by Pam Godwin
“I never claimed to be a lady.” I ran a hand over the bodice of my disguise.
Since I couldn’t enter busy ports dressed as a woman pirate, I had to exchange my trousers and weaponry for an appearance that was more readily overlooked.
I’d spent my teenage years clad in boy’s clothing with my hair chopped to my ears. Then my hips rounded, and my chest expanded, leaving me little choice but to don the stifling torture devices women favored.
It had been a long while since I’d pinned up my wild mane and wore the alias of a respectable lady. I’d forgotten how much I hated it.
“I look like a sunbaked pear stuffed in shrunk satin.” I tugged at the bosom of the gray gown, feeling trapped and miserable. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
He didn’t spare me a glance. “I’d rather not say.”
“Why not? You’re never one to hold your tongue.”
“You’re in a simmering mood.” His brown eyes darted over the perimeter. “Causing a scene isn’t my aim presently.”
“You fret like a lady’s maid.”
“Rot in hell.”
“Someday I shall. But—”
“Today isn’t your day,” he said, finishing my favorite motto.
Voices drifted from a nearby alley, followed by the tread of footsteps.
Reynolds faded into the shadows as a smartly dressed couple ambled by, making a wide berth around the decaying corpse.
When they vanished beyond the corner, Reynolds returned to my side. “Pay your respects to Captain Vane so we can gather the crew. The faster we weigh anchor, the better.”
He retreated again, blending into the darkness.
With his ever-vigilante gaze on my back, I blew out a breath and stepped toward the wooden platform.
Another wave of pedestrians passed, and I bowed my head, hiding my face until they strolled away, seemingly unmoved by the dead pirate hanging above them.
My heart ached.
Slipping a hand into the discreet slit in the gown, I accessed the hidden dimity pocket and stroked the polished surface of my father’s compass. A map, he’d called it. One I’d yet to unlock.
Charles and I had spent a couple of years trying to open the instrument. He eventually gave up on it, and we parted ways. But we always managed to find each other. Whether it was at sea or in a tavern, we would trade stories and reconnect over pewter tankards. He never missed an opportunity to tease me about my father’s unattainable treasure.
“I’m still searching for the key,” I whispered too low for Reynold’s ears. “I bet you’re laughing at me from your throne in hell, you droll, mean-spirited scrub.”
I waited for Charles’ witty retort, but it would never come.
Lifting my eyes, I flexed my hands against the onset of crippling emotion.
Dark, blood-soaked hair fell from his widow’s peak to his chest, his face bloated and clinging to what had once been a devilishly handsome bone structure. Tattered clothing hung from rotting skin, which served as a feeding ground for flies and maggots.
Tears gathered in my throat, and I swallowed them down, transforming my grief into the temperament that had kept me alive all these years.
“Damn you, Charles.” My cheeks burned, and my nails gouged my palms. “You look like the pustular aft of a diseased dog. Is this what you wanted? To hang on display like a damned pirate martyr?” I slammed a fist onto the platform, unleashing the rage in my voice. “I should have kept you in my bed. If it was death you wanted, I would’ve sent you there myself, stiff and hard, with a smile upon your face!”
“That’s enough.” Reynolds hooked an arm around my waist and dragged me into a dark alcove. “What, pray tell, was that all about?”
“We never exchange goodbyes.” I pushed him away and composed myself. “We exchange insults.”
He leaned around me, scrutinized the quiet road through Gallows Point, and turned back. “You and Charles Vane were lovers?”
“Not lovers. I gave him my maidenhood. He was a gentleman about it. Waited until I was sixteen before he stripped me from stem to stern and made me bleed.”
His eyes hardened, and a muscle ticked in his jaw.
“Don’t be offended on my account.” I patted his rigid arm. “I enjoyed it far too much, and we remained dear friends after.”
“Friends, you say?” He cleared his throat. “Even when you seized Jade from him?”
“She’s my ship, Reynolds. When my father died, I was only fourteen and needed Charles to command her. But even then, she was my ship. Until the day she sinks. No matter who captains her.”
