by Andrea Jones
Jill turned and followed his gaze to the hook. “Oh! Smee, thank goodness you’ve seen it. I’m not allowed to mention it.”
Suspicion darkened Smee’s features. “Not allowed? So it’s Cecco’s doing?”
“The captain’s? No. But he won’t permit me to discuss it with anyone. Please, you must take it. I’m afraid if he sees it again he’ll throw it into the sea.”
Smee disentangled himself from her arms and with a resolute hand, set her aside. Striding to the windows, he studied the hook. “Aye, it’s true right enough. I hardly dared to believe it.” He picked it up, reverently, as if it were the very bones of his captain. “And this is why you were sending for me, then?”
“But— I thought you had news for me.”
Smee turned to hold out a fist. Unclenching it, he displayed a pile of glowing red stones. “Here they are. Your signal.”
Jill’s hand flew to her throat, where she had so often worn those rubies, just below her scar.
Smee said, “I was surprised to be finding them on my door handle. I’ve looked for you first thing every morning, thinking if you needed me you’d be wearing them.”
Grateful to be alone with Smee, whatever the reason, Jill was tempted to ignore the pricking sense of danger. She didn’t want to think about it. When she tried, the puzzle of the necklace made her mind spin. She shook her head to try to clear it, but suddenly the opportunity to speak with Smee alone seemed the sole matter of importance. Drawn to the comfort of Smee’s presence, she declined to confess she’d never sent the rubies. Instead, she moved closer. “I’m only glad you came to me.”
The intensity of her blue eyes made Smee’s heart skip a beat, so he smiled, pressed the rubies into her hands, and turned away with the hook. “I’ll be keeping this safe, Ma’am. You were right to entrust it to me.” Smee retrieved his tool box and knelt to conceal the hook within it. “I thought I might be needing an excuse for coming, so I brought my tools. It’s a good thing. I’d best not be seen with the captain’s claw in tow.” He replaced the box by the door.
Smee noted how lonely Jill looked, standing by herself where the hook had lain. It would be painful for her, Smee guessed how very painful, when, in the end, she understood exactly how Cecco came into possession of the hook. Once her lover’s guilt was proven, the lady was sure to be overcome with regret.
But Smee would be there for her, just as he was here for her now. He reached out to her, taking the necklace from her hands and fastening it on. Aware of how near to him she insisted on standing, he inhaled her exotic scent again. After long absence, her proximity tended to make him dizzy— but he couldn’t avoid those eyes. Not even if he wanted to.
She surprised him, seizing his arms as if she sensed how much she’d soon be needing him. Knowing the shock in store for her, wishing he could spare her the coming sorrow, he gazed with tenderness on her lovely face. Something was different about her this morning. Something that made Smee hold her tight, even after the necklace was secure. “Ma’am, if it’s not wrong to be saying so, I’m missing the early days, when I had the charge of your mornings.”
“So am I, Mr. Smee. And I’ve been thinking of you. I’ve a story set down, and no one to show it to. Would you—”
“It’s what I’ve been wanting.” Just as he had done with Hook, Smee gentled his voice. “Let me see it.”
Slowly, Jill released him. She turned to her desk. Drawing the papers from under the blotter, she presented them to him. “It’s not long, but it will be a relief to share it.”
“Aye, Ma’am. I’ve been that worried about your being alone, and grieving.” He adjusted his spectacles and glanced at her elegant script. Looking up again, he turned a shade redder. “Ma’am— I know this story.”
“Yes, Mr. Smee. Read on, and tell me what you think. I’ll have another cup of tea and keep an eye on L’Ormonde.”
Ignoring the noises drifting in from two ships’ decks, Smee addressed the pages. As he read, he began to pace. Jill poured her cup, spilling a little on the saucer, and moved within range of the portside windows. She stepped carefully, for although the wind was low, the ship beneath her feet seemed to pitch more than usual. Steadying herself against a bedpost, she felt its satiny texture beneath her fingers. Stopping there, she stroked the wood to feel its luxuriance. Then, settling against a pillow on the unmade bed, she sipped and stared.
