by Andrea Jones
Turning her head, swirling in her gown like a swimmer treading water and searching for the shore, she looked for that single star again. It eluded her. Instead, the wide sky opened like a treasure chest and spilled its jewels all about her. Everywhere she saw diamonds, and pearls, and necklaces. Even when she stretched to fly, the gold on her arms sparkled like the heavens, and their beloved burden weighted her down. Rising to float nearer, deepening, the sea reached up to catch her. And she heard his laugh again, and this time it was a gypsy laugh, and the sky turned dusky. Drifting on the very same current that upheld her that afternoon— Cecco’s current— Jill turned toward the shore of her shipboard home. Her anchorage….Her captain.
When, much later, Captain Cecco’s boots took possession of his companionway, the hook would lie buried in the window seat. Jill would lie waiting in his bed. He would undress and stretch down beside his woman, and then he would turn his mutilated back to the wall from which, hours before, he ripped the hook’s mooring. Resting her head on his chest, Jill would close her eyes and listen. She would hear her captain’s heart beat, alive and constant. She would feel his kiss upon her lips. But she wouldn’t hear the phantom. It was gone, now. The Roger would croon her lullaby, and the starry night stay still.
The reminder of her first love lay at peace, in the seat beneath the captain’s window. She wasn’t afraid to touch it. It wasn’t the hook that frightened her.
It was the man who had wielded it. And his wrath.
Chapter 26
A Last Supper
Behind the open crack of his cabin door, Smee waited for the girl to leave her quarters. She’d found some excuse to get away from Yulunga at the party, but she hurried back to him. Almost before she disappeared into the galley, Smee was through her doorway, lugging a jug and a bag of hardtack biscuits. It was all he could snatch without raising questions. He tucked the jug under his arm to secure the door, and in hurried steps that betrayed his anxiety, he approached his captive master.
“Captain, I’ve brought you some water.” A smell of medicine lingered, and Smee was relieved to see the blue eyes opening as he spoke. He set the things on the bunk and swung himself up. “You’re parched, I can see. Drink up, Sir, and then we’ll be talking.” His burly arms moved gently as he reached for his captain and helped him to sit upright.
Hook seized the jug as it neared, but Smee refused to trust it to his shaking hand. “Let me be helping you, Sir. You’ve gone without too long.”
Hook drank, and then he tilted his head back and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. Smee whipped a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed his master’s cracked lips, lightly, to prevent paining him. “That’s right, Sir. Take it slow now.”
Hook didn’t open his eyes, but he roused enough to inhale, and he murmured, “It is Jill.”
At a loss, Smee whirled to see the door. It was closed, and no one stood there. Turning back to his captain, Smee stared, wondering if Hook was delirious. And then he drew back, realizing what he’d done.
“Yes, Sir, it’s the lady’s.” Now he thought of it, he, too, could smell her perfume on the handkerchief. The scent was a welcome distraction in the fetid air of Hook’s prison. Smee could only guess at the emotion such a potent reminder of her evoked in his captain. And he realized the implications of carrying her belongings. He felt himself redden. He must have jerked, for weak as the man was, the captain’s eyes blazed suddenly upon him.
“You have kept her safe.” It wasn’t a question.
Smee opened his mouth, then closed it again. He made a business of tucking the handkerchief into his pocket, but he knew he took too long to answer. “As safe as I’ve been able. Sir.”
Hook registered the bo’sun’s discomfort, then wearily shut his eyes. His voice was nearly a whisper. “Never mind, Smee. I expected as much.”
“Sir?”
“She is Jill. What man can deny her?” Hook gestured with loose fingers, and Smee hastened to raise the jug for him. When Hook had downed some more, he ventured to speak again, and his speech came a trifle stronger.
“The Roger?”
Smee nodded, glad to report good news. “Sound, Sir.”
Hook shivered, then looked pointedly at the biscuit in the bo’sun’s fingers. Smee had been soaking it. Now he raised it from the jug and offered it. “Take some vittles, Sir.” Hook’s dry lips parted to accept it. “I figure we’ve got a half hour or so before Miss comes back.”
