Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

“Looks like a mean skull-and-bones.”

  “Does he got somethin’ to do with our next mission?”

  “Ain’t like the Capt’n, no sir.”

  “Sure could use another fo’c’sle jack.”

  Ricker grew more perplexed with each curious glance or wayward remark. Just what did this woman want from him? Christ. He’d been sitting on this cask for over an hour. When was she going to show herself?

  Deckhands grunted from hauling a net packed with barrels. The pulley creaked under the weight as the load swung, bumping into the side of the ship.

  “Watch those kegs, ya bunglers,” Henri called, stabbing his cane toward the deckhands. “That’s our lifeblood! Ya bust ’em and I’ll be damned to share my ration of rum with ya.”

  “Tut, you old fuddler.” The jack that had been accompanying the captain at the docks strode up the boarding plank. “Ease off the boys, Henri. There’s enough spirit to keep you in your cups for two moons.”

  “I don’t want to be in my cups,” Henri said. “I wanna be water soaked and half the seas over.”

  “Soon enough.”

  “Quint accept a commission?” Another man, older than Valeryn and less deliberate in his strides, stepped on deck.

  “Aye, Willie.” Valeryn nodded. “We hunt for a rogue Spanish bucket.”

  As Willie neared, Ricker smelled the faint odor of perfume. The man had no doubt taken his leisure with one of the town’s doxies. “Mutineers.” Willie’s lopsided grin balanced out his crooked nose.

  “Blimey,” Henri chimed in. “I love a good hunt.”

  Willie swung a small knapsack off his shoulder and pulled out a plug of tobacco from inside. He shoved the leaves under his bottom lip and chuckled. “’Tis a sound livin’.”

  Ricker was certain Sam smiled this time. ’twas obvious these fellows relished poaching ships. He imagined all pirates did. Hell, he remembered the thrill of chasing quarry all too well. Almost missed it. Aye, the pirate’s life was a sound life for any man with spirit.

  “What about this fella, Valeryn?” Henri thumbed at Ricker. “Why’s he here?”

  Ricker locked hard stares with Valeryn. This man did not want him there. Mutual feeling, to be sure. By the vicious grimace Valeryn leveled at him, Ricker wouldn’t have been surprised if he heard a death knell. He studied Valeryn slowly and methodically, gauging an opponent. ’twould be foolish if Ricker didn’t do the same. He had a gut feeling he would go bare knuckles with Valeryn, quite possibly soon.

  Valeryn’s lip curled, as if the words he was about to speak tasted sour. “Why, to do her bidding, of course.”

  Nay. The words weren’t sour. He spat them in such ’twas the idea the man couldn’t stomach.

  “Her bidding?” Henri scowled. “Don’t talk riddles, boy. I’m too old for such nonsense.”

  That produced another snort from the goliath.

  “Ya got somethin’ ta say, ya big ox?”

  “Not a t’ing, ancient one.” Amusement flashed in Sam’s eyes.

  How odd. These men insulted one another, but in mirth.

  Henri dismissed Sam with a harrumph, wagging his finger as an empty warning. “Well, Valeryn?” He gave Sam his back. “Speak me the line. What’s gotten into Quint?”

  Valeryn’s nostrils flared and he once again pinned Ricker with a hostile fix. “She thinks he can help her.”

  Help her? Help her how?

  “’Tis best my business be discussed with me, Henri,” the fiery red-headed captain warned. “Not Valeryn.”

  ’Twas about time the woman showed herself. She strode onto the ship chin up, shoulders back, looking every bit the confident captain, and she was well armed.

  “This man is here because I deem it so. He will be an addition to the crew. Any concerns should be addressed to me.” Her assertive tone suggested she expected none. “Are we clear?”

  “Right fair, I’d say,” Henri stated with a nod.

  She held her palms out and up to those close enough to bend ears on the exchange. “Back to work with ya, boys.” The jacks went about their work with nary a carp.

  Ricker couldn’t help but notice how her cutlass, tied into a red sash, hung low from the contour of her hip. And her pistol fit flush against her waist under the belt of her trousers. Unaccustomed to a woman in breeches, he couldn’t say he was disappointed. Curves filled out her trousers nicely and her boots hugged against firm calves. ’twas something lecherous about a woman’s calves. Even without the benefit of a corset, he could just make out her feminine figure under her red vest and white tunic.

