by Andrea Jones
The light was dimmer on this deck, but Liza could read the inky features of his face. She lowered her gaze to the beads at his neck. They bobbed as he spoke in his deep, murky voice. As the outward manifestation of his sound, their play had begun to fascinate Liza. And his beads weren’t the only fascination. The vest beneath them hung open to display his sable skin.
“I have allowed you your fun, little girl. You came to the party. You drank a glass of wine. Only one, and watered, because I like a woman whose wits are sharp. I let you dance with that French boy, because I like to watch you move. Now,” he pressed up against her, and her neck arched to enable her eyes to meet his, liquid black, like his voice. “Now you tell me what you like.”
Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She felt the ring on her finger. The pearls had slipped around to burrow into the flesh of her hand. She envisioned her father lying in the room behind her, and Hook, a hairsbreadth from death in the quarters to the side, and her eyes grew wild with confusion. This man’s big body exuded an earthy smell, a smell of sweat and of power. His chest glistened, and she raised her hand with her fingers splayed, to hesitate, hanging in the heat of the space between them. The sound of laughter in the galley assaulted her senses, but not as harshly as the blood that banged against her ears.
Yulunga’s jaw jutted. “Go on. You can touch. I give you permission.” He smiled as he said it, derisive.
Slowly, she rested her hand on his chest. Smooth, and moist. Burning. To her surprise, Liza felt his heart beating, too. And as his lungs expanded to breathe, her hand rose and fell with them. She stared at her hand, so fair. How could two skins be so very different, when two hearts pumped, and two sets of lungs exhaled and seized the same air? This man appeared to be unlike the two men behind Liza, but to her, tonight, he was exactly the same. Her father and Hook, in turn, had been her protectors. Now she looked to this exile from Africa to take that place. Liza raised her stare from the contrast of their fleshes, and appealed to his eyes.
“Yes, little girl. I know what you want. Let’s go.” More gently this time, but just as insistent, he guided her by the arm. Toward her quarters.
Liza balked.
“What, Miss? Your father isn’t at home. He won’t be disturbing us.” His teeth gleamed in the lanternlight.
Liza jockeyed around to face him, edging toward her door, and wondered. Would Yulunga really protect her? The truth would out, eventually. Maybe Hook didn’t have to die before then. Maybe she should let Yulunga see the secret in her quarters. She should open her lips and tell him. Right now. But her father—
“No? You want to keep me waiting. Then you will wait for your earrings, too.”
Liza shook her head. She backed from him, and yet her hands found their way to his ribs. Against her door now, she tried to decide. Should she open, and trust in him? He might shield her from her father’s rage— or he might as easily cast her off, reviling her for her perfidy. He held her hands in his fists, and he was drawing her into his kiss. She had another moment to try to think. As long as their hands were occupied, neither one of them could open the door.
Yulunga’s face made the long descent, and his lips burrowed into her neck. She gasped at the flame there, and his mouth fired his way up under her jaw. She didn’t think her lips could bear his heat, but she couldn’t turn his kisses away. He released her hands now, and pulled her by the waist, and she felt for the panel of the door behind her. Her fingers bumped over its roughness, searching for the handle. It was cold in her grasp. His mouth sidled along her cheek to meet hers, and as her lips parted to speak the terrible truth before he could silence them with his own, Liza felt the door handle turn and slip away from her grasp.
“Mr. Yulunga. My daughter is not available to you.”
“Doctor.” Yulunga straightened.
A chill breeze wafted over Liza, bringing the sting of salt air from the open windows of her quarters. Drenched in cold perspiration, Liza froze, staring into Yulunga’s face. With regret, she felt his arms withdraw from her body. Once again, she stood alone. Unprotected.
“Liza. Come in.”
Her lips hung open.
“I think, Mister Hanover, your daughter wants to say something to me.”
Hanover didn’t move. “I very much doubt it, Mr. Yulunga.”
Her jaw worked, and her breath came panting.
“Maybe she wants to tell me goodnight?” Yulunga smiled at her distress.
“I will say it for her. Good night, Sir.”
