Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  Willingly…he heated all over to think of that and shook his head, trying to shake off his humiliation. He should go. Villon had no…further use…for him now. “James.” Those dark eyes were fixed on him intently; so fierce and beautiful that James held his breath, more confused than before. The thought of facing those outside had him terrified, but it was not what had him lingering here in the place of his sin. It was those eyes, watching him as they had before, without a trace of kindness though the man had called him back.

  “It will be many weeks until we return to Tortuga,” Villon told him again and then lifted one thin brow. There was a moment of silence, and then, slowly, James nodded, closing his eyes briefly at the thought of being called here another time. Then he opened the door and took a step; the act brought with it another shot of pain, but this time he ignored the pain, not wanting to be reminded of what had caused it or of when it might happen again.

  Only once the door was between he and Villon did James raise his head, startled to see that the sun was still in the sky, and that it could not have been longer than half of an hour that he had been in the cabin.

  He kept his eyes up at the sun until his eyes grew wet at the pain and he could no longer see much of anything, wanting to fill his gaze with the Heavens. Then he stepped out onto the deck, staring straight ahead.

  Murmured conversations carried on as he passed by, still walking stiffly for the ache in his arse, most in French though his ears burned whenever he heard Villon’s name. The men spoke as if nothing unusual had occurred, as if he had not sinned in that cabin, and received pleasure from another man. Though surely they knew that, if Villon had done it all before. He could not have been the only one, he could tell that much from his skill at creating pleasure.

  He pushed out forcefully at a figure standing in front of him and heard a loud, crude oath from Michael Pym. But beyond a quick glance behind him to see if he had harmed the other man, he did not stop. He had a moment’s time to observe the concern on his friend’s face, but turned around again and walked faster before they could speak. He was almost afraid to show his face to anyone now.

  The darkness and heat below the deck seemed oddly comforting. It was almost empty, and he rushed down until he had found the place where he had spent most of his nights. Lord Cavendish was sitting on the ground and toying with the bottom of the long, dirty shirt he had been given. His Lordship glared at him haughtily but did not speak, but James for once did not acknowledge him other than to sit down near him.

  His body felt drained, and understandably so. He blushed anew and ducked his head into his knees as he pulled his legs up to his chest. Even that hurt his arse but he stayed still and let the ache fade away while he tried to think clearly.

  Now the dim light seemed a curse, for it offered no distractions and he could again see Villon on his knees before him, and then, more shocking, hear himself crying out. The pleading in his voice…it had almost been as if he had been praying.

  Chapter Threeeee

  H

  e could not remember the last time he had slept. Not that it truly mattered, except that he was being slower than he would like. “Then the course is set?” René repeated the question, pressing for the second time when Thierry did not answer. The edge in his voice brought his navigator’s head up, and René lifted one eyebrow to show that he had been waiting, a part of him amused that he had to ask again. A startled expression crossed the other man’s face, a look that he often got when stacks of charts and diagrams lay in front of him and something called him away from them. He jumped in place and nodded when René only continued to stare.

  “We are close to here,” Thierry whispered huskily, leaning back over the desk and expertly dropping one finger to one map’s surface without turning away from René’s gaze. After a moment, René nodded and glanced down at the charts, studying the parchment carefully though he knew Honoré would have checked his calculations many times already, as he always did.

  A heavy astrolabe was holding down the papers in one corner, and he considered checking their latitude himself for a bare moment though it was much too late in the day, then shook his head and swept his eyes to the opposite corner of the map. It was singed and black, curling in toward the center the way his fingers were curling into his palm until his hand was a fist. His anger at the English captain’s disrespect and arrogance had not faded in the last few weeks. An old fool, following rules that were not his own, to his destruction and the destruction of a few others on his ship. A fool who thought himself stronger than he was, and one better off in the depths.

