Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “Smells delicious, Henri.”

  “Used a bit of wine while cooking the sauce.”

  “Ah, but how much made it on the meat?” she teased. “Jack? How much did Henri drink?”

  “He drank most of the bottle, he did.” Jack bowed his head, but he couldn’t hide the smirk for tattling on the old cook. The young lad, aged thirteen years and a good foot taller than Henri, worked hard at every task he was given. Joelle had picked Jack off a skiff caught in a squall. The moment he realized he was on the Rissa, the boy begged to stay. Jack was a dutiful mackie who she had grown fond of.

  “He even gave me a wee sip,” Jack said.

  Joelle chuckled. “Did he?”

  “I did not! Can’t turn me back for one blasted second. Wipe that smile from yer mug, boy. Ya gonna scrub the pots for yer clack.”

  “But, Henri, I scrub ’em anyhow.”

  “Git yer scrawny hide down to the galley.”

  Henri made an attempt to kick the boy in his bottom, but Jack was already ducking past the men standing at the threshold.

  What a sight to behold.

  Ricker. Filling nearly all available space in her doorway. Sweet Mother Mercy, his shoulders could almost touch both sides of the frame. Her mouth watered anew, and not from the appetizing spread on the table. Not fooled by his clean appearance, he looked just as dangerous as he did covered in grime, blood and sweat. Aye, dangerous and handsome. Crinkles around the edges of his piercing, dubious eyes and whiskers under the hollow of his high cheekbones accentuated his square jaw set firmly in a glower.

  “I see the clothing I bought fits.” Fits nicely. She’d guessed he was about the same build as Valeryn. She was almost right. Every sinewy muscle and, well, bulge could be seen across the tan wool trousers. His white tunic, while not tight, conformed to the expanse of his chest Joelle had already had the pleasure of appreciating.

  “I’d prefer my own clothing,” Ricker bit out.

  “Nonsense. Your breeches were tattered and you didn’t have a shirt.” She pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

  Ricker waited for her and Valeryn to take up their places before he moved cautiously to the table and sat.

  “Consider them a gift,” Joelle added.

  “No. No gifts.”

  “The other option is to go naked.” Hmm. Perhaps she should rescind her gifts.

  Valeryn shot her a stony scowl. She was caught. He knew exactly what she was thinking. She raised an eyebrow, challenging him to speak his mind. Thankfully, he didn’t.

  Ricker shook his head. “I doubt that—”

  “Take the clothes, son.” Henri slopped food onto Ricker’s plate. “Capt’n don’t make threats she won’t see through. An’ I don’t wanna look at yer bare arse and tallywags.”

  “As you wish, Captain Quint.” His begrudged response was heavily laden with bitterness.

  Henri refreshed their cups and took his leave.

  “We eat,” Joelle said. “Then we’ll speak of your arrangement, Mr. Ricker.”

  Valeryn wasted no time carving into his supper. Soon, Ricker too began eating. Quite voraciously. Not surprisingly. It had certainly been some time since he’d had a decent meal. Slaves were fed only enough to sustain them.

  Though his face was slightly gaunt, his build was impressive. How much more robust and strapping Ricker might become with a good diet?

  Who could blame him for devouring every speck of food? Henri had outdone himself again. She fully enjoyed the hint of wine in the wild, tangy beef. The peppers gave it just the right kick.

  Curiosity edged in over the sating indulgence of the meal. “Where are you from, Ricker?”

  Face poised over his plate, he lifted his eyes. No emotion could be found in his harsh stare. He hardly slowed down eating to answer. “Ramsgate.”

  “An English fishing village,” she acknowledged. “And your family?”

  Chewing his food, he did not bother to look up as he delivered his curt answers. “Simple folk. Both dead.”

  “Siblings?”

  “Brother. Also dead.”

  He was answering her questions, but giving her nothing more. So be it. These details were unimportant. They were meant to get him talking.

  “When did you turn to the sea?”

  “Twelve.”

  “Ah, such a tender age.” Life at sea was hard enough for a grown man. For a boy, he surely suffered with the grueling, unforgiving work. With the right captain and crew, a young cove could grow into a fine man. That was her hope for Jack.

