Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  “Say it,” he said, adding pressure and speed to his working fingers.

  “Hmm?”

  He bent to her ear, lingering for a moment, before licking the rim. “Say it.” He plunged a finger inside.

  “Oh!”

  “Say you want me.”

  In and out, his finger dipped and rolled.

  “Yes...damn...you!” She turned her head, her heavy-lidded emeralds snared him. Ricker could breathe in her brisk pants. He quickened his ministrations and her nose, her cheeks glowed with lust.

  “Yes, what?”

  “I want...you.”

  “My name.” He inserted another finger. “Say my name.” Her hips bucked as he stroked her from inside. Pulling his fingers out and over her quivering nubbin and plunging back in up to his knuckles.

  “I want you, Sloan.” Her lips parted with a sinful, yet coy, smile. “Please. Don’t...don’t...make me...please. Won’t you take me?”

  There it was. Glory be!

  “You’d better be sure, Joelle.” In one swift move that even surprised Ricker, he pinned her hands on either side of her head and straddled her. “Unlike before, once you’ve given yourself to me, you’ll be mine.”

  Steady, hungry, passionate eyes pierced him. “I want you, Sloan Ricker.”

  No sweeter words were ever spoken. Whether she meant it or her words were just to have Ricker finish her off mattered not. The master had become the slave.

  He descended upon her ripe mouth, fervently, desperately feasting upon her again. Ricker wedged himself between her sleek legs, his hard shaft nested upon her silky mound. Joelle bowed and writhed beneath him, moaning into his kiss, grinding against his cock. Still, he kept a firm grip on her hands.

  Sensations tingled at every point of contact his body touched. He could stand it no longer.

  Ricker pulled her hands above her head and pinned both wrists with his left hand into the pillow.

  “This isn’t necessary,” she said. “I’ll do anything.”

  “Aye, you will.” He kissed her neck while his right hand palmed her breasts, kneading, pinching her tightly beaded nipples. Lapping at her tender flesh, he trailed down to the delicate curve of her throat. A mewl rumbled there. She rocked her hips, rubbing his cock with her damp sheath. Shock advanced through him like a spider web of cracking glass.

  He bit her neck, hard—squeezing her breast in a frantic effort to suppress his teetering deliverance.

  She screamed and he immediately suckled upon where he inflicted the pain.

  “Oh dear God,” she cried.

  Curse it, what had this woman done to him? He needed to be inside her.

  Ricker guided himself into her heated entrance. He pulled back to watch Joelle. Lips parted, her gaze trapped him until her lids fluttered closed as he eased all the way in. He couldn’t look away. Gliding back in, he savored her tightness. But the animal in him could not be caged.

  There’d be no love making tonight. Only tupping.

  He slammed back into her, rocking, pumping, hard and fast. Ricker grasped her throat. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes opened and latched onto his gaze. He tightened his grip upon her neck. She bit her lower lip, grinning, meeting his every thrust with the rise of her hips.

  Blessed be. She felt right. This felt right.

  There was no warning, no building sensation. Ricker simply exploded. Blind, he roared as crest after crest of him spurted into Joelle.

  Not letting go of either hold he had on her, he folded upon her.

  “Yes,” she whispered triumphantly.

  It took several moments before Ricker regained use of his muscles, his mind. He may have been spent, but he was not done.

  With his cock buried inside her, he released her throat and fingered her nubbin. He petted and rubbed, drawing short pants and broken curses from her.

  Her muscles contracted around his shaft. She arched and tried to scream, tried to break free of his grip. But the breath had left her. Her face, her beautiful face, froze in her passion. Ricker continued to stroke her feathery lips until he milked every last drop of release from her. Only then did he let go of her wrists.

  Ricker slipped from her, rolled off, and collapsed on his outstretched arm, leaving his hand to rest on her lower belly.

  He was certain he’d never been so content, so satisfied, so in charge, in his miserable life. He owned her, controlled her. Not as before. Not with bois bande driving their carnal desires. She’d had her wits, and yet Joelle forfeited her will to him—voluntarily. The woman so bound by her determination, her destination, and he had subdued her. That kind of power over another was delicious, addicting. He wanted more. He’d have more.

