by Pam Godwin
Shouts rang out in acknowledgment, followed by the cheerful song of working men. Their chanting tune narrated each maritime task, setting the rhythm as they hauled lines and swung yards.
“Destination?” Reynolds stopped me at the companionway, his gold earrings glinting in the sunlight.
I lifted my face, estimating the angle of the wind. “Put her on a beam reach. Due east.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
No, he wanted to know the long-term course. While we cruised the West Indies, plundering Spanish treasure ships and terrorizing the British navy, where were we ultimately headed? What did we want at the end of this? That was always the question, wasn’t it?
The answer resided in my father’s encrypted compass. I needed to find it, solve the puzzle, and follow the map.
“Locate the compass,” I said. “I’ll deal with Priest. Then we’ll go from there.”
But first, I needed to see how our new passengers were faring in the hands of surly old Ipswich.
Reynolds strode away, relaying my orders to the crew. A moment later, canvas rose, and the deck slanted as Jade heeled to leeward, luffing into the teeth of the wind.
I descended to the lower level and made my way to the infirmary.
Ipswich had his back to the door when I slipped in, his hunched sexagenarian frame bent over an occupied bed. I moved to the other bunk and rested my hand on the limp arm of a man who glared at me with glassy brown eyes. He jerked away from my touch and winced in pain.
Bones protruded beneath layers of old bruises and fresh cuts. Blood matted black hair, his face too young to grow a beard. Too young to be in a foreign place without family. My chest squeezed.
I had an idea of what he’d suffered, but I didn’t pretend to understand what he was feeling. Fear? Hatred? Hopelessness? Rage? Whatever it was that hardened his eyes, I couldn’t take it away. Couldn’t make it better.
“Get out!” A gnarled hand whacked my shoulder. “Always in my way, nosing around and— Don’t touch that!” Ipswich smacked me again, knocking my hand from the table of surgeon’s tools.
Undaunted, I pushed around him to check on the other man, whose skin glistened beneath the cold sweat of a fever. “I want an update on your patients.”
“Once you remove your puny carcass from my infirmary, I’ll have them convalescing successfully.”
“Shear off, you miserable shabbaroon, or I’ll be retaliating successfully.” I anchored my hands on my hips and stared at him with a threatening set to my chin. “Let’s hope you’re conducting yourself in a more…gracious way with these men. If I learn otherwise, you shall receive forty stripes lacking one across the bare back. Do I make myself clear?”
“You wouldn’t.” He grunted through a nest of wiry silver hair.
Meeting my eyes, he saw the unflinching promise in them. I didn’t care how old he was, if he didn’t improve his attitude, he would be punished.
“Yes, Captain.” He bowed his bald head. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, Doctor. I believe that will be all.”
I gave the bed-ridden men a parting glance and stepped into the passageway, closing the door behind me. A few yards away, Jobah stood with a shoulder leaning against the wall, his hands clasped behind his back, and the whites of his eyes glowing in the dark.
“Doctor is not…” He rolled his lips together. “Pleasant.”
“He’s the worst. I should run a sword through him.”
“But he helps many people.”
“He follows orders.” I approached him and mirrored his pose, staring up at him. “I’m sorry we were too late to save the ones who weren’t on that ship.” Too late, too often, I thought, sick at heart.
“We saved two.” He smiled softly, his gaze drifting to the door behind me.
It wasn’t enough. Then again, I never claimed to be a savior or a hero of any sort.
When a slave ship crossed my path, I sank it. But I wouldn’t risk Jade or her crew in an attack against an entire island like St. Christopher. Jobah knew my purpose when he joined me, and he never tried to persuade me to change course.
I squeezed his strong shoulder, stretching my arm way up to reach it. His quiet, towering presence intimidated me sometimes. I respected that. It meant he intimidated our enemies, too.
“What about the other one in irons?” He crossed his arms.
“What other one?” I dropped my hand.
“Your mate in the bilge.” He winged up a brow. “When will you save him?”