“We should return to her now.”
With a nod, I exited the alcove and made my way toward the tavern at the edge of Port Royal. My faithful crew of miscreants would be stirring up mischief with their bellies swimming with ale.
Reynolds trailed at a distance as to not draw attention to me. This wasn’t Boston or St. Augustine, where the streets overflowed with English soldiers. But the governor of Jamaica was known for his terror against my kind. His men hunted and hanged pirates with ruthless enthusiasm.
Up ahead, light spilled from an open doorway, illuminating the dirt road between the buildings. Boisterous laughter and the off-tune clanging of a piano announced the merriment of hard-drinking patrons.
I stuck to the deepest shadows and slipped behind a wagon that sat across the road from the tavern. Peering around bags of grain, I had a direct view of the activity within.
The structure was a story and a half high with bedrooms on the upper floor. The ground level connected to the buildings on either side and served as an inn, trading post, courtroom, and post office.
But tonight, its only purpose was entertainment.
Customers shouted, and tavern wenches heckled back, sloshing quarts of ale and trading coins. The tables overflowed with all manner of freeborn life, from lords and navy sailors to scoundrels and doxies.
I marked the familiar faces of my crew. Most of them bewhiskered and unkempt, they clustered around the bar and pawed at the courtesans like a legion of grinning, belching, rough-talking demons.
A smile pulled at the corner of my mouth. I’d kept them at sea too long. Six months on this last stretch. They needed this. They’d earned it.
So had I.
From my hiding spot across the street, several strangers caught my eye. Roguish, virile young men, who would eagerly spend a few sweaty hours with a flamboyantly dressed woman.
I glanced down at the round flesh that threatened to spill over my bodice. Perhaps I was pretty enough, but I knew naught how to flirt or seduce. It had been two years since I’d tried.
Two years since I’d been kissed, touched, or brought to the acme of pleasure by a skilled hand.
The last time I’d succumbed to the spell of a man’s charm, it ended in devastating agony. A tragedy I should have avoided but now credited as a necessary life lesson. The next time I fall into someone’s bed—no matter how clever, potent, or irresistibly handsome he might be—I would not involve my heart. Never again.
A blond sailor stepped into my line of sight, lingering just inside the tavern. His eyes glimmered in the overhead candlelight as he watched the crowd and sipped his drink. There was an innocence about him, a harmless curiosity in his expression. Perhaps it would be easy to fuck him with no recoil or attachment after.
Footsteps advanced, and Reynolds appeared at my side, ducking his tall frame behind the wagon.
“Your crewmates are enjoying themselves.” I kept my gaze on the blond man, imagining the feel of his lean body moving against mine. “We should stay a few more hours. I could use a drink.” And a dark corner with an attractive sailor.
“There’s a flush upon your neck, Captain.”
I cupped my hand there and ground my teeth.
“I know what beckons you, and it isn’t ale.” His voice lowered, hesitant yet assertive. “I would help you with that. We could return to the ship, set her a-sail, and I would come to your cabin and prov
ide what you need. It’s safer than what you’re considering here, with a stranger.”
“I appreciate your concern—”
“You’re not the only one who goes without. It’s been too long since I indulged in a woman’s favors.”
Because he never left my side.
Overprotective idiot.
Exceptional quartermaster.
“Go indulge, then.” I gestured toward the tavern. “I’m not stopping you.”
“I won’t leave you out here unguarded.”
I expelled a sigh. “What do you need? Five minutes? Ten? If it’s been as long as you say—”
“With you, I would take my time and tease it out. Every lick.” His eyes remained fixed on the perimeter, even as his voice turned to gravel. “Every bite. Every stroke. I would make it last long after eight bells of the mid watch.”
Heat rolled through me, arousing a quiver in my thighs. It was potent enough to silence the objection on my lips, to make me pause and actually consider his offer.
Meddling with a quartermaster wasn’t the worst idea. I was Charles Vane’s first mate when he bedded me. I could give Reynolds the same thing I gave Charles. A few blissful hours. Nothing more.
