“Here you go, man with no name,” she uttered in her husky voice, offering him back the pipe.
McQueen sat speechless and could only accept the pipe and gape at it as if wondering why it had never before pleased him in this way.
“Such skills you have.” Anne seemed equally impressed. “Might you teach me that?”
“It would be my absolute pleasure,” Gayle replied with a smoldering stare. Getting this woman upstairs would prove easier than she had planned.
“Oh, I can assure you it will,” Anne added with a lusty wink.
Gayle was almost surprised by this woman’s brazen sauciness and decided to see how far she could encourage it. “It’s all in the way you hold your mouth, you see. You have to imagine you have a full, ripe plum in it.”
“But we have no plums,” Anne whispered, leaning closer. “What might I use in its stead?”
“Hmm. Quite a dilemma.” Gayle lightly traced her lower lip with her index finger. “I’m sure we can find something about that size and shape that will accommodate our needs.”
“Just a fuckin’ minute,” McQueen finally shouted. Gayle and Anne each snapped her head around to watch his sudden outburst. “I’m a goddamned captain.” He slurred his words. “And if anyone eats any plums here, I’m the one who’ll do it.”
Gayle sighed. Why had she let herself imagine anything about this endeavor would be easy? Clearly the easiest thing in the room was Anne. “A captain?” she asked, trying to sound impressed. “How very manly.”
Anne glowered in reproach.
“Aye,” he answered, drawing in deeply from the pipe. The smoke came from his nose in white wisps. “And as the captain, what I say bloody well goes.”
Gayle squinted as she assessed him. “Captain, you set me atwitter with your firm dominance.”
He appeared quite pleased with himself. “Right,” he said, standing. “Let’s start eating those plums.” He grasped her wrist and jerked her to her feet.
“But what about my beloved?” she asked innocently. “He’ll be here any minute.”
“He’ll just have to wait his bloomin’ turn, won’t he?” He pulled her toward the stairs.
Gayle didn’t struggle, but took the opportunity to count the number of crewmen in the inn. Eleven were in the main hall, and she estimated about a dozen bedrooms would potentially hold more.
McQueen reached the top of the stairs and pushed her into the first upstairs room. He immediately groped her ass, and she shoved him backward toward the bed, afraid he might feel her weapon through her gown.
“You’re a plucky bitch,” he observed, almost admiringly, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
She smiled. “And you are very astute.” She shut the door and sauntered toward him. When she reached him, she grabbed his soiled shirt with both hands and ripped the fabric at the front, exposing his chest and abdomen—both covered with coarse orange hair.
He laughed malevolently and moved to grope her again, but she seized his wrists. “You’ll get what you want in due time, Captain,” she cooed, challenging him with her gaze. “Lean back and let me touch you. I’ll take you to heaven.”
He relaxed and sat on the bed, and Gayle pushed him onto his back seductively as she reached under her skirt behind her for the hilt of her dagger. She crawled astride him, moving her left hand over his exposed chest. When her face neared his, he wriggled as though he teemed with lust.
She stopped, their mouths only inches apart. “Are you ready for heaven?” she asked, letting her left hand continue down his body to his waist.
“Aye, bring it.”
Before McQueen realized Gayle’s plans, she had sliced his throat so deeply with the dagger in her right hand that his vocal cords were severed. “You’ve been a right bastard, McQueen,” she whispered venomously, their faces still very close. “You may have to give up heaven and settle for hell.”
His eyes were wide with pain and shock. He began to flail, and she moved off him and stood. In a moment he quit moving. She wiped the blood from her dagger on the bed linens and resheathed the weapon against her thigh.
Then she darted over to the open window and searched for the fifteen men who awaited her signal. Responding to her waving, they rapidly moved the ladder to the window and climbed into the room one at a time.
“Damn,” Abernathy said, as he approached the bed. “He’s a right mess.”