My breath stilled.
Jobah had been with me throughout my courtship, marriage, and fallout with the king of libertines. Along the way, he and Priest had formed a staunch friendship.
“He doesn’t need saving.” My tone turned icy. “If you intend to free him—”
“I will not interfere. But I’ll tell you this.” He leaned in. “Hear him. Listen.”
“I do, Jobah. He speaks in lies and manipulations.”
“Listen to what he’s not saying.”
I narrowed my eyes. “What do you know? Did he tell you—?”
“I visited him this morning.” He held up his hands. “But if I knew his secrets, you would, too. You have my loyalty, Captain.”
I nodded, trusting him implicitly.
“Whatever you have planned for him, be gentle.” Jobah straightened, his expression somber. “Hurting you has already caused him the greatest pain.”
Every surface of Jade was lifted, scoured, and replaced until my hands and nerves were chafed raw. Planks, doors, walls, ladders, sails, clothing… Even bodies. Every man on board was subjected to a thorough inspection by myself or Reynolds.
The compass remained hidden.
Days bled into a week, and I lost myself in the search, so I might forget the real reason my boots carried me down to the bilge every morning.
My longing for Priest refused to abate.
I tried to heed Jobah’s advice and listen to what Priest didn’t say with words. But every visit yielded the same as the first. He glared in brooding silence. I analyzed every twitch. He demanded my fidelity. I repeated my threats. We argued. He roared, and I left.
I refrained from torture or fornication—with him or anyone else. I tried gentle.
“Gentle doesn’t work with Priest.” I stood alone in my cabin, naked and resolved. “He leaves me no choice.”
I grabbed a peeled orange from the desk, held it to my chest, and squeezed. The juices sluiced down my breasts, and I caught the sticky rivers, rubbing nectar into my skin from shoulders to waist.
With my torso bathed in the fruit, I donned Priest’s shirt. The white one with leather laces he’d left in my cabin a week ago. It hung to my knees and still smelled like him—dark, musky, sinful. But not for long.
From a small sea chest, I removed a bottle of odoriferous water I’d bought from an apothecary some months ago. Removing the cork, I doused my hands and ran them over the shirt. The aroma of clove oil, rosemary, and cinnamon reached my nose, subtle yet strong enough to dilute the scent of orange.
That done, I scrubbed my hands until every trace of pulp was removed from my fingers and nails. Then I made my way to Priest.
At the hatchway to the bilge, I paused, breathed deeply, and gathered my strength.
Yesterday I left him seething with the uncertainty of whether I would return or who I might return with. If my visit today didn’t produce the compass, I would have no choice but to come back with a crewmate and make good on my pledge to fuck another. Probably Reynolds.
But I couldn’t think about that right now. Couldn’t let myself get dragged into the anguish of doing something so shitten.
I needed this to work. If I angered Priest badly enough, he would surrender what I needed and be finished with me.
I can do this.
Cold, hard purpose soaked into my muscles, immersing the panic as I opened the hatch and descended. At the bottom of the ladder, I stood tall and turned slowly.
My heart thundered uncomfortably as we stared at each other.
I felt it then, had prepared myself for it—the mysterious, knee-weakening alchemy that simmered in the air between us.
His beautiful face beckoned, the cast of his hard jaw and chiseled mouth exquisite in the flickering shadows. His bare chest flexed with slabs of muscle, his arms straining with enough power to steady two heavy matchlock guns. Or the weight of my body as he pounded me against the wall.
Yes, I was undeniably attracted to him. But the connection went so much deeper. When he exhaled, my lungs gulped. When he swallowed, my mouth dried. When he blinked, my entire body stilled. And it wasn’t just me.
Everything I did—every breath, heart beat, and word—resulted in consequences and obligations for him. If I ran, he would follow. If I died, he would grieve. If I kissed him, he would harden, lengthen, and groan.
It had been a series of mutual actions that bound us together, and it would take a single concerted blow to permanently tear us apart.