The fine china lip of her teacup felt smooth and firm, seductive in the way it induced her to drink. She searched for a thought she’d been chasing a moment ago, but soon wearied of the effort and let it go. An unfamiliar taste hung on her tongue. Sweet, almost like a flower. She forgot it as she caught the brilliance of Nibs’ orange kerchief and glimpsed Tom’s unruly head beside it. For now, it seemed, her boys were safe. The French vessel dipped in the brine, her sailors exchanging yarns and bursts of laughter with the Roger’s seamen. Jill smiled to think that, however the captains crossed purposes, the men of the sister ships were now comrades. Pleasantly, persuasive sips of tea slid down her throat.
Every so often, Jill glanced at Smee, each time her gaze lingering a little longer. For too many days, she had been unable to really look at him. She indulged herself now. Immersed in the story, Smee ceased his pacing. Gradually, he stilled to seat himself beside Jill. His absorption in her work was gratifying, and she watched his strong, irregular features with affection. It occurred to her that, as many times as Smee had touched her, she had never really touched him. Restraining her fingers, she took another swallow of tea. It was warm. Jill felt her cheeks flush. She’d had no breakfast, and hunger began to gnaw within her— a yearning, within her belly, and below. The hankering assailed her, the desire to be enfolded in a man’s arms. She set the cup down on the bed shelf and allowed herself a harmless liberty, going only so far as to rest a hand on Smee’s knee. Yet that insignificant contact sent a raw, urgent thrill through her senses.
The rings on her fingers glittered hypnotically as she moved them on his knee. Her eyes beheld the jewels, unfocused. She knew what he must be feeling as he read. The immediate surroundings faded for Jill, blurring as she retreated with him, into her story. She didn’t have to follow along on the page. In her mind, she read the words along with Smee, from memory.
It was the story of the first meeting. A communion of men. Two men, who chose to share a destiny. The words had flowed through Jill’s fingers that difficult day, to pour onto the parchment….
§ § §
The place smelled of sawdust, sweat and sea. Wedged into a torch-lit cobbled street just off the wharves, the port-town tavern was not so crowded that it couldn’t yield one table to a solitary occupant. It was an inconspicuous table, scored, like all the rest, by knives and years. Its only virtue was a clear view of the door, the bar, and the stairs.
He sat there, a pack of playing cards for company, and his sharp blue eyes at work. Tall and dark, fine-featured, with an indigo kerchief round his head and the curls of his thick black hair just brushing his shoulders, he wore a pistol in his belt, good rings, and a loose white shirt with lace fine enough to boast of success, whatever his business might be.
His business today was watching. He watched as the sailor lads bobbed in, with their striped shirts and pigtails and their buckled shoes. But his gaze shifted as the more colorful tars swaggered in, unshaven, with glints of gold in their eyes. These were the men he observed carefully.
He noted the girls of the house. They approached him as often as propriety allowed, and he’d learned their names. But he’d show them a card trick and he’d send them away with a smile, and sometimes with a shilling. If they lingered longer, they found no more success, and soon became bored with the intricacies of the game he dealt to amuse himself while he watched. He watched every day for a week.
The day Nancy got his shilling, she got his attention, too. Nancy was a pretty girl, round and blonde beneath her cap, and more than one admired her charms that afternoon. But once her brawny, red-haired tar threw open
the door, she had eyes only for him.
He was glad to see her. He stamped in along with a mob of jostling sailors, just shipped from warmer climes, and called for his Nancy before he called for his ale. His thick arms surrounded her and his head nearly touched the beams as he threw it back, ordering a pint. When he took her in his arms to cross the room and set her on the bar, he lifted her as easily as a feather pillow, pushing the crowd aside like the prow of a ship in smooth waters— and just as effortlessly. The dark stranger watched, and was aware he wasn’t the only man who noticed. He dealt his cards.
The landlord smiled as he pulled the tap. This crew was a scruffy lot, but silver lined those vests, and it would find its way to the till. These men would drink and pay. They’d be quick with the girls, and then they’d drink and pay some more. Not like that Nate, the tatty freeloader in the corner. Or that solitary stranger who sat and watched all week, attracting too much of the girls’ interest and drinking little enough. Not that he hadn’t paid fair rent for the table. Seven silver pieces, and no questions asked.
The tavern grew darker and noisier with evening, and with songs and laughter and stumbling boots. Nancy brought her Irishman another drink, and she had to shout to be heard. “Smee! Pat says will you roll up a keg with him? You and your mates has gone and drunk this last one dry!”
“I’ll help him, aye, but I’ll be picking the next keg myself. That last was bitter, and never worth tapping.” He vaulted over the bar to land on his feet and turn for the cellar, as nimbly as if he’d tasted none of that bitter keg at all. Nancy’s smile followed him until from the corner, the lanky man in a worn-out coat snapped his fingers. She waded through the company to his side, collecting glasses as she went, her tray balanced over her shoulder.
“Well, then, what now, Nate?”
He pulled her down by the sleeve, and her tray dipped as he whispered in her ear. She smiled, but shook her head. She picked up his cup. “No, but I’ll bring you another glass if Pat’s not looking. Then it’s off you go.” She turned to leave him and his face turned sour.
“Too busy for me tonight?”
“Too busy for them as can’t pay!”
The stranger’s ringed hands paused over his cards. His blue eyes observed.
Nate got up, shoved his chair back, and swayed on his feet. As Nancy pushed her way to the counter, the look beneath his stringy hair bored against her back.
Smee had got to work behind the bar now, looking at home there, drawing drinks and cheerily serving the ale. The landlord, Pat, made no objection. He liked him. So did they all. Smee raised a glass and handed it out. “Here you go, lads. Drink up! First night in port I’ll be pulling the pints if you’ll all drink a toast to me old mum, who’s doing the same for the boys on her god-forsaken island!”
Nancy’s tray of cups clattered as she set it down. She laughed at him. “For shame, Smee! Your mother’s working hard in Ireland, and you be sailing the world. You should get yourself home. Settle down, and help the dear old thing.”
Smee’s lips formed a line. “No, Nancy, nevermore. Though the climate on that island’s damp and chill, I loved it there. But the law’s done what mother nature couldn’t. It’s far too warm now for the eldest son to linger.” He shook his head. “I’ll be taking my comfort where I find it, and not go home any more.”
“Poor sailor!” Nancy’s eyes went soft, and she reached out to pull him into a kiss over the bar. Clearly, he liked the taste of it. He wouldn’t wait any longer. He urged her toward the room upstairs, and she went eagerly, amid hoots from his mates, who’d heard his story before.
“Aye, Smee! No need to go home— your dear old mum is catching the girls for you here!”
Smee tossed his hand good-naturedly and took the first two steps in one stride. He turned to hold his arm out to his Nancy.
His arm froze.
The hand Nancy meant to reach to Smee was arrested. She stood strangely still. Her eyes had gone wide and her pink face drained of color. Nate stood behind her, one hand around her wrist, the other around his dagger. He pricked her ribs, and the air left her lungs. The sailors’ heads jerked up, the hush rolled in like a fog as the tavern stilled.
“Nancy,” Nate hissed into the silence. “I asked you first.”
Nancy uttered a whimper, her eyes appealing to her Irishman. No one seemed to move but Smee. His eyes narrowed and his fingers formed into fists. One of those fists gripped a knife. “Steady, mate. Let Nancy go, and we’ll be settling the trouble between us.”
Nate’s hungry frame leaned inward. “You get out, and I’ll settle with Nancy myself.”
“No need to be risking your life, man.” Smee was more than ready. Nancy was in his way.
Nate brayed, an edge of hysteria in his laugh, like a man who had nothing to lose. With his body protected by Nancy’s, he pointed his dagger at Smee now, inches from his belly. “Look who’s risk—”
A pistol clicked below his ear. A silky, arrogant voice issued orders.
“Unhand the lady, and allow me to deal with the Irishman.”
The gun was cold as it dug under Nate’s jaw. Cold as death. Nate’s knife dropped to rattle on the floor, spinning until it was captured under a smooth black boot.
“Now you will leave this place. Rest assured that Nancy will be protected, and the offender removed.”