“He looked no better when he was alive,” she explained quietly. She outlined how many men were in the main hall. “Three ladies, including our Miss Keegan, are down there as well.”
Gleeson, a tan, muscular buccaneer with long blond hair and a thick beard, sounded enthusiastic for a fight. “So the rest are upstairs somewhere?” He clutched his sword tight.
“Aye,” she answered. “No doubt enjoying the other whores.”
Abernathy’s expression was serious. “Well, if we burst into the other bedrooms first, they’ll make enough noise to alert those downstairs.”
“True. Ten of you will come with me downstairs. We’ll launch an attack on the main hall and surprise them. The rest of you fan out upstairs. If anyone emerges, finish him.” She stopped, but had a sudden afterthought. “And nobody harms a whore, understand?”
They all nodded, apparently too excited about the impending battle to be disappointed that they couldn’t rape at will.
“Who has my cutlass?” She extended her hand.
Chapter Twelve
Annoyed, Anne sat slinging back rum faster than was prudent. What had happened?
That extraordinary redhead had entered. What was her name again?
Gayle, that’s right.
She was absolutely ravishing, and even more captivating. She certainly seemed very different from the women Anne had known in England. If only she were not upstairs now rutting with that filthy swine.
She sighed, saddened at this most recent example of her theory—that the best women always seemed to prefer the company of men.
Suddenly, a loud boom erupted upstairs. By the time she turned to see what had caused it, several pirate types—armed and apparently crazed with bloodlust—leapt over the upstairs railing and landed behind her, swords drawn.
Anne screamed, which only seemed to prompt even more mayhem. McQueen’s men quickly rose, drew weapons, and began to fight their attackers. Someone flipped a table over and its contents flew against the wall, the sounds of shattered glass filling the room like pealing bells.
She shrieked again and covered her ears as she backed into a corner to try to escape the mêlée.
A hand unexpectedly covered her mouth, which prevented her from uttering any more loud sounds.
“Shh,” someone murmured into her ear. Able to turn her head just enough, she could make out that both the voice and the hand silencing her belonged to the redhead. She pulled sharply away.
“You,” she said, again unable to remember the woman’s name.
“You called the whole bloody fleet with your screams,” the redhead hissed. “If you want to live through this rescue, Anne, you need to shut your gorgeous gob.”
A short, wiry member of McQueen’s crew advanced on the strange woman, who countered his cutlass deftly. Anne stepped back another few feet as the redhead took on this quick swordsman and matched him strike for strike. When he thrust his blade at her midsection, she spun away, grabbing his wrist tight, then struck it with her keen-edged weapon.
Both his sword and his hand dropped to the floor with a clatter. He cried out in pain and grabbed his bleeding stump with his remaining hand. His shrieking would have continued, if Gayle—yes, that was her name—hadn’t chosen to run her blade through his chest. With a quick, upward jerk, she silenced him and he fell motionless onto the floorboards.
“By all that’s holy,” Anne shouted.
Another foe ran toward Gayle at full speed, and with remarkable dexterity and timing, she dropped her shoulder and elbow into his abdomen—leveraging his body weight and sending him
sailing over her head. Once he lay on his back, her cutlass quickly found his heart and he was dead before he knew what had happened.
Before Gayle had fully withdrawn her blade from the body, a loud crack filled the air as the thick leg of a wooden chair connected with her head—sending her to the ground. Warm blood stung her left eye, and she fought valiantly not to succumb to unconsciousness. Completely disoriented, she glanced about for her sword, which was still protruding from someone’s chest several yards away.
“Damn!”
Seeing no other nearby weapon to draw, she reached for her dagger. The man who had thrown the chair now stood before her, sweaty and imposing. Gayle wiped some of the blood out of her eye and drew the dagger with her other hand.
“Come on, then,” she taunted, making her attacker laugh.
“I want to savor killing you,” he said slowly.
She tried to clear her head enough to gauge the distance to him if she were to throw her dagger. Sadly, with one eye so irritated, she was afraid her aim would fail her—and a missed shot would leave her with no weapon at all.
