Mutiny of the Heart

by Jennifer Bray-Weber

  Ricker swung hard, making contact. Immediately, he blocked right and thrust left. Metal on metal vibrated in his hands, up his arms. Again and again, he thrust, blocked and parried—with Valeryn at his back doing the same.

  The smoke lifted. He identified the weakest foe to his left. In a swift, smooth motion, he blocked the man advancing on his right, rounded his cutlass down, then up to block and parry into the center man, giving the slower man on his left his back. He finished the move by thrusting his sword behind him, impaling the cad.

  Ricker yanked his blade out in time to intercept the man to his right. Swinging down, he spun, slicing the center lad through the gut. Ricker used the momentum to land upon his knees and plunged his cutlass forward, staking the last man standing. He shoved the unlucky fellow off his blade then hopped to his feet.

  “Valeryn! Your back!” Ricker charged a swab on Valeryn’s flank, deflecting his swing by shouldering into him. They stumbled and the man lost his balance. Ricker took the advantage and ran his sword upward. Blood spilled from the man’s shoulder. He scampered on his arse backward until he reached the bulwark.

  Valeryn dispatched the men he fought. The remaining bastards scattered, jumping overboard and piling into their longboats.

  Across the deck lay the dead and injured. Spent gunpowder and the metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. No cheers of victory. Just moans of the wounded and hushed, anxious voices. The lads all had one thing on their minds—Captain Quint.

  Ricker stood at the gunwale, watching the lone boat with Leviathan and Joelle reach the Mariposa. Further beyond sat another ship. The Expedition—had to be.

  Valeryn joined him. “Christ,” he mumbled. “The devil has taken sides.”

  “We’re at task, for sure,” Ricker agreed.

  Valeryn handed him a handkerchief. “For your neck.”

  ’Twas then Ricker remembered the cut Leviathan had given him when he intended to slash his throat. A trail of blood from the gash disappeared under his tunic, staining the shirt with a growing bloom of red. The injury would surely leave a nasty scar. It stung now. So did the knowledge Joelle’s screams were what saved his life.

  “We’ll get her back.” Valeryn said it as fact, rather than affirmation.

  “And the Royal Navy?”

  “A pox to ’em. Watson is a damned pest. We’ll fight him only should he intervene.”

  “As good a plan as any,” Ricker said.

  Valeryn’s hard stare out at the murderous bane shifted cold, more centered. “Did she come to you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Did Jo come to you when you tupped her?” He turned his harsh eyes on Ricker.

  ’Twas no fault in wanting the truth. If he were Valeryn, he’d expect the same. He would also expect his rival to hold out. Ricker would give him no more than what was asked.

  “Speak plain, Ricker.”

  “Nay.” His truth was unequivocal and firm. “She did not come to me.”

  Valeryn looked back to the Mariposa. “Did she resist your advances?”

  “Nay.”

  The muscles worked in the first mate’s jaw. “I will fight for her.”

  “I know.” He accepted this and the battle to come. “So will I.”

  Valeryn nodded—an understanding had been made. “Thank you for, uh—” his gaze fell to the water below, “—what you did back there.”

  ’Twas as if his gratitude tasted of bitter poison.

  “I did it to protect my own arse. Like it or not, we have a common enemy. We need to keep each other alive to get Joelle back. You’d have done the same.”

  Valeryn nodded again. “This doesn’t change things between us. But for Jo, we are allies. I will treat you as brethren.”

  He stuck out his arm. Ricker clasped it.

  “For Joelle,” he said, and they shook on it.

  Another understanding had passed between them. Honor, respect—uncommon among men like them. In that moment, Ricker knew he could trust Valeryn. They would stand together, until it was Joelle’s heart at stake.

  “Hacker.” Valeryn called over the ship’s surgeon, a title to be used loosely from what Ricker had seen of Hacker. “Get the wounded below deck and see to their injuries.

  “The rest of you lads gather up the dead. We’ll give them all a proper burial under sail.”

  Valeryn knelt beside Kipp’s body. He rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder and bowed his head. Valeryn was fighting back tears.

