She spotted it, though, and her gaze hardened as she stepped back and straightened her spine. “Never!” she spat. “This is a business proposition, Captain. A means to an end. That is all. I’ll not be welcoming any advances from a man such as you.
“As for my reputation, I am confident it will be restored once this whole troublesome business is over.”
“Don’t be so sure, Miss Talbot,” he retorted, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Some things, once lost, are lost forever.”
Sarina lifted her chin. “Regardless, I believe we have an accord?” She held out her hand, and Jonathan ignored the slight tremor in her fingers.
He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, lifted it to his lips, eyeing her over it with a wolfish smile. “You have my word. Should you change your mind, however . . .”
“I won’t.” She flushed, snatching her hand back and clutching it to her stomach.
Jonathan chuckled humorlessly. Although it was entertaining to goad her, he was beginning to find her distaste rather irritating. And insulting.
“Calm yourself, Miss Talbot,” he said, returning to his desk and dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “You have my word. I’m not one to foist my attentions on unwilling females. And, no offense intended, but I prefer my women to be a bit more . . . enthusiastic.”
Sarina gasped, but she seemed unsure as to whether she should express disgust at his preferences, or offense at his opinion of her romantic skills. She opted to ignore the comment altogether. “Good. Fine, then,” she said, nodding sharply.
“You trust my word, Miss Talbot?” he asked, unable to resist poking her one more time. “I am, after all, but a dishonorable pirate.”
“True, but it appears I have no choice, do I?” she said, more comfortable now that the topic had moved away from the captain’s bed. “Besides, if you falter, I can always find a bit of wood to knock you back into compliance. I’m sure there’s an oar or two on board . . . or how about one of those planks you pirates always have people walking?”
“Miss Talbot, did you just make a jest?”
“Perhaps,” she said loftily. “I suppose you’ll find out if you challenge me.”
And just like that, Jonathan’s irritation evaporated. He didn’t let her see it, though.
“You know,” he said, shuffling some papers on his desk. “You were much more agreeable as Smith.”
“Funny,” she replied, “you were just as arrogant and irritating.”
He flashed an evil smile, continuing as if she hadn’t spoken. “In fact, I do believe I’ll continue to call you Smith. Remind you of your place and all.”
“Not if you expect me to respond.”
“Off with you now,” he ordered. “I’ve work to do, and you need to see to my breeches, and then to my supper.”
Sarina hesitated for a moment, and Jonathan could practically feel her rage. He braced himself for an attack, but she just said, “Aye, sir,” and sat down to mend his breeches.
Rina fumed as she sat in a chair, running a needle and thread through a tear in Tremayne’s breeches. Right down the back center seam.
She smirked, wondering who had seen him split the seat of his trousers.
Tremayne whistled to himself as he did whatever he was doing at his desk. She could feel him sneaking glances at her, and knew he was more than likely trying to find additional ways to irritate and annoy her, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. She just sat and mended . . .
. . . and fumed . . .
. . . and plotted.
Mend his breeches? Oh, she would mend his breeches.
Attempting to look as innocent as possible, Sarina clipped the thread, then slid another through the needle. She eyed the trousers carefully, smiling to herself as she placed them back on her lap and surreptitiously began to sew the hem closed on one leg. She hummed as she worked, reaching for a torn shirt when she finished with the trousers. By the time she’d finished with the pile of mending, sleeves were sewn to collars, breeches attached to socks, and one of Tremayne’s red scarves dangled from the shoulders of a shirt like a cape.
Sarina nodded in contentment as she folded the last garment and put the stack of clothing into a trunk.
“I believe I’ll go and see to your supper, Captain,” she said. He grunted acknowledgment but didn’t look up as she left the room, trying not to skip along the way.
Rina giggled slightly once the door closed behind her. She knew it was childish, but the man was so arrogant . . . so vile . . .
So . . .
