The Curse [Legend of Blackbeard's Chalice Book 1]

by Maddie James

  None.

  Dammit! He had every right! She was his beloved, his wife. He would force her to stay. There was no way in hell he'd let her return.

  No way.

  That was all there was to it. He'd bury that stone so deep no man, or woman, would ever find it again.

  Since the night he'd first stolen a sweet kiss from her, across the boundaries of time, he'd been lost. He'd searched, and he'd found her again. This time, he wouldn't let her go.

  Never.

  She was here. And here she would stay.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Ten

  "I have no need for ye, nor do I want to hear yer plea."

  The bulging red eyes of the notorious pirate Blackbeard glared across the table. The gigantic man sat before Rick, leaning onto the table, shoveling some concoction that resembled food into his face. The ship pitched to the right and the huge man caught the gruel with his forearm and sopped up the spillage with his sleeve.

  Watching as the pirate rose, Rick grimaced. Even through the room's pale light, the sight of his dinner remnants spattering the front of the pirate's clothing and beard, mingled with what looked to be slime and perhaps a little blood, sickened him. Blackbeard snorted and then passed a lengthy spell of putrid gas. The giant grinned.

  Rick's own heart pounded in his chest. “But I feel I can be of some service to you, sir."

  "I've no need for a bloody pantywaist in fancy clothing.” Blackbeard's eyes looked as though they could burst from their sockets. He lunged forward and grabbed Rick's hand.

  The stench of the man as he drew nearer was nauseating. Rick swallowed hard and looked into the face of the devil himself. Quickly, he pulled his hand away from the pirate's caked and greasy palm, resisting the temptation to swipe away the grime on his trouser leg.

  "Be gone with ye, ye bloody bastard! I've no use for ye. ‘Tis no service ye could provide for me short of dumping me slop overboard!"

  He couldn't leave. This was his best and only chance. To have the whole of Blackbeard's treasure laid at his feet was more than he could fathom. His dreams of power and riches were at hand. He savored the metallic taste of the silver-plated cup in his mouth, then looked to Blackbeard and gave him a sly grin. No. He wouldn't give up.

  "I have names that you need to know. Names you need to fear."

  The giant roared. “I have no fears! The Devil has no fears, nor do I! You should be afeared of me. The world fears me!"

  "I have no fear of you.” Rick braced his stance, prepared for the onslaught. “I worship you."

  Blackbeard swirled in a complete circle, swinging his cutlass around his head until he stopped dead center in his quarters, with the cutlass pointed at a spot just below Rick's Adam's apple. As the infamous pirate stepped closer, he held strong. He would not be denied what he sought.

  "Worship me! What caliber of man worships another? And what, pray tell, do you think ye can offer me?"

  In a heartbeat, Rick answered. His knowledge of Blackbeard's history was about to pay off. His lips twisted into a smirk. “Names, sir. Names of people you should avoid at all cost. And places. Dates. And if you can give me some time, locations of ships full of treasure just ripe for the picking.” The cutlass dug a little further into his throat and he was sure it drew blood.

  "Names, you say? Give them to me now. Who are these people I should dread?"

  Refusing to buckle to the pirate's wrath, he continued while keeping contact with his narrowed gaze. “Alexander Spotswood, for one. Robert Maynard, for another."

  "Spotswood? The Governor of Virginia? Bah! I've no fear of him."

  "He will order your death."

  Watching Blackbeard's eyes widen further, he felt the prick of the cutlass jab deeper, then release. Dropping his arm to his side, he studied Rick.

  "And who be this Maynard?"

  Praying he was doing the right thing, Rick took a deep breath and continued, “The man who will see to your death."

  The great pirate only stared at him for several minutes. Without warning, he spun again and laughed a full, lengthy belly laugh that echoed throughout the quarters and up onto the ship's deck.

  He stopped dead center in the cabin and cocked his head to one side. “Yer a seer, are ya?"

  In agreement, Rick nodded slowly. “I know things."