Hook squinted as he swallowed. His throat worked as if it hurt him. With contempt, he uttered, “Miss.”
“Here, Sir, have another swallow.”
But Hook stopped the jug with his ringed hand. “Where is the surgeon?”
“Ah! Well you might ask, Sir. You’ll be pleased to be knowing he’s got a bit of his own back.” But Hook’s eyes glittered with impatience, and Smee said, “He’s laid up in the next cabin, Sir.”
Hook accepted the water. Searching for hopeful signs, Smee nodded encouragement as his fingers pushed pieces of nourishment between Hook’s lips. As tenderly as his big hands could manage, he brushed the crumbs from the black beard. Bit by bit, Smee fed his master the biscuit. He didn’t lack for courage, but for compassion’s sake, he balked at feeding his captain the truth.
The Roger rocked in the wind, keening, while strains of music drifted through the door, along with the sounds of revelry from the celebration. Hook listened, but made no comment. He listened, also, to the silence of his bo’sun. Unable to swallow any more, he shifted his body on the dirty mattress and lay down, his breath as he did so escaping in sighs.
Smee reached out and felt of the tangled hair. “I’ll be cleaning you up, Sir, just as soon as I’m able.” Lifting it off the captain’s face, he remembered how many times he had performed this service for his lady. As if the gesture communicated Smee’s thoughts, Hook spoke again, and much as Smee longed to hear his master’s voice, he dreaded the words his master would say. Even more, he dreaded the words fate forced him to reply. Smee could easily minister to the body. But to the spirit—
“Smee. You have not brought her to me.”
“No, Captain.”
“Nor the keys.”
“I can’t be doing that, Sir.”
Silence. Was it wrath— or exhaustion?
“Sir….The captain wouldn’t be allowing it.”
Hook raised one eyebrow. “The captain?”
Looking away, Smee collected the jug and biscuits. Careful not to jar the invalid further, he set them aside.
“Jill is not in command?”
Smee felt the full force of his blunder weighing him down. “No, Sir. And I take the blame.”
“Belay that. Tell me.”
As Smee responded to the rasped command, he began slowly, then rolled the story off his tongue. It felt good to get it out, at last. “She was handling everything, Sir. More than ready to assume her duty, she was. You’d have been right proud of her, Captain. She stood there on the companionway, Red-Handed Jill, bold as brass. She was winning the men’s confidence, they were that ready to follow her. And then the three of them— well, Sir, the three of them conspired together to work it their way. Forced her to give up the captaincy, they did. And I had to give up my keys. To the first mate.”
“Three of them.” Hook’s eyes narrowed. “Hanover. And who else?”
“It’s Yulunga, Sir. He’s the mate. I don’t dare let on to him you’re found. No telling what he’d do at this point. He’s liking things the way they are. Even young Miss is coming round to his way of thinking, tonight.”
Hook’s lip twitched in a spasm, then he controlled it. “But Jill has eluded the surgeon.”
“Oh, aye, Sir. He tries to cover it, but the man’s fit to be tied.”
“I gather the outcome was not what he planned.”
“No, Captain. Hanover made a deal with the devil. And he’s paying for it now!”
Hook took in the bo’sun’s vehemence, considering, and then he stated as coolly as
if he sat secure behind his polished desk, “And this devil, Smee. He has taken Jill.”
“I should have followed her lead, Sir. She knew what he was about.”
“I’ve not been sleeping. Nor has she.”
“It’s only too plain to everyone, Sir.”
In the wake of Hook’s hand, his chain snaked along the bed. He closed his fingers on his bo’sun’s arm, and borrowing Smee’s strength, he pulled himself up on one elbow. Once stabilized, he retained his grip, and it was firmer than his deprivation might decree.
“Smee.” At last the cadaverous face came to life, and his voice regained its velvet edge. “Whom do I have to kill?”
Smee steadied himself with a deep breath. “It’s the gypsy, Sir.”
“Cecco.” Hook said it delicately, as if he were tasting the name.
“Aye. He outfoxed us all.”