She shook her head, unable to come up with further adjectives that could do Tremayne justice. As she passed through the doorway where he had accosted her, her cheeks heated. Although she now understood why he’d done what he had, she couldn’t force down a flush of embarrassment at her reaction.
Because Tremayne had been right. For a moment, she hadn’t protested. She’d given in.
Rina had previously been kissed by three men in her life: her father— which didn’t really count, she had to admit—a boy named Theodore, who’d helped her up when she’d fallen off her pony when she was five, and Henry Woodward, the young man who’d escorted her to her coming out ball. He’d been shy but determined when he walked with her out into the gardens, gripping her shoulders tightly with a look of resolve on his face before pressing his wet, chapped lips to hers lightly.
It had been nice, actually. Apparently, Henry had not felt the same, however, because he never called on Rina again.
But none of those experiences had prepared her for the assault of Jonathan Tremayne on her senses. There was nothing nice about Jonathan Tremayne. He was big and hard and hot—so hot she feared he might sear her skin right through her clothes. And when his lips touched hers, she didn’t really notice if they were wet or dry or chapped, because all she could think about was the heat and strange tingling sensation in her stomach, as if she’d spun around in a circle a hundred times and had to hold onto something to keep from falling to the ground.
So she’d held on to him. Shamefully, she’d clung to him, gasping as his tongue brushed her lips. The dizziness all but overwhelmed her at that warm, wet touch, and a surge of panic swept through her at what she might do if he didn’t stop.
If it went on any longer, she half-feared she might not want him to.
Thankfully, she’d been able to compose herself enough to pull away, and his smug response had revived her like a bucket of ice cold water dumped on her head. She’d sobered quickly but managed to maintain their charade until they were out of view of the crew.
Oh, she’d enjoyed slapping him. The sting and throb in her palm was immensely satisfying. She would have liked to manage one more, but the man was just too damned fast.
Pity.
But she’d held her own, making her demands in a relatively composed manner. Still, although he’d agreed to her requests, she’d somehow left their conversation feeling he’d won. She could hardly be blamed for using her sewing skills to regain a little control of the situation.
Even if it was a bit childish.
Rina made her way to the galley, her step faltering slightly when she spotted two crewmen talking in the passageway. She stiffened, fists clenching and chin lifting, half-expecting a confrontation—or at least a snicker or two—but the men simply nodded deferentially and stepped out of her way so she could pass.
Odd.
She swept by them, following the scent of meat and spices into the cramped and steamy galley. The cook didn’t look up from stirring a large kettle inside the brick fire hearth. His muscles bunched, shirtsleeves rolled up as his skin gleamed with sweat, glowing in the firelight. Rina wondered how he could stand the heat. A few portholes and the open doorway were not nearly enough to create a breeze in the stifling room, and she longed for the fresh air on deck. Fortunately, large pipes vented the worst of the smoke out the side of the ship, but a slight haze still colored the air, making her squint. Rina cleared her throat to get his attention.
<
br /> “Supper’s not for another hour, so be off with ye!” he growled, still absorbed in his work. He slammed the hearth’s large iron door shut and opened another smaller one to draw a few loaves of bread out of the oven with his bare hands. Before Rina could respond, he turned to drop the bread onto a wooden table and finally glanced up, wiping his sweating face with a rag. Surprise registered on his features, followed by a nervous swallow.
“Beg ye pardon, Miss.” He quickly shoved the rag back into his pocket and ran a hand over his greasy black hair. “Ye here for the captain’s supper?”
Sarina wiped at the perspiration forming on her upper lip and nodded. He blinked, then began to bustle around the galley, gathering a tray and crockery bowl from an upper shelf. He loaded the tray with two loaves of the bread and a bowl of fragrant stew. All the while, he snuck glances at her, wiping his palms on his trousers intermittently.
Why was everyone acting so strangely?