“I’m sorry I can’t oblige you,” she answered weakly.
He opened his mouth to respond, but before he uttered a sound, the blade of a cutlass emerged through the center of his chest. His face froze, and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he sputtered, then collapsed.
Abernathy stood tall, holding the hilt of the weapon that had saved her.
“Thanks, mate,” she said, trying to stand.
“No worries.” He assisted her to her feet. “If I save you another fifteen times, we’ll be close to even, I reckon.”
Gayle surveyed the room. All of the enemies down here were dead or unconscious. She directed her men to settle a scuffle upstairs, and four men dashed back up, ready to strike.
“You’re an earsplitting one, aren’t you?” Gayle asked Anne as she retrieved her weapon.
Anne assessed the redhead now. She was bent at the waist, cutlass again in hand, trying to catch her breath. Her head was still bleeding, and blood flowed down her face, her jaw, and farther still down her neck. She still wore the same lilac gown, which was now stained crimson, though most of the blood wasn’t her own.
“Who are you?” Anne was awestruck.
“Captain Gayle Malvern. I’m here to rescue you.”
*
The crew that had remained on Original Sin was elated when the captain’s battle party returned to the ship. Celia had not been prepared for how bedraggled they would be—especially Gayle. Abernathy was helping her walk, and she wore a blood-soaked, makeshift bandage around her head.
As they staggered on deck, Celia ran to her. “Gayle, are you all right? You look like hell.”
Gayle chuckled. “Thanks. I suppose I am a bit out of trim.”
James emerged from below deck ready to give aid, but when a small blonde boarded the deck of Original Sin, he ran up to her and hugged her—twirling her around in the air joyously.
“Anne. Thank God, you’re safe.”
“James?” She seemed confused. “How did you get here?”
“I followed you all the way from Bristol. I signed on to the crew of this ship in return for rescuing you.” He finally put her down.
“You signed on with Captain Malvern?”
“I did.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
He then darted over to Gayle. “Hell’s bells, Captain.” He examined the gash in her head.
She shook her head wearily. “You need to tend to Gleeson first. He’s losing a good deal of blood.”
James nodded, but didn’t rush off to see Gleeson until he gave Celia some instructions. “Take the captain to her cabin and clean her up. If the head wound keeps bleeding, come get me straightaway. Otherwise, give her some rum and put her to bed.”
Celia agreed and encircled Gayle’s waist, leading her back to her quarters. She paused as several prostitutes stepped on board. “You brought the whores back with you?”
“Temporarily. They’re not here for me,” she told Celia when she raised an eyebrow. “They asked to come, and I thought they would be good for morale.”
Celia began to guide her again toward the captain’s quarters. “Morale on this ship is fine and you know it,” she muttered.
“Fine, perhaps, but not outstanding. It can always be better.”
They walked through the cabin door, and Celia pushed Gayle toward the bed. “You and your bloody doxies. I’ll be right back. Get comfortable.”
Gayle removed her bloodstained gown and stripped down to nothing. She climbed under the blanket, pulling it up to her waist, and sat propped up, her back against the wall.
“Here we—” Celia stopped speaking as she entered and her eyes locked on Gayle’s bare breasts. “Um…you…” The door shut behind her.
“You said to get comfortable. That dress was binding.”
Celia merely blinked several times, quickly.
“What’s that you’ve got?”
“Ah, yes. I brought some water and a sponge to clean you up.” She didn’t move any closer, but merely stood there gaping.
“Are you trying to will it over here with your mind?”
“Oh, sorry.” Celia moved hesitantly, looking very uncomfortable.
“Is it still bleeding?” Gayle touched her head softly.
Celia finally sat on the edge of the bed. “Let me see.” She dropped the sponge into the water and wrung it out, then began to wash some of the blood off gingerly. “This isn’t too bad.”
