Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “We’ve sighted a ship. Willie needs you topside.”

  “Of course. Tell him I’ll be there straightaway.”

  “Back to business.” Valeryn tugged his trousers back over his hips.

  Joelle drew a finger across her lips, hoping they weren’t swollen from Valeryn’s rough kisses. “We’ve a mission to complete.”

  She turned, but he grabbed her. “Ow!”

  His stare inched from his grip on her wounded arm to her eyes. “This is not over, Jo.”

  She sternly annunciated each of her next words. “You’re. Hurting. Me.”

  A spark of guilt flickered in his expression then died out. Valeryn uncurled his grasp. She led the way out the door and to the helm. All the while, she felt the piercing glare of Ricker nearby. What was the name of that blacksmith in Barbados?

  “You were right, Capt’n,” Willie said. “We sailed right up on ’em.”

  She took the spyglass Henri handed her. “Is that our target?” he asked.

  Joelle sighted in on the vessel. “That she is, boys. That’s the Mariposa.”

  In the concave lens, a dark shape passed through. She followed the blurry image until it stopped. She focused in on the large man in a black long coat, his back turned, filling the sight. Dark, matted curls hung loosely from under a red plumed hat. He turned sharply, black eyes afire, as if he could see Joelle’s soul down the tube of the scope. She flinched away from the eyepiece.

  “Leviathan,” she hissed. “We’re going to need all guns.” She lifted the spyglass again. “And a prayer,” she mumbled.

  “A hellhound, is he?” Willie puckered his lips, nodding in acceptance the nasty fight to come.

  “Ain’t no hellhound we can’t hamstring,” Henri declared.

  Joelle patted him on top of his bony shoulder. “That you can be sure, Henri.”

  She leveled her line of sight again. As Leviathan strode to the Mariposa’s railing, an evil smile broke across his mottled, leathery face. He’d most certainly been expecting her.

  “We’ve got our vessel, lads!” she called out. “Strike the colors. All hands prepare for battle.”

  Cheers broke out and the ship churned into activity.

  “Capt’n, look.” Willie pointed to the distant eastern horizon. A gray sheet of rain swept across the sky. Ominous clouds scooped and rolled over one another. A bolt of lightning split the murk.

  The Mariposa turned her bow toward the fast-moving, oncoming squall.

  “Looks like we’re gonna get wet,” Henri said.

  “Never mind that,” she said. “We’ve taken a ship larger than this one in a storm before.”

  Valeryn raked a hand through his hair and down his mug.

  “What is it?” Joelle didn’t like the angst in his downcast eyes when he shook his head.

  “I’ll ready the men below deck.” He hurried to the hatch and disappeared inside.

  She frowned. What the devil was he up to? Joelle already gave the order. The bo’sun would take care of the lower deck gunners.

  “Ya got trouble brewin’, Quint.” Henri jiggled his flask, downright disappointed that it was empty.

  “A storm only forestalls the inevitable.”

  “Talkin’ ’bout Valeryn and that Ricker fellow.”

  She glanced over at the little man, his wiry white eyebrows raised in challenge.

  “I know they’re not fond of each other—”

  “’Tis only a matter of time ’fore that powder keg blows.”

  “I won’t let—”

  “’Tis over you, lass,” he scolded.

  Over me? “What the—”

  “The whole ship knows it.”

  Sonofa—The last thing she needed was her crew thinking she’d become a pigeon in a pocket. “Hardly that.”

  “Maybe not.” He tucked his flask into his vest. “But that Ricker, he watches you like you’re his next meal.”

  Joelle looked down to where he’d been standing. Gone.

  “I’ve got it under control, Henri.”

  “Humph. That’s what they all say.”

  A few fat drops heralded the drubbing rain. Heavy clouds crammed out the sun. Blustery winds kicked up the waves, blowing off the spray of white-crested swells. Rissa rocked on the rise and fall of the rough surf.

  Joelle swiped at the wet strands of hair flattening across her face and squinted into the downpour. They’d gained on the Mariposa and were aligning into a favorable position. It seemed too easy, especially with Leviathan at the helm. No matter. She’d take any and all advantage laid open to her. Lord knew she needed it against the fiend.