  Ricker was about to turn away to give Valeryn a moment alone with his mate to mourn, when Valeryn spoke.

  “He liked you.” Valeryn did not look at Ricker as he revealed this. “Said you were rough, but reliable.”

  “I did not know him long,” Ricker said, “but he was a mighty fine cove.”

  “A true and brave brother if there ever was,” Valeryn said.

  He slipped the gold ring from Kipp’s finger. “I vow to you, my friend, to return this ring to your Magdalena. She will know she was your last thought.” He fisted the ring. “Rest in peace, Gabriel.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Joelle lay on the hard wooden floor with her back to the iron cage door. Since Leviathan locked her in the bowels of his ship, she’d been concentrating on breathing deep, willing her stomach to settle, and reserving her strength. The dampness of her clothes chilled her already clammy skin. But her breath stirred warm against the curved hull wall. She’d gotten used to the stench of rancid seawater and the strong tang of tar—barrels and barrels of tar. And gunpowder. This bucket must have been shipping the commodities before Leviathan seized it. He sure derided fate going into battle with such a load. One well-placed waterline shot would send Mariposa into a fiery explosion.

  Explosion.

  What happened to Sloan, Valeryn and the Rissa? Her last glance at her ship before Leviathan hustled her down into the ship’s belly was alarming. The grenado smoke had risen and her crew had been overrun with Leviathan’s men. From her distance, all she could make out was that the fighting had continued. Her men were strong and intrepid. Even Henri was an ornery handful. That didn’t lessen her anxiety. Valeryn could be audacious, unpredictable and she had always feared that his rash actions would get him killed. And Sloan. She could only desperately hope that sailing under Black Sam had served him well. God, please. Joelle couldn’t fathom losing either of them.

  She kept time with the creaks of the vessel. They’d been under sail for several hours now, and he still hadn’t sent for her.

  The bastard was grandiose in everything he did. ’twould only make sense that he had something special planned for her death.

  Torture wasn’t on his mind. Not physical, anyhow. Even as he threatened it. He would have already followed through with any torturous designs. Leviathan didn’t have such patience. Hell, most men she knew didn’t possess enough discipline for patience—unless they engaged in tactical sea battles.

  The impossibility of not knowing what he planned agitated her. She couldn’t let the unknown conjecture jumbled scenarios in her mind. She needed to be clear-headed. Instead, she focused on her quest with her father’s map.

  So long as she lived, she would never forget the day Mother Lotte had given her the small strongbox. Joelle had been sitting in the branches of her favorite tree just on the edge of the orphanage grounds when Mother Lotte handed her up the box. “I was given explicit instructions to wait until your twelfth birthday before giving this to you,” she had said.

  “By Papa?” Even now, Joelle remembered how small her voice had been to her own ears.

  Mother Lotte had nodded and left her to open her treasure alone.

  That old woman had been able to keep Joelle at the orphanage only two more years. But not without much begging and listening to reason. Eventually, as Joelle prepared to set off on her own, Mother Lotte admitted her father had come to the orphanage once more in the dead of night to give her the box with the instructions. She had said it was clear he was in some sort of danger. He
stayed only long enough to peek in on Joelle as she slept before stealing away into the dark.

  Joelle missed Mother Lotte. Though she missed her family, too, most of her memories of them were like that of a morning haze—fading quickly without forming into something solid, real. The few she did have, she cherished. Riding atop Papa’s shoulders through a heather-scented glen filled with wooly sheep. Soothing, nightly lullabies as Mama tucked her into bed. Catching her first fish in the brook with Papa and Mama proudly frying it up for supper. Prayers before each meal. There were other memories. Urgent discussions. Rushing from home to catch a boat. Her sobs from leaving her favorite doll behind. The tears on Mama’s face as she held Joelle tightly. Rough seas and sailing that seemed to go on forever.

  Joelle had a younger, infant brother, Donal, or so she was told. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t remember him. Wasn’t sure he existed. She wasn’t even sure what happened to her mother, only that she disappeared from her mind.

