Pirate Code

by Helen Hollick

  He tugged at one of the ribbons to her garter, pulled the silk loose and drifted his fingers higher; found the soft flesh of her inner thigh that he had so tantalisingly glimpsed earlier.

  “Captain Acorne, I assure you I have no intention of reporting anything of interest to del Gardo.”

  Leaning seductively forward, not believing a word of it, Jesamiah carefully placed his mouth over hers in a lingering, intimate and erotic kiss.

  ‘Cesca threaded her arms about his neck, parted her lips wider and wriggled her hip into his groin, moaned as his fingers delved higher and found their destination. Del Gardo had never inflamed her desire like this. With him it was flat on your back, skirt up, a moment of bruising discomfort and it was all over. Her husband had been a lover, he had touched and aroused her – but not like this! This was exquisite! She began to undo the buttons of Jesamiah’s breeches, realising suddenly that her assurance of saying nothing was perfectly true. She had no intention of making love with Jesamiah Acorne in order to riddle information out of him. Del Gardo could go suck himself. This was for her!

  Sensuously, she eased her fingers inside his open breeches, was surprised and disappointed to find he was not ready for her. Hesitating, she withdrew her hand. Surely she did not have to perform those same degrading acts with this pirate to get him erect as she did for del Gardo?

  The sharp knocking on the door made her jump.

  “Shit,” Jesamiah muttered beneath his breath. “What? What d’ye want?”

  From beyond the closed door the steward answered: “Coffee Capitán. And I am to inform you the headland is in sight.”

  Bugger, they had sailed faster than Jesamiah had estimated. With a rueful grin of apology he kissed ‘Cesca again, lighter, but still on her mouth, and re-buttoned himself. “Sorry darlin’ ye’ll ‘ave t’interrogate me another day.”

  He retrieved his hat and cutlass, heaved on his coat and opened the door. Taking his coffee from the man waiting outside, he hurried back on deck where he took a gulp of the hot, black liquid and closed his eyes in relief. What he would have done had the steward not salvaged his potential embarrassment he did not know – or care to think about. Never, ever, had he not had an erection with a woman. Never.

  He should not have thought of Tiola; how her legs were smoother, more slender than ‘Cesca’s. How she would wrap them around his hips and draw him right in… Oh God! He leant his back against the mast, rested his head on its upright solidity acutely aware of his own, opposite, state.

  He wanted Tiola. He did not want, for all her pretty green eyes, latest fashion, poise and elegance, an English woman who was widow to a Spaniard, mistress to del Gardo and very probably the tale-tattler whom Jennings had hoped he would unearth. He wanted Tiola, damn it! Tiola!

  Furious, ashamed at his impotence, he hurled the china cup away throwing it, with an explicit oath, into the sea. Stood where he was, head back, eyes closed. And the rain began to drizzle, dabbing gently at his upturned face.

  Fourteen

  Sunday Evening

  Tiola sat, staring out of the stern windows of Stefan’s sloop. This cabin was much smaller, not as grand as Jesamiah’s beautiful ship. It was a comfortable cabin, plush velvet, walnut furniture, white-painted walls. Beyond this small room was a dining area, beyond that a cupboard that had the grandiose impertinence to call itself a bedchamber. All of it was tasteful, luxurious and elegant. How she longed for the untidiness and those two gape-mouthed cannons in Jesamiah’s muddle of a great cabin!

  Stefan sat at his desk writing letters, scratching away with his quill. The noise, scritch, scritch, scritch, was driving Tiola insane. She wanted to jump up, scream and shout at him. Wanted to demand to know where they were headed, but she just sat here, staring, staring at the sea, listening to Tethys mocking her.

  ~ You are too weak to fight me? Ah, what a pity, I was looking forward to the enjoyment of destroying you. I will get no pleasure from your defeat if you do not try to fight back. ~

  Tiola made no answer.

  ~ You are a creature of the Earth, Tiola Oldstagh, you have no authority over me. ~

  That was only half true. Tiola could not command Tethys, but she could cajole, bargain with, or trick her. At the very least she should be able to protect herself from the mental battering that Tethys was giving her. But she just sat, staring. And listening.

