She spun on her heels. “Willie! Set a heading due west. Valeryn, get the boys to repairing the yardarm and sheets. Get these guns cleaned and ready. What the hell are these cannon balls doing all over the deck? Branson!” She pointed at the nearest gunner. “Pick those up. Hacker! Where’s Hacker?” The surgeon rushed forward. “You and your carpenters get to work on the bulwark. We’ve no time to waste. We’re an easy target out here.”
Like preparing for battle, the lads rushed about to their duties.
“You.” She spoke to Ricker. “I trust you know your way around a needle and thread.”
Her curt tone irritated him. “I do.”
“Of course you do. Mend the sails.” She turned to leave.
“No.”
She stopped abruptly. “No?” She faced him ever so slowly. “No?”
“That’s right,” he scoffed, his lips hardly moving. “I said no.”
“I gave you an order, Ricker.”
“So you did. What makes you think that I will allow you to speak to me with such rancor?”
“You don’t allow me to do anything. It is my will that you will follow.”
He was goading the angry wildcat. His insubordination crossed the line and he couldn’t help but to push further. He hated to be ordered out of anger. He hated to be ordered at all. “Ask me.”
“What?”
“Ask me to help you and I will.”
Her temper flared in the narrowing of her eyes. What a gorgeous color of green.
An eternity passed before the words eked out of her tight lips. “Ricker, will you help repair the sails?”
Goading the wildcat had its rewards. He enjoyed immensely for her to concede.
“Say please.” He succeeded in keeping the mirth from showing with his impassive tone.
Her frown twitched. A russet eyebrow rose at his audacity. “If you do not wish to help with the sails, you may see your way to your cabin where you will remain until called for.”
Ricker chuckled outright. She wouldn’t give him any more concession. His gaze fastened upon her backside as she stormed away—or was she fleeing?—and disappeared below deck. He wanted to lay a hand on that arse. Bend her over his knee and teach her a lesson on courtesy.
Hell, he just wanted to smack her and hear her scream for him again.
* * *
“That was one helluva fight out there, Capt’n Quint,” Mister Kipp said. “I’d say you still have a Carrick bend knot on that reputation of yours.”
Joelle pulled tight the fresh bandage on her arm with her teeth and grunted. “I let the bastard get away.”
“We’ll get him next time,” Valeryn said, plucking a mango from the wooden bowl on her table.
“Or die trying,” she mumbled.
Valeryn tossed the fruit to Kipp. “Didn’t you swallow the anchor back in Matanzas, swapping the pirate’s life for land?” He sliced another mango and handed Joelle a piece.
“Yes,” Joelle said. “Tell how you went from a retired sea dog to managing a date with the executioner.”
“’Twas a sad state of affairs, I’m ’fraid. The sea, she was a callin’. I left my sweet Magdalena—I miss that woman—to heed the call.
“One night, a mean ol’ son of a bitch came to town lookin’ fer a few tars to add to his crew. I was too sauced to know what I’d done, until it was too late.”
’Twas a story Joelle had heard many times over. Drunkards signing the Articles without realizing they’d just signed away their souls.
“Od’s breath, we was doin’ all right, takin’ a few merchants. Then the bastard started pillagin’ seaport towns. Ain’t nothin’ I ain’t done ’fore, ’cept he was deliberately killin’ folks, young and old, for no other reason than it pleased him.”
“This fella wasn’t of the brethren.” Valeryn stated it as fact. Their brethren weren’t murderous. They had a code and bound to it, striking anyone down who so much as resisted.
“Nay,” Kipp said. “He didn’t follow our creed. No waitin’ for opportunity. All he wanted was to lay waste. I done decided to part ways by the time he commandeered the last merchant, fittin’ it with our guns.” Kipp heaved a heavy sigh. “He strappado’d the capt’n, tyin’ his hands ‘hind his back, raisin’ him off the deck by the rope tied to his wrists, and droppin’ him repeatedly. I swear the poor man’s arms had been jerked outta their sockets ’fore he finally died.” Kipp shook his head. “The wretch didn’t have to slaughter the Irishman and his young lass, neither. They were just travelers.”