  Rissa bucked on a nasty swell. Joelle had to grab the rail so not to fall. Poor Henri was knocked clean off his box. She helped the blubbering old man to his feet and handed him his cane. He snatched it from her hands, entirely embarrassed by his tumble, yet dipped his chin in thanks.

  “Ya all right, mate?” Willie struggled to keep the ship’s wheel from spinning free.

  “Watch those bloody waves, ya muttonhead,” Henri barked.

  “Good.” Willie smiled.

  A blast of circulating wind gave Rissa that extra jolt in speed.

  “Almost there.” Joelle called over the howling storm. “Ports open! Run out the guns. Stand by for the command.”

  She sighted in on her quarry. The Mariposa, too, opened her gun ports. Leviathan strode the length of the ship, shouting orders she could not hear. Excitement pulsed through her veins. She couldn’t deny the fear tainting her anticipation. Barrel to barrel, face to face with her old enemy, it seemed she’d been waiting for this moment—not knowing, nor wishing for the encounter with Leviathan to happen. Joelle had never failed before and she wasn’t about to now. She would board his ship, capture the mutineers, and find the letter of correspondence. There was simply no other option.

  But first, a little persuasion.

  She grit her teeth and sneered. “Say goodbye, you son of a bitch. Fir—”

  “Quint! No!”

  Valeryn jerked himself off the ladder and plunged into her. “Don’t give the order!” His frown cut deep, wild in his brow.

  “Blazes, Valeryn. What has gotten into you?”

  He gritted his bared teeth, angry. “The Rissa is taking on water. Fast.”

  “What? How?”

  “Damage from the battle with Watson.”

  “But you said—”

  “I lied.” His shoulder rose in defense of his action.

  “Curse you, V!”

  “’Twas a small matter. Now...with the high seas. We must seek shelter immediately.”

  Her face burned with temper. “A small matter? Taking on water is not a small matter.”

  “I made a decision.”

  “’Twasn’t yours to make!”

  “You were distracted,” he said, tight-lipped.

  “I’m not the one who lost sight of my responsibility.”

  “Aren’t you?” He cut his eye to Ricker.

  Red-hot rage colored her vision. Joelle popped Valeryn in his jaw. An involuntary reaction. The crew gasped. The silence that followed was more strident than the turbulent sea. “You’ve put everyone on board in danger!”

  He worked his jaw back and forth. “You don’t think I know that?” he spewed.

  So much anger, so much disappointment, ’twas collapsing over her like relentless surf. Foolish. Foolish! She was so close, so close, to ending this commission, and doing away with an old enemy.

  “Take us to St. Lucia,” she commanded to Willie.

  “Ya sure, Capt’n? That’s French terr’tory. They ain’t exactly gonna welcome us.”

  “We won’t make it elsewhere,” Valeryn announced. “’Tis the nearest island.”

  “Vieux Fort.”

  They all turned to Ricker standing behind them.

  “I came to tell you the ship is taking on water,” he said by way of explanation. “Up the west coast of Vieux Fort, by Black Bay, I know someone who can help. Someone...sy
mpathetic.”

  Joelle, fit to be tied and ready to snap off a head or two, glared at him.

  “I damn near met my maker twice from a sinking bucket,” Ricker said. “I’d just as soon not tempt my luck.”

  “You have your heading, Willie,” she said. “Pray we make it.” Whirling around, she watched Mariposa fade into the heavy curtain of gray rain. Bugger it all! She smacked her thigh and stalked toward the hatch door. “My cabin, Mr. Ricker,” she growled, as she shouldered past. Joelle wasn’t about to put them in any more danger. They didn’t need a row with the French, too. Damn it! “We go over the charts. Now.”

  So dismayed by Valeryn, so enraged by his careless attitude, she refused to even give him an infuriated eye.

  As Joelle gave them her back, she heard Henri say, “What’s gotten into you, boy?”

  She glanced over her shoulder in time for Valeryn’s answer.

  “A Judas kiss.”

  * * *

  Ricker focused over the chart laid out on Quint’s table. Not because he wasn’t familiar with St. Lucia’s coastline. On the contrary, he knew the island well. ’twas to avoid ogling at Quint like a wet whelp.

  Her damp shirt clung to her narrow shoulders and molded to the tips of her breasts propped high from her stay. It took every speck of control not to reach out and cup her mounds. And, Lord, he had very few specks.

  “If you bring her in around this reef along this side of the shoreline, the Rissa won’t be easily seen by anyone from this angle while sailing in at night. We drop anchor on the east side of Black Bay in this small cove. From there, it’s just a short walk to Shank’s. He can get you all the supplies you need, should you need them.”

  Quint tilted her head. A curly strand fell from her cheek. “How do I know he isn’t a rat?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I don’t.” Her reply came quick and decisive.

  “Fair enough.” She had good reason not to. He couldn’t trust himself either, not knowing which way the wind blew. He’d been warring with wicked thoughts and the itch to destroy the woman who would be his master.

  Oh, no. He hadn’t forgotten that. Hadn’t forgotten what she wanted from him.

  He didn’t trust her either.

  “I offer you someone who can help. Someone who specializes in discretion. You do what you want. But the French will be on your arse before you finish repairs on your own.”

  Rissa shuddered under a particularly rough wave, causing the sabers on her wall to clatter. The wild swing of the overhead lantern heightened his awareness of Quint’s attention. She studied him, concentrating too much on his mouth. He straightened away from her. He wouldn’t fall into that trap again.

  Captain Quint was a dangerous woman—in more than just cunning. She had Valeryn. The first mate had been punishing Ricker for kissing her. Ricker had gotten a great deal of satisfaction knowing he burrowed deeply under Valeryn’s skin. He was an arsehole. All the extra work he forced upon Ricker, all the malicious sneers, amounted to Ricker’s stronger will to drub the bastard within an inch of his life. He would relish the moment he and Valeryn bled.

  “We’ll likely need to careen her,” Joelle said, turning her attention back to the charts. “Making us vulnerable.”

  “This part of the bay’s coastline is woodsy.” He pointed to a bend in the shore on the map. “You can hide well there. The problem might be the sand. The Black Cove River lets out there. The sand will be soft and hard to dislodge from, even in high tide.”

  She was contemplating a decision. What, he wasn’t sure. Though he could hazard a guess. What to do, where to go should they need to escape...

  “By the looks of the leak, Captain, your ship will not make it to a friendlier port.”

  Rissa bucked again, delivering on his point. A saber clattered to the floor.

  “Too many more jolts like that and the only place we’re going is the tomb of Davy Jones,” she groused.

  They both bent for the sword. Ricker reached it first, his fingers wrapped firmly around the hilt. Their eyes locked. He had her weapon and she gauged his face for his next move. A burnished eyebrow slowly arched upward, a daring curve coiled her lips. No fool, he had little doubt she’d have a ball wedged in his brain from the pistol hung at her waist should he try something stupid.

  Frankly, he was far too distracted. Bending low, she presented him with a crippling peek of the ravine between her breasts, swaying with the ship’s rocking movements. Holy Mother! He licked his bottom lip, smiled and slowly handed her the handle.

  “You want to run me through,” she said, her tone forthright, her smile heated.

  “Aye,” he answered. “To the hilt.” Over and over again.

  “’Tis a pity, then. You won’t make it out alive.” She rose, too graceful for the lurching vessel, with a wicked arch to her back. The minx.

  “The satisfaction and pleasure of the attempt would be worth it, I think.” He, too, rose without stepping back, being at the risk of injury to the proximity of the sword’s blade.

  “Oh?”

  She adoringly eyed the sword’s tip, testing its sharpness with her finger, before gliding her gaze back to him.

  Damn all, the seduction fluttering under those coy, deadly lashes drove a hard spike below his belt.

  “The taste.” He paused, picking his words carefully, and enjoying the titillation of her waiting, of her expectations. “The taste of freedom can be overwhelming. Even if the undertaking means certain death.”

  “To conquer what holds your tethers at any cost still requires strategy.”

  “Perhaps, but not if the opportunity suddenly arises without warning. ’tis difficult to stay the course.”

  “Has an opportunity arisen?” She ran a finger along the edge of the sword’s blade, light from the lantern catching on the smooth, polished metal. The suggestion was killing him.

  “Several times over.”

  She ever so slightly shook her head, her drying hair curling at the ends, bouncing. “What has kept you at bay?”

  “The taste—” his gaze landed upon her mouth before delivering his bitter taunt, “—has been sour.”

  Her coquettish smile faded, gone like the flash in a pan. She expelled a disgusted huff. Quint swiveled, securing the saber back onto the wall.

  “Be forewarned, Mr. Ricker. I am quite skilled at survival. I shall, nevertheless, be careful not to allow further opportunity.”

  Ricker suddenly wished he hadn’t gone head to head with the saucy captain. He underestimated her. If he didn’t ignore her overwhelming allure and what she did to him, how his body reacted around her, he’d never regain his freedom. Fire and brimstone! He may have won this battle, but he feared he would lose the war.

  Chapter Six

  Ricker stepped onto the dark beach cloaked in the canopy of glossy tree fronds. A hushed swish of water followed as Sam and Quint waded up to join him. The captain had insisted Valeryn stay behind with the ship to oversee ongoing repairs. With her first mate unable to hinder their short trip, for he surely would, she brought her muscle along. For a large ogre, Sam was far quieter than Quint.

  Water-worn rocks and shells swallowed the meager strip of sand, but only a foot or two before patches of grass took root. Ricker felt through the rock and shells, picking up several to test their size and weight. He settled on a large piece of coral, smooth from rolling in the surf, and pocketed it.

  A coastal breeze rustled the branches above, prompting him to look up. The sky had cleared but for a few clouds chasing after the tail-end of the storm. Earthy smells hung heavy in the air, as did the heat. Yet the damp air also held the promise of more rain to come.

  Ricker scanned the shadows. Where was that low-slung, crooked arm of the lansan tree? Should be to his right. The brush had grown up since his last visit.

  “This way,” he whispered.

  “How can you see anything in this darkness?” Quint asked.

  “Keep close.” ’twas all Ricker offered i
n response. “The trees are thick and ’tis easy to get turned around. Wouldn’t want one of you to fall off a cliff.”

  He led them into the interior, and, after a while, wondered if he had strayed from the unseen, unused path. He was keenly aware Quint and Sam—both dangerously armed—were tiring of his aloofness. Quint huffed and mumbled and Sam grunted each time he dodged a question, well aware he tested their trust and faith in him.

  “There.” Ricker hunched down and pointed. “Up ahead.”

  The orange glow of a rusty lantern beckoned through a break in the trees. Ricker stopped at the edge of the copse, taking in their surroundings. The lantern hung from the eaves of a wooden shack, slightly leaning on its stilts, perched on the shore of a river bank. Clam shells, fish skulls and bones, likely human, jangled from strings along the porch’s roof. Stagnant water and fishy odors clung as thick as the prickly underbrush scratching through Ricker’s trousers at his shins. Something made a splash somewhere upstream.

  Beside him, Quint muttered about bloody mosquitoes being the devil’s tiny torturous bastards. Sam grunted in agreement.

  Ricker pushed forward, but Quint grabbed his arm, stopping him.

  “Shouldn’t we be more cautious?”

  “He already knows we’re here. Shank has many hidden devices surrounding his place that warn him of intruders. Probably has a weapon upon us now. He’s waiting to see if we are friend or foe.”

  “How will he know?”

  “Because only a friend knows of Celeste.” Before she could question him further, he stole out of the protective layer of darkness and crossed the small clearing. Quint and Sam stayed on his heels. A breeze kicked up, shell and bone clattered, and the night seemed to press down upon him and his companions. His heart thudded in his chest. Would Shank recognize him?

  In front of the shack’s steps sat Celeste—or what once was Shank’s beloved woman.

  Nothing left of the young lover taken by disease years ago but bone and hair. Flamboyant beads and clothing once bright in color now faded with age graced the skeleton held together by leather straps.

  Ricker bowed to Celeste, dropping the coral bit into the basket filled with shells at her feet. “Good evening, Celeste,” he said. He retrieved a flask tucked into his trousers, uncorked it, and poured rum into the empty cup in her skeletal hand.