Ideas of Sin

by Cooper, R.

  James opened his mouth to try to speak though no words were on his tongue and Villon shook his head, scowling at some private puzzle that James knew he would never fathom, even if it had been shared with him. Then it was over, and he swayed once more as Villon stepped back.

  “Sleep, James. Even you must do that,” he remarked in cool tones and flicked a look to Deniau. James followed his look and then shook his head.

  “N…not until he is b…buried.” He stumbled over the word itself but made himself stand firm, too weary to be scared. One dark eyebrow arched at his command though Villon did not turn or even acknowledge he had spoken. But a moment later two largecorsaires crossed before him, each bending down to pick up his Lordship. James studied them warily but neither spoke, or looked at anyone save Villon.

  Neither man was Marechal and James felt his brows draw together to realize that the behemoth of man was not even there. Somehow he always seemed to be at Villon’s shoulder. Someone had to steer the ship while Villon had… he stopped and shuddered with unease to think of Marechal’s dark looks. But he was only seeking to distract himself from what had to be done, and turned, crossing himself slowly when the sound of a splash could be heard. Then he shivered.

  “Sleep, yes?” Villon again, frowning at him from a few feet away. Ben was still at his side, frowning as well. The whole thing was ridiculous, and James let out a choking gasp that was much like a sob, to his shame. His eyes closed and then hands were at his shoulders, warm but still wetly stained with blood. His breath caught again. “I will deal with Deniau for his crime against me and leave the rest to your God. The god that has sent you to punish the unfaithful. Go now, James.”

  A rough shove had him almost falling back, only the presence of someone behind him steadied him. Blinking, James saw Ben staring up at him, shaking his head like an old man. “I’m swooning like a maid, René,” he whispered as René turned from him and wondered if René had heard his joke when the slight body seemed to still. Then René was moving away, Deniau close behind him, both silent and James suddenly knew that hewas mad, for only a madman would have watched over René’s retreating figure when it was his own soul that needed protection.

  Tortuga

  Chapter Five

  T

  here were two channels leading into port on Turtle Island, both running between tall, rocky cliffs that looked as treacherous as the rest of the island’s shores. Despite appearances they were dangerous only to fools and the inexperienced, like women were said to be, something that made René smile shortly, considering the idea of a woman making a fool of him with the first faint spark of interest he had felt in several days. It did not last long, fading quickly to the dull, throbbing anger that still remained from the events of two nights before. His smile disappeared, and he narrowed his eyes to the sight of the water crashing onto the stones.

  A moment later he shrugged such unpleasant thoughts away. Regardless of the tales of women and their wiles it was not likely for a woman to pose as big as threat to him as those cliffs ahead; one test of the waters had satisfied him that there was no danger there. Just thinking that there might be was enough to return the grin to his face.

  He moved his gaze from the jagged rocks to his navigator, standing a few feet away at the helm. Thierry’s eyes were wide and eager as he stared toward the island and René very much doubted that it had anything to do with concern for the ship. The younger man looked like a dog dreaming of crusts from the table, and René‘s brows drew together in a slight frown despite his amusement, wondering if the cliffs would prove a danger to Thierry in his eagerness to reach what lay beyond them. He ought to steer her himself.

  That would be best. Thierry could go join the others in staring at the coast and René could concentrate on what had to be done. “I will take her.” He was at the helm before Thierry had enough turned to look at him, and slid his hands firmly onto the wood once Thierry had finally stepped aside, though keeping nearby in case help steering was necessary. That the man looked openly irritated by his act was surprising, but René did not dwell on it, nodding only to acknowledge what the man had done so far.

  Down below were most of his men, and his captives, though no doubt many of those would join him in deed as well as name soon enough. His eyes traveled over their heads absently, their faces easy enough to identify in the light of day. From where he stood, he could see all the way to the bow, to the small sheltered spot where a pile of rope still lay, and his grip tightened on the spokes in his hands. The current was strong here, and it took strength to stay in control.

  “Captain?” Thierry leaned into his vision, peering at him, and René tore his eyes from the sight and focused instead on Honoré, who had managed to take his eyes and thoughts away from the whores on the island for one moment.

  “You will find Marechal and have him with you when you give the orders for who stays and who goes onshore,” he ordered, his jaw tight. None would argue with Marechal there.

  But Honoré hesitated, swallowing once before leaning back.

  “Marechal?” he began in a careful whisper but stopped when René set his shoulders and turned back to the water. “Yes, Marechal.” As René said it he could see the large man’s form, moving among the crew, coming in this direction. “You are not afraid of him, are you, Honoré?” he asked mockingly and arched his eyebrows at the anger thickening the other man’s voice.

  “I will not have to look to find him.” Thierry answered, sounding so much like James Fitzroy with his stiff disapproval that René almost turned to make sure that he had not left and the Englishman had taken his place. Ignoring both the tone and the meaning of the odd words, René jerked his head toward the deck.