But my quartermaster wasn’t cut from the same cloth as Charles. Intimacy would make him possessive and even more attached than he already was. I couldn’t abide that, and not just because I was emotionally incapable of reciprocating. Our friendship was complicated for reasons neither of us was willing to discuss.
“The answer is no, and you know why.” I nodded at the tavern. “There are some dashing ladies in there waiting to be corrupted by a seductive blackguard. While you’re doing that, I’m going to find a quiet place to sit inside. The crew will keep an eye out.”
I didn’t wait for a response as I breezed around the wagon and strode into the tavern.
The aroma of ale and tobacco teased my nose, and the cacophony of drunken voices smothered my thoughts. The crowd packed in around me, shoulder to shoulder, and my shorter-than-average stature made it easy to slip between the bodies unnoticed.
With a peek over my shoulder, I located Reynolds. He stood taller than the tallest man, the unruly stripe of hair on his head identifiable over the masses as he made his way toward the bar.
I moved in the opposite direction, keeping my chin down and senses sharp. Garments were the best indicators of trouble. I avoided clusters of uniforms and gravitated toward gowns similar to mine, blending in with the wives of thirsty gentlemen.
At length, I worked my way through the tavern and felt reasonably confident no one recognized me. Standing amid a herd of well-dressed patrons, I listened to dull conversations about English politics and the woes of sea voyage.
Just as I began to relax, an ominous sensation moved through me. My shoulder blades twitched. A feverish chill bathed my back, and the hairs on my arms stood straight up.
“Found you.” The dark purr rasped against my nape and reached into the blackest part of my soul.
That growly, toe-curling Welsh accent had haunted my dreams for two years.
Ice-cold fear shivered down my spine, and I spun, bumping into the occupied chairs at a nearby table.
“Forgive me,” I muttered and turned away from the glares, searching the throngs for the owner of that voice.
My pulse slammed through my veins as I examined every face, pushing through the crowds, listening for him, and losing my mind.
I must have conjured him out of paranoia. He couldn’t have found me. How would he even know I was in Jamaica?
A gust of realization stole from my lungs.
Every pirate alive would’ve learned about Charles Vane’s capture, and the pirate I hated most knew exactly what Charles meant to me.
Nausea like I’d never felt at sea surged through my body. Urgency moved my legs. I flattened a hand against my stomach and shoved my way toward the exit.
Then I saw him.
In the dark corner of the tavern sprawled the king of libertines. His face angled away, but I knew that forked tongue. It had stroked every inch of my skin under a veil of lies, breathing promises that had coiled around my heart and crushed me bit by broken bit.
Priest Farrell.
Notoriously known as the Feral Priest, his moniker was whispered with more fear and reverence than of those who’d ruled the high seas with my father.
I couldn’t see his expression, but that profile was etched permanently in memory. Straight nose, strong jaw, and a dark sweep of lashes over captivating gray eyes that could drill into the deepest, most private places of a woman’s being.
He wore a shadow of stubble on his face and the sides of his head. Strings of beads, thin braids, and long twisted locks wove through the silken mane of brown hair on top, all of which scraped back into a handsome queue.
His given name, Priest, wasn’t what it implied. Surrounded by lewdly dressed women, he was as ungodly and rakish as the doxies who draped their breasts about his shoulders.
With a single look, he could make a proper, God-fearing lady wet between her thighs. His unchristian temper was negligible once a woman set her gaze upon him. There was no man alive who could compete with the well-thewed musculature of his physique or the perfectly sculpted masculinity that shaped his features. He radiated godlike beauty, and he knew it.
When I’d fallen for him, it had happened hard and fast. I’d been as weak then as I was now. It physically hurt to be this close to him.
With my breath stuck in my throat, I backed into the crowd until the press of bodies engulfed my view. Fear ruled my heart rate, and self-preservation kept me moving.
Countless men sought to capture me, but Priest’s pursuit was personal.
