“A Hollywood pirate.” Emily smiled. That seemed appropriate, here at the Northern California Pirate Festival. Older than most buccaneers, she found him interesting. Leaning against a railing with one leg raised, he reminded her of the Captain Morgan rum advertisement. His legs were encased in dark breeches and sported gleaming, black boots with the cuff rolled down at the knee. A good-sized sword fell at his side, and two pistols were tucked securely into a sash across his chest. Typical swashbuckler, though, definitely longer in the tooth than most movie rogues.
She stroked a finger over the weathered skin and creases at his temple. His hair flew free, fading blond to silver against a blue-tinged sky. There was no clear view of his eyes, but she bet they were sharp and full of experience. A shiver traveled up her spine at the thought. Probably extremely experienced.
She turned the frame over to examine the intricate pattern she’d felt there. It was fascinating, a bright white, like bleached bone. Carved or molded, she wasn’t sure which, into a nest of tentacles. After a moment, she figured it out. A great ocean monster wrapped about the frame. On the front, suckers lined the circlet. The backside was bumpy, an odd combination of actual sea creatures, combining slick and smooth with texture. Touching it reminded her of stroking a starfish at the aquarium.
Long tentacles wound down the handle, ending in a loop where a leather strip would easily attach. She turned the dainty once more to notice that at the top were two shiny, black eyes, with a knob between them she assumed was a forehead of sorts.
With a grin, she stroked the head. “You’re a Kraken, aren’t you? Caught a pirate in your maw, you clever thing!”
She dug into her leather sack for a slender strap. Usually, she carried a few—never knew when she might find something to use one on. She secured the frame to her belt, quite pleased at her little five-dollar trinket.
Wandering the fair, her hand continually dropped to fondle her pet Kraken, It was so strange to be here by herself. Last year, Tom was here with her. Laughing, holding her hand, examining the wares, trying to figure out how things were made. Since he was an engineer, such things interested him. Her husband squatted and conversed with the tradesmen, asking questions and taking notes, always intending to undertake these projects. She remembered how he’d planned to carve a chair, assemble a faux cannon, and stitch a leather pouch. They had all the time in the world. Except they didn’t. Damn, she missed him.
This weekend she paid tribute to her late husband and how much they’d loved attending events such as this one. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be up for another, now that he was gone. She’d raise a glass to his memory. He’d been gone eleven months. A stupid accident, a drunk driver, and her world turned into a lonely place. It took him, the dog and the cat. He’d made a trip to the kennel after a cruise vacation and been nearly home. She’d heard the crash, the sirens racing down the road....
The trucking company settled a small fortune on her, since the driver lived long enough to reveal the company knew he was a drunk when they put him on the road.
She’d received the settlement check a week ago. Not that it made up for anything.
A man nudged her. “You done looking at the books, ma’am?”
Ma’am. She was now a ma’am. Growing old was the pits.
“Yeah, sorry.” She moved back, without buying anything. Brought a ton of money and found nothing she wanted to spend it on. Maybe she’d go look at the long, leather bodices.
The merry chatter of the crowd surrounded her as she wandered. The squawk of three parrots riding the perches fastened to a handcart made her smile. She’d seen that show—they were amazing birds. And the old salt who trained them did a great job at engaging the audience. Even now a trail of youngsters followed along, eyes on the bright plumage. She bet they thought to snag a feather.
That would be a tricky thing to accomplish, seeing those bills and the sharp eyes of the birds. As if they knew what was going on around them.
Maybe they did. She was a believing sort of woman, well aware there was more to the world than she would ever understand.
She dodged the Scottish pirate on stilts, his furred legs going all the way to the teeny, tiny shoes he balanced on. This time she kept her head down, not wanting to stir the stiltwalker’s ire. She’d giggled at his legs the first time she’d passed him, and he’d stalked after her, asking her, “What was so funny?” A good bit of show, but she wasn’t one for drawing that sort of attention to herself. He did an excellent job, staying in fierce character on his ridiculous stilts, wearing his kilt and all.
