by Andrea Jones
Monsieur Guillaume was right. Pierre-Jean felt a fool, pinning his hopes on a fickle girl. Such was his nature. He was a romantic; he had a soft spot for women other men didn’t appreciate. But he assured himself he was over Mrs. Hanover, or soon would be. Apparently she was appreciated, now— by the captain.
Despite de Lerroné’s gossip of Red-Handed Jill boarding the Red Lady, Pierre-Jean felt certain of the identity of Captain Cecco’s late-night lover. His instinct never failed him. And he was savvy enough to know that, whatever amusement Mrs. Hanover might have planned with himself in the brig, an opportunity to be petted by a higher-ranking man was like catnip for the feral little female. In Pierre-Jean’s fantasy, she was the witch as well as the princess. A few months ago, she had thrown herself at the commodore. It was no surprise that she’d target Captain Cecco as the next best prize.
Jacquot had brought Pierre-Jean’s breakfast, gruel that turned pasty and bland as the galley mate explained that he’d been unable to deliver Pierre-Jean’s warning. Mrs. Hanover’s whereabouts remained unknown to Mr. Yulunga because before the message arrived, the massive first mate had dozed off. No one dared to wake him, and certainly not for the delivery of bad news.
On his way toward his hammock, Pierre-Jean passed the door to Mr. Yulunga’s cabin. It was usually closed, and was so this morning. Always before, if he was alone, Pierre-Jean paused to lay his ear against the rough wood of its panel, listening for Mrs. Hanover’s movements. He never heard her speak or sing, of course— she was no Rapunzel— but if the ship was quiet, he might catch the rustle of pages turning, or the snip of her scissors.
This morning he forced himself to ignore her door, telling himself that he was already shifting his interest. When allowed ashore again, he would set his sights on the pretty, dimpled native lady. Jacquot had lamented that Red Fawn was distressed by Flambard’s demise. As Pierre-Jean demonstrated with Mrs. Hanover, he had a talent for comforting. It didn’t hurt, either, that his hair was so fair and his eyes so blue. A fetching Frenchman like himself was not often seen in these parts. Cheered, he straightened his back and marched proudly past Mrs. Hanover’s door.
And then he stopped dead. He heard a sound that didn’t belong in a first officer’s quarters. Angling his head toward the door, he listened again. He was sure of it now. It was a rhythmic chink of chains.
Pierre-Jean looked at the calico cat, who stared back at him. No one else was about; Monsieur Guillaume had returned to the Island, where most of the Red Lady’s sailors remained, and the watch were posted topside. Curious, Pierre-Jean grasped the door handle, and gently turned it. Pushing it open an inch, he pressed his eye to the crack. Instantly, his fascination for the little Mrs. rekindled.
She had pulled a paisley bolster off the bunk, and was sitting on it, on the floor. Like Cinderella, she was clothed in a tattered shift. Her slender body showed through the sheer frock, casting her delicate pale skin in an even more vulnerable light. Remnants of Captain LeCorbeau’s fabrics and furnishings softened the room, muffling the sounds she was making and lending her an air of gentility. To Pierre-Jean’s eyes, she appeared the demoiselle of his dreams.
He could see the bump of her abdomen, where her baby grew. She wore an unusual expression on her face. Not, he mused, unusual for a woman, but odd for Mrs. Hanover. She appeared content, sitting there, mesmerized by the length of chain she plucked up and dropped, over and again, on the floor. She seemed spellbound by its music. Pierre-Jean blinked, then understood that he wasn’t imagining it; the chain was a manacle, and at the end of its measure it trussed Mrs. Hanover’s ankle to the bedstead.
The metal fetter seemed cruel in the context of an expectant mother. His Gallic heart ached as he viewed this tragic scene— fair damsel, locked away in her tower. With no thought for the consequences, her champion flung the door wide, and he ran to her.
She startled at first, gasping. When he knelt by her side and took her in his arms, she smiled and melted against his neck. He felt her shoulders lift and fall as she sighed. He felt her contentment, and he didn’t know why he, the hero, felt afraid.