Joelle poured Kipp a drink. The poor man had been through a lot. He needed it.
“When he sacked Soufrière and set fire to the church, I had to take a chance. I wanted to see Maggie again.” He twisted a gold ring around his finger. Round and round, lost in memories, a sad smile flickered upon his mouth. “Maybe if I did good by her, God would forgive me. That woman deserves the best.” He shook himself out of his forlorn thoughts and looked up. “Besides, ’twas better to hang as a pirate, for surely I am one, than to die at the hands of Leviathan.”
Joelle choked on her rum. “Y-you sailed with Leviathan? Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
“Didn’t have a moment, what with all the fightin’ goin’ on.” He glanced over at Valeryn, no doubt referring back to the scuffle when they first boarded.
Valeryn indifferently popped a mango slice into his mouth.
“How long ago was this?”
“Month or so ago,” Kipp said. “Days sort of run together when yer locked up.” He looked between Valeryn and Joelle. “You know this sod?”
“Aye,” Valeryn said, swiping the fruit juice from his mouth. “He be our quarry.”
“We were hired to hunt down a mutinous ship, the Mariposa.”
“Mariposa was the last merchant ship we seized,” he clarified. “There was no mutiny on board. Just Leviathan’s bent ways. ’twas as if he was lookin’ for someone, tryin’ to draw ’im out.”
Joelle had a sinking feeling she knew who he was after.
Things had become very confusing. Leviathan wasn’t just drawing her out. He was sporting with her. The savage scoundrel wanted her dead. Why didn’t he just finish her off?
And why on Neptune’s trident did Captain Watson intervene? Did he know of the secret missive on board the Mariposa? Was there even a secret missive, at all?
Then there was the matter of no mutiny. Did Lord English know this? Who was crossing whom?
The only way to get answers was to catch Leviathan.
* * *
“Git yer bloody hands off Frannie!” Henri swatted at Sam. “I mean it, ya big beluga. Shove off.”
For the last few minutes, Sam had tried to take the burlap-wrapped bottle from Henri. “I don’t want yer mop, ya ole fool. Gimme t’e rum.”
Ricker had been thoroughly amused by the Lilliputian and giant arguing like an old married couple. He got the idea Henri didn’t usually get this drunk, despite how much the little man marinated in liquor. But tonight, he was belligerently soused.
Henri downed the rest of the rum and smacked it down on a barrel beside Ricker.
“Willie!” Henri shouted up to the helmsman. “Sing a song, a lively one.”
Willie, smirking and with both hands on the wheel, burst into an old sailor’s shanty.
“May I have this dance, milady?” Henri bowed to his mop, hanging onto the handle so he wouldn’t tumble forward. He nearly did anyhow. He popped up and spun the mop. Around and around, he twirled with his “Frannie.” Well, the best he could while doddering around with his cane.
Ricker laid the canvas he’d been working with on the barrel beside him and whistled to Jack. The cabin boy hustled over. “Best go get your captain, son. Hurry along.”
Ricker picked up the empty bottle, took a whiff from the mouth, and grew suspicious.
“Henri,” he called. “Where’d you get this rum?”
Henri stopped spinning to do a jig. His small boots thumped against the floor, hi
s red beard bows flopping. Ricker questioned if the old goat needed his cane as much as he claimed. “That friend o’ yers.” Henri grinned. “Said ’twas très bien. Gave me two bottles, being we both be Frenchies.”
Ricker bit back a howl of laughter. “You drank this whole bottle yourself?”
“I ain’t tellin’ ya where I put the other one, neither.” He pulled his mop to his chest. “Oh, Frannie, mon amour.” He stroked the mop’s yarn. “Vous avez de beaux cheveux.”
“What’s gotten into Henri?” Valeryn asked. He, Joelle and Kipp had just exited the hatch door. “He never speaks French.”
Henri whirled around with his mop, the long strands of the mop head smacking into several lads standing too close.
“He’s drunk,” Ricker said.
“Nay. He can’t be.” Valeryn looked to Sam, who nodded.