When she reached the booth she sought, none of the fancy bodices appealed to her. Maybe she was getting too old to imagine herself wearing copious amounts of leather? She didn’t even try one of them on. It was hard to get one of the young salesclerks to meet her eyes, let alone answer questions about size. She wasn’t young, tall or slender—hence she didn’t count. The festival was proving a depressing situation. True, the young and perfectly thin salesclerks always ignored her, but today it compounded her blues.
She promised herself to stay for the concert, due to start in several hours. Shifting her small, black backpack to one shoulder, she wandered over to the bone pin stand. At least no one thought it odd if she covered her bag with witty sayings. Oh, she liked this one. Don’t Worry, It’s Not My Blood.
Good one.
What the hell—she liked her plain leather bodice, and it went well with the dark blue, checked shirt, black breeches and Teva sandals. At fifty-three years of age, she was invisible to most of the young people working the booths. Someone ought to clue them in on whose wallets were fat and whose were thin.
Sigh.
It was time to eat and drink. She reached down to touch her new frame and held it up to once more admire the pirate’s picture. There was something compelling about….
“Fuck!”
A mother with two kids in tow glared at her for cursing.
She ignored the outrage. The photo was gone! She’d been right initially; a mirror reflected her face back at her. She saw no signs of glue. She’d assumed it was secured, but it wasn’t. She scanned the ground at her feet. Her heart beating with disappointment, she retraced her steps from the last few hours, scanning the ground as she went, but finding nothing.
By the time she gave up, she was thoroughly hungry. And angry. The photo was gone. She knew it was stupid to be disappointed about losing a picture. Now she owned a lovely mirror. Still, a sense of loss ate at her. She needed chocolate. And liquor. Maybe something salty and greasy.
She bought a passable rum punch—not great, but acceptable. Years spent as a bartender developed her drink palate to a particular degree. She purchased a plate that included a corndog and a handful of fries. Ice cream would be next…and maybe another punch.
Sitting at a table, she ate, one eye on the mirror set in front of her. It upset her to lose the image. Losing it shouldn’t bother her so much. It was just a picture. A nice souvenir should be enough.
This trip wasn’t working out at all as she’d hoped. Coming to the pirate fair alone probably hadn’t been a good idea. But it was the first stop on the way to her new life. House sold, possessions stored, new mini RV parked in the overnight lot, waiting for her next adventure. Once the event was over, she’d head for the open road.
She pulled out her cell phone to check the time and looked at the posted schedule for the concert stage. Two more hours, and she’d already seen everything that interested her: the merchants, the small shows, the food booths. But she wanted to hear the Sea Dogs. She and Tom once joined in a small pirate cruise out of Sausalito, and the same group entertained them for several hours. It was a good memory. Resigned to amusing herself, since her appetite for shopping never materialized, she pulled out her new book.
The romance novel she’d begun the night before simply didn’t hold her attention—another young, thin virgin trying to escape her fate. She was tired of the same plot and wanted something different. Closing
the book, she left the table and stood in line for another snack.
She strolled over to the harbor walk and settled down behind a wall of hay bales to enjoy her ice cream and punch, finding some protection from the breeze blowing off the water. San Francisco wasn’t the tropics, no matter how the festival liked to portray itself.
The ice cream tasted good, a rich mix of chocolate and peanut butter. The butterfat coated her tongue. Next, she pulled out a small bottle of rum she’d smuggled into the fair and spiced up the beverage. She crossed her legs, dug into her backpack, found a small booklet she’d picked up on women pirates and settled down to read, sipping her improved drink.
Falling asleep wasn’t part of the plan. Between the rum and the long drive to San Francisco the day before, exhaustion overcame her. The few drops left from her cup spilled onto her new mirror, still secured to her belt. She’d clean it up later, she sleepily thought. Was that a bit of fog creeping in? Pulling her skirt down to cover her legs, she let the drowsiness win.
She crossed over between one breath and the next.
***
One last thrust brought him some satisfaction. He collapsed, gasping, on the soft, white breasts of the working girl.
“You feeling better, Captain?” she giggled.