The surgeon’s hands fell heavily upon her shoulders, and he pulled her into their quarters. “Now, Liza.” Disregarding Yulunga’s leer, he shut and locked the door. Looming in front of her, Hanover’s presence bore down upon his daughter. Behind him, the ivory-handled cane hung, waiting on its hook in the wall.
Her passions interrupted, Liza gazed upon the gentleman, her father, and with heightened awareness, her regard moved from his face to study him, head to toe. Her heart began to pound again. Or had it never stopped? The surgeon wore no coat, no waistcoat, no shirt. His wounds prevented that, and he stood holding the muscles of his shoulders stiff, his scar tight against his cheek, betraying his discomfort. His sandy hair was contained by the black ribbon. His body seemed pale in comparison to Yulunga’s, but equally smooth, and damp with perspiration. Although he stood with effort, he did stand, and handsomely. He had shed his bloody breeches and donned his fencing trousers, tight against his hips, and his feet, like the mate’s, were naked. He bore no scar, no mark of any kind beyond that on his cheek. If one never got past his front, one would not suspect the ravages of his back.
Resisting her reaction to him, Liza pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She backed from her father, shaking her head, and tears formed in her eyes. He was much too fine a man.
“Get to bed now.”
She turned to obey before he might reach for the cane, and she stopped dead. She spun around, questioning.
He nodded. “Yes. The lower bunk.”
Her head tilted, ever so slightly.
“I cannot trust you. You will lie with me.”
As with Mr. Yulunga, Liza made no protestations of her innocence. She blinked, and then, shakily, made herself breathe again. She obeyed her father, as she obeyed him in all things. Slowly she turned, and, watching her feet inch along the boards, Liza made her way to her father’s bed. It was strange to her, and yet all too familiar. Awakening there this morning, she had expected to find her skin stained and sticky— with the wine she had poured, if nothing else. Yet every bit of her flesh had been cleansed. Every mound, every hollow….As she recalled the feeling, goose bumps arose, and she felt the hairs of her arms stand on end.
But those arms lifted the bed linen, and she prepared to lie down. Her father’s voice stopped her.
“And what will you wear to entice your lovers tomorrow, if you sleep in that gown?”
Liza dropped the sheet. Keeping her back to him, she hesitated. Then she loosened her garment, spread wide the bodice, and she shuddered it off to stand clad in her shift. He moved behind her as she bent to step out of the skirt. While she clutched the empty dress to her breast, his surgeon’s hands appropriated her arm. Without comment, he examined the darkening purple of the mark his fingers left that morning. Relinquishing her arm, he eased her gown from her grip. She heard his feet pad toward the corner, where the pegs held their clothing. Dressed in her shift, she laid her body, already over-stimulated by Mr. Yulunga, on the bunk beneath the dying man. And she wondered if, in the morning, she would find her father’s presence had left bloodstains on the linen.
He walked toward her. Moving gingerly, he settled into the bed, resting on an elbow. Drawing back a little, she raised up on her side, and with one of his dexterous hands, he pulled the net from her hair. Her careful coil came loose, and the brown tresses tumbled down over her shoulders, ending just above her breasts. As he had done that morning, he touched the hair above her bruised temple. As before, his hand felt too good.
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“Liza. You have cut your hair. I want you to let it grow again. Long, like my lady’s.”
She barely moved. Only enough to nod.
“As much as it pains me to say so, in these last few days, you have behaved like a harlot. You belong to me. Legally and morally, you are my responsibility until such time as I establish a suitable situation for you. But the interest your flirtations have provoked force upon me the realization that you are now a young woman.”
Liza kept still, her eyes fixed on her father. He settled his smarting body more comfortably in the bed. And slightly nearer.
“I admit that, as your father, I have been remiss. I seem to be a man who has little indulgence for children. But I assure you. I won’t neglect you again. Liza, I must explain to you…some things. About men.”
He had studied her appearance as closely as she studied his. He didn’t have to reach far to take her hand. Filtering her fingers through his own, he pulled the ring from them. “This is the ring I chose for your mother upon our union. When we have come to an understanding, it will be yours.” He tucked it under his pillow, and his signet shone in the lanternlight. Orange, like the pearls.