  She was weak, her ability had been drained to its lowest ebb. She was like a plant left overlong in a pot where the water had run dry. Bloom, leaves and stem drooping, on the verge of curling up and withering to dust. All it needed was fresh water and the plant would regain its life and beauty. Except, in Tiola’s case it was not water she needed but land, the solidity of the goodly Earth to regenerate the power-giving life force that had sapped away from her.

  She gazed out at the sea-salt encrusted glass of the windows, and all she saw was the grey, rain-laden sky and the even greyer sea.

  Fifteen

  On the quarterdeck, squinting upward at the main truck from where Señor Escudero’s flag streamed and cracked, Jesamiah assessed how long it would be before the fine drizzle turned to heavier rain. The highest point of the island was wreathed in black cloud, a sullen mist blanketing everything above eight hundred feet.

  He spoke to the tillerman, a member of the regular crew who knew these waters. “Wind’s shifted. Let her fall off a couple of points if you will; we’ll weather this headland as close as we can. Hope we can make harbour before the next dousing hits us.”

  “I am not certain, Capitán…” the man began in hesitant English, then faltered to silence at Jesamiah’s formidable stare.

  “Not certain of what?”

  “Nada. Nothing Capitán.”

  The tiller creaked over, Jesamiah watched the sails and compass like a hawk, several hands ran to re-trim the yards and braces. At least they were shifting their sorry backsides a bit quicker now.

  “Land on the lee bow!” someone called in Spanish, anxiety thick in his voice. Then, “Almost dead ahead, Capitán!”

  Although he had not been to the village of Puerto Vaca or plied this coast for several years, Jesamiah knew these waters better than this fragile crew. They had never had to smuggle a cargo of contraband ashore, had never run hard on a tide while clinging like limpets to concealing shadows. The headland, a bluff of mist-shrouded scrub and tree-covered rock, seemed very close, but knowing its apparent nearness was nothing more than a misleading illusion, he was unconcerned. Even so, if this wind veered suddenly they would find it hard to claw away again.

  He had been a mere lad the first time he had sailed here aboard the Mermaid. As he grew in height and ability, he had progressed to foretopman and after they had escaped from that tower, Malachias had made him quartermaster, second in command. The promotion had hurt at first, knowing he was replacing a good friend whom he had watched die. But as Malachias had said, life moves on, it’s no good standing still and letting it sail without you.

  She had been a good craft, the Mermaid; shallow on the draft and with a turn of speed that under normal circumstances no lumbering excisemen or guardships could hope to match. He had been almost as fond of her as he was of the Sea Witch. He smiled at the thought of her, his beloved ship. No use thinking of Sea Witch; Rue would take care of her, and for all his knowledge of these waters, if he did not concentrate then these dolts who liked to think of themselves as sailors, would be justified with their growing apprehension about the imminent likelihood of running aground.

  “Leadsman to the chains if you please,” Jesamiah called. “Begin sounding in five minutes. Take in the foresail.”

  “May I bring her up a point Capitan?” asked the man at the tiller, a tremor quivering his anxious words.

  “Si.” Peering up at the masthead Jesamiah felt the rain grow heavier.

  It would soon change to a downpour, not that it mattered, he was wet anyway from the spray; it would be nice to see a bit of sunshine for a change though.

  The fore
sail was flapping and booming up to its yard, the men spread above it fisting and bullying the canvas into place. Forward, the leadsman’s arm was rotating slowly, then he released the line and watched it splash down over the bow. A pause. “By the mark, nine!”

  The tillerman kept his gaze fixed on the compass. Jesamiah could imagine what he was thinking, that he was waiting for the sound of something scraping along the hull, then the jolt as they hit the shallows or submerged rocks. Few sailors could swim, and there were sharks skulking in these waters.

  “And a quarter less nine,” the leadsman called after another cast. There was plenty of water below their keel. Jesamiah had run in closer than this on the Mermaid, but then, the Kismet was not a ship he knew intimately. He did not know what he could or could not ask of her, and like all females she had a mind of her own. The land rose up, almost sheer, ahead of the bowsprit.

  “By the mark seven…by the mark…mierda Capitán! Cinco – five!”

  Thirty feet of water. “If you cannot restrain your opinions mi amigo, I suggest you give the lead to someone more competent,” Jesamiah remarked drily. He lifted his telescope, studied the land. The mist shrouded much of it, but he could make out trees giving way to meadows and wind-driven, white-laced foam running up onto a strip of sanded beach. The wilder spume of water boiling against a straggle of rocks beneath the jutting headland. He lowered the glass. “Bring her up two points.”

  The braces squealed and the yards groaned as the men, relieved, leapt to do as he bid, and as the Kismet headed up further to windward and the headland swung backwards, the rain moved into the widening gap between.

  “You’d best go below, Señora. The moment we round the shelter of this point we will be drenched.” Jesamiah said to ‘Cesca who had appeared on deck, a cloak thrown over her gown, which, he noticed, was now without its support of hoops.

  “I do not mind the rain,” she answered, tying the laces of her cloak tighter and gripping the hood with her left hand. “I am enjoying the freedom. Being here with you is unexpectedly invigorating. I had forgotten what enjoyment is.”

  “A Dios gracias! By the mark nine!” the leadsman shouted. Deeper water. The cheering shot upward towards the sky.

  “Stand by to wear ship! Stop that fokken noise you men! Anyone would think we’d been about to drown, what’s the matter with you? You think I don’t know how t’sail a boat? Hands to braces, look sharp there!”

  Topmen scurrying to obey, were of a sudden impressed by Jesamiah’s seamanship. He barked orders with the menacing growl of a fighting dog. That too, was beginning to impress them.

  The tiller went over, and Jesamiah reached out to steady ‘Cesca as the boat heeled, the deck tipping at a steep angle. The woman grabbed for a backstay, however, and he moved aside.

  Kismet rounded the headland and the full force of wind and rain hit them.

  “You really ought to get below!” Jesamiah shouted above the roar of the wind. “It ain’t a good idea for you to be out ‘ere. You there, that man! Where the fok d’ye think ye be runnin’ to? All ‘ands on deck means all bloody ‘ands, including your pretty white lilies!”

  ‘Cesca did not want to be in the warm and dry. She would be quite content wrapped in this pirate’s arms, her head resting against his chest. He had smelt of tar and hemp and rum. Of masculine sweat and desire. His exploring fingers had excited her, made her want him badly, surely had they not been interrupted he would have responded to her?

  “I am happy here,” she said, lowering her lashes before raising them to meet his eyes. To her fury, he deliberately turned away.

  Bowling onward, lifting and swooping over the churn of rain-lashed rollers, Kismet steadied and headed, straight for the river mouth that neatly dissected the white sands of the shore.

  From what he could see, the village had not changed. A sprawl of haphazardly placed timber buildings ranging along the western bank of the river. The church at the top of the street, and sitting a little higher than the village was of stone, its white-limed walls standing out like a shout in front of the green foliage of the crowding forest which stretched upward into the spread of hills behind.

  On the east bank opposite the village, black mangroves heaved with their customary population of birds. Pelicans, herons, oystercatchers and frigates, all eager to grub for the shrimps, shellfish and smallfry that made their home among the dangling tangle of roots. There were crocodiles too, Jesamiah noticed. One on the shore, a couple resembling floating logs, in the water. A sudden flurry of spray, all the birds took flight, calling and shrieking in alarm. All except one, which fluttered wildly but in vain as, screeching, it was dragged under by a pair of tight-gripping jaws. Within moments the birds resettled to their foraging.

  Pretending he had not noticed ‘Cesca’s disappointed scowl Jesamiah pointed ahead. “You’ll soon be ashore in the dry, Señora. We timed it well, another half hour and it will be dark.” He had a ship to sail, and the woman’s presence was becoming most distracting. Best to ignore her; the open deck of her father-in-law’s ship was not the place to complete unfinished business.

  Bugger, he thought, shoving aside the erotic image and feel of his fingers poking beneath her gown. It’s a bit bloody late to be getting it up now!