  “The fire didn’t get much but the compass rose.” Thierry seemed to notice where his gaze was directed and tapped the burnt edge with the same finger that had pointed out the location of his ship in a vast paper ocean. Despite his earlier confidence, his voice wavered as he spoke, perhaps with his own fury.

  Thinking of the elaborate blossom of arrows that was supposed to help guide sailors, René’s bad temper increased, and he turned his shoulder to look out the small window above the desk in his cabin. The sun was shining outside, a few clouds remaining from the small storm that had had hit them the night before. It would not be the last, though it was not the season for the bighuricans. But those they had and could deal with as much as any one could. He did not need the small cross to show the way in any case, he knew his course well enough.

  “Then there is nothing to get in our way.” He spoke abruptly, aware that sea had entranced his tired eyes and that he was staring blankly ahead. “Good,” he managed to say firmly and blinked at last.

  René let his gaze drop back to the surface of his desk, still cluttered with charts. He could see Thierry’s head come up again to study him but did not lift his own. Truthfully, his head felt heavy, suddenly weighed down now that he had given his orders and had seen that they would be obeyed. He needed a drink, and took one, finishing off the clay bottle at his side.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Thierry let one hand fall, so that it rested on the edge of the desk, just in the line of his vision, near the hand that was still tight in a fist. René glanced at it then swallowed the last of the sweet wine, licking his lips to catch any stray drops.

  “That was all I needed.” He did not bother to lift his head to answer, and waited until the hand had been moved and Honoré had rolled up and gathered his charts before standing straight.

  “That was all.” He threw the bottle aside, emphasizing his words with loud crash of the pottery as it hit the wall, annoyed that he had had to repeat himself to Thierry yet again. That the man had served him for years did not mean he had the right to presume. Perhaps he did not inspire enough fear to keep such men obedient. Perhaps he ought to act more like that wasteful demon L’Ollonais and let the Devil have just a bit more of his soul.

  His lips quirked upward in genuine amusement at the thought, though he straightened them to a flat line before giving Thierry a hard look. He did not blink, did not so much as acknowledge the sudden widening of the other man’s eyes as he pulled the arms full of maps tightly around his body and backed out the door.

  Once the door was closed and he was alone in his cabin, René’s smile returned. A harsh laugh even burst out of him, due to the wine he was sure. Another, smaller chuckle escaped as he wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat.

  It was almost too hot to be wearing the stiff garment, but he had kept it on, enjoying how the sight of it seemed to upset some of the Englishmen he had taken into his crew. It was a very well made coat, in just the shade of crimson that he preferred, the shade that made his eyes and skin seem so pretty to those who thought such words were praise.

  His laugh ended there and René moved to get another bottle, needing to wet his throat. The liquor slid down his parched throat smoothly and he gulped it gratefully, pulling the bottle away a long moment later and setting it down.

  It was the officers, theformer officers, who saw the coat as so offensive, surely because it reminded them of
their own lost rank. The rest of the English did not seem to care one whit, except one.

  The little Englishman, he had heard Marechal call him. It made René’s amusement return, for the man was taller than René and nearly everyone else on board either of the ships. Broad in the shoulders too, with a wide chest that no doubt had pleased many women back in his England.

  His fingers gripped the narrow neck of the bottle tightly and René swung away from the desk, only to turn back as he recalled having the man there, being pressed against his sweet body, heat closed around him so tightly that he had groaned when he had meant to be silent. He had enjoyed their fucking as well, the Englishman—James—when he clearly had not expected to, and his eyes had sparked with such anger and defiance.

  Speaking of martyrs and sin when René had held his hard prick in his hand and had had his lips on his chest. A delicious tingle shot through René’s body as he remembered turning the man’s thoughts from God to him, and he closed his eyes to savor his triumph. He had recognized that triumph, James, his intelligent gaze had not missed that at all, and the knowledge had only added to René’s pleasure.