  Ricker stabbed a chunk of meat. “’Twas learn to be a nipper or become a beggar boy dying in a gutter.” He lowered his eyes again.

  She chewed on his last statement just as he did on his last forkful. So many orphaned children were forced to join the hundreds of starving street rats, roving through alleyways in packs, thieving and vandalizing. Very few possessed the will or sensibility to strive for an honest living. Even fewer succeeded. Those who did faced the devil’s share of hardships. If they survived, they turned out to be extraordinary men. Tradesmen and pirates, alike.

  “How is it you are a slave, then?” Valeryn broke in.

  Ricker cutty-eyed the first mate. “Just lucky, I suppose.”

  “Come now, Mr. Ricker,” Joelle said. “You can’t deny me the knowledge.”

  “I can.”

  Oh no, he would not deny her. “Dare I say not.” Somewhere in the recess of her mind, she knew what she was about to do was wrong. It went against her true nature. Regardless of her principles against slavery, those principles would have to be buried for the sake of this man. There was a chance he could help her to solve her map. There was a chance she could stop her endless search for her past. She could tolerate no defiance from him, and he needed to be very well aware of that certainty. “I demand to be privy of your circumstance. I’m your master.”

  Hostile eyes landed upon her with such force, it knocked the wind from her lungs. Had she been a lesser captain, she might have shrunk back from the icy shards of hate Ricker leveled upon her.

  “Answer your master.” Valeryn slammed his palm down on the table.

  Joelle chose to disregard Valeryn’s trenchant tone. After all, he was being her champion.

  Ricker’s lip curled. If he kept that up, it might permanently stay that way.

  “I was arrested,” he finally said. “For larceny. My captors found me more profitable alive rather than gallows meat.”

  “A mapmaker, a thief?” she asked.

  “I don’t deny it.”

  Suddenly the details about Ricker were important. Joelle was more than a little curious. Sooner or later she’d get more out of him. For now, she needed him to feel less threatened. She needed his cooperation. Joelle lifted her cup to him. “Well then, Sloan Ricker, you are in good company.”

  * * *

  Ricker finished the rest of his fruit and bread in silence, listening to Captain Quint and Valeryn speak of tactics they’d use on their hunt for the rogue Mariposa. He found it a fatal flaw to discuss such maneuvers in front of him. They either mocked him as not being a threat or had already accepted him as part of the crew.

  Either way was a mistake.

  More than he cared to admit, he caught himself staring at the captain. ’twas impossible to ignore her. Especially the way she slipped dewy chunks of papaya through those plump, sinful lips—lips he found so alluring, he wanted to sip the fruity juice from them. He couldn’t blame Valeryn for spearing him with ominous warning glances. Valeryn’s woman was more beautiful than a chest full of gemstones. Oh, there was little doubt she and the bugger were lovers, with the easy talk and genuine smiles between them. The captain—a woman the master of a pirate ship—belonging to her first mate. Another odd twist on this motley ship.

  Captain Quint passed the wine bottle, encouraging him to refill his cup. “I trust dinner was satisfactory?”

  Better than he had imagined. He could almost feel the hearty nourishment strengthening his body. “Ay
e.”

  “Henri’s the best barbeque on the seven seas,” the captain said.

  “Aye,” Valeryn added. “I swear the barnacle sold his soul with what he can do with gruel.”

  Ricker would agree—if he were feeling conversational.

  “Yes, well.” Quint rose and moved behind her desk. “On to other business.” She retrieved a key from a drawer then crossed the room to where two trunks sat. “I have a proposition, Ricker.”

  Ricker’s neck cricked as he cocked his head for a better look at her bending to unlock the chest. From the corner of his eye, Valeryn did the same. What a prime piece of arse. Ricker recovered a moment after Valeryn as she turned around with a small strongbox, no more than the size of a brick, in hand.

  She set it on the table. Her fingers languidly drew across the decorative brass bands of the lid. The silence dragged on. Valeryn, a pained draw on his brow, threw back the last of his wine and settled his gaze to his lap.