  Her hand glided on top of his and threaded their fingers. They lay like that for a long time, in peaceful comfort.

  “There’s no turning back,” he mumbled.

  “No, there’s not.” Was that worry in her voice?

  Before he could think more of it, Ricker drifted to sleep.

  * * *

  Joelle’s flesh prickled with heat. So much so, she thought she might suffocate. She was wet. Sticky. Especially in the places of skin-on-skin contact.

  Skin-on-skin.

  The fogginess of sleep immediately evaporated. The clarity of where she was, whose leg wrapped over hers, whose arm draped across her stomach in a protective cocoon, smacked into her.

  Sloan’s slow, steady breath tickled her temple. She rolled her head and gazed upon his handsome face. Even in rest, the lines from years in the sun, years of hard labor creased his eyes and his oh-so-kissable mouth. ’twas when he smiled those crinkled lines made her heart skip. Just as he did before he fell asleep.

  Last night had been magnificent. The raw lechery between her and Sloan unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She’d succumbed to his animalistic seduction, in his touch, his commands, his blue eyes. She’d let herself go.

  At the time, it felt so right. He bound her to him, subdued her authority. What disturbed her was that she enjoyed it. Immensely. She liked the way he controlled her, liked being given little choice but to obey. She fully believed had she not, she’d have suffered greatly. Not by his hands, but by the lack of them.

  What was wrong with her? How had she let this happen? How did Sloan manage to get to her?

  Fear and dread sank like a stone in her gut. There really was no turning back. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She was going crazy over him. He invaded her every thought. She waged battle between welcoming those thoughts and repelling them.

  What he did to her last night, the wicked game he’d played, awakened a needful, submissive part of her she hadn’t known existed.

  Bile rose into the back of her throat at the idea of becoming bound by a man’s will. Or maybe it was something else churning in her stomach. She wasn’t sure. Suddenly she felt sick.

  She needed to retreat to her own room.

  ’Twould be difficult to get out from under Sloan without waking him. Ever so gently, she raised his arm, sat up, and set his arm back down. She brought her knees to her chest, slipping from beneath his leg. He stirred. Sitting deathly still, she waited for him to settle. The Rissa rolled and Joelle used the movement to stand on the bed and jump over Sloan. She thudded to the floor and held her breath as he shifted again. Her head spun from the quick movement and she squelched the urge to vomit.

  When Sloan did not wake, she threw on her tunic, gathered up the rest of her clothes, and scooped up her boots. She paused at the door, to give in to one last indulgent appreciation of his body and the magic he commanded with it. His dusky hair brushed across his bare back, still bearing the healing marks of angry red lashes.

  Scars.

  Seemed she and Sloan both endured them.

  Another rush of nausea roiled in her gut. Joelle hurried from his cabin and into the sanctuary of her own.

  Unfortunately, she would not be alone.

  Valeryn sat at the table, boots propped on the corner edge. Bla
st. There would be hell to pay, straightaway.

  She tossed her clothes on the bed and dropped her boots. Hell and furies, it was hot. She flung open a window.

  “Whatever it is, Valeryn, now is not a good time.” Even as she said the words, she knew good and well it would spur him into action.

  “Nay,” he sparred. “Now is the time, Jo.”

  She didn’t meet his rebuking eyes. Didn’t want to face him now. Instead, she concentrated on the stingy breeze wafting in to scarcely cool her clammy skin.

  “You went to his bed.” Hurt equaled the anger in his accusation.

  “I’m tired, V. We can talk about this later.”

  His boots hit the floor. “No. We talk now.”

  She was caught. ’twas no debate on that fact. Joelle turned from the window to face him. She had no strength to fight. Even less to explain herself. “Take your leave, Valeryn. We talk later.”

  “I will not. You fucked Ricker. Tell me you did!” His booming voice slashed through her head. Splitting it in pain.

  “’Tis none of your—”

  “Sonofa—What is that?” He pointed to her neck. “Is that a... He bit you?”

  Her fingers flew up to the sore spot where Sloan had made his mark. She shuffled to the mirror nailed to a post over the washing bowl. Pinkened teeth imprints encircled greenish-purple bruising. Further evidence of just how screwed Joelle was.

  “He’s a dead man,” he viciously growled.

  Valeryn made it as far as the door before she caught him. “You stay away from him. Do you hear?”

  Her head buzzed. The heat of the room, overpowering. She couldn’t catch her breath. ’twas as if she were drowning in mud. “That...is a...command.”

  “He hurt you.”

  “As have...you.” Why couldn’t she breathe?

  “You blame me? Is that what you’re doing? Shagging him to get at me?”

  “Nay,” she spat. “This has nothing to do...with you.” Breathe! “I...wanted him.”

  Valeryn grabbed her arms, shook her. “No! You lie!”

  Joelle swung her arms up to release his hold. Her chest ached from her pummeling heartbeat. The room spun. She swallowed back the nausea churning, rising up to her throat.

  “Valeryn.” She reached for him.

  His rage altered into alarm. “Jo, what’s wrong? Are you all right?”

  Someone open a window. Where is the wind? Leviathan must have taken the wind, the bastard. The map! Where’s my map? Does Sloan have my map? Lord help me.

  Her vision blurred, darkened into moving shadows. “Valeryn? Is that you?”

  “Joelle, love. What’s wrong?”

  Her legs gave way and the world went black.

  Chapter Ten

  Loud voices drew Ricker from his deep slumber. Reluctantly, he pried open his eyes.

  How long had he been out? He felt incredibly rested. It had been ages since he’d slept so soundly. He had a pirate angel to thank for that.

  The mere thought of what he’d done to and with Joelle last night lengthened his cock.

  The bed was too tiny to lie with someone without being tucked against one another. Yet he didn’t feel her smooth body next to his. He reached over to pull her closer. He was met by a cold, empty sheet. Ricker half sighed, half chuckled. How had the little wildcat made an escape without him knowing?

  The voices grew even louder. Footfalls ran outside his cabin door. What was going on?

  ’Twas then he heard the unmistakable click of the lock tumbler. Ricker sprang from his bed and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  “Hey.” He slapped at the door.

  “Sorry, lad.” Henri’s sincere, if not gravelly, apology answered from the other side. “Valeryn’s orders.”

  Valeryn? “Where’s Joelle?” He grimaced at the slip. “Captain. Where’s Captain Quint?”

  Henri didn’t answer. But Ricker heard the jangle of the old man’s keys. He was hesitating.

  “What is it, Henri? Where’s the captain?”

  No answer.

  Something was wrong.

  “What’s going on, Henri?” he demanded.

  Silence.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Aye.”

  Fear skittered down Ricker’s spine. “Is she all right? Tell me plain.”

  Henri let out a sigh. “Nay. She’s with fever.”

  “Joelle is ill?” This time he didn’t care about using her name. He just wanted to get to her. “Let me out. I must see her.”

  “’Fraid not, son. Valeryn’s orders.”

  “To hell with Valeryn. Let me out of here.”

  “Valeryn’s captain until she’s well. B’sides, she won’t wake.”

  Incoherent, incomplete thoughts flitted through his mind. Joelle unconscious. Fever. Need to help. Door locked. Trapped. Unrecognizable emotions clenched his heart. Urgency. Fear. Valeryn captain. Death.

  One thing was certain, Ricker had to get out of his cabin to help Joelle.

  “Henri! Open this door.”

  “I gotta go get some fresh water and rags.”

  “Henri!”

  Thud-shuffle footsteps carried down the corridor.

  “Henri! Let me outta here!”

  But Henri was gone.

  Ricker slammed his fist into the door jamb. He needed to get to Joelle. Needed to be by her side and help her through whatever it was making her ill. It hit him—her arm. She must have gotten an infection. Damn it! He should have insisted on taking a look at it. He might have been able to help her. Stubborn woman.

  * * *

  The hours ticked off. With each passing minute, Ricker spiraled deeper into an agonizing despair. Waiting. Wondering.