  He wondered if the man still fooled himself into believing that he had not been willing, then discarded the thought.Revenge, he had said.Revenge, as if he had been punished, when René hadchosen to give him pleasure. René bared his teeth and glanced at the door.

  It did not matter to him. He was not interested in the man’s heart, or the heart of any man. He had already discovered all the black deceit that could live in men’s souls and knew that James was no different from any of the rest of Adam’s seed.

  Yet that anger had still been in the man’s eyes a few nights ago, at their…encounter on the deck. René had not meant to take the man again, until he had seen him cross the deck in the darkness. Whatever he had been seeking René did not know or care, though his pose when he had approached him silently had been almost wistful, leaning over the rail and staring out over the water.

  Just recalling the smell of the air that night was enough to create a throbbing in his groin, and René frowned, turning away from the desk and jerking himself free of the heavy jacket. It was much too warm for the coat and his game with the English had lost its sport. He tossed it carelessly behind him, distantly hearing it fall over the desk, then closed his fingers around the neck of the bottle without turning, though he did not raise it to his mouth.

  The strip of netting that served as his bed was before him, swaying slightly with the motions of the ship.

  The sky outside had been orange. It was afternoon and he had not yet rested. His eyes drifted closed for a moment at the realization, thick with lack of sleep. But he felt restless and heated, wine and desire flushing his skin.

  Outside there might be breezes, sweeping from the sea to push them on their way. It would not be long before they were sailing under the cliffs of Turtle Island, and then, no doubt, James and many of the other English would decide they did not like this life and try to leave. Most, including Marechal’spetit Anglais, would not succeed, and wind up on another ship, maybe even that of a true pirate. Morgan was ambitious and always in search of men, though he claimed the title of privateer much as René claimed to be acorsaire.

  Again his smile returned, trying to imagine the moment when they would receive their share of a prize and the greed would overtake them all, and they would find their lives not so unpleasant after all. Innocence lost and not a soul to mark its passing.

  Surging away from the desk, René crossed to the door and stepped outside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the light and then looked out over the deck. Most of his men were stretched out, sleeping. A few had not yet drifted, and stared up at the sky, forgetting for the moment that they were lying in filth as they dreamed of whatever it was men dreamed of. Women no doubt, or perhaps men, or whatever wealth they had left from the last capture that they had not spent.

  René shifted his gaze from those dreaming to those awake, certain that he would find the new crew members doing any work that needed to be done. The tasks would have been given to them as a matter of course.

  Very little work seemed to be being done at all, and he pondered that curiously until, recalling that the captured ship had been stripped of materials, so very few repairs were needed here. On the other ship, theirla Reine de Sheba, much work was probably needed now. He was tired, much too tired, to have forgotten such an obvious thing.

  Swearing under his breath, René moved forward, glancing about him as he did. The men who saw him nodded respectfully—or fearfully, if they were English—but let him walk on without speaking. His crew knew better than to approach him unless he approached them first. His uncertain moods were the subject of many jests, some of them even amusing, when Deniau or Thierry or someone else had related them to him.

  Thinking of Deniau, René glanced around, looking for the one person who promised to at least not be a bore. The English were sleeping amongst his men, or sitting with them, for it did not take any skill with language to roll dice or share a bottle of ale. They all seemed to be resting in the manner of the Spaniards and Italians, sleeping in the evening as he should have been doing, though he knew it was boredom and laziness that made them sleep. The tall one was not among them.

  “Are you looking for someone?” A voice called out inquiringly and several of the sleeping men twitched and fell back asleep. René took his time in looking up and answering, staring over the bodies of the men one last time.

  “You,” he answered shortly, following the bark of surprised laughter to find Deniau, propped up in a dirty but well-padded gilded chair they had taken months ago from another ship. The black man had his head resting against the wall behind him, the frayed knots of the scarf shielding his head from the sun the only cushion against the hard wood.

  He looked at ease, a contrast to the short blade he kept tucked into the waist of his breeches, ever sharpened and easy to reach. But his skin, dark like the molasses on the islands, did not look healthy, and the skin bared by his torn shirt was taut over his chest.