“In regard to your conduct, you must be made to comprehend what you are doing.” His voice slowed, and he considered each of his words before he spoke them. “Liza. When a man is captivated by a woman— any woman— her allure may cause…certain things to happen to that man. Any of these ruffians who surround us will naturally succumb to his urges.”
As her eyes indicated, the lecture held interest for Liza. It held interest, also, for the man lying directly above her, feigning insensibility. Both listened, intently.
“But even an educated man, a gentleman, when aroused, may lose control. His intellect may be overcome by his passion. This passion can bring on certain regrettable actions. Actions such as…murder…rape….”
Their two sets of gray eyes locked together. His voice softened.
“Seduction.”
Liza waited, too bashful to breathe, as her father beheld her face.
“Your lips, Liza. They are so like mine. Full, lush. Any man would want to touch your lips— you need not shy from me, I am your father— A woman must be prepared for a man to want to touch her mouth. He may begin with his finger, gently. And he may wish to trace it round…or simply caress it, from side to side. Then he may desire you to open your lips— as you have just done— so that he may push past them, into the moisture of your mouth.…Yes, any man would wish for this. You must prepare for this. But know that, always, his lips will follow his touch, and he will kiss you. Any man would desire to kiss you, Liza.”
Urged by his passions— like any man— Doctor Hanover leaned toward his daughter and gifted her with a rare prize. His attention.
Their hearer, though chained and wasting and weak, knew himself at this moment to be a powerful man. Vengeance, sweet and terrible, impended like a sword above his enemies’ heads, poised in the lethargy of his famished hand. A thin smile etched his withered lips. One chink of a chain could stop the progress of young Miss’ lesson.
It never sounded.
The lower bunk in the aft starboard cabin of the Jolly Roger cradled a man and his daughter. She was an intelligent woman. She understood the virtue of silence. As her pulse battered against every inch of her skin, she responded to her father’s teachings. Without a word, she accepted him as the authority. She acquired the knowledge he imparted, and when the night wore itself out and the lesson was over, there was no part of her father she didn’t understand.
As she lapsed into sleep, she felt his ring slide onto her finger— the same finger on which her mother had worn it— and his full, lush lips pressed her palm.
Chapter 28
Genuine Insincerity
From his perch aloft, Tom spotted trouble coming. Guillaume’s tight-fitting uniform issued from the captain’s quarters, with Guillaume in it, and headed down the companionway. His brass buttons gleamed with an air of self-importance. Equally bright, the young officer’s eyes scanned the rigging. His boots halted, seeming barely to resist the urge to click together, and he issued an order to the sailing master. His voice was low, but Tom knew what he was saying. The master’s grizzled head snapped up, and he bellowed.
“You there, Monsieur Tootles! Avast, and hit the deck!”
“Oui, Monsieur.” Automatically, Tom felt for his knife first. Then he shuffled his bare feet along the yard. His new mates stared as he climbed down the shrouds, but his own eyes never left Guillaume, who stood upright, with his hands primly behind his waist and his smirk secure.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Tootles. I regret to greet you so early with bad tidings.” The smirk made a liar of him. “But the commandant has ordered you to his quarters.”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“You do not look surprised.”
“Non, Monsieur. Nor do you.”
Guillaume shook his head. “Your insolence will one day get you in trouble.”
“Aye, Sir, mayhap. But not with you.”
“You think you know this? Put it to the test!”
“That’s why we’re on the way to see the captain— Sir.”
Guillaume’s shiny boots came to a standstill at the base of the steps. “Then you admit you took it?”
“Are you asking?”
The mate’s slender face frowned, and his bright eyes studied Tom. “Non. I leave that to the commandant.”
“Good. I’ve found the perfect spot to share it with you.” Tom pounded up the steps, but hearing no boots behind him, he turned to look back. LeCorbeau’s second officer hadn’t moved. “Well, come on, then, if you’re coming.”
Guillaume stood scrutinizing him, his head to one side. “What game do you play, Monsieur Tootles?”
“No game, mate. This is life or death.” Tom pivoted and charged the rest of the way up the steps. The officer had to hustle to catch up with him, and he seized Tom’s fist just before he could annoy the captain with a hearty knock.
“Non! I see I have much to teach you, Monsieur Tootles. One must never bang on the door of the commandant! Especially after a late night. One must tap, like so.”
“All right, Mr. Guillaume. I see we have a lot to teach each other. We’ll drink to it this evening, shall we?” And to the mate’s surprise, Tom buttoned up his new blue jacket, opened the door for him, and dropped all trace of cockiness. Like a lamb, he followed Guillaume into the captain’s presence. Touching his hand to his forehead, he looked neither left nor right, but stood straight as a soldier, waiting to be spoken to.
He held his position while Renaud fussed about with what Tom took to be a silver teapot. Tom had been a guest in this room on his very first visit, and he felt its oppressiveness again as the plush, ornamental hangings closed in on him. LeCorbeau himself slumped as if under some burden, his arms limp and his eyes masked by a damp towel. At last Guillaume announced Tom. On the proper cue, Tom addressed the paneled wall behind his captain’s velvet-cushioned chair.
“Bonjour, mon Commandant. It is an honor to attend you.”
Renaud was pouring his master’s chocolate into a bone china cup resplendent with fleurs-de-lis. At Tom’s entrance he had looked up. At Tom’s words, he slopped a milky-brown stream onto the crisp napkin. Guillaume, apparently, had already gone to work on this English oaf. But the rich, sweet smell of chocolate made Tom’s stomach growl, and although both officers remained silent, they sniggered.
“Good morning, Monsieur Tootles.” LeCorbeau emerged, pulling the towel from his forehead to inspect his new sailor. His eyes were edged with a delicate shade of lilac. “At least, I hope it will become so.” His fingers motioned toward his cocoa, gave up the cloth and received the drink from Renaud. The gathered cuffs of LeCorbeau’s nightshirt surrounded his hands, nearly hiding the cup as he sipped. His hair was tousled, reminiscent of a cock’s comb, and lace bunched like wattles under his neck, furthering the likeness. His dressing gown flowed from his shoulders to h
is ankles, one long swirl of paisley. Renaud relieved him of the cup and stepped back to stand beside him.
Tom gave a brisk nod. “I hope I can be of service to you, Sir.”
Guillaume maneuvered around the table to position himself behind LeCorbeau. His captain, he knew, had little interest in Tom Tootles. The young man grinned too much, and his body was bulky. Nor did he possess the dark, brooding features of his brother. But Guillaume found this facile sailor to be intriguing— in body, robust, in character, a chameleon— and he gravitated to a spot from which his eager eyes could watch Tom, unobserved by either LeCorbeau or Renaud.
LeCorbeau accepted Tom’s servility, barely raising his fingers from his lap, then roused himself to lift his head from the chair back. “Eh, Monsieur Tootles….When I agreed to take you on, I had not thought I should have cause to speak to you personally, and so soon.”
“Monsieur, I’m pleased to have earned the privilege.”
“Well, eh, we shall see. An unfortunate incident has occurred, on which I hope you will be able to shed some light.”
“I’ll do my best, Monsieur. I aim to please.”
LeCorbeau opened his heavy lids a bit wider. “Mon Dieu, my boy, are you always so cheerful in the mornings?”
“Well, Sir, you could ask my brother Nibs about that. There’s been a morning or two I was a mite short with him, come time to show a leg. But I’m a fairly cheerful sort, yes. Nibs isn’t the one to complain, mind. He’s quiet most of the time, but I’ve seen him surly as a serpent on occasion. Once, when Mr. Cecco— I’m sorry! I mean Captain Cecco, of course— once Captain Cecco— leastways, he wasn’t captain then, yet, but Captain Cecco as was Mr. Cecco, once he—”
Tom broke off, sensible that the men in front of him were staring. LeCorbeau appeared wide awake now, and his mates’ mouths hung open. Tom’s eyes rolled from one officer to another. “I’m sorry, Monsieurs. Am I talking too much?”