  Blackbeard's gruff voice returned. “Ye may stay for a while, but if ye prove to be a useless piece of shit, and if ye get in my way, I'll have yer head for dinner! Now, who may ye be?"

  Inwardly smiling his relief, but not daring to show it to the great man who stood before him, the man he certainly did idolize and wished he were more like, Rick answered, “My name is Richard Gentry."

  After another pause, Blackbeard stumbled closer until Rick could see the foul yellow of his eyes.

  "Well, Richard Gentry, I have me first request. If ye pass muster, we'll talk further. If not, I'll set ye adrift on the open sea like any common witch, ye understand?"

  Rick exhaled. It seemed he'd been holding his breath for a millennium. “What is this task,” he asked, not blinking an eye.

  "The task,” the pirate spit back, “is to bring me a woman. And if ye know things as ye say, ye'll know exactly the one."

  * * * *

  Every day for two weeks Claire walked to the stone. She'd studied the inscription and contemplated its meaning and intent. It was a puzzle, to be sure, but slowly, she was gaining headway.

  While Jack worked or fished or tended to his farming, she learned her way around the area. She'd not seen a solitary person since she'd been there, so she'd decided quite early that Hannah's clothing needed some alteration. What would it matter? No one but Jack ever saw her anyway. And it was too damned hot to wear layer upon layer of clothing. How Hannah stood it, she didn't know.

  But Hannah, even though Claire felt like she knew her at times, was not entirely like her. She couldn't be. Hannah was more reserved, gentler, and probably would have never thought of crossing Jack's wishes. There's where they were different. Claire cared for Jack, she knew she did right from the very beginning, but her contemporary upbringing would in no way allow her to be docile and obedient.

  Unless of course she wanted to be those things.

  Certainly though, Hannah wouldn't have ripped her clothing to shreds in an indecent manner, at least for the times, as Claire was about to do.

  The skirt was all right, long and loose and comfortable, but the chemise had to go. That morning after Jack left, she'd loosened the stitching at the shoulders and removed the long sleeves, then ripped the entire bottom length off the thing from about the waist down, making herself a sleeveless blouse. To humor Jack, she slipped her arms though the openings of the corset and laced it over the blouse. It did help to support her breasts, since she didn't have a bra. She thought she looked somewhat like Heidi, but then laughed off the thought. She was anywhere but the Alps, and she looked nothing like a ten-year-old girl. And besides, she was having wicked thoughts of what Jack might think of how she looked in the corset sans chemise later tonight.

  Forget the bonnet. Forget the apron.

  She felt like a three-year-old when she put them on.

  I might have to live in the eighteenth century, but I don't have to concede to their clothing. Maybe I'll start a trend.

  She was dressed in just that manner when she returned from the beach later that afternoon and Jack, for the first time, witnessed the alterations. She knew instinctively, before she'd even reached within ten yards of him, that he didn't like it.

  "What happened there with your clothing?” he asked as she drew nearer. Then panic washed over his face. “Are you all right? Did someone try to harm you?” He rushed forward. “Lord in heaven! Your chemise is ripped and your shoulders are sunburned red as a lobster!"

  Claire glanced down at one shoulder. It was red, but no worse than any other sunburn she'd ever had. She normally tanned quite easily and rarely blistered after a burn, she didn't suspect this
one would either.

  "Just a little red,” she mumbled then lifted her eyes to his. “How was your day?"

  "My day?"

  For some reason, he appeared angry. “I asked you a question, woman. What happened to you? If someone harmed you, just tell me and I'll..."

  She stepped closer, smiled sweetly, and then placed a peck on his cheek. “Calm down, Jack. Nothing happened to me. I just got hot, that's all."

  He stared back. “You mean you did that to your clothing?"

  "It was hot."

  Anger raced over his face. But there was something else, too. Desire? She was hot and sweaty, so much so that the cotton fabric of the chemise-blouse stuck to her like something out of a spring break wet t-shirt contest. She glanced lower. Her breasts, just above the area where the corset left off, were peaked and her hard nipples made an outward protrusion beneath the damp fabric. Her skirt, wet at the bottom from walk near the sound's edge, hung close to her ankles, its weight pulling at the fabric around her waist.

  "You can't go around like that!"

  "And why not?"

  His stance broadened. He placed fists on either hip and fully faced her. “Because you can't, that's all. Someone may see you!"

  Claire chuckled. “Who in the hell is going to see me, Jack? I've been here two weeks now and I've seen no one but you. Are you sure it's not just that I arouse you a little dressed like this?"

  He jerked forward, seemed to contemplate her question, and then evidently chose to ignore it. “It isn't ladylike. You need your bonnet and apron when you go out. You can't show your shoulders like that and your skirt, the way it hugs your body, I can almost see through it. You'd think there was nothing on underneath! What have you done to your chemise?” He slipped a finger under the cotton fabric at her shoulder.

  Instinctively she stepped backward and glared.

  "Don't you take another step. What I wear is of no concern to you. It's hot, Jack, and I'll be damned if I'm going to wear all those layers. I'll die of heat exhaustion!"

  "I asked you what you had on underneath the skirt. What's happened to your chemise?” His brows were knit together, determined. “Now let me see."

  Her eyes widened. “You want to see what's under my skirt?"

  "Yes."

  "You're sure?"

  He exhaled impatiently. “I said, yes."

  With a slight tug, the weight of the waterlogged fabric dropped from her hips. It pooled around her ankles leaving her naked from the waist down. Her gaze stayed glue to his face and she watched with amusement as his expression turned from one of anger ... to desire ... to anger ... and back again.

  Finally, he stared at the small golden triangle just below the point of her corset. His lips parted as she stood silently watching him. Again, she noticed the influx and release of a slow, deep breath, and then he shook his head from side to side.

  She reached down to her golden curls and flicked a forefinger through them.

  "Hannah...” he warned.

  She trailed that forefinger over her mound, teasing him. He didn't, or couldn't, look away.

  "See anything you like?"

  He tore his gaze upward. “Stop doing that. Now."

  Giggling, she continued. “Ah, come on, Jack. You know you see something here you like.” Why she was taunting him? Perhaps it was because in all his affronted manliness, he somehow seemed so ... innocent?

  She dipped two fingers deeper between her legs.

  He moved closer. “Hannah! I forbid you to touch yourself like—"

  "Forbid me to do what?” Slowly, she brought her fingers up to her mouth and sucked on them.

  He rushed to her and grabbed both of her hands. “Stop! Dammit, woman! I..."

  She held his gaze, didn't falter. He halted, her hand inches from his face, his breathing labored. Slowly, he slid his gaze over to her fingers laced within his, brought them to his own mouth and sucked ... his eyes closed ... and then tugged her closer.

  This time it was Claire who trembled with desire. “You like that, Jack,” she whispered. “Don't you? Admit it. Seeing me touch myself made you hard and you wanted me."

  He nuzzled into her neck, his teeth raking across her pulse. “Changes. I can't seem to remember sometimes that you are her, but then you are not."

  "But these changes turn you on. And you like it."

  He pulled back, studied her face. Then he trailed a solitary forefinger toward her breast. He lightly touched one sensitive nipple through the damp cotton.

  "You make me hard,” he admitted. “And yes, I like it. You have lost your inhibitions and you share that with me. I want that. I do not like to think of other men ogling you when you look like that though. You cannot, Hannah, ever be in the presence of another man dressed like this."

  She shook her head. “No, Jack. I wouldn't. I understand that. I..."

  "It is also disturbing to me that you do not want to obey my wishes, as a dutiful wife should—but then ... I believe I rather prefer the surprises you bring."

  She reached up and grasped his hand in hers then placed it on her bare hip. “And what surprises might those be?” She dismissed the “dutiful little wife” comment until later. This was not the time or place.

  He sucked in a quick breath. His other hand closed over her opposite hip and he dragged her closer, his fingers kneading into her flesh. He lowered his lips to hers, barely scraping them. “Each day is a surprise, Hannah. Each day you bring me more than the one before. It's just that I'm not used to you this way yet."

  "What way? Tell me."

  "Like ... like this. The way that you are right now. Like you've been since you've been back. So...” He trailed his lips down her throat until he met the cleavage of her breasts. He thrust himself closer into her bare pelvis. She clearly felt his arousal.

  "Sexy?"

  "Umm?"

  "Seductive? Easy? Uninhibited?” She whispered as she clutched his head to her breast, relishing in his tongue dipping beneath the cotton.

  The thing is, Jack, I was never this way before. It's only with you.

  His head jerked up and met her gaze. “So full of passion ... surprises."

  "You like that?"

  One finger pulled at the laces holding the corset together, then plunged both hands under the fabric, loosening the laces fully, and palmed both breasts. Soon she stood naked before him. Reaching out, she undid the front closures of his shirt. He didn't flinch, but let her undress him as they stood in the hot afternoon sun in front of their cabin.

  She enfolded the fingers of one hand around his hard length.

  He shuddered. “Hannah ... would never do ... that.” He spoke between ragged breaths.

  "She never touched you? Like this?"

  She watched his face as she stroked him, her touch feather-light on his swollen shaft. His eyes rolled back in his head with unbridled pleasure and he wavered, slightly, standing there. She wondered if he was fighting an internal battle. Knowing, and yet not knowing, that she wasn't Hannah; that they were different people.

  She would make him see the difference.

  "No, Hannah probably wouldn't do this,” she whispered. “But I would."

  She nudged closer, pressed her hips to his, and slid him between her legs, supporting his cock between her thighs. Reaching around, she kneaded his rear and pulled him as close into her as she possibly could.

  He pushed in between her legs, pumped in and out slowly, building friction. She was hot. Moist. And loved the feel of him there. He moaned and then he grasped her face, cupping her cheeks in both hands, and heatedly kissed her. When he was through, she drew back only slightly and breathed heavily against his cheek.

  In one swift moment, Jack lifted her and she wrapped her legs around him. His shaft penetrated her thoroughly and with a wild abandoned shriek, she felt his hot length take her ... filling her ... possessing her as she'd never before been possessed.

  * * * *

  Jack had been patient with her as a “wife” since h
e didn't really understand that she hated housework and domesticity. Well, hate was probably too strong a word. It was just that it wasn't her thing. She liked numbers and figures and cutting to the chase. She didn't like dust cloths and broom handles. But she had found herself hand washing some of their clothing and hanging them out on a makeshift clothesline. And she'd swept and dusted and straightened the little cabin until it shined, more out of sheer boredom than anything else. But Jack had never asked her to cook for him. Not until the previous night.

  He wanted her to bake bread.

  Bread. Oh my God. How in the world am I going to pull this one off?

  But the thought that startled her most was that she really hadn't minded doing these things, and if Jack wanted bread, she would try to provide it for him.

  Geez! What am I turning into!

  Rising, she briefly washed then dressed. Jack was gone for the day—scavenging and fishing he'd told her—and she had the cabin to herself. At loose ends as to what she would do with the rest of her day, she thought perhaps she could put the bread making off for a little while. It wasn't like she actually knew what she was doing, anyway.

  After wandering the cabin for a while, she took a brief walk outside. Bored, she went back inside. Plopping down on the bed, she longed for a juicy book to while away the afternoon. Or a magazine. Newspaper. Cereal box.

  Anything.

  And then it dawned on her. This was what it would be like every day Jack was gone. What it would be like every day of her life if she stayed here.

  In this century. Forever.

  What a lonely existence Jack Porter had on this island. How in the world could a woman take all this? Lord. This was what it would be like for the rest of her life. Even though she cared deeply for Jack, was drawn to him more than she'd ever been drawn to another, and shared a deep sense of connection with him, she wasn't sure if she could take it. Could she resign herself to living this lonely life?

  Suddenly she longed to nail a closing on a prime piece of real estate.

  But that wasn't to be.

  She shook off the thought. It was easier and simpler to just think about making bread. Something menial and manual. Something to occupy her hands, not her brain. Or her heart.