  Christ! Admire her body, but keep your head about you.

  Captain Quint stopped directly in front of Ricker. “Your name.”

  Her curt tongue grated against his willingness to answer. “Ricker,” he growled. “Sloan Ricker.”

  “You’re a map reader?”

  Ah, he should have realized. “I can’t find you a shipwreck.” Well, he could, as he had before. But he wouldn’t.

  “So you do read maps.”

  A spark lit in her emerald eyes. Eyes as green as a lush tropical hillside after an afternoon rain. And just as breathtaking. Keep your head! “Aye. I read and draw maps.”

  A smile, reserved but sly, tilted her lips. “We have much to discuss then.”

  She turned to her crew. “Henri, take Mr. Ricker to the guest quarters.”

  “Oh, sweet Neptune. Again?” Henri grumbled under his breath something about curses and bloody love-struck loons.

  Valeryn stood tight-lipped, staring at his captain. She glared right back. “Can’t have my slave in the bilge with those nasty wounds. ’twould be a bad investment to have him succumb to infection.”

  My slave. Her words stuck in his craw.

  Not for long, darling. Not for long.

  “Willie, have Hacker dress up his back with clean bandages. Henri, I trust you will make us a fine dinner tonight.”

  Henri suddenly came to attention, no longer hunching with age, as if his orders were decisive battle tactics. Then just as quickly, he deflated. “I don’t understand, Capt’n. The boys eat on shore while we’re anchored.”

  Valeryn spoke up. “Quint wants to set sail before sunset.”

  “Tonight? It’s Friday.” Henri’s wrinkled crusty face doubled in folds with objection. “No one sets sail on the day Christ was crucified. Why, we be cursin’ ourselves, fer sure.”

  Captain Quint huffed irritably. “I’ll hear none of that superstitious gab.”

  “But—”

  “I’ve always led you to fortune and rum, have I not?”

  Henri tugged his woolly, garnished beard, a smug tilt to his mouth. “None denyin’.”

  “Well, expect the same fortune this voyage.” She lifted an eyebrow. “With an extra hogshead of rum just for you.”

  Henri perked right up, as if all his doubts had vanished. “Aye, Capt’n.”

  “Willie, have the men ready to set sail.” Captain Quint failed to hold back a smile as her helmsman dipped in a low, flourishing bow.

  “I’ll catch us a fair wind,” he said.

  “Very good. I’ll return within the hour. We weigh anchor then.” She turned her back on the group and walked to the boarding plank. “Oh,” she said over her shoulder. “And remove his shackles.”

  She disembarked from the ship.

  Damn it if he didn’t stare after her backside.

  “Come along, lad,” Henri said. “I got supper to tend to and I ain’t about being your handmaiden.”

  Ricker stood and held out his wrists to Sam. Sam wiped his knife on his trousers, tucked it into his belt, and unlocked the shackles, but not once did his gaze falter from Ricker’s face. Ricker’s wrists suddenly felt as if they floated, the cuffs no longer an encumbering weight.

  He followed the tottering little man through the ship’s hatch. Sun beams angled through the corridor, casting light on smooth sturdy walls. Familiar scents of aged wood and brine mingled in the air. A surprise as he expecte
d rancid odors permeating in the stifling heat. Aye, the ship was kept clean.

  The clunk-thud of Henri’s cane echoed in the narrow space. With such a pronounced limp, how did the man manage whilst as sea? Probably fell often and rolled around the decks like an empty slop bucket.

  “Your room’s right here, next to Capt’n Jo’s.”

  Arabesque carvings adorned the door to the captain’s quarters. No doubt pirate riches lay on the other side.

  Keys jangled in the heavy lock as Henri shoved open the door. Beyond the threshold was a room unexpected. What the hell?

  “Now don’t go gettin’ ideas. The capt’n didn’t b’deck Rissa up with girlie touches. She ain’t that type of woman.”

  What the room lacked in size was made up for in elegance—elegance that could rival the fanciest of inns. Blue shiny fabrics and pillows dressed the bed. Were they as soft as they appeared? A black intricately hewn writing table and chest of drawers were painted with graceful blue songbirds with a careful hand. Blue glass Japanese wind balls hung from a hook near the door. Ricker would wager the candlestick secured to the desk was made from pure Spanish silver.