  What she remembered clearly was the day Papa promised they’d be together again. From the steps of the orphanage, holding Mother Lotte’s hand, she’d watched her papa ride away, certain he’d come back soon. Time and again, she’d climbed her tree to watch the distant hills, the sea beyond, waiting.

  He never came.

  The map in her small strongbox gave her purpose. She had spent the last decade searching for what it led to. But the flat-bottomed emerald? She couldn’t understand its significance. Did it have a meaning?

  She’d been tempted to sell the gem. Seamus convinced her otherwise. He’d believed there was something more to the emerald. Something she wouldn’t understand until she deciphered the map.

  That damned map.

  When this was over—because she would accept no other outcome—Sloan was going to solve the riddle of her map. He had to.

  She just had to finish out this commission, find the intelligence hidden onboard the Mariposa and kill Leviathan. She would get into his quarters to see what was in there. What object might hide a secret message—at the base of an inkwell? Inside a shaving kit? Under a false panel in a desk drawer? Between the pages of a book?

  Once she found the missive, killing Leviathan and making her escape would fall into place. Somehow, it always did when she needed to cheat death.

  Her mind clear and her mood lightened, she felt her strength burgeon.

  She didn’t have to wait much longer. Joelle rolled over and smiled when the hatch door to the bilge opened. A spindly swab with short yellow hair and even yellower teeth jangled the keys to her cage from his long, bony fingers.

  “’Eark ye,” he said. “Leviathan ’as requested ya join ’im.” He snickered as if he were in on some jest.

  He unlocked the heavy padlock and opened the iron door. The liquor wafting from him was thankfully a wee bit stronger than his filthy stench. His jaundiced, bloodshot eyes oozed over her body. His tongue darted out to wet cracked lips. Disgusting.

  Joelle could easily overpower the cretin. She resisted, following the swab instead around the casks of tar and crates of gunpowder. Leviathan waited, and she would as well, for a better opportunity.

  Leviathan and seven of his crew sat around the galley table, well into their cups. There was no seat for Joelle. It was clear she would not be staying.

  “Ah, there she be.” Leviathan leaned back on the bench. His long black curls spread out over his crisp white tunic. He waved his many-ringed hand in her direction. “The bunter who would be an ugly pimple on my arse. I was just tellin’ the boys I heard tale yer a respected pirate captain here in the Caribbean. They verily believe it true. ’tis laughable. But then beauty does trick a man into believin’ just about anythin’.”

  “’Tis praiseworthy you recognize your gender’s flaws,” she said, knowing full well the insult would go ignored. The cretin who prodded her to the galley shoved her farther into the room to stand closer to Leviathan at the head of the long wooden table.

  “Look past the baubles and ya lack any real threat.”

  Aside from the scabbard, every jack-tar had their gaze affixed to her “baubles.” She bent beside him, placing both palms flat on the table. “Being ruthless doesn’t replace intellect, Tolliver.” His eyelids twitched with the use of his real name. “Don’t underestimate me.” She shoved off the table and straightened.

  “Ya still have that spitfire feckless attitude Seamus loved so much,” Leviathan scoffed. “Terrible shame I had to kill him.”

  Joelle wouldn’t take the bait. Arguing with Leviathan over that night was pointless.

  “Yet, you haven’t killed me. Who are you saving me for, hmmm, Tolliver? Who has you by the nose?”

  He snarled, the bushy beard around his mouth making him look like a fierce and rabid black wolf. “No one has me yoked. That, puss, that I can promise ya.” He lifted his chin, his nostrils flared. “Heed this, Jo. I ain’t never said I wouldn’t kill ya. I’m just waitin’ for the most satisfyin’ time.”

  This wasn’t that time. Joelle would make her escape yet. “Why did you bring me up?”

  He wore an expression of pretentious regret. “For sport, of course. My men...” He mocked a frown, his brow bunched in false concern. “Why, they haven’t taken their leisure in many weeks. I’m sure ya understand. A happy, spent crew is a steadfast crew.”

  Rape. How original. If Joelle were a proper lady, she’d be aquiver with consuming fright. But Joelle was no lady. And sadly, she’d been in this predicament before. Men. ’twas always about popping their cork.