  He had spent grueling months in a dark, dank cell just below the Boston Harbor water line. Scents of human waste, stale sea water and decay were what he breathed. Moans, delirious babbling and dripping water a constant din. Quiet conversation of family and bonny sweethearts from his condemned brethren and his etchings on the putrefied walls had kept him sane.

  At some point, he’d come to a certain peace with himself. Not willingly. But it had happened. A boy, watching his life whittle away. He’d been scared, to be sure. Frightened of death. Frightened of what the preacher had spoken, had threatened would happen to his lost soul had he not repented.

  ’Twas Julian’s composure that kept Ricker from succumbing to panic. The Indian, wise beyond his age, taught him so much in so few words. He told Ricker ’twas all right to be afraid. That he should embrace the fear, turn it into energy he could use. That was when Ricker began drawing. The closer to the time to meet the hangman, the more he drew.

  Aye. He had been terrified.

  Not as much as he was now. Terrified and angry. But not for himself. For her.

  She had to pull through. She just had to. He needed to be by her side. He’d damn near worn the floor bare from pacing. He’d shouted to be let out. Roared at the ceiling. Cursed at those passing outside his door refusing to help. He had even prayed—prayed to be set free, prayed for Joelle’s recovery. A rogue’s prayer? Bah! His prayer may fall on deaf ears. But it couldn’t hurt to try.

  He didn’t blame Valeryn for having him locked away. The cove likely knew something had happened between Ricker and his captain. Ricker would have done the same thing under the circumstances. Didn’t mean Ricker wouldn’t try to kill the bastard for it.

  Curse it!

  He sank down onto the bed and buried his face into his hands. She had gotten to him. Irrevocably. He had no idea what that meant. For now, or later. All he knew was that he couldn’t lose her. ’twould be worse than any torture the Devil could conjure up.

  Someone knocked at his door. In less than a heartbeat, he was at the door, palms flattened on the jambs.

  “Ricker? Ricker, ya awake?”

  “Aye, Henri.”

  “Ima gonna open this door. Give ya some supper.”

  Ricker’s stomach clenched and growled. He hadn’t noticed his
hunger before and now the pangs twisted inside his gut.

  “I warn ya,” Henri added. “I got Sam with me. Doncha try nothin’ foolish, ya hear?”

  Ricker huffed. They knew the second the latch was thrown, he’d push his way out and into the captain’s quarters.

  “Ya ain’t gonna be foolish, are ya?” Henri asked.

  He exhaled heavily through his nose. “Nay.”

  Ricker stepped back and allowed Henri to enter with a tray of pottage and grog.

  Sam, emotionless as usual, filled the threshold. Even if Ricker had lied about not being foolish, there was not an inch of space between Sam and the doorway to make an escape.

  Henri set the supper on the small writing desk. At least, he thought it was supper. Could have been the morning meal for all he knew. Henri fished out a chunk of hard tack from his pocket and tossed it onto the tray.

  “How is she?” He was anxious for news. He’d been caged in worry.

  Henri shook his head. The color of his pale eyes seemed clouded in sadness. “She sleeps,” he said. “Still with fever, too.”

  Blazes! Ricker ran his hands into his scalp, grabbed his hair, and spun away. ’twas not what he wanted to hear. He turned back.

  “Whole ship’s prayin’ for her,” Henri continued. “Lads are tore up over her. Just tore up.”

  “What have you done?” Ricker pressed. “What are you giving her? Have you kept her cool? Have you placed poultices on her chest?”

  Henri nodded as his questions came tumbling out.

  “We’ve done it all, we have,” Henri said.

  “And her wound?”

  “Hacker cleaned and dressed it. ’Twasn’t looking good. Her skin was red and mangled. She won’t stop bleeding none, either.”

  “Are you using onions? Honey?”

  “Garlic.”

  The garlic should have had some effect. Why wasn’t she getting better?

  “Use onion. You’ve got onion, aye?”

  “Of course,” Henri said.

  “Slice an onion. Place each half on the bottom of her feet and wrap them up. Use minced onion on her wound. Make an onion poultice for her chest. Put a bowl of onions on her table. Use all that you have.”