“Are you sure you want to take this, Miss?” he asked finally, wary eyes meeting hers. “It’s a bit heavy, and I’m sure I can find a lad to take it to the captain’s quarters.”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.” She lifted the tray, balancing it carefully as she made her way back to the captain’s cabin. Despite her focus on not spilling the food, she couldn’t help but notice the eyes watching her as she walked carefully across the deck. Conversations stopped; men stepped out of her way. One even hurried to move a cask from her path with an apologetic dip of his head.
Rina set the tray on a barrel in the corridor so she could open the captain’s door unhindered. He looked up, startled, when she stepped inside, and she saw him quickly close the chest he’d retrieved from the Lady and stash it in a drawer in his desk.
“What is it?” he growled.
Rina rolled her eyes and retrieved the tray from the hallway. “Your supper, Your Worship,” she said, placing the food on the table and retrieving the jug of rum from his desk to fill his tankard. With only a brief hesitation, she poured a bit into a smaller mug, adding a hefty dose of water.
Jonathan watched her with a raised eyebrow, circling the desk to sit at the table. “Indulging, Smith?” he asked. “Perhaps you have a bit of pirate in you, after all.”
“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, sipping from the mug. “There’s something wrong with the crew.”
The captain didn’t look up from his meal, dipping bread in the stew and stuffing it into his mouth. “My crew is my concern,” he mumbled through his food.
“But they’re behaving so strangely.”
Tremayne glanced up. “What do you mean?”
Rina shrugged. “Tipping their hats, moving out of my way, saying excuse me. They’re being . . . polite.”
Tremayne grinned, shoveling up a spoonful of stew. “Oh, that.”
Rina paused, the cup midway to her mouth. “Yes. That,” she said, wondering at his tone. “Why are they acting like that?”
He just shrugged and continued eating. “It’s to be expected, actually. Given your new status as the captain’s woman.”
She sighed heavily. “Can’t we call it something else?”
Jonathan smirked. “Consort? Courtesan? Mistress?”
Rina waved a hand. “Fine. Fine. I suppose captain’s woman will have to do,” she said distastefully. “So now they’re afraid of me or something?”
“Not actually afraid,” he said hesitantly, swirling his spoon slowly in his bowl.
“Well, then what, exactly?”
He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, glancing at her briefly. Was he nervous? She wasn’t sure.
“The crew is aware how you first came to be on this ship, and what happened before you escaped to the Intrepid.”
Rina winced. “They all know I tried to kill you?”
“Few secrets are kept on a ship, Smith.” He sat back, crumbling a piece of bread between his fingertips. “They know you tried to kill me, yet I have now—as far as they know—taken you to my bed. They can only assume, therefore, that you must have talents significant enough to outweigh my need for vengeance.”
“Talents?” Rina swallowed, feeling a bit nauseous.
Tremayne smiled wryly, holding up a finger. “Significant talents.”
“In other words,” Rina said, mouth dry and face flushing hot, “they think I’ve seduced you with my incredible skills.”
“Indeed.”
“But that doesn’t explain why they’re treating me this way,” she prodded, unable to let the conversation go.
The captain chuckled lightly. “It’s simple, really. Although I’m known to treat my women well, I rarely keep them for long.”
She didn’t like where this was going. “And . . .?”
“And,” he continued with a wicked grin. “Since you are so incredibly skilled, they’re all hoping for the opportunity to explore your charms. Once I’m finished with you.”
Rina gasped, her hand flying to her forehead. “Good lord.”
“It’s rather flattering, if you think about it.”
She glared at him, but he only laughed in response.
Rina drained her cup of rum and filled it again.
Forgoing the water this time.
Once Sarina had finished the rest of the stew and bread—Jonathan needed to make sure she brought food for herself from then on—he went back to work, and she left to take the dishes to the galley and relay a few orders to Hutchins.
He watched her leave, listening for her fading footsteps before opening the bottom drawer in his desk and retrieving the chest. He hadn’t told Sarina the whole truth. There were secrets on his ship. And what he found in the chest was one of them.