He didn’t try to make conversation, English or otherwise. As always, he relied upon his hands. His touch roamed her body, and his fingers settled on the firm flesh stretched over her baby. As he leaned down to kiss it, her chain tinkled again, and even though Captain Cecco was across the bay on the sand, Pierre-Jean caught the resonance of his captain’s voice.
Be warned, my boy.
Pierre-Jean shuddered, and pulled away from the girl, only to lose himself in her big gray eyes, that beckoned him back.
She will be the death of you.
Impassive to passion, the calico cat sat in the doorway with her tail curled around herself, purring.
✽ ✽ ✽
The bo’sun’s whistle shrilled over Neverbay, one last time. The men of the Roger and the men of Red Lady congregated before the commodore’s pavilion, milling about and craning for a view of their officers. After last night’s upsets, no one knew what to expect this morning.
Alf Mason elbowed Noodler to make room, treading on his toes. “Sorry, mate…but get an eyeful of poor Mr. Nibs. Rot my bones if he ain’t peaky.”
“At least he still be breathing. Od’s my life, he got the best of that Frenchy.” Noodler rubbed his aching foot on his leg, and waved toward Tom with a backward hand. “His brother did his best to take bo’sun’s duty last night, all by his lonesome.”
“There’s a good sign,” Mason said, catching sight of a familiar auburn head emerging from the tent. “Mr. Smee’s back in charge.”
“Aye, I’m that glad. Look what happened while he were banished. Flambard’s gizzard got slit, the lady jumped ship and— Rip my jib, here she be!”
Smee upheld the tent flap and the pirates murmured in surprise as Red-Handed Jill stepped from the interior into the morning sunshine. Commodore Hook and Captain Cecco followed her. The sailors voiced their approval, smiling widely to see Jill at her customary place upon Hook’s arm, the usual jewels gleaming at her throat. The lady hadn’t deserted them after all. The rumors that stormed the beach last night became so much hot air. Likewise, the hostility the men expected to feel bristling between the captain and the commodore failed to materialize, and although Mr. Smee appeared somewhat haggard in his torn white shirt, he stood tall at Hook’s side, his hands clasped behind his waist and his eyes scanning the crowd as always, alert for any laxity in discipline.
Contrary to the company’s expectation, Captain Cecco, dressed head to toe in his finest garb, addressed them first. “Good morning to you, men. I begin this bright new day by clearing the air. I wish for you all to hear.” He turned to Smee and declared, “My sincere apology, Mr. Smee, for visiting my temper upon you.”
Mr. Smee was prepared for this announcement, as demonstrated by his even demeanor. With his face bruised but devoid of emotion, he nodded to Cecco. “Apology accepted, Captain. And I offer mine to you.” Relieved, the men cheered the two officers as they clasped their right arms together and emphasized their accord with a shake.
Mason nudged Noodler. “That’s our Smee. He was boiling last night, and not a hint of smug about him now.”
“And that be our Cecco. A man what knows when to bend.” Noodler’s gold teeth gleamed as he glanced around to see pleased looks on the others’ faces. Both ships’ companies relaxed as their officers sealed the peace. Next, Cecco turned to the commodore. With eager expressions, the mariners observed the two powerful men.
Captain Cecco laid his hand on his heart, saying, “Commodore, once again I swear my loyalty. I stand ready to serve as you command.” He bowed, and the sunshine glinted off his armbands.
As Cecco straightened, Hook gripped his shoulder. “A welcome gesture, Captain, and I am gratified.” The commodore faced the company. “Jolly Roger; Red Lady. On this glorious morning,” he raised his hook high, in triumph, “we rise united.”
The atmosphere filled with the lusty voices of his men,
roughened from their night of carousing, but all the more potent for it. Sailors every one, they understood the magic of their brotherhood. The tempests they weathered bound them more forcibly than smoother waters. They clapped and hollered, stamping their feet in the gritty sand. When the lady kissed Cecco’s cheek, then Smee’s, and then embraced Hook, their whistles rent the air, more strident than the bo’sun’s pipe.
Hook dismissed them, and, setting to work with a will, the pirates cleared the beach, loading the boats to row back to their ships. They sang as they worked, their stomachs growling as the smells of breakfast from the ships’ galleys wafted their way.