  “Assure them that I will send women and drink aboard, as always,” he added, referring to his order, then dismissing the man altogether as his ship entered the channel between cliffs and the port city lay ahead of them. Thierry slipped away a moment later and René forgot about the man and his sulking other than to track his course over the deck. Another of his men came up behind him, ready to help guide the resisting wheel if needed, and this one did not bother him with conversation.

  Honoré and Marechal passed a tall figure turned to face the bow and René raised his gaze and began tapping one finger against the wheel to the time of a tune he had heard when last on Tortue. The Englishman was still looking at him, and René twisted his mouth at the realization, keeping his eyes on the sky and the water and the cliffs around them. The tune was sad though he could not recall the words, but then Spanish songs were always about lost loves or duels and so words about either of those things would have sufficed.

  When reading and giving his foolish, wasted lessons to that child, the Englishman had a way of narrowing his gaze; René had seen it often enough from his favourite spot on the stern and had been amused to see the boy squirm underneath it. The boy that had only stared with interest at the blood of the fat lord spilling across the deck and that had not flinched to see his captain carved up like a chicken. He had not even had the grace to look away when finding René with James.

  At that thought René‘s gaze dipped back down, not at all surprised to see the child standing at James’ side, looking as small and weak as he doubtless would have when standing near the ass of a captain. After René‘s own service near Ben’s age, he would not have minded watching a bloody execution or two either.

  He would have enjoyed it. The song vanished from his mind and with it his momentary distraction. James and his little disciple were still down below and René flicked his eyes from them to the water and back again, holding the wheel steady without truly thinking of it, though his muscles still fought the water. It was nowhere near as strenuous as turning, which required more men, but still an effort.

  James ought to be staring ahead, looking to the New World and his new life and dreaming of his women like the rest of the men who would be scratching their balls in a week, complaining of the pox. René paused in his thoughts for a moment to mark
his need to purchase medicines once onshore then shrugged the thought away.

  James had flung his women in his face like some bragging Italian, so much so that René deliberately reminded himself of afterward, how James had opened his legs and lifted his ass and moaned for it before René had finally allowed him release.

  Those serious eyes studying him, what had they looked like in the dark in that night? They had not been so proud or so knowing as they had been when James had condemned him as a sinner and the Devil before his own men, and neither had they been as dreamy and wounded as they had been while he had been crouched over the body of his employer. No, they had been hungry and desperate and wide open to stare at him as he had been preparing to leave, not understanding why he had been left with his own hard cock in his hands when he had only moments before been stroking René‘s with those same palms.

  For the barest moment, René met the Englishman’s gaze and held it. They were too far apart for him to read his expression, for James had chosen to watch him from a safe distance, but René easily could imagine the new knowledge behind those damned spectacles, and relished the idea that he had placed it there.

  Saint Denis, how James had seized control on his own, squeezing and caressing his prick as if he had wanted nothing more than to watch René come all over him.Saint Denis, René groaned again under his breath and clutched the spokes of the wheel in white hands, reliving his pleasure as he had done just that.

  ” Merde,” he murmured, no doubt confusing the man near him, and tossed his head to banish the few curls that had fallen forward. He turned from James again at the small sign of displeasure and wondered if his act displeased James as well, frowning when that would have brought a smile to his face.

  It was good that René had stepped away then. If he had stayed longer he might have turned to see James staring at him with those eyes, and he might have gone back to him and then he would have had to say his farewells once more. Good that the child had interrupted them, even though a child, even Ben, should not have seen such things. Too many lovers would not leave when René was through with them, would stay when no longer welcome, and such a return might have given the Englishman false hope. Make him ask for more.

  The Englishman was going to leave once he was in Tortue, even with no money he would find a way, and return to Jamaica, where according to Carter’s logs the ship had been bound. There were few ways to make money on Turtle Island, and René paused to consider each, and which the Englishman would choose. He was a smart man, with his books, strong-willed and beautiful; money would find its way to him soon enough, in some way that would turn his innocent eyes hard and seep the blushes from his face.

  Some of the other English might try to escape in Tortue, and René wished luck to them absently, knowing most would return either to him to someone else or stay on the island, living in fear of him and his words that first day on their ship. As if he wanted an unwilling crew, ready to kill him and take control at any time. All he had wanted was an obedient crew until he would reach the island and sell their ship. But tales of the monster Villon would spread and he would end up on some English list of those to be caught and hanged, if the sea did not claim him first.

  Cavendish belonged to the waters now, feeding the fish on the ocean floor and James would be most angered to know that René thought this was best. A laugh burst from René at the thought, loud enough to catch the attention of a few down below who only shook their heads at his humour. Drifting down into the cool depths until the water was black and there was only sleep. It was a Fate to be prayed for, unworthy of a man like the English lord, who attacked children and thought a wig was honour. It was more than René would give any other man like him.

  James was a fool to mourn him, weeping over him with bright eyes as if there had been any part of the man to be missed. René‘s lingering smile widened as he recalled coming up to the main deck behind Deniau, watching Deniau reach for his dagger. After such insults, it would have been a shock if he had not. As for the blood, there would have been less if Deniau had faced the man first and stabbed; slicing a throat open was a messy business.