He’d been hunting me for two years.
My pulse raced as I hurried toward the exit. A few paces from the door, I caught sight of my master gunner, Chops, who was named after the full sideburns that swallowed his narrow face.
I swept past him, pausing long enough to whisper, “We’re weighing anchor. Gather the others, or I’ll leave without them. Where’s Reynolds?”
“Outside.” He rose from the chair without question, responding to my urgent command just as he would on the ship.
I dashed out the door and found Reynolds leaning against the building with his lips fastened to the neck of a pretty blond girl.
Damn me to hell, my timing was horrible.
He lifted his gaze, sensing me instantly.
“He’s here,” I mouthed and took off.
I didn’t need to elaborate. The pounding of his footsteps caught up and stayed with me through the town, past the tents on the beach, and down the long stretch of the pier.
“Did he see you?” He gripped my arm, halting me at the first jolly boat.
Found you.
“Yes.” With a shiver, I peered out at the dark sea, wishing I could see Jade on the black horizon. “He’s toying with me.”
He released my arm and turned toward the moonlit shore. “I’ll kill him.”
“No.” My chest tightened. “My edict on that hasn’t changed.”
No matter how much I detested Priest, I wouldn’t survive his death.
“Very well.” He untied the boat tethers. “Get in. We’re not waiting for the crew. They can cram into the second jolly boat when they catch up.”
My hands trembled as I patted my hidden dimity pockets. My fingers found the hilt of my dagger, but my other pocket was empty.
Empty. Empty. Empty.
A gasp strangled in my chest. “My compass. It’s missing.”
“God’s blood, Bennett. How?”
He knew it had belonged to my father and that I treasured it above all else. But he didn’t know it was the only map in existence that led to Edric Sharp’s infamous treasure. I’d only ever told two people. Charles was dead, and that left…
“Priest.” My stomach sank. “In the tavern, he sneaked up on me from behind. He must have taken it then.”
“We’re lea
ving without it.” Reynolds grasped my waist and moved to lift me into the boat.
“No!” I pushed back and planted my feet onto the pier. “Release me at once!”
He jerked his hands back with a growl. “I overstepped.”
“Yes, you—”
Footsteps sounded behind me, the tread of a single pair of boots approaching from the shore.
Beads of sweat trickled between my breasts and gathered beneath the stays. I knew that lazy, arrogant gait. I feared it.
So did Reynolds.
“Get in the boat.” He removed the cutlass from the sash at his hips. “Please, Captain.”
Fastened on the shore, his eyes confirmed who was coming, and a war waged across his savage expression.
“I’m not leaving without my compass.” Pushing back my shoulders, I girded my spine and turned to face my biggest mistake.
A few paces away, the pirate leaned against a wooden post. His thumb hooked casually in the straps of leather that wound around his trim hips. His other hand hung at his side, dangling my compass by the chain.
Rancor battled longing. Scorn collided with sadness, and my outrage bowed beneath the helpless, banal attraction I’d always felt for him.
His brown breeches fit him like a glove, the threads molding around powerful thighs and the sizable bulge of his groin. His loose shirt tucked into multiple belts at his waist and laced up his chest to open at the neck. A strong neck, covered in scruff and sinew.
I swallowed thickly, my entire body pulsing with an unwanted ache as my gaze rose to his.
Eyes glinting like polished steel glared down at me. Moonlight cast his prominent features in stark relief—stern forehead, defined cheekbones, perfect nose, full lips—leaving the rest of his face in shadow. The severe straight line of his mouth amplified the intensity in his expression.
He was furious. Seething with two years’ worth of blistering, unresolved ire.
My heart died a thousand deaths before I found my voice. “Priest.”
“Bennett, my love.” He spilled the endearment into the air, each syllable a vicious growl of torment. “How I’ve missed my beautiful, infuriating wife.”
Three years ago, a confident, sexually charged, uncommonly handsome pirate strolled onto my ship. Little did I know, his sinful gray eyes and traitorous mouth would twist my entire world wrong-side-out.