While the men removed the pavilion’s furnishings and its silken sides shivered down, Hook and Jill stood apart with Cecco. “We shall rest today, Captain,” the commodore said, careful not to let the poison in his voice be overheard. “But make no mistake. Tomorrow, we three have matters to attend.”
With two fingers, Cecco touched his forehead in salute. His eyes smoldered as he looked into Jill’s. “Aye, Commodore,” he answered, his tone low but vibrant. “Against our foe, we rise united.”
Jill linked an arm with each of them, Hook on her right, and Cecco at her left. “Gentlemen,” she said, her soul set aglow as she soaked up their strength. “To the ship.”
✽ ✽ ✽
“Good news, little girl. I am back to free you.” Yulunga drew a ring of keys from his pocket. He shut his cabin door and strode toward his mistress where she reclined on the bolster by the bunk. Her cheeks were tinged with pink and her shift mussed and torn, one strap hanging off her shoulder. He flung the dress she had abandoned onto the bed.
As if to distract him from her misdeeds, she wasn’t watching that dress as it cascaded over the pillows. Instead, Mrs. Hanover gazed up at her master, so high above her, his head bent to fit under the ceiling. As always, Yulunga’s quarters constricted around his presence. Her heart filled with that mixture on which she throve— friction, and thrill. Realizing he awaited some words, she ventured, “Welcome home, Sir.”
He surveyed her lone earring, seeing it quiver. “You seem frightened.” He hunkered down to look her full in the face. His deep voice mocked her. “Not to worry. I will give you what you deserve.” The keys dropped from his hand to crash on the floor, and with his huge hands he tore the remnants of her shift from her body. The screech of it filled her ears.
She shrank from him, but he took her in his arms, bodily, and ran his lips along her neck, kneading and biting the tender flesh there. Once she relaxed in his hold, he used his fingers to stroke her, and, as she opened to him, to please her. By now, his hands were expert in her inclinations. As the chain juddered with her response, he smiled and silently agreed with Cecco’s counsel. Mrs. Hanover craved his generosity, and to accommodate her stoked his pride. Now that he was free to revel in his mistress, his wicked side savored the rebellion she embodied.
Liking to keep her off balance, Yulunga unhooked the one golden loop from his ear. This piece was the match to her own, and a prize she’d long coveted. He threaded it through her empty earlobe, sensing her excitement as he pushed it into place. When he brushed her hair aside to view it, he felt something stiff among the strands. Pulling it free, he held it up.
He raised his eyebrows. “Well, Mrs. Hanover. You have sprouted a stalk of straw.”
The sublime look on her face altered, replaced by alarm.
“You cannot have gone to the brig. It looks like the brig came to you.”
Her hand crept up to guard her new earring.
He sighed, and shook his head. Then he bit the straw, holding it between his teeth. He nudged her. “Do you like your chains?”
Unsure what response to give, she stared at her master. The earring tugged with a seductive weight. The iron hold of the shackle, warmed with her body heat, kept her primed on the brink of bliss. Finally, she nodded.
“Say it.”
“Yes. I like my chains.”
“I thought so.” He smiled, picked up the key ring, and tossed it in a drawer. As he divested himself of his breeches, Mrs. Hanover nearly fainted. The straw bobbed as he worked it in his jaws.
She wasn’t watching that.
CHAPTER 26
Shades of Promise
In the aftermath of the abduction, Jill spent the day in the commodore’s quarters, her body enfolded in her lover’s arms and her emotions whirling within. After their early exchange in the pavilion, she and Hook remained silent on the subject. Communing in their own unspoken way, each contemplated the situation. Hook, too, had suffered an ordeal, and Jill returned his care for her. Still, the need for action roiled beneath the surface, like the convergence of river and sea.
Together, they watched the reflection of the sun on the waves as it shivered and slid on the beams above them. As the day ended and the moon took its place, Hook played to Jill on his harpsichord, choosing music to delight her— until she insisted he should express his own feeling, too. With one hand and one hook, he discharged such a fury of sound on the keys that Smee made excuse to knock, fearing for the commodore’s instrument.
This following morning Hook had ordered the copper bathing tub to his cabin, filled by buckets of water that came steaming from the galley. Behind the crimson curtain, in a world all their own, Hook and Jill luxuriated together, sponging one another with tender touches, and toweling their dampness dry. Jill was grateful that although the adversity she’d experienced brought distress, it might also render consolation. She sorrowed to consider that Cecco, too, must need relief from the torments of rage, and she anticipated their meeting later today.
