Spice Box: Sixteen Steamy Stories

by Raine Miller

  Emily lifted a hand to her side. “Yeah?”

  “In the historically accurate Caribbean, you’d be in a fever, possibly die from infection. Not here, because Mama Lu knows more than herbs. She knows magic. She does magic. Don’t fight it; it works.” The captain locked eyes with her until Emily nodded.

  “So, Mama Lu in Tortuga. Jeremy Verde in Nassau. Tobias Tiny in Barbados. They all know magic. Tobias started the story of Silvestri’s curse growing stronger and he’s likely right. When the Immortal took a galleon a few weeks back, some idiot on that ship fired a single shot. The galleon blew up while the Immortal sailed away. Once, the idiot responsible would have merely tripped over a railing and drowned. This time? The curse took the whole ship.”

  “Jesus.” Emily shuddered.

  “I have good reason to keep Mick far from Silvestri. Tobias said when the curse closes in on Silvestri, it will draw the few who escaped back to it and swallow them. And everyone with them. Silvestri is down to three days before his affliction goes active? No one knows how much longer the plague has before it will swallow Alan Silvestri and anyone near him.”

  Emily’s heart sped up and a sickness filled her gut. She pushed the rum away. A drop of sweat ran down her back. Was his wicked magic going to take her down? He’d batted the pistol away—just as he did with Mick? Would Silvestri survive the curse closing in? Why did she care? Damn.

  She didn’t betray how all this affected her. She leaned forward, curious, but didn’t wipe the sudden sweat from her face. “Is Mick the only one?”

  “I don’t know. No one knows for sure. Perhaps Silvestri knows. I don’t like to use Mick like I did earlier today. I resent having to use him. But you didn’t know. And I do understand the hesitation of taking a man in the back. But if you wish to remain on this ship, you have to toughen up. Davis saw the opportunity for you to end it, and you hesitated. Don’t pause again, Mrs. Pawes. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Emily bowed her head, furiously thinking. “Is Mick concerned about the curse closing in on him?”

  “Mick doesn’t believe in the curse, fool that he is. Although the truth is that he plays at not believing the curse. This ship keeps him secure, but he doesn’t accept that. I paid all three magic workers to create a safe place here. We stay away from the Immortal, and we remain at sea. The curse will finish and take Silvestri eventually. Now, if we are done…? You need to return to your cabin, take another dose of Mama Lu’s remedy and sleep again.” Jezebel waited for Emily to rise from the table.

  Emily stopped at the door. “Should I apologize to Mick?”

  “No, he’d rather forget my eluding to his escape.”

  Emily nodded. Once back in her cabin, her mind spun with what she’d learned. She got some answers, but they weren’t helpful. If Mick was safe on this ship…was she as well? What made Mick the exception, if the curse truly caught everyone?

  Magic? Really?

  She lay down on her cot and tried to make sense of what she’d been told, adding in what Silvestri related to her. Thinking of the curse only brought her more questions and a growing fear that she was being used in some way to get to Mick. If not by Silvestri directly, then by his curse.

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER 12

  Emily recovered faster than she would have thought possible. The cook and Davis took good care of her. Her knife instructor never chided her for not throwing her blade when he first nodded at her, and none of the other pirates knew she missed her opportunity to help save the Captain. Mick acted as though the entire episode never occurred. Emily suspected her lack of taking the initiative wasn’t told to everyone.

  When they docked at Nassau, she went ashore. Janey burbled alongside as they walked the road to the center of the market terribly excited. “The party is in three weeks! Should be plenty of time to prepare a proper outfit and what a perfect time to take that cloth merchant. You have your favorite pieces with you, right?”

  The effervescent pirate didn’t wait for her to respond, only nodded as Emily held up the bundle of cloth.

  “Good! The Tortuga celebration ball is incredible—you’ll love it!”

  Emily listened with amusement, wondering if she’d have time to continue her search for the way back to her time. She found this odd bit of the Caribbean comfortable, but she felt compelled to get back to California. She didn’t belong here. She was supposed to be touring the Pacific Northwest in her new, snug little Mini-Winnie, writing that travel book she’d dreamed of for decades.

  But the party sounded like a good time. If she didn’t find her way home, well she’d enjoy having a lovely skirt or shirt made of her fabric to help her remember the sweet times.