Without breaking eye contact, I put one foot before the other and began an unhurried approach.
Surprise flashed in his gaze, his body stiff with suspicion. He’d expected me to torture him with infidelity, not return to him alone, wearing only his shirt, and stepping within arm’s reach.
He sat with his back against the wall and legs stretched out before him, frozen. His mouth opened, possibly to ask what I was doing. But it snapped shut as he regarded me, seemingly finding the answer in my expression.
Desire flushed my skin, and I parted my lips. Tiny spasms overwhelmed the juncture of my legs, his shirt pulling across my breasts with my quickening breaths. I let him see every reaction he roused in me—my hunger, my vulnerability, the endless ache to mate with no one but my husband.
My body would give me the leverage I needed with him. If not today, then with another man in front of him. I counted on that. And dreaded it.
A water bucket for washing sat near his foot. I kicked it, sending it skidding and sloshing out of the reach of his chain. Then I stepped over him and planted my bare feet on either side of his hips.
His hands instantly went to my ankles, sparking a delicious fever across my skin as they slid upward, caressing the backs of my calves, behind my knees, and beneath the hem of the shirt.
Heat rolled off him in waves, his gaze never leaving mine. A lump constricted my airway, and my strength abandoned me.
I sank onto his lap, straddling him, and God help me, he felt like home.
He gripped the laces of the shirt and hauled me into him, angling for my lips. I turned my head, and his mouth caught the corner of mine, lingering, panting soundlessly.
Neither of us moved, stunned by the excruciating touch. Or perhaps fearful the slightest shift would sever it.
Heart pulsations beat by. His exhales soaked my lips. My hands locked on his shoulders. Rock-hard thighs supported my bottom, and his shirtless torso pressed in, making me warm all over.
He rested his brow against mine, and our noses slid together, side by side, affectionately nudging.
Fingers touched my face. Four points of contact curving around my cheek. Assertive warmth searing my skin. I wanted nothing more than to melt into him.
So much of my life had been submerged in sadness. Loneliness in my childhood, grief over losing my parents, Priest’s devastating perfidy—all of it lay waste to my emotions and shaped my darkest dreams.
I ached for every minuscule portion of affection my husband was willing to dole out. Pathetic.
My thoughts swam in a nebulous jumble as the impulse to devour him battled the instinct to bash his head against the wall. But the moment his lips kissed a languid path across mine, I was ensnared.
He plunged deep into my mouth, hunting my tongue and humming a voracious groan. Pleasure coiled. Madness threatened, and my inner muscles clenched in a shuddering frenzy.
His hand collared my neck, and the other palmed my backside, yanking me against the grind of his pelvis. The feverish sensation coaxed a moan from my throat, and the sensual roll of his hips dragged my focus to the source of all our misery—his heavy, swollen cock.
Awareness that he was my husband flooded my logic. My nose knew his scent. My tongue knew his taste. My hands recognized the soft texture of his hair, and my body sang in invitation, heating and growing slick with need.
He broke the kiss to put his mouth at my ear. “You’re so hungry, my beautiful girl. So responsive.”
The roughened texture of his accent shoved me to the brink of orgasm. God’s wounds, how I missed his heated words, the whisper of them across my flesh in the throes of passion.
His hands moved, roving beneath the shirt and unerringly finding the deep scar on my belly. His fingers shook as they traced the jagged, puckered skin before sailing up my abdomen, molding around my breasts, and closing painfully on my nipples.
With that, the plan was set. Now that he’d touched my chest, it would only take a few minutes to soak in.
Already, with his hands on my damp skin, confusion creased his forehead. Why was I sticky? Why did I let him touch me in the first place? He should have been voicing those questions and pushing me away. But evidently, he wanted me too much to listen to the warnings.