He hated women who stifled their laughter and seemed to consider a high-pitched titter an appropriate response. He patted her shoulder, deciding not to attempt conversation with her. She’d served her purpose. Her services took the edge off his hunger, though not by much. He rolled off her and tossed her a small bag of coins, dismissing her. His eyes drooped and sleep beckoned.
But the moment his eyes closed, the stranger’s visage glowed on his eyelids. There she was again, still lodged in his brain. The same place she’d been for the last eight hours—ever since he woke up that morning. Her face—eyes bright, though weary—hinting at some loss. Nice shade of brown, like her short hair. Shorter than he’d ever seen most women wear their hair. Hell, most men for that! A wild mix of brown and grays. She wouldn’t giggle.
He liked her lips. Hell, he loved them. The thought of that soft mouth against his set him on fire. A slight tilt at the left side betrayed some humor. He wondered what she sounded like when she laughed.
When he opened his eyes, his cock swelled once more. It was no use. Sleep wasn’t on his agenda, and the whore was gone, happy with her payment. He slid a hand down and stroked his prick. Damn, who was she, and how the hell was he going to get her out of his head?
CHAPTER 2
Emily started when someone ran into her leg. The sound of a dropped bottle brought out the scold in her. Great, some drunk kicking her…awake. She’d fallen asleep?
“What?” A man’s shadow loomed above her.
“Do you mind?” Emily rolled her eyes and rubbed at her calf.
He squatted, sweeping a large hat aside to study her. She met his eyes and glanced at the container rolling away from her thigh. She reached for it. “Yours, I assume?”
“Yes, thank you.” He took it from her, shook it, and tossed it aside. “Empty, anyway.”
“Don’t leave it, you twit! Haven’t you ever heard of recycling?” She struggled to her feet, taking his offered hand. He was a gentleman, at least, and took her weight without complaint. She could appreciate that, even if he didn’t seem to care about the environment. She stalked to where the bottle now rested against a wooden wall. Picking it up, she looked around for a trashcan, preferably one that separated recyclable materials.
He stood next to her. “Pardon me, Lady. What are you looking for?”
“A trashcan,” she replied. Gazing about, she whistled. “They did a nice job over here. I didn’t notice when I sat to…uh…relax. What time is it? I didn’t miss the band, did I?”
“Your pardon, the band? What band?”
“The musicians! For the stage? Damn, I don’t believe I fell asleep. Shit.” She shook her head, tucked the empty bottle under her arm, and bent to collect her bag.
“Musicians? You’re looking for musicians! I can help you with that. Here, let me have the bottle, since it’s valuable to you. I’ll take it back to Sam—he can reuse it if he wants.” He held out his arm. “Allow me to escort you. The best music is found at the Barmy Cock. I am Captain Michael March, at your service. I do hope you are uninjured.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” She shivered. “I should have known it would get chilly once the sun set.”
“Please!” He gallantly slid out of a soft captain’s coat and placed it over her shoulders. She was dealing with a real player who took the role of gallant seriously. With a grin, Emily kept in character. “Call me Lady Pawes, Captain March.”
“Oh, Michael, please. Or even Mick. Lady Pawes? You like to take your time?” He smiled at her. They were close to the same height. He had her beat, but not by much. The faint light gave the impression of black hair, long and held back in a ponytail. A short beard and stylish mustache completed his pirate persona. He set his hat back atop his head before offering her his arm.
“Oh, no, not that sort of pause.” She halted abruptly when they turned onto a street. A real street—not the grassy lanes she’d traveled earlier that day. “They transform the fair for the evening?”
He tilted his head at her with the question. “I’m not certain what you’re asking.”
She wasn’t supposed to notice changes to the grounds? She sighed, probably not. If she was going to participate, she needed to just accept that these pirates took their roles quite seriously. He led her to a lit doorway—a riotous sound spilled out to greet them.
“But here we are! This is the Barmy Cock. The crew is meeting me here later, but please be my guest until they join us.” He led her through a ragged set of doors into an actual room, not a temporary fabric booth. They brought their own tavern! What a grand bit of theatrics. A long bar took up one side, and Emily was tickled to see the number of bottