Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “You like that, don’t you?”

  Her reply tumbled from her in a raspy yes. “I...command you...more.”

  His free hand found her swollen mound, drawing circles over her nub with each jab of his shaft. Smooth and rough, the combination was rapturous. She squirmed, sure she was close to losing consciousness. Her arms weakened. Ricker tugged her hair, keeping her upright.

  “Not yet, Captain. Not yet.”

  Ricker’s ministrations grew ever more rhythmic.

  Then, like a bursting bottle of sand, she shattered. Joelle let out an ear-piercing cry, surge after surge of unimaginable pleasure battering her.

  Ricker grabbed her waist with both hands and continued to pump into her, offering her no reprieve, until he reached his own end. He pulled out and they both buckled to the floorboards.

  Joelle rolled over to her back, and joined him in staring at the garlands of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, heaving for air. In the long stretch of silence, except for the purr of the tabby staring down at them from the table, her heartbeat returned to normal and her steamy skin cooled and dried. She struggled with what she, they, had just done.

  She had been overcome with sheer abandon. Nothing mattered but finding a piece of paradise with the man beside her. She meant to take a tup with Ricker. Instead, she wound up being taken by Sloan. She rather liked it. Her skin tingled with his finger lazily skimming rings along her outer thigh.

  Joelle enjoyed him far more than she had the right and she must not give into temptation again. ’twould lead her down that dark path where she couldn’t trust her heart. Already she craved Sloan’s poisonous touch again.

  She would not be at the mercy of another. Ironic as it was. She must remain in control. ’twas the only way to be safe.

  Besides, she could fulfill her needs with Valeryn, if it became too much to bear. She groaned inwardly. He would be so very angry at her for this.

  “Nothing has changed,” she said finally.

  Joelle sensed his repose stiffen. “No, I suppose not.”

  He was indignant, almost hostile. She didn’t blame him. ’Twasn’t the honeyed words lovers shared after coition. “I have an authority to uphold. I expect obedience and respect in your position with the crew, with me. You must understand.”

  “Oh, I understand.” He stood and yanked up his breeches.

  She wanted terribly to take it back, to beg him to lie back down beside her. As much as she loathed it, ’twas better she not.

  “I understand,” he spat again. “I’m still to do your bidding in your wild quest and in your cunny.”

  Joelle tampered down her growing ire, gathered her clothes and dressed. “Need I remind you that I offer you freedom?”

  “My freedom?” His voice boomed off the shack walls. “No, Joelle. You do not need to remind me that I am nothing more than a whore’s slave.”

  “Sod you, Ricker.”

  “You just did.”

  Chapter Seven

  Joelle grabbed up her weapons. “I’ll take first watch.” She stormed out the door to take up position on the steps next to Celeste.

  She eyed the skeleton. A suitable companion to talk with, seeing as Celeste wouldn’t talk back. Wouldn’t call her a cowardly hypocrite who was unwilling to face her growing affections for Sloan.

  “Men,” she said. “They think one swive with them makes you a helpless poppet. Getting wound up over a man is for ninnies pining for a husband. Humph. He didn’t even try to understand my situation.” She sulked, dropping her chin into her palms. “Oh, why am I talking to you? Even in death, Shank dotes on you, respects you, and, dare I say, fears you.”

  Joelle scanned the shadows, listening. The wood and river were alive with nighttime sounds. Good. The bugs and nocturnal animal noises assured her no intruders were near.

  ’Twas difficult, at first, to keep focused. After all, Sloan, the rake, was on the other side of the door. He had started a fire within her, a burning, consuming fire. As the buzzing in her core finally subsided, she was able to concentrate on her commission, her ship, and most of all, her map.

  Hours passed without incident. She yawned, fighting off her heavy lids.

  “Come inside and rest.”

  Joelle startled. She hadn’t heard Sloan come out. Sadly, he had put his shirt back on. The lines on his mug cut sharp. Aye, he was still mad. But his tone suggested not as mad as before.

  “I’m fine.” She sulked and turned back to scan the wooded landscape.

  “I don’t doubt that. But you can hardly stay awake. You’ll need to be rested for when Shank and Sam return.”

  He was right, of course.

  “I’ll keep watch,” he said. “You get some sleep.”

  “Very well.”

  She met him at the doorway. He didn’t move to let her pass. Joelle recognized it for what it was. A struggle for dominance. A challenge she had become all too accustomed to. She fastened upon his stare, not letting go, as she squeezed past him, letting her body brush against his. Her usually beguiling wiles rebounded. Instead of baiting him, all points which came into contact with Sloan soared to life.

  Joelle scooted past, unable to look into his sky-blue eyes any longer lest she throw herself upon him again. Ugh!

  Alone, she sank down into a garish red settee stowed in the nook behind the stairs leading to a loft. The last thing she remembered was the cat joining her. Such soft fur...

  Joelle woke with a start. Sloan, holding onto a stair rung, leaned into his raised arm, staring down at her. What a startling, yet magnificent way to wake. How long had he been watching her sleep?

  “Rested?”

  She removed the cat from her chest and sat up, stretching her crimped neck and shoulders. “Aye.”

  “Good. They’re back.” Sloan stepped away as she jumped to her feet. “No worries. They do not seem to be on the run.”

  “They have supplies?”

  “Aye.”

  “Splendid. Let’s go meet them.”

  * * *

  Through the canopy of vines and trees, rays of pink and orange tinting the eastern sky slowly ushered in dawn. ’twas that sliver of time between night and day when all the winds, all the creatures stilled. All except the damned mosquitoes.

  Shank and Sam eased the boat to the river bank. “How goes it?” Joelle scanned the vessel of lumber, oakum and a bucket of tree nails.

  Shank wore a prideful, toothy grin. “We got in an’ out with no one the wiser.”

  “And your supplier?” she asked.

  “The extra coin your man here was carrying bought his silence.”

  “T’ere’s somethin’ else, Capt’n.” Sam’s scowl hung lower than usual. “T’ere’s to be a hangin’ in t’ree days.”

  Joelle did not like the sound of that. Sam would not speak of this unless the condemned man was one of their own. “Well, who is it?” she asked.

  “Gabriel Kipp.”

  She let out a long sigh. She had hoped the unlucky fellow to be one of the more troublesome members of the brethren, say, Carrion, or one of his miscreant crew. But Kipp? He was well liked by most, herself included. They’d sailed together for a while under Captain Fox. One of the first to welcome her into the brethren family. Quite loyal, if not a bit jaunty, and never one far from getting into trouble. The codex dictated she mount a rescue. She would have regardless. Kipp was a friend and a brother.

  “He sits in a cell not far from t’e river,” Sam added.

  “How many guards?”

  “Four, t’at I could see. Maybe more on t’e inside.”

  Shank leaned on his oar stuck in the mud. “We don’t have many hangin’s here. The townsfolk are preparing a célébration with dancing, games, a feast and ale.”

  “Three days, you say,” Joelle muttered to herself. Decidedly, she looked to Shank. “I have a gold ingot for the use of your boat.”

  Sloan chuckled.

  Joelle faced him. “What’s gotten you amused?”

 
“You plan a rescue,” he said.

  She folded her arms. “You don’t think I can do it?”

  “On the contrary, Captain. You’ve got the bollocks. Dare I say, bigger than Sam’s.”

  Joelle almost missed the twitch resembling a smile on Sam’s lips. Uh, the nerve!

  “With your mind set,” Sloan continued with a bite on his tongue, “No doubt you’ll have your way.”

  “I’m not foolhardy and rash.”

  “Are you not?” he challenged.

  “No.”

  “’Twould be because you twist things to suit yourself.”

  Shank swiveled his gaze between her and Sloan. “We’re not talking about a rescue anymore, are we?”

  Sloan pursed his lips and lifted his brow, expecting her to answer. Infuriating! She would not rise to the challenge. He’d get no satisfaction from her.

  Shank suddenly burst into laughter. “Ah, mate. So you drank the bois bande. Hoo, hoo! Told ya it be très bien.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. Criminy. Now he knew what she and Sloan had done. Sam was known for not speaking much. Many who met him believed him to be a mute. But this, this, she feared, would be suppertime gossip with Henri and Willie.

  “I don’t know, Shank,” Sloan said. “It had a bitter bite.”

  Bastard.

  Shank persisted. “But you like it, no?”

  He speared her with a serious glare. “’Twas the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  Oooh. Double bastard.

  Shank smiled, and then furrowed his brow, as if uncertain if Sloan still referred to the homemade rum.

  “May we use your boat, Shank?” She repeated her earlier request.

  “Of course, ma chèrie. But you will not make a quick évasion.”

  “We won’t need to. Not by way of your boat. We just need it to get us to Soufrière. We need to get moving if we are to save Kipp.”

  Call it avoidance. Call it cowardice. Whatever it was, Joelle needed more time away from Sloan. Maybe with the extra hour or so, she’d be able to get her head on straight. Maybe.

  “Sam, you and Ricker will take the trail back to the beach and wait for us there. I’ll go with Shank downstream...to prepare.”

  By the shake of his head when he turned away, Sloan was on to her excuse.

  * * *

  From the shadows of the alley, Joelle watched the people of the French town move about—making last-minute purchases, locking up shops, and ducking into taverns—unaware of the commotion soon to come. A constant thwack of hammers kept a steady beat with the ordinary daily din of the town. At the end of the square, carpenters pounded new shingles into place on the roof of a church damaged by fire. Buckets of nails were hauled up on a pulley to waiting laborers. A woman walked up the church steps, kneeled down, laid a handful of flowers upon the threshold, and crossed herself. A worker shouted at her to move along, but she ignored him, staring at a charred wooden statue of the Saint Lucy.

  Across the way, two guards stood sentinel beside the orange mud brick jail. A third walked down the sidewalk out of sight. A hot breeze kicked up dust from the cobblestone street. Joelle whisked her unbound hair behind her ear and glanced to the dying sky. Half glass before the sun set beneath the horizon.

  “Are we clear on what to do?” She wasn’t keen on involving Sloan in their plan to rescue Kipp. But when he’d offered his help, Valeryn was a little too eager to accept. Likely because there was a fair chance Sloan would get caught and they would thereby be rid of him. She reluctantly agreed, convincing herself ’twas that she needed all hands repairing and manning Rissa for escape. Having Sloan aid in a diversion would be of great help.

  A weak rationale given they’d launched many similar such schemes.

  “I got it,” he said. “Let’s just hope your ship makes it in time.”

  When she, Valeryn, Sam and Sloan left the ship that morning, Rissa was nearly complete. The men worked hard the last two days to get her seaworthy. Joelle took advantage of the toil to avoid Sloan.

  And Valeryn, who had failed to get her alone—no doubt to put to rest his suspicions over her night alone with Sloan.

  Valeryn poked his head around the jail wall and nodded. He and Sam were in place and ready.

  “They’re in place,” she said. “Remember, we need to make this convincing.”

  “Aye, aye, Joelle.”

  She shot him a gimlet eye. He still refused to call her Captain when they were alone.

  He lifted an eyebrow and swept his gaze down to her skirts. Point taken. She didn’t look much like a fierce captain, cavorting around in a dress. Oh, she loved wearing the latest fashion, for sure. It simply wasn’t practical in her profession to keep an armoire full of gowns.

  For now, she must dress the part.

  They stepped out of the shady alleyway. Laughing heartily she held on to Sloan’s arm. Swaying, stumbling, they appeared to be just another couple crossing the street and heading for the jail, seemingly mindless to their surroundings.

  “Oh, no, dear sir. I do believe the ale has rattled your brain,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the mug Sloan carried. “Women have every right to witness a hangin’.”

  “No ale is strong enough, love, to rattle my brain.” He raised the cup, chuckling, sloshing the drink down his arm. “A hangin’ is too barbaric for gentle souls to watch. Why, the scoundrel’s head might come clean off.”

  “Imagine, darling. Should I succumb to vapors, you will be there to catch me.” She gave her best coy smile. “And hold me tight.”

  “Ah, you sweet, little light-skirt.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Ha! You, sir, are a roving gentry cove if ever there was one.”

  They roared with more laughter, nearly stumbling into the two guards.

  “Let us ask these fine gardes on the matter, shall we?” Joelle sashayed up to the French guardsmen. “You fellas don’t think I’m unchaste, do ya boys?” She toyed with one soldier’s uniform buttons. “Just because I enjoy a little...company now and then.” She slid to the other man, leaning in as if to impart a naughty secret. “Can’t a girl be a woman, and have the same pleasures as a man?” She spun between the guards and put her arms around their waists.

  “Er...” The man’s concentration solely landed upon her jiggling breasts. She squeezed his backside to pull him from his stupor.

  Joelle looked to the other guard beside her, fluttering her eyelashes, letting her hair fall down over her bosom.

  “Pardonne-moi, mademoiselle,” he said “’Tis not for us to say.”

  “No need, monsieur.” Sloan cupped her chin, a lopsided grin on his mug. “She’s a vixen, through and through.” He snagged her to him, knocking the breath from her with the force of landing into his chest, and spun them around. “A right tart one, too.” He planted a hard kiss to her mouth.

  Just before she surrendered to his plundering tongue, she caught sight of Valeryn at the entrance of the jail. Rage emblazoned in his eyes. He took one step toward them, but Sam grabbed his shoulder and pulled him inside.

  Several heartbeats thudded in her head before she broke the trance Sloan had put her under. She sought the dagger hidden in the folds of her dress and shoved him away. A moment caught, snagged on the sharp thorns of indecision. Assail him for his brazen kiss or stay true to the plan of disposing the guards. Sloan eyed the knife, as if waiting, or perhaps wanting, wanting her to lunge at him. His piercing blue eyes rattled her.

  Lightning quick, she spiraled to the guard on her left, driving her blade deep into his shoulder. The agony of his scream filled the street. She yanked the dagger back then disarmed him.

  Sloan had done a similar move on the other guard. His foe was much larger and Sloan was having a go at bringing him down. She was pleased that he followed her specific order to not kill, only wound, the soldiers. However, his tether was obviously about to snap, fast.

  A third guard appeared, running toward them. He had pulled his weapon and aimed it directly at Sloan.

&n
bsp; Bugger!

  Sloan twisted his adversary about, putting the man between him and the gun, earning himself the few precious seconds Joelle needed.

  Joelle struck her opponent across his face with the butt of her pistol. Bloody spittle flung from his mouth. He stumbled back and hit the ground hard. In one fluid movement, she whipped around and pressed her pistol into the third soldier’s temple. “Uh, uh, uh. Lower your piece, monsieur.”

  Sloan delivered a crushing blow to his rival’s nose. Joelle cringed with the cracking sound. The guard didn’t have time to recover as Sloan grabbed his head and brought it down upon his knee. The poor fellow crumpled on the spot. Sloan turned to the soldier Joelle had at bay. Without a word, he grabbed him by the collar, dragged him to the building, then acquainted him soundly with the wall.

  “Nice moves,” he said, tucking the fallen guard’s gun under her belt.

  “Likewise.” She was more than impressed. How did a mapmaker learn fighting skills like that? Under Black Bart? Or out of necessity as a slave?

  Valeryn, Sam and Kipp burst through the door. They paused long enough to assess the damage she and Sloan had done. Well, Sam and Kipp did, anyway. Valeryn shot icy daggers of sheer fury at Sloan.

  “Ah, Captain Quint.” Kipp bowed. The jack tar looked haggard and worse for wear with his disheveled blond hair—longer than he usually kept it—filthy clothes and crooked smile. “Pleasure to see you again, my lady.”

  “Speak me your tidings later, Mister Kipp,” she said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Curious onlookers had gathered, suspicions hackled over the pile of French guards.

  Joelle and her men ran down the road toward the waterfront. An uproar grew in their wake. As they ran past the church, Joelle latched gazes with the woman on the steps. Time stalled, and Joelle could feel loss and pain in the woman’s eyes.

  Urgent screaming followed after them, pressing Joelle on, as folks poured from the inns and businesses. Their entertainment for the morrow was getting away. Several men tumbled out of a tavern to lay witness to the excitement. One looked remarkably familiar. Was...was that...Smithy? His eyes rounded. Was that recognition? Bewilderment? She couldn’t spare the glance over her shoulder to be sure.