“He drank bois bande,” Ricker declared.
Sam burst into spontaneous laughter. Ricker had never seen the big brute so much as crack a grin. His white teeth shone bright in his wide smile. ’twas a good look for him. Far less menacing.
Valeryn and Kipp swapped glances and shrugged.
Joelle clapped her hands together and held them over her grin, squelching her giggles. Ricker was taken aback by her charming feminine action. Her gaze slid to him, lingering.
Was she thinking of their experience with the potent drink? By God, he was. What he wouldn’t give to drink it with her again. Maybe if he hung Henri from the gunwale by his tiny toes over open water, the little miser would tell him where he hid the other bottle of bois bande.
“What do we do?” asked Valeryn.
“Not’in we can do,” Sam answered.
Henri cast a wary scowl at his audience, holding his mop close and stroking its yarn head. “No worries, mon chéri. I won’t let these ruffians get anywhere near ya. Willie! Why aren’t ya singin’? Frannie wants to dance.”
“Maybe we should get him below deck to the galley,” Joelle said, only loud enough for their little group to hear. “Valeryn, Sam, get him some cheese and hot tea. But for goodness sakes, don’t take away his mop.”
“Come on, Henri,” Valeryn said. “Ellie—”
“Frannie,” Sam interjected.
“Right. Frannie there looks as if she could use a respite.”
“Aye.” Sam gestured for Henri to follow. “She looks a mite ’ungry.”
“Is that true, mon chéri? Would ya like to rest a bit?” Henri nodded. “All right. But ya bastards best not come near my Frannie lest I gut ya like a dogfish.”
“Back to work, everyone,” Joelle said. “There’ll be plenty of time for celebration once we complete our commission.”
The lads dispersed and went back to their duties, chuckling on what was surely a rare spectacle with the prickly cook.
Ricker picked up his canvas and resumed sewing. He tried to remain nonchalant to Joelle standing in front of him, tried to reject the electricity frying through him with her so near.
“You’re still bleeding.” Damn. Was he that weak, could he not ignore her?
“It’s fine.”
Finally, he looked up. She wasn’t concerned over her wound. But she should have been.
“Have Hacker take a look at it,” he suggested.
“What? So he can saw it off? Why do you think his name’s Hacker?” A smile bloomed on her face.
Ricker appreciated the levity. They’d been so tense with one another. He wanted to loosen the windlass bound tight between them.
“Just the same, I should take another look.” He put down his sewing and stood, reaching for her arm. “See if I can’t stop the bleeding again.”
“I’m fine. Really.” Her smile faded and she took a hurried step backward. “I just tore the skin sometime during battle.”
“Should you change your—”
“Should I change my mind,” she rattled off with an abrasive edge, “you will do whatever is my bidding, as you are meant to do.”
A sting of resentment prickled Ricker. ’twas very hard to see her statement for anything other than what it was—establishing her control. He bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to let it go.
Her gaze hit her boots and her tone softened. “Thank you, Sloan.”
Christ, where’d that come from?
She looked up, sincerity in her emerald eyes. “Thank you for your help.” She swallowed then took a deep breath, prompting him to look at the mounds peeking over her corset. Damn!
“I...I never imagined how invaluable you’d become to me, er, to Rissa.” Her shoulders squared. “There’s still much more left to do.”
“Aye,” he said. “Much, much more.” He let his words drip with need.
“Right. Well, then. Back to work.”
And just like that, she was gone.
For the next two hours, Ricker could hardly concentrate on the sails. He thought of little else than Joelle. She had thanked him, called him by his given name. There was a sort of vulnerability in her tone. Her struggle to dominate him held intrigue, an intrigue he wanted to further explore. Blast, he wanted her again.
With the last stitch knotted, he turned his attention to the men on the yard arm. Almost done. The Rissa would be back to full sails very soon.
He folded the sail, ready for the lads to rig and unfurl. They were all so busy, no one would miss him.
The slave intended to seek out the master.
Chapter Nine
Ricker strode down the dark companionway, his blood pumping as it did before a glorious battle. Just as he reached her cabin, the door swung open and Joelle collided into him.
“Oh!”
Heat spread from her hands splayed upon his chest, igniting a blaze of, what was it—passion? Greed?
“What are you doing here? You should be topside working on the sheets.”
“They’re finished.” He latched onto her wrists. “But we’re not.”
Ricker pulled her into his cabin—his cabin—and kicked the door shut. Not a glimmer of light in the room to see her expression.
“What are you—”
He snapped her into him and pinned her to the door.
“You can’t do—”
“Shut up.” He mashed his lips to hers, showing her no mercy, sucking the breath from her. His tongue stabbed into her mouth, sweeping, claiming.
She fought him, oh yes, but only for a moment, perhaps less. Her palms pressing against his chest lessened their resistance, becoming groping. Her lips resigned, her tongue as needy as his. She moaned into him, driving him further into aggression.
He dug his fingers into her hair and jerked her head back. The column of her neck tasted salty and sweet as he dragged his tongue the measure of her throat. Primal desire hardened in his trousers, the pressure almost too much to brook.
His name laced her moans. Her hands snaked up into his hair. She struggled to pull him away, but the smarting at his skull spurned him on.
Her legs buckled. Ricker’s weight pinning her to the door kept her upright. ’Twasn’t good enough.
He scooped her into his arms and threw her onto the bed. Before she could recover or protest, he was on top of her, mauling her neck, her chest.
“Sloan.” She grasped at his shoulders, fought for purchase, but with the lack of strength he knew she could possess. ’twas all maddening.
He freed a breast from under her tunic, and lavished it with his tongue, nipping at the firm peak.
Joelle moaned, her back arching as much as his weight allowed.
“Sloan... You mustn’t.”
Oh, but he must. And he would. He wanted her to beg for him—to start, to stop. Didn’t matter.
He took her other breast into his mouth for devouring.
More. He needed more.
Ricker slipped his hand between their bodies to her juncture. He rubbed her crotch, up and down, until he could feel the warmth of dampness.
Her moans quickened. “Sloan. Stop.” Her hands roamed under his tun
ic over his back, kneading his flesh, belying her whispered word.
“No,” he rasped.
He tucked his hand under her trousers and dipped his fingers into her juicy mutton. Swirling around her wet folds, her breathing ratcheted up.
“Oh, oh, oh!”
She was too close. So was he. Still, she hadn’t begged. He withdrew and rose from the bed. Did she just whimper? God, he hoped so. Perhaps he should feel bad about wanting to deprive her. Alas, he did not.
He lit the overhead lantern but kept the flame low.
“Take off your clothes.”
Shock, confusion registered in her eyes. “You can’t tell me—”
“Take off your clothes, Joelle, or I’ll rip them off.”
Her jaw tightened, her brow climbed at his command.
“Now, Joelle.”
As she sat up, Ricker moved in closer. “And don’t try to prolong removing them as you did before.”
She frowned. “Very well.”
Only when she tucked her arse up to wiggle out of her trousers did Ricker shed his own clothes.
“Lay back.”
Damn her body was just as beautiful as he remembered. Her breasts puckered in a chill. Her red hair fanned across his pillow blazed in the dim lamplight. The thatch of curly hair between her legs glistened. He may come undone just by gazing upon her.
“You are only doing this because I allow it,” she said, her lips plump from his lascivious kissing.
“Believe what you will, my lady, but we both know the truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
“That you want this as much as I.” He patted her knees. “Spread ’em.”
When she didn’t comply, he said it again, with more force. She narrowed her lust-filled eyes and sucked in her lower lip with an impish smirk. Her knees parted merely an inch, the wench. Ricker dragged his hand down her knee to her inner thigh, landing in her sweetest spot. Her body jerked. He was titillated by her response, as he hadn’t even begun yet. He’d get her begging for mercy for certain.
He knelt on the edge of the bed. Now he would wrest from her what he wanted to hear. He trailed his finger through her wetness and slowly swirled through her folds. A noise warbled from her throat, and she writhed her hips. Her arms floated above her head.
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