  Kismet was a handy, obliging little craft; she luffed neatly up to the jetty, the crew, now they were certain of what was beneath them – mud and sand – working quickly and efficiently. ‘Cesca said not another word. As soon as they were made fast Jesamiah sent her ashore with two men to accompany her. Despite the rain and their renewed grumbling, the remaining crew were ordered to make everything tidy. He had never left Sea Witch looking like a tattered whore; nor would he leave the Kismet so.

  When he finally stepped ashore a slave boy, waiting patiently in the rain, handed him a curt note. Written orders to attend the harbour master in his office. Why was he not surprised to receive yet another hostile welcome? What was it with these Spanish? Had he grown horns and a forked tail or something?

  Sixteen

  “Look, I carry only ballast. Shingle and rock. We’re heading down the coast but I didn’t fancy continuing in this foul weather, not with the Señora aboard. So if I am not importing anything how the hell do you work out I have to pay import tax on top of a mooring fee?” Jesamiah’s fingers were twitching towards where his ribbons would be; this oaf before him, the harbour master, was a bald-headed, round-bellied, money-grubbing idiot. He’d not yet met a harbour master who wasn’t.

  For the third time Jesamiah repeated himself, slowly and clearly in precise Spanish. “I have nothing to unload. My hold is empty.”

  “But you brought things ashore.”

  “Sí. My passenger, Señora Ramon Escudero, had her clothes’ trunk with her. She is a woman, what do you expect? Women always travel with a hold full of luggage.”

  “Then you have a passenger, so there will be duty to pay.” The harbour master held out his hand. “Pay me, mariner, or I will impound your boat and have you thrown in gaol.”

  Jesamiah gave up the argument and fished into his pocket for a handful of coins. “You’d better bloody keep a close eye on her mate; if I find one scratch on her hull because you’ve allowed some lubber to moor too close I’ll shove these pieces of eight where the sun ain’t ever goin’ t’shine. Understand?”

  Jesamiah slammed them down on to the neat and tidy desk, scrawled his name against that of the Kismet in the harbour book and stomped out.

  Cramming his hat tight on to his head and tucking in his chin, he ran up the incline of the cobbled road to the Sickle Moon, a tavern slumped beneath an overhang of rocks. Those rocks had probably hung suspended from the hillside for centuries but had always appeared precariously dangerous to Jesamiah’s eye. A painted sign of a new moon hung from a bracket fastened to the rock face. Pausing, his hand on the doorlatch, he took a quick glance up the narrow, steep, street. No one. The place was deserted. Hardly surprising with the rain lashing down like this, anyone with an ounce of
sense was tucked safe indoors. He peered the other way, down towards the harbour and caught a glimpse of a shadowed figure hurrying away from the cluster of official buildings. She looked vaguely familiar, much like the woman he had seen in rain-swept Nassau – nay, what was there to go on? The swirl of a grey skirt and the glimpse of wet hair? She could be anyone! He chuckled. So, that was the cause of the harbour master’s annoyance. He’d had his private, probably illicit, pleasuring interrupted.

  Ducking in below the door lintel, Jesamiah met with the warm fug of steaming woollen coats, male sweat, tobacco, lamp-oil and smoke. A dozen men sat at tables made from old barrels. Two men were playing cards, another two were arguing over something, although not heatedly, more of a spirited discussion with accompanying, highly animated arm gestures. The entire room fell stone silent as he strolled in and crossed to the bar where a sallow-faced doxie was propped up by her elbow. Watching him, a slight frown creasing her brow as he approached, she pulled her bodice down slightly to reveal more of her already well-displayed bosom, and tweaked her skirts, showing a generous glimpse of ankle.

  Normally he would have gone straight to lean alongside her, with a rum in one hand and one of her well endowed breasts in the other. Ah well, business had to come first. And he was not quite sure if the same embarrassing thing would happen here as it had in the Kismet’s cabin – or more precisely, had not happened. At this moment he was not prepared to risk another disconcerting experience of embarrassing impotence.

  “Hello Mireya,” he said, standing a few yards in front of her, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “Remember me?”