The scarry stump of Hook’s arm jerked in a gesture both confirming and dismissive. “I would have guessed it, given time. Like Jill, the man is obsessed with jewelry.”
The line of Smee’s mouth was grim. “Not anymore, Sir.”
Hook’s focus sharpened on the eyes behind Smee’s spectacles, and just as Smee had known would happen, he sounded the depth of the regret there. “I see. And my lady?”
“Covered in gold, Captain. With a heart to match.”
“Speak plainly, or do not speak at all.”
“Aye, Sir, begging your pardon. You’ll not be wanting to hear it, but you’re needing to.” Straightening his spine, Smee forged ahead. “Captain, the lady followed your orders, right down the line. She did what she had to do to secure the ship. But Sir, you’re knowing women’s ways. When a powerful man is kind and generous, and she’s missing the one she loves— well, Sir…you might say she’s partial to him.”
The pause was brief. “You say the man is powerful?”
“Aye, Captain. He’s been watching you these many years. He’s seeming more like yourself than I care to admit.” Smee leaned forward to emphasize his words. “However that may be, Captain, I know the lady will be overjoyed when I tell her—”
“You will tell her nothing.”
“…Sir?”
“The lady carries enough of a burden. You will not endanger her with the truth.”
“She has to be told!”
“No, Smee. I forbid it.”
“But—”
“No one must know. The doctor’s daughter is inexperienced with his ether. I will feign to be drugged. You will provide me with sustenance, and hunt down my hook. Until I am strong enough to challenge this ‘captain,’ I shall remain hidden.”
“Captain, that Hanover could murder you at any moment! He must know that if one of the crew should discover you here in his chains, he’s a dead man. I’m boiling to kill him myself! And the gypsy, too, if he’s linked to him.”
“The men, Smee. They follow Mr. Cecco?” His breathing was unsteady now, his body weakening.
“Aye, Sir. He’s taken over your own schemes— squeezed every diamond out of Hanover— and just today he captured us a prize. Your disappearance is the last loose end to knot up before he holds both the lady and the Roger for good and all. It’s a wonder he hasn’t ordered your death already.”
“His oath must still mean something to him. You are certain Cecco conspires with the surgeon?”
“Too sure to be begging him for the key!”
“All the more reason to choose my time. I will lay my plans and rebuild my strength. You will say nothing.” But his voice was faltering. “Go now, Smee.”
“Captain, I hate to be leaving you like this!”
Through chattering teeth, Hook expelled his last words. “Hold my sword at the ready.” Near the end of his strength, Hook couldn’t utter any more. But the look of determination on his unshaven face commanded. Smee watched then, with his heart near to breaking, as his captain’s eyes fell closed and the force of his will subsided with his vigor.
Hook’s long body lay shivering. He fought the seizure, but after some moments, the stump of his arm reached out to his source of succor, swaying in the air like a starved snake angling for a bird.
Smee didn’t hesitate. He shoved the fine sword from his side to stretch down on the filth of the mattress. He gathered Hook’s shuddering shoulders in his arms. As the chained hand clutched at him, Smee pressed his red forehead to the master’s black brow. For the last minutes remaining of their privacy, he wrapped himself around this great man, who nourished his servant’s existence the way Smee had fed him a biscuit, and Smee forced his body’s warmth against his master’s chill, and willed his rugged love to save him.
Chapter 27
The Making of a Mistress
The night was half worn away, and the planks and beams of the Jolly Roger rocked the better part of two ships’ crews. At the appointed hour, her captain sent Miss Liza to assist his lady’s retiring. Mr. Yulunga attended Liza, as promised, when she left the lady in the captain’s quarters.
“Wait here, little girl.” Yulunga knocked at the open door. Stooping under the doorframe, he entered, murmuring to the lady. A few moments later he returned to shut the door, twirling the key ring over his finger. “You have behaved tonight. Windows secured, and no rope ladders.” Liza only stood, squeezing her hands together. Mocking, he said, “No protests of your innocence?”