  “Rissa had a string of capt’ns who entertained their women in here.”

  That would explain the silver brush and matching hand mirror.

  “Room’s a curse,” Henri muttered.

  Ricker’s curiosity won out over his silence “Curse? How so?”

  “The lads ain’t capt’n no more.” Henri got down on all fours and nearly disappeared under the bed. “I knew ’twas a bad idea hidin’ me rum in here again.” He scooted back out with a small keg held tight against his chest.

  “Oh, and that there door—” He nosed to a door behind the dresser he now rummaged through. It was identical to the one leading to the captain’s quarters. “’Tis sealed shut,” he cautioned. “Ya can’t get into the capt’n’s room that way.”

  Was it sealed to prevent someone from sneaking in and slitting the captain’s throat?

  Henri retrieved a flask from the top drawer and shoved it into his vest. He did the same with flasks from the middle and bottom drawers.

  “If ya come across any of me rum, ya better not drink it, or I’ll skin yer lips off, ya hear?”

  Ricker almost chuckled at the threat. Almost. He instead offered a meager nod.

  Henri glowered suspiciously at Ricker, hugging his cask, before taking his leave.

  These pirates were a peculiar bunch. He didn’t know what to make of them. A manikin with a fancy for ribbons, a tight-chopped giant, an angry first mate and a female captain. Only Willie, the helmsman, seemed normal. But by the size of the wad of tobacco leaves he shoved into his mouth, that was up for debate.

  Knowing what he was up against might improve Ricker’s grasp on the scope of his predicament. He couldn’t begin to figure out an escape until he better understood what the woman wanted. That meant being patient, waiting for her to call on him.

  Damn, this was going to be difficult. Women didn’t have a concept of time. If this afternoon was any indication of her timeliness, he was in for a long wait.

  * * *

  Joelle breathed in the invigorating sea breeze sweeping in her open cabin window. The nighttime winds seemed renewed, fresher, than those baked by the sun. Black water swirled and swished in the wake Rissa left behind, whispering lullabies of the mysteries below the water’s surface. How she loved the calm Caribbean nights. ’twas as if the sea shared her secrets with Joelle. Perhaps later this evening when all the crew was asleep she would go on deck to admire the stars.

  She closed her eyes as a puff of brisk air caressed her face. This night would be productive, she felt it deep in her bones. A quick rap at the door. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know who let themselves in.

  “Your reputation is staggering,” Valeryn said. He sat down a bottle of coconut arrack they bought in Tortola from a ship just arriving from Africa.

  Joelle turned. “Oh?” Being a female captain had many challenges. While she was respected by her crew and known for her cunning, she felt the constant need to prove her worth was better than a man’s—to break the long-held belief a woman’s only place in a man’s world was in his bed. She perched on the edge of her desk, curious of Valeryn’s meaning. “How so?”

  He retrieved two cups from their secured place on the shelf, poured the clear spirit, and handed her the drink. “The Royal Navy must know of this arrangement with Lord English and likely granted it.”

  “Perhaps.” She took the proffered cup. Her fingers brushed against his. A winsome but sad sense of complacency edged into her heart. She shrugged it off. “Or maybe the Royal Navy knows the Rissa is capable of handling their less than diplomatic pursuits for fear of muddling up uneasy truces and shaky alliances.”

  Valeryn nodded. “To less than diplomatic pursuits and a prosperous voyage.”

  Joelle raised her cup to the toast and drank heartily. The arrack warmed her throat, lightening her mood. Not as sweet as the fresh creamy white coconut palm toddy she’d come to love on a trip to the Gold Coast, but satisfying.

  “Damn woman. You smell wonderful.”

  She smiled. “I paid extra for the rose-scented soap.” ’twas the one luxury she allowed herself whenever she was in port. Joelle had soaked in her bath at The Paladin until her skin crinkled and the water had lost its heat.

  Valeryn leaned against the desk beside her. “Remind me on our return to buy you more of it. Soap never smelled so beautiful. I should like to bathe you with it nightly.”

  “A noble suggestion.” One she appreciated.

  “Anything for my captain.”