With another glance toward the door, he opened the lid and lightly ran his fingers over the contents. A few coins, a jeweled comb, a carved wooden cross about the size of his palm.
But it was the locket he’d been hoping to find, and as he lifted it from the chest, he couldn’t keep the victorious smile off his face. The silver oval was tarnished, the chain broken below the clasp, but he knew its shoddy exterior belied its importance. He studied the intricate knot on the front, an inverted triangle wrapped around an emerald the size of his fingernail. Turning the locket over, he picked up a magnifying glass to examine the engraving on the back.
Ecce sto ad ostium et pulso.
Behold, I stand at the door and knock.
The Apocalypse of St. John, Chapter 3, Verse 20. Another piece of Scripture, and again, Jonathan had no idea what it meant.
With a frown, he returned the necklace to the chest and flipped through the worn journal on his desk. He stopped, running his hand down the faded words, when he saw the familiar sketch along one of the page margins. It was the same locket, a simple rendering, but definitely identifiable. Below the drawing, two hastily scrawled words.
The Key.
For the hundredth time, Jonathan read through the rest of the entry on the page, mundane ramblings about daily life in the colonies, shopping at the marketplace, a trip to have a horse re-shod. Nothing to shed any light on the locket or its purpose.
Yet it was important. Evidently, it was The Key.
Jonathan sighed, closed the journal, and put both it and the chest back in the drawer. He locked it and dropped the key into a small cup tucked in a corner on the upper shelf behind him.
For the first time in months, he was unsure how to proceed. Rubbing his forehead, he poured himself a bit more rum and swallowed it in one gulp.
There was only one choice, really. He knew it. He just dreaded making it.
The next morning, he’d tell the crew to set sail for South Carolina.
He needed to speak to Charlotte.
One would think the gentle rocking of a ship would encourage sleep. I find, to the contrary, it serves only to exacerbate my violent illness. It appears I have not the constitution for sea travel, and I find my only relief is to climb to the deck and recline in the open air.
I fear this voyage may never en
d.
- The Journal of Simon Alistair Mellick, 22 July, 1664
The dream was always the same. A memory from his past, wrapped in the darkness of his subconscious, lying in wait only to rear its head while he lay coddled in the complacency of sleep.
Although Jonathan knew it was a dream—could tell from the surreal way his surroundings blurred at the edges of his vision, melting and swirling like watercolors washed away by the rain—he could not force himself to wake up.
Terror quickened the beat of his heart, the pounding echo in his ears a countermelody to the rattling tick of raindrops on the slickened deck of the Black Arrow. Muffled grunts and clanging metal heralded the battle around him as the crew fought to keep the ship. They fought bravely, though many had already fallen, including Old Charlie Ceron—caught by surprise by a blade across his neck as he slept.
Jonathan’s fingers clutched at his sword hilt, frozen despite the drip of hot blood down his arm. He held the blade with his left hand, his right clutched at the wound across his ribs, desperately holding together the flayed flesh as he struggled for breath, his back pressed against the wall behind him. The icy rain slashed at his exposed skin as he raised the sword again, unwilling to yield to his opponent.
A chilling laugh cut through the storm. “Why don’t you give up, boy? You cannot defeat me. Just give me what I want and perhaps I’ll spare your life.”
A retort pressed at the back of Jonathan’s gritted teeth, but he lacked the strength to force the words out. It took everything he had to hold the sword aloft, to surge forward and strike.
A ring of metal preceded the sharp sting up his arm, and Jonathan’s sword clattered to the deck. He staggered, able to fight back the dizziness for only a moment before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees. His opponent grinned, blackened teeth almost invisible in the dark.
“And so it comes to this,” he said. “Your great quest for vengeance ends not with a roar, but a pitiful whimper.” He stepped forward, sword extended, until Jonathan felt the point prick at his throat. He swallowed, wincing as the blade pierced his skin, but in his exhaustion was unable to do anything but wait for the inevitable.
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