Nate slunk backward, his gaze brushing over the stranger before aiming for the exit. The huddle parted to let him through. Quick hands opened the door.
As the door slammed shut behind Nate, the stranger lowered his pistol. Smee exhaled his tension, realizing only now how narrowly he’d escaped a skewering. Nate’s crazy laugh still rang in the air. That madman hadn’t wanted a fight. He’d wanted a killing. Maybe two. Smee descended the steps to see to his Nancy. He glanced at the man who’d come to her aid.
Smee’s focus sharpened, and he stared. Never before had he seen this kind of man in this kind of place. Even when pretty Nancy tugged at his sleeve to draw him upstairs, Smee couldn’t take his eyes off him.
Lithe, strong, and tall as Smee himself, the bearing of an aristocrat, and startlingly blue eyes. He had the air of a buyer who’d found what he’d been looking for— the account was settled, the goods would be wrapped and sent on.
Smee’s rugged face creased. Absently, he tucked his knife away and applied his arm to Nancy’s waist. He nodded to the man. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Not at all. Now I am afraid Nancy will have to excuse us. We’ll use the back door. I would rather avoid your rival, and we have business to discuss.”
Smee let Nancy go. Her mouth hung open as, without a glance, her Irishman abandoned her. Smee stepped toward the stranger, his eyes never leaving the chiseled face. This was quite the handsomest man Smee had ever laid eyes on.
Pat, feeling that the stranger had caused enough trade to lag, clapped his hands and whistled, and all the girls collected themselves to get on with the serving of drinks. Nancy shuffled away, reluctant, eyeing Smee over her shoulder and tucking the stranger’s shilling into her bodice. Smee’s companions resisted the urge to clap the dark man’s back in congratulation, as they would have done for anyone else, resettling themselves to gossip around the bar instead. The murmurs of the crowd swelled again, so that Smee’s self-consciousness left him.
“What kind of business would a gentleman like yourself be having with the likes of me?”
“You are a sailor, are you not?”
“Aye. I am that.”
“Then, naturally, we will speak of sailing.” Without another word, he tucked his gun in his belt, left his cards on the table, and strode out the rear door of the establishment.
Smee watched him disappear, then he looked down at the knife lying in the sawdust on the floor. He picked it up, and he followed the gentleman.
It never occurred to him not to.
§ § §
The two oddly-matched men sat on cushioned chairs in a quiet, hospitable inn, finishing their supper. It was
a reputable place, such as Smee couldn’t afford to frequent. China lined the sideboard, paintings graced the walls, and the dark wood of the paneling was barely illuminated by firelight and the many candles that left smoky signatures on the ceiling.
It would be a cozy room when well-heeled travelers filled it with cloaks and crumpled skirts. Tonight the room was devoid of company, yet Smee found it full of intrigue. The dark stranger had a word with the landlord, then treated Smee to a meal as he outlined his proposition. The sailor was fascinated by his two jeweled hands that wielded a pistol as elegantly as they now handled knife and fork. The wine was good and the meat superior, the slender, well-dressed young woman who served it respectful even as she seasoned it with her smiles. Smee had helped her carve the roast. Now she stood by the steps, candle in hand, and waited as the gentleman concluded.
“You’ll get your hands dirty. But your pockets will be rich, and your existence never dull.”
Smee was mesmerized by his refined speech, the voice smooth as honey. He hesitated to use his own rough pipes. He cleared his throat. “My hands have been dirty before. But why me, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Is there a better man?”
Smee paused, then slowly shook his head. “No, Sir. There isn’t.” His gaze wandered the room as he considered, then returned to the gentleman. “But the ship, Sir?”
“Is waiting for me to take her.” His eyes held sparks.
More familiar with his face now, Smee studied him still. “Do you know— I believe you’ll do it.”
“I’ll do it. But not alone.”
It was the first time Smee heard that word from this man’s lips. This great man was alone. Conor Smee, common as he might be, was needed.
He decided. “And what would you be having me call you, Sir? You must have a name.”
The man drained his cup and rose with the grace of a seabird. Hastily, Smee got up, scraping his chair on the flagstones.