  “Nay. I think not. Not always.” Joelle’s teasing smile gave way to a stern warning. “You may stay and dine with me and my guest as long as you keep your reproach to yourself. I have much to discuss with Mr. Ricker and I don’t need you to interfere or sway the discussion...and his participation.”

  She hated to forewarn Valeryn. Hated that she even felt the need to do so. He’d let his instincts to protect her overstep her authority. Something he didn’t do in the presence of others. Most times. Nonetheless, she wanted him clear she wouldn’t tolerate his interference tonight.

  No matter what he said or did would keep her from finding out the truths she sought.

  “I have great respect for you, Valeryn. You’ve let your opinions known. I appreciate them, but I’ll hear no more.”

  His smile tightened and slowly faded. “Certainly, Captain.”

  “Don’t be like that, V.”

  “What way would you have me be, Jo? I never know when I’m your lover or just your first mate.”

  She bristled under the implications of his resentful words. Since sailing together on the Rissa, she’d never allowed him to be both her lover and her cohort. As much as it pained her, she couldn’t. Time and again, Joelle had lost herself in his arms, dreaming of a fine, if not impossible, life with him.

  Long before Valeryn, on one fateful night, she had decided to steer her own destiny—alone. Seemed she couldn’t depend on the men she loved. They deserted her one way or another—Papa, Seamus and eventually Valeryn. Each forcing her to become hard and aloof. ’twas the only way to protect her heart.

  Earning the respect as a female captain was tough enough without undermining her position with a man like Valeryn—a man who could rule the Caribbean should he want to. If only he didn’t favor recklessness over responsibility. His own doing, his own choice.

  Yet, not one month ago, he confronted her on the ship’s main deck, challenging her decision to sail into Navy-infested waters to capture a mutinied merchant. The entire crew gaped as the argument escalated into personal matters which started not unlike the one about to happen now. Hurtful accusations and sundry slurs over their love affair were lobbed between them, all for the men to witness. She had come damn close to crying, and did so in the privacy of her cabin. Just as much for the frustration over Valeryn’s behavior as for the impact the scene had caus
ed to her position among men.

  ’Twas then she knew she had to sacrifice her love for Valeryn to maintain her integrity and trust as Rissa’s captain.

  He had not made it easy—refusing to accept their relationship had ended and plying her with temptation. This conversation would be no different. She had to squelch the quarrel before it began, assuaging Valeryn with what she did need from him.

  “Be my ally, my champion,” she pleaded.

  He snorted. “You mean an accomplice to your madness.”

  “Do you mean to abandon me again? Jilt and leave me with nothing as you did before?” She couldn’t stand for that to happen. He was the closest thing she had to love. Losing him as a cohort and friend would shatter her. She wouldn’t take being forsaken again.

  He raised his hands, fingers spread into claws before curling into tight fists. “Damn it, Jo!” he growled. “I didn’t leave you. Not entirely.”

  “You seduced me while Thayer Drake stole my commission. You cost me a fortune. You and Drake drank and whored the money away.”

  “Be fair, Jo. We needed the coin. The Widow Maker was in disrepair.” He cornered her, pinning her to her desk. His tawny eyes, eyes that could never hide his true feelings, softened. “That night with you was the best night of my life.”

  She sighed, nodding. It was a magical night—the French champagne, sugared mango slices, making love in the gentle surf by the light of the moon—she would forever cherish.

  A rush of unhappiness sulked in the fringes of her mind.

  Her life, with Valeryn, had changed. Hadn’t it? She never really fully believed that one day they’d retire from the sea together. Had she?

  “Capt’n,” Henri called from outside her cabin. “Supper.”

  Valeryn pushed off the desk, annoyed the conversation had died instantly, to let in Henri and Jack, the cabin boy.

  “Please see Mr. Ricker in,” Joelle ordered Valeryn.

  “Aye, Captain.”

  ’Twas amazing she didn’t crush her cup from frustration over Valeryn’s insufferable attitude.

  Henri set down a platter of braised beef in the middle of the table. Pungent aromas wafted in the steam rising from the meat, carrots, peppers and onions, making her mouth water. The honeyed bread and papaya on the tray Jack held would complete the meal. Supper was always good a night or two after visiting a port. Every last soul of Rissa’s crew was damn near gluttonous.