  “Do you see something you like, Villon?” Deniau grinned with dark amusement as René drew closer, waving one hand over his lounging body. One leg was stretched out before him, resting on top of a small, lacquered box and René stopped just short of it.

  “You look like shit,” René responded seriously, and scowled at the wide smile this comment put on the other man’s face. They were fortunate that the English captain had been so greedy as to carry the fever powders. He had heard that the English were not fond of the quichona bark, that they called it the Devil’s powders, never mind that it was worth its weight in gold for curing the worst of all fevers, and that, as always, Lucifer looked after his own. A few doses and Deniau had woken from the delirium. But the sickness had weakened him; he had not been above deck in some time.

  “So have I been told.” The strange accent of Hispaniola clung to his words, the French of the western island and something else, fainter. It was how all the slaves there spoke, aside from those who spoke the Spanish tongue or only the words of their own countries. Deniau must have lived there before finding his way into René’s crew, his name most likely the surname of whatever nobleman had tried to own him.

  “What are you doing?” Whatever had made the man’s eyes narrow was of little interest to him. Deniau would not tell him anyway, if René ever lowered himself to ask, which he would not.

  Next to Deniau was a chest, stripped of all its brass locks and bindings. Another chair, this one bare of all padding, was next to that, standing crookedly with one chipped leg. Annoyed, René glanced back at Deniau who was no longer looking at him.

  “Waiting,” Deniau replied slowly. He paused, almost deliberately, but with his face turned away he could not see René’s steady stare. Tired, René sat down in the chair and noisily adjusted the cutlass hanging from his belt. The sound of the sword brought the man back around, as René had known it would for Deniau was quite his favourite man when it
came to ruthless killing, and the sound probably appealed to him. “For you,” he finished when René said nothing and then abruptly let out a loud chuckle when René raised his head. “Or anyone who can play a good game.”

  He gestured to the box holding up his one leg and René studied it for a moment, recognizing it as the richly made chessboard and pieces that Deniau had taken from a home in Trujillo. He was almost surprised not to find Deniau squinting into the small book he had taken from James Fitzroy, or to find them together in some lesson, James Fitzroy at his sickbed like a tender, worried lover.

  “I thought we already played the game,” René remarked with a narrow-eyed look at the man. Deniau’s eyes lit up, and René had not seen him look so excited in some time, though that had been in different circumstances, something Deniau would have laughed to remember. But his words were an agreement to play, and though he was tired he carefully reached for the box.

  Chess was one of the few pastimes permitted on a ship, one that did not drive men to fight or kill. Perhaps it was the opportunity for capture and murder already in the game, enough to satisfy even Deniau’s lust.

  Something wet splashed onto the back of his hand as he did and he blinked to see the bottle of wine still in his hand. Then he dropped one shoulder in a quick shrug and licked the drops from his hand before grabbing the box. He handed it to Deniau and took a small drink as the other man arranged the board and pieces on the chest.

  “I would not know you without a bottle in your hand.” Deniau was smiling again, probably anticipating his victory. René raised one eyebrow to challenge that statement, then shrugged again, for it meant little.

  He could still taste the liquor in his mouth and recalled stealing the wine from the church as a child. This wine was not nearly so sweet.

  “Vita vinum est,” he murmured lowly to himself, out of a clouded memory, wine is life, and then let out a sharp laugh of his own when Deniau stared at him, looking confused. “You speak the…Latin?” he demanded, slowing over the one word but watching him intently. “You sound like the Englishman reading from his book.” At his words René stilled, his head tipped back for another sip. He felt his brows draw together and shook his head. For a moment, the world spun around him like a child’s toy. “It is a joke, that book,” Deniau was moving beyond his line of sight, shifting his position. “I wonder that he frowns to read it. But thenI do not know the man so well as any other.”