  The captain withdrew another key from her pocket and unlocked the box. With a quick hand, she snatched out a paper from inside then locked the box once again.

  “We both have something the other wants,” she said.

  “You’ve nothing I want.” Ricker lied like an anchor on the bottom of the sea. The lass had something he wanted. He let his gaze travel to her bosom. Something he could bury himself in.

  She owns you, Sloan. You hate her for it.

  That alone would keep him from laying a hand on her. No matter how fetching she was. Or how much he wanted to feel her smooth, bronzed skin. Belay!

  Captain Quint raised a delicate, yet maddening, eyebrow. “Your hasty words may cost you, Mr. Ricker. I think it wise to reason with your head and not your cock.”

  Her profane tongue slammed him with surprise. Such vulgarity spoken from angelic lips. Damn if he didn’t like it.

  Valeryn snorted. “You’re a smart man, aren’t ya, mate?”

  “Point taken.” Ricker was fairly certain Captain Quint’s assertiveness maintained her position among rogues. Valeryn’s persistent cavalier attitude had him wondering if she were weaker than she portrayed herself, needing Valeryn to shore up her defenses.

  The captain pushed his plate away and spread out a map before him. She bent just enough to offer him a magnificent view to the valley of her chest.

  “Do you recognize this place?”

  He reluctantly dragged his gaze to the spot on the paper she pointed to. He studied the roughly drawn map. The well-worn creases had begun to fray, but the map couldn’t have been more than two decades or so old. Immediately, he recognized certain topographical features.

  “This is Barbados. See—” he traced along the outline of the island, “—the bean shape.”

  “I thought that, too,” she said. “But that can’t be right. There are no islands such as these east of Barbados. There are no islands out there at all.”

  Exactly what Ricker thought. “No there are not.” This map didn’t make sense. Could a clue be in the words scrawled at the bottom? Follow the trade winds up the face of Lucia, be swallowed for her key. To seek the place of emeralds, for under the beard there you’ll be.

  He pointed to the handwriting. “And this? What does it mean?”

  She met him with a stony mask. “I do not know.”

  Ricker hardly believed her. “’Twould seem you seek treasure, after all.”

  Her mask faded. “I seek answers.”

  By her nasty snarl, he had crossed the line, offending her.

  “Be warned, mate.” Valeryn leaned over his arm resting on the table, a malicious grin coiling up the tip of his lips. “Those before you thought fortune was theirs, they needed only the map and a moment to flee.” He chuckled, reclining back into his seat and bringing his cup to his grin. “God rest their cowardly souls.”

  “You won’t be so foolish, will you, Mr. Ricker?” For a fleeting moment, he thought he caught a trace of plea in her green eyes.

  Never mind that.

  Should a similar opportunity arise, as those before him, he’d take his chances.

  “You said you had something I would want.” Ricker crossed his arms, quite sure she’d come up empty. “What is it?”

  “Find my answers, you’ll have your freedom.”

  Chapter Three

  Ricker let the mop handle lean against his shoulder and swiped the beads of sweat forming on his brow. The briny winds sifting through the Rissa’s masts and decks kept the sweat from entirely soaking through his clothes, but it was still bloody hot. He slopped the wet mop onto the floor. Water spattered on the boards almost immediately dried up. ’twas why he was assigned to the task. Mopping the planking with water was a necessity to keep the caulking from drying and splitting on hot days such as this.

  Ricker didn’t mind the work, he welcomed it. Scrubbing surfaces, painting tallow to the masts, pulling the rigging, the mundane tasks kept his mind from her.

  Three days she’d had him topside doing drudgery. Three days since she gave him her proposition. Three days since she’d folded that map, returned it to the strongbox, and dismissed him.

  Captain Quint hid something from him, he felt it in his gut. The map had to lead to a vast treasure. Why else would she be so desperate to decipher it?

  She hadn’t called for him. Not once. Yet, every evening he was sent to the guest quarters with an order to bathe, to keep his wounds from getting infection. He was a commodity. The captain had to protect her investment, or so he was told. Her commission came first, and the map reader would have to wait.

  Ricker didn’t like to wait. His life had already had enough waiting—in cells and shackles. He also hated sleeping in a bed, felt he was granted special treatment when he deserved none. He wanted to be in the lower decks with the other tars, in the nest of them. To listen to them, seek out the captain’s weaknesses. Surely she had weaknesses. Surely the crew had at least one grievance at her he could exploit. He couldn’t turn a crew who held no grudge against their master. Curse it, he couldn’t find animosity among any of them. It was clear the men on this blasted ship respected their captain. No one complained and every jack tar he spoke with seemed to believe there was no finer skipper. In fact, these men seemed to welcome him readily, believing that bilge Quint said about him being an addition to the crew. The lot of them a bunch of jovial dolts.

  The captain ducked out of the ship’s interior and climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck. With a spotting scope, she slowly scanned the horizon. A moment later, Valeryn joined her. Bastard was never far away from her.

  Willie had taken a break, getting a drink from the rain barrel. Ricker pushed his mop to the helmsman.

  “A captain should be topside. Afraid to get a blister on her hands?”

  “She ain’t like that, lad,” he said, disappointment in his frown. “I’m a mite surprised ya’d think it.”

  Ricker turned down Willie’s offer of the ladle. “What the devil does she do all day, then?”

  She shouted orders to those manning the sails. Her gaze landed upon him. His grip tightened on the mop handle. One, two, three long beats later, she gave him her back, returning her attention to the sea.

  “Calculatin’ every move,” Willie said. “Every course of action, concernin’ our location, wind direction, weather, time o’ day, at any moment should we come ’pon our quarry. She’s a dare-and-be-damned buxom lass ya don’t want ta cross lest she snip yer mettle.”

  Ricker leaned against the handle, studying her. Feet planted apart, narrow shoulders held back. Wild, red strands loose from her plaited hair fluttered on the breeze. Her curves did little to soften her confidence. A woman in complete control. Did she control every aspect of her life? Did she control Valeryn? Blast it! Why was he so damned curious? And why did she have to be so damned beautiful?

  “Don’t underestimate her.” Willie clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s a mighty fine captain. In time, you’ll see that too.” He moved on, repeating, “In time.”

&nbs
p; Ricker snorted at that. The captain would have to stand by her word of his freedom for him to find her as worthy as her crew. Bloody hell. His manhood had been stripped from him. It sickened him all the more having a fair bit of fluff hold him by the bollocks.

  “Ship ho!” A top man, high in the fore mast, pointed east. Ricker followed several crewmen to the ship’s larboard bow. He shielded his eyes from the sun, but the bright glare reflecting off the water made it difficult to see.

  Was that...smoke?

  A trail of brown smoke spiraled skyward, caught on the breezes, and disappeared.

  “Three point larboard bow!” Captain Quint hollered over her shoulder at Willie, twirling her hand in the air toward the direction of the vessel. “We’re going to take a closer look.”

  Rissa dipped and tilted into the blue-green swells. Wind blasted Ricker’s face with the pitch. As they neared, ’twas apparent the boat was on fire.

  “Bring up the chest of small arms,” she ordered.

  A trunk was opened and the men filed in to grab a gun. Ricker reached in.

  “Not you.” Captain Quint stood above Ricker overlooking him from the quarterdeck. “You’ll have no need for a piece.”

  Slowly, reining in his temper, he straightened. Other tars jostled past him to get their pistols. “You’d not allow me to arm myself?” His voice strained through clenched teeth.

  “I expect no trouble.”

  “Yet you arm the crew.”

  “’Tis precautionary. Should you feel vulnerable, you may go below deck.”

  He was feeling something, all right. But it was not vulnerability. He balled his fists and backed away from the chest.

  “No movement on board, Captain.” Valeryn, holding his own spy glass, announced.

  “What ya make of it, son?” Henri asked.

  Ricker went back to the bulwark, to eavesdrop on the two men.

  “Ya think it be a trap?”

  “Nay, I don’t think so, Henri. She’s a fishing vessel. There’s a dead man hanging from the shroud.”