Serenaded by the sounds of the ship, Jill sat alone now at her escritoire. The water on the hull whispered to her, and the wooden planks crooned, adding their atmosphere to her stories. Jill drew the final flourishes on her parchment, then sanded the ink. As always, the facets of the Neverland endowed her works with an abundance of inspiration. She had captured the story of Smaoigh first, titled ‘Something from Nothing,’ to add to her tales of the sailors. The second narrative was rather more private, but, having penned it, Jill felt a weight lift from her heart. Her art was cathartic.
As she stowed her pen, Hook’s footsteps tapped the companionway. He rejoined her, announcing, “My love, we are honored with guests.” Rowan and Lightly entered in his wake. Jill sprang from her chair and hurried to embrace the young men.
“How welcome you are, my dears. I’ve just set down our most recent adventures. Please, sit with us and tell us of yours.”
The two Indians greeted her, and Lightly explained, “We got approval from the elders to meet with you here.” He slipped a pack off his back, and gestured to it. “They understand I have a duty to my mother, and also to my brother. While we’re aboard, we’ll have a word with Nibs and Tom. We heard Nibs was wounded.”
“Yes, he was still woozy yesterday, but Mr. Smee has pronounced him recovered. He regrets his lost kerchief, though.”
The Indians settled cross-legged on the Oriental carpets. Observing her son, Jill noted that, increasingly, Lightly resembled his native hosts. The fair hair beneath his headband only got lighter with his days in the sun, but soon it would be bountiful enough to braid. Long past the smoothness of boyhood, his skin smelled of wind and woods, and looked to be tanning toward russet. Lightly’s rangy arms were banded with leather, and bulged with new strength. Like Rowan, Lightly moved with a tranquil grace that served him well in his chosen calling. Jill felt a rush of pride. As with all her sons, she was gratified by his progress.
“What have you brought for me?” Glad for the distraction of company, Jill perched on the sofa, spreading her skirts of amber satin. Hook was, however, more restless; he refused to be seated. With his mind at work upon their difficulties, he chose to pace behind Jill where she sat on the divan. The rich, shimmering velvet of his long tawny coat matched the leonine look in his eye.
As if to gauge his mood, Lightly studied Hook, then he unrolled his pack. “Rowan and I of
fer our apologies, Ma’am, which we hope you’ll accept along with this.” As he worked, the orange-yellow pelt of Jill’s tigress was revealed in its glory. Lightly hoisted it to place it on her lap. It was warm and heavy over her legs, reminding her of the lion skin that, as a girl in Pan’s hideout, she had treasured. Her son and his partner had tanned this pelt to perfection, and the coat glowed in the afternoon light of Neverbay. The fur felt plush and pliant under Jill’s fingers.
“How beautiful this fur is,” she said. But as she admired the tigress, Jill frowned. “If she hadn’t been about to devour David, I’d have never killed her.” She raised her blood-red hand, observing it with an air of detachment. “I am told I made peace with her, although from the frenzy that followed my first kill, my memory is clouded.”
Lightly grinned. “You underwent the rite you foretold, long ago in the hideout. It’s your Story of Red-Handed Jill. I think that one’s my favorite. I told it to the children at the Clearing yesterday.”
“It is the end of that story that I treasure most.” Jill sent a loving look to Hook, and her heart fluttered as she remembered. The Pirate King fell in love with her…
He bowed to her. “In this respect, Madam, as in most, we are in accord.”
Smiling, Jill turned again to her son. “Thank you, Lightly, and Rowan. I shall honor the memory of this noble creature.”
“As for our apology,” Lightly explained, “we admit that Mrs. Hanover outfoxed us. We underestimated her courage, never thinking she’d run alone into the night, putting herself at risk from beasts like this one.”
Hook scoffed. “It seems no beast is too fearsome for that one’s taste. The more dangerous, the more desirable she finds it.”
“Lightly,” Jill said, growing solemn, “although Mrs. Hanover caused confusion, she was not the source of misfortune last night. The true trouble began with someone else. You must hear what occurred.”