  She wanted to reach into her bundle and stroke the fabric. Modern silk didn’t have such a luxurious feel. She’d claimed several yards of a deep reddish-brown, streaked through with golden dying flaws. She remembered her mother calling them that. Those sometimes serendipitous flaws added a uniqueness that Emily loved. The cloth wasn’t on a bolt, but nearly tied up in knots. Likely too imperfect for most to see the unique value. But Emily fell in love with the streaks of gold.

  She hoped the tailor would have some suggestions on making the most of her find. The cloth reminded her of the brilliant fall colors lining Walden Pond when she toured New England states one autumn.

  She was no spring chicken to dress in the light blues and purples several of the other crew members selected. Though Tink found a red that nearly held a pulse. It fit the woman, and Emily knew she’d pair it with something black and ominous.

  Emily’s fabric didn’t consist of much over two yards, but she figured a black skirt and a blouse from her stuff would suit her fine.

  Janey led the way to a shabby tailor’s store and handled the negotiations with an angry older man. Mr. Pomps.

  Mr. Pomp-ass, Emily thought.

  Nevertheless, she let him take her measurements without objection. Janey claimed the man was a genius with the needle. Afterward, they enjoyed a delicious afternoon tea, and Janey finally slowed her narrative, leaving Emily a chance to get a few words in.

  “You aren’t still hurting, are you?” Janey asked. “I mean, you’re especially quiet today, and though I know I chatter….” She paused. “I’m worried. What is it?”

  Emily sipped at the strong tea, almost good enough to substitute for coffee. A sudden welling of tears surprised her. She wiped at her eyelids and looked up to see the normally cheerful Janey near tears herself. The bosun smiled crookedly and wiped at the dampness threatening to spill from her eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I haven’t felt right since the battle,” Emily said.

  “Is it killing the captain of the Petit? Because you didn’t. Davis did.” Janey turned away, “I found firing a pistol and wielding a sword hard at first. But after we were attacked, I got better at taking the initiative in battle.”

  “Davis killed him? I didn’t know that. I wasn’t even certain he was dead.” She shook her head, determined to put it out of her mind. “When did someone attack the Quill?”

  “Oh, the whole episode happened a few months before you showed up. These idiots didn’t know who we were. Apparently, they spied on us from shore and thought we’d be an easy catch. We found out later they’d bragged about taking another ship and selling the women to the pasha in Arabia. Most know not to attack us.” Janey picked at the remains of the pastries.

  “Because of Mick?” Emily lowered her voice. “Jezzie explained it to me.”

  “Yeah, sometimes it’s because of Mick. But mostly it’s due to the spellwork Jezzie paid for. Our name refers to a curse. The writer’s curse. Any who attack us risk a writer’s curse.”

  “Okay. What would a writer’s curse do?” Emily tilted her head.

  “Oh! Well, a writer can write anything, right? So, anyone who sets it off might find themselves written into a cyclone. Or given pox that rots an arm, or a leg. Or some twitch or new habit that would see them laughed at across the Caribbea
n. It’s non-specific, but quite effective.”

  “Who does the writing?”

  “No idea. But it works. After we drove the idiots who attacked us off, they ended up wrecked on the far side of Tortuga. Then, thinking they were somewhere else, they charged the vampire’s castle. They’re dead now.” Janey grinned. “No one messes with us.”

  “Sounds a lot like Silvestri’s curse.”

  “No, nothing so widespread. The men we caught didn’t suffer more than humiliation and being forced to work below decks for several months. And we don’t bring bad luck being somewhere.” Janey shuddered. “Damn. No, nothing like it!”

  Emily wondered.

  When they returned to the ship a few hours later, Emily found a message waiting for her from the dyers on St. Marteen, offering a trade. They needed several large ledgers. If she put them together, they would show her some tricks of the trade. But they wanted her there in three days, and she would need to stay with them a week.

  She took the letter to Captain Jezebel.

  “It’s a good deal. The Lazy Day is sailing for St. Marteen with the morning tide. You can take passage on her, and we’ll pick you up in ten days. We can head for Tortuga once you’re back on board, the timing will work out perfectly.” She set the letter down. “You want to learn something about the dyer’s trade, right?”

  “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 mumbled, 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 inte
nd 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 hate 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.