?”
She waded through the surf and grabbed his hand. “The reefs tomorrow,” she promised. “Right now, I see some rocks over there. We can brush the sand off them and be perfectly comfortable. Come along, and have your way with me.”
“I’d rather you have your way with me,” Maxime said, his grin a flash of light in the darkn
ess.
The next morning, Imena woke with her nose shoved firmly into Maxime’s belly. Blue-green and purple light speckled over their naked forms. Sometime after they’d made the tide to the rhythm of the tide, they’d returned to Seaflower’s camp, where Norris had ensured Imena’s tent was prepared. They lay now on piles of rugs, the tent’s walls rippling from the steady breeze off the sea. Norris had to have been in and out, though Imena did not remember it; there was no sign of their sodden clothing from the evening before, and a platter sat atop an embroidered pillow near the door, filled with sticky rice balls, fresh fruit and steamed fish cakes.
Imena yawned and scrubbed at her gritty eyes. She crawled over Maxime and examined the platter more closely before selecting peeled slices of juicy marang and some acidic red limeberries, following the fruit with a rice ball. She lifted the tent flap to call for Norris and just outside found a pot of tea, still warm, with two cups.
She nudged Maxime with her foot. “Wake up! Breakfast.”
“Aye, Captain,” he said, knuckling his eyes. “It’s been four hours, I assume. Do I smell fish cakes?”
“You do. My crew has been hard at work while we’ve been lying about like passengers.”
“I am a passenger,” he protested, leaning over her to grab a fish cake. Mouth full, he added, “Or maybe a prisoner. Or a concubine.”
Imena poured them tea and pressed a cup into his hand. “I was willing for you to be an honored guest, but you insisted on the concubinage, if I remember correctly.”
Maxime bent over the platter. “What’s this?”
“Sataw, I think,” she said, scooping some up with her fingers. “You can eat the seeds, too.” She pressed the slippery pulp between his lips. He swept out his tongue and licked the stickiness off her fingers.
After swallowing, he said, “It’s terrible. Give me some of the limeberries.”
Imena shrugged. “It’s supposed to be good for your stomach. I think. No doubt the Knife will be thrilled you ate some.” She picked up a fish cake and then forgot it in her hand as she watched Maxime eat limeberries, then marang, the strong muscles of his jaw working beneath his close-cropped beard. Her inner thighs were scraped raw from his beard. The marang juice glistening on his lips made her want to lick it off.
The Duke & the Pirate Queen Page 14