She cast her eyes down. Yulunga’s feet, set wide apart to balance his bulk against the ship’s sway, were half again the size of her master’s. Of Hook’s.
“Good. I want no lies from you.”
Yulunga paused to listen as the lady locked the door. He tried the knob, then deposited his keys in his pocket. His duty done, he stood beside Liza, his gaze slanted sideways at her.
Unsure what to do, she blinked at him, and he signified that she was to link her arm through his elbow. She did so, and stared at her white hand resting on his ebony. The light of lanterns blazed about the deck. In their luster, the pearls on her finger glowed more orange than pink. Mr. Yulunga had used those pearls, just as Liza predicted. She hadn’t predicted the circumstances that led her to accept them.
Feeling awkward on the mate’s arm, Liza stepped with him down the stairs. Having pictured herself so many times strutting along the companionway upon the velvet arm of Captain Hook, some adjustment was necessary tonight. She had done her best, taking special care with her appearance. But of course she wore no fine gown, only her blue dress trimmed with lace at the bodice. Yet it was becoming. She had brushed her hair and coiled it under a new, intricate net. Her father rested in the spare cabin tonight, and without fear of his disapproval, she had pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add some color. Here, at least, if not with Hook, her design met with success. As she glanced around the deck to take note of the sailors who might witness her discomfiture, she felt Yulunga’s grip tighten, as if to demonstrate his possession of her.
Finding the galley too close, a dozen or more revelers had braved the wind to scatter themselves about the boards, carousing under the watchful eyes of Mr. Mullins and Mr. Mason. A group lounged by the mainmast, observing a game of dice. The pieces rattled on the planks, the men cheered, and then a pair of china blue eyes looked up from the game. Wearing a Gallic smile and a pale blond pigtail, the owner of the eyes saluted Liza.
Earlier, under a smirk of amusement from Yulunga, that blond sailor had shed his blue jacket and cushioned Liza’s bench with it. In charming, broken English, he’d given her to understand how he admired her beauty. Not possessing the proper words, he’d used his hands, as Frenchmen do, to express his admiration for her soft gray eyes and the fullness of her lips. His fingers were sturdy, and rough from hauling sail— but expressive. Liza allowed his fingers liberty enough for this discovery, but too aware of her dependence on her escort’s good will, she hoped she had been discreet.
Now, under that sailor’s scrutiny again, her cheeks needed no pinching. She colored naturally as the others’ gazes followed the young Frenchman’s. But s
he raised her head, allowing a stream of pride to trickle into her manner. After all, that young man was only a sailor. Liza sloped her shoulder toward Yulunga as she leaned upon his arm. She wasn’t the captain’s choice— but she was the mate’s.
Still, after all her efforts to win Hook’s favor and take shelter under his power, she had failed to escape her father’s rule. In making the attempt, she only became more deeply mired in the mud of filial servitude. Brutal as Yulunga might prove, it was his interest, now, to which Liza clung, seeking release from the nightmare unfolding within her quarters— frightening enough for her, but deadly for her former master. Surely, the situation could not turn worse, for either of them.
Mr. Mullins had loitered near the companionway since the lady’s arrival this evening. Seeing Yulunga and the surgeon’s daughter descend, he stepped to one side of the stair. “Sir.” With a crooked grin, Mullins dipped his head to Liza, too. “Miss.” Her posture became straighter. Once the couple passed, Mullins mounted the steps to stand guard at the captain’s quarters. As second officer, Mullins listened to the gaming below, but he tucked his thumbs in his belt and kept a weather eye on the hatches. Captain Cecco’s orders were strict, and sailors, French or familiar, were the least of the master’s concerns. No telling what that surgeon might get up to this night. Mullins didn’t envy young Miss having to live with that man. None of the men did.
At the hatch, Yulunga descended first and turned to assist Liza down. But when they reached the gun deck, he swept a look around and, finding it deserted, dropped his pretense of chivalry to seize her arm. He dragged her past the cook’s cat, and it scolded him for the disturbance, arching its back before settling again to watch with luminous, suspicious eyes as he pushed the girl up against the mizzenmast.