  Bloody arseholes always assumed women were weak.

  “James.” Leviathan addressed a burly fellow with a scruffy chin and long, straight, sandy-brown hair tied back at his nape with a black ribbon. “Ya won the first hand of cards. Ya get first go of her.”

  James’s wide pale eyes seared into her as he slowly rose from his seat.

  “Take Aldo and Curly with ya,” Leviathan added. “She’ll need a little persuasion to be...compliant.”

  James, a hideous twist on his lips, found humor in his captain’s statement. The others, Aldo, a Spaniard with a mustache too tiny and eyebrows too large for his face, and Curly, a beanrake without a curl of any sort, chuckled.

  “What’s wrong, puss? Afraid my men might hurt ya?” he goaded. “Don’t fret. They will.”

  “Nay, Tolliver,” Joelle said. “Just that it will take more than three lackeys to subdue me.”

  The three lackeys lost their smirks. By the tight grooves in his hardened countenance, it took several long seconds of consideration before Leviathan decided she was being ridiculous.

  She wasn’t.

  “Go on. Put on yer brave face, Jo. But be warned, my men will shred ya.” He picked up his mug and poised it to his mouth for a drink. “Take her to the officers’ quarters, lads, and enjoy yerselves.”

  The loggerheads Aldo and Curly were all too anxious to put their hands on her. Each held an arm.

  “Aye, Capt’n,” James said, barbarity thick in his tone.

  Leviathan swallowed down a large gulp. “Oh, and I’ll expect a report. If she’s worth it, and I’m drunk enough, I might want to fuck her myself.”

  His laughter followed them out into the companionway. It was a tight squeeze in the corridor, with neither Aldo nor Curly relinquishing their hold, shouldering through. She pretended to struggle, to bolster their conceit and her so-called lack of threat.

  “Let ’er go, ya nits,” James popped them both upside their heads. “Fools,” he muttered.

  “’er skin’s so soft,” Curly said.

  “Ain’t never seen a prettier bit o’ skirt,” Aldo added.

  “’er hair’s soft.” Curly grabbed a handful of wayward strands. “Lookit.”

  “Wonder if her mutton’s red too.” Aldo smirked.

  Oh, criminy. She resisted an eye roll.

  James grabbed her chin, hard gray eyes drove into her. “We’ll all find out soon enough.”

  He would be her biggest chal
lenge. James was all brawn.

  They climbed down the ladder into a room supposedly set up like an officers’ cabin. One bunk was built into the wall and two hammocks were strung from the corners by hooks. A small table was nailed shabbily to the floor, snarled nails protruded from the table legs. The table was further secured with ropes from the ceiling. There was not a bloody thing in the room she could use to defend herself with. Nothing but a woven basket full of rumpled clothes and a bucket filled with tarry cordage ready to be picked for oakum. Nothing but the blunderbuss James carried and the laughably small knives strapped to the swabs.

  James unnecessarily shoved Joelle farther into the room. Aldo and Curly followed, idiotic grins and all.

  James cleared the table of the metal plates, empty mugs and a broken pulley. “Ain’t never had a pirate woman before.”

  “Neither have I.” Curly’s chuckle came out more like a giggle.

  Aldo guffawed. “Curly prolly ain’t never had a real woman.”

  “Shouldna talk ’bout Margaret like that.”

  “Hey.” Aldo punched Curly’s arm. “Doncha bring me sister in it.”

  Curly shoved Aldo back. The two locked into each other and scuffled around the room wrestling for purchase and twisting earlobes. There was no way to get past them to make an escape. Not that she wanted to. An escape from the room would only serve to get the whole ship after her, destroying any hope of making it out alive—with the missive.

  “Belay, ya pips.” James separated them. “Argh. Just wait outside.”

  The lads grumbled. Curly smacked Aldo in the arm, Aldo smacked back, each blaming the other for their departure as the door closed behind them.

  There always seemed to be a couple of bumbling idiots on every ship. A dangerous thing when serving under a fierce captain such as Leviathan.