  It had stained James’ hands when René had pressed the dagger into them. Hands that already been stained with his seed. René had known James would not kill, not when he had not before, in the doorway, but Deniau had not known, and René‘s anger had been such that it had pleased him to upset Deniau. He had not expected the Englishman to grow weak, to murmur about strange things.

  Swooning . René wrinkled his nose. As if he would know what the damned word meant. The unknown English had been whispered almost drunkenly, followed by his name. The Englishman had called him by his name several times, and not just in pleasure, René realized abruptly and let his eyes slip across the ship until they got mired in muddy English brown, enlarged by curved glass.

  He did not know why the Englishman stared at him so. René nearly snarled as he snapped his head away, observing the gentling blue waters without any appreciation for their beauty. He had said his farewell already, did not the fool understand? Or was he simply too afraid, swooning in fear that René would not allow him to leave?

  He would be happy to see the Englishman go, would say it to the man’s face if James ever grew balls enough to come to him. He had had enough of James and his questions, of his never-ending stream of whys, his discerning gaze. He was sick of the sight of him, especially now, for in his disgust of Deniau since Cavendish’s death, James had refused the use of his razor and his face was hidden by another ugly, spotty growth of beard.

  It had not seemed to be fear in his eyes now. Intent and focused and yet otherworldly, as if he dreamed. As if he found René fascinating, and imagined them together like lovers when even the child knew better than that. James was not one of those men who stayed on board to be with hismatelotot.

  Murmurings caught his ear and René jerked his head up and blinked, startled to see the many masts and sails of other ships around him. But his men were moving, lowering sails and preparing to drop anchor, the city ahead of them.

  City. He scoffed at their use of the word. Despite the many palmetto-thatched buildings and the stone-walled fort, it was little more than a village. A place for pirates and slave traders and men like him to come and visit with whores and drink and lose their money. It was only along the rest of the island that things were more calm, cutthroat crews holing up to repair their ships until the next round of captures and debauchery began anew. Thinking of it brought a slight ache to his head, and he sighed.

  “Ready the boats!” René shouted out unnecessarily a moment later, to remind his men that the faster they moved, the faster they would be onshore. They would not have much to spend—aside from le Sheba they had not sighted any ships, at least not any from Spain or not carrying slaves, which did them little good. Money for their next voyage would come from the sale of the English ship, stripped of its name and colours. What that voyage would be…that depended on who was around. Whenever he did go finally onshore today, he was hoping to meet with Mirena, who might be willing to join in an attack on a convoy of gold. That ought to please the men, even with the monies they still had with their families back in St. Malo, they would want more. What they took was theirs to keep, for as long as they could hold it.

  The thought of lost treasure made mind skip back to Deniau, turning his attention from the feel of the ship slowing and the waters easing, to the small lady’s mirror he had taken from the man in punishment for his transgression.

  This ship had rules; René expected them to be obeyed and so did the men. Deniau had had no right to glare at him as if the dead lord had been his fault. He had allowed Deniau to make his choice on those stairs. It was not as if the mirror meant anything to the man, both he and René had known that without a word being spoken. René would probably sell it, cracking the rubies free from their settings would get him more money. Mirrored glass alone was enough to buy him whatever he wanted.

  They were lovely, gleaming rubies,
high quality, and he considered keeping one. Such a prize as that might convince any man to stay onboard and live acorsaire’s life. A light touch grazed his shoulder and René twisted his head and then raised his gaze, unhappy to see Marechal’s visage looming so close to him. Marechal’s face was smooth aside from the small scars; odd for such a large, dirty man to keep such a clean, childlike appearance, not that it made him more comely, in fact having the opposite effect of showing René every crooked white line and bulbous feature. If he chose, he could make the large man smile, and then he would not even be spared the yellowed, broken grin, more familiar to him than his own though it had been years since he had truly seen it.

  But making Marechal a happy man no longer interested him and he did not want to remember when it had, so he turned away without speaking, though the ship did not need anyone to steer now.

  Already a few strong men were climbing down the rope ladders flung over the side to waiting boats, reliable oarsmen to get the men to shore and bring the supplies back. He watched from the high deck and did not move, other than to slide his hands from the wheel at last. His arms fell heavily to his sides and then, when Thierry looked up to him from the main deck, he nodded.

  Thierry immediately signaled to the men that they could begin descending the ladder, the more experienced of them in no hurry. Even Honoré had managed to contain his impatience.

  “Le Negre does not go.” The words startled him, more for the fact that Marechal had spoken than for their meaning. “No, Deniau does not.” Curling his fingers into his palms did not quite keep the shrill edge from his voice, and René scowled to realize that he had the sound of his mother. Deniau would stay on the ship as another punishment, though no doubt finding someputain to ease his stay. It was hardly a flogging, but it was enough to satisfy René’s anger for now at being forced into this position by such carelessness. Deniau would likely only get drunk and cause more deaths on the island if René let him go ashore.