“Shit.” Gayle jerked her head away. “That stung.”
“Sorry. I’ll try to be gentler.” She resumed her efforts. “I see you located James’s sister.”
“Aye, she’s quite a handful.”
Celia stopped what she was doing. “Is that a good thing? Being a handful?”
“No, getting a handful is a good thing. Being a handful isn’t.”
“Ah. I see. A subtlety that changes things significantly.”
“Verily.”
“And did you discover why she was in a brothel in the first place?”
“She was sampling the wares, so to speak.”
“Was she now? Our good doctor may find that news somewhat disquieting.”
Gayle laughed. “I imagine he just might.”
“What hit you—a brick?” She rinsed out the sponge and wet it again.
“A chair, I think. Whatever it was, it flew.”
“And you caught it with your head?”
“More like it caught me.”
“Are you dizzy?” Celia asked.
“Slightly, and my vision is a bit blurred.” Gayle pointed to a bottle of rum on her desk. “Do you mind handing me that, sweetie?”
Celia retrieved it. “Shall I get you a glass?”
Gayle scoffed and put her lips to the neck of the bottle. “Would you like some?”
“I’d hate to mimic more barnyard animals,” she replied as she removed the remaining dried blood from the side of Gayle’s face.
Already taking another medicinal swig, Gayle nearly inhaled the rum into her nose when she began to laugh. She sputtered and choked.
Celia patted her on the back. “I’d like to apologize and say you didn’t deserve that. But I can’t, because you do.”
Gayle scrutinized her with one eye closed. “You are a sweet vexation, Celia Pierce.”
She chuckled. “Not a handful?”
Gayle moved toward her slightly. “Not you.”
They sat for over a minute, their faces only inches apart. They looked longingly at each other, but Gayle didn’t have the nerve to move closer.
A knock at the door broke their silent reverie.
Gayle pulled the blanket up to cover her breasts. “Enter.”
As Dowd hurried in and strode to the side of the bed, Celia busily rinsed the blood from the sponge.
“Cap’n,” he said. “The Pleiades is ours.”
“Excellent. Did any of the men wa
nt to join us?”
“No, but I did learn that their cargo arrives in the morning—just before dawn.”
“Black ivory?”
“Aye.”
“Then we should have a party on board to claim this cargo.”
Dowd appeared pleased. “Consider it done. How many men, Cap’n?”
She thought for a moment. “Take ten, since we’ve no idea how many men they will have transporting it.”
“Aye, aye.” He nodded, then turned and left.
Gayle reached back for the rum and helped herself to another large gulp.
“Black ivory?” Celia asked, evaluating Gayle’s wound a final time.
“Slaves. McQueen deals in slaves, and a new group will be delivered before first light. Very fortuitous timing.”
“Why fortuitous?”
She took another swig. “Because by late tomorrow, everyone will probably know McQueen is dead.”
“And then they wouldn’t bring the cargo. Did you kill McQueen?”
“Would it bother you if I did?”
“I’m not sure. I might feel better if I knew you at least had some regret about it.”
“It’s hard to feel regret when the man had so little good about him. He bought and sold people for a living.”
“Perhaps he was a devoted husband.”
“He kidnapped a pack of whores for his own amusement and took them to another country.”
“A man of temperance?”
“He had a bottle of laudanum in his pocket when we searched him.”
“He was kind to animals?”
Gayle laughed. “No doubt. He hated people and treated them like shit, but monkeys he probably loved.”
“Why are all these people so bloody awful?”
“I told you there were things about buccaneers that would turn your stomach. McQueen is a prime example, I’m sorry to say.”
“Well, I’d say you look a damn sight better.” Celia finally set the sponge and bowl of water aside.
“It’s stopped bleeding?”
“I believe so.” She paused awkwardly. “Is that the only wound you sustained?”
The question hung in the palpably silent air.
“I’m not sure.”
The Sublime and Spirited Voyage of Original Sin Page 11