His lips returned to mine, his tongue a wicked conqueror, pillaging the recesses of my mouth and demanding participation. His arousal stabbed my bottom, and I opened to him—my lips, my arms, my legs—drawing him tighter against me, locking my thighs around his hips, and bearing down on his hard length in my fierce need to get closer to him.
His breath stirred the hair that had fallen across my cheek as he rocked into me, savagely miming the movements of lovemaking. Every jab of his hips fed my hunger for him, driving me into blistering madness.
“Bennett.” His palms chased the lines of my body beneath the shirt, stroking and kneading my breasts. “Just touching you makes my hands burn.”
It wasn’t me causing that reaction, and in another minute, he would figure that out.
Time to pull away.
Leaning back, I didn’t move as if I were putting a stop to this. I shifted my weight, adjusting my legs to stand. But I did it seductively, slipping a hand between my thighs and stroking my soaked flesh as I slowly rose to my feet.
The motion of my fingers seized his attention. He gripped my knees, not to prevent me from standing but to spread me wider for his smoldering, gluttonous gaze.
I made a scandalous show of it, fondling and fingering myself only a breath away from his mouth. Close enough to taunt him with the scent of my desire.
Sweat formed on his temples. His breathing hastened. Every visible muscle hardened, and his pupils swallowed the gray of his eyes, giving him the appearance of a feral, mindless predator.
In a blink, his shoulders thrust forward, his face coming for my cunt. But I was ready for it, my feet already moving in an agile dance to evade him.
He missed me by a hairsbreadth. I kept backing up, dodging the swipe of his hand. With a roar of frustration, he rose to his full height and lunged.
The chain snapped taut, halting his advance and yanking his leg out from under him. He landed just short of reaching me, on his knees, with his fists grinding against the wooden planks. When he lifted his eyes, his savage glare—consumed by fire, fury, and hunger—glowed from beneath a thick shadow of lashes.
“Come here, Bennett.” His voice scraped like the coarse sand of a seashore. He went for his breeches, his fingers blindly fumbling with the laces. “I need inside you.”
“Yes, I know. You need a lover like I need the sea. I suppose you could say we both long for the dark wet depths of a demanding mistress.”
I retreated until my bottom hit the barrel. I perched there, legs spread, with my hand between my thighs. “But you can’t have me. Not anymore.”
He sat back on his heels, cast a fleeting glance at his palm, and dismissed the bubbling redness so that he could turn that vicious scowl back on me.
“You’re intent on continuing with this plan?” His jaw clenched around every word. “You wish to torture me.”
“Is it torture watching me like this?”
I hadn’t stopped touching myself, my fingers stirring the slick juices around my opening. It felt nice, as it should have. I’d done this often enough over the past two years, alone in my chamber, wishing for companionship while thinking only of my husband.
But this time, I didn’t have to fashion him in my mind. The sheer scope of muscle laid bare before me made my hand stroke faster, harder, squelching damp, turgid flesh and infusing the space with the sounds of my wetness.
He remained on his knees, his perfect arse resting on his heels as he strained forward, nostrils widening as if scenting the air.
Powerfully built in a way that could only be considered desirable, he was a beast in his prime. His shoulders had deep indentations where sturdy bones met thick tendons. His hands made lethal fists on his thighs, his chest rising and falling, arms tensing, every inch of him smooth and hard-surfaced.
Beneath the thinly woven fabric of his breeches, he was long and contoured, fully aroused and well-endowed, larger than any man I had ever felt between my legs.
A wash of memories rushed through me, funneling heat from my chest to my belly and lower, where fat slicks of moisture gathered and leaked out. It had been a long time since I’d been this aroused, the evidence streaking my fingers and thighs and holding his rapt attention.
So much so, he didn’t seem to notice how he was rubbing his hands on his breeches, scratching his itchy palms. A sure sign he was suffering from more than just a neglected erection.
I paused my stroking and drew a salty finger into my mouth.
He froze, tracking the movement as if carried away in an ecstatic trance. The muscles in his jaw locked, his eyes glowing like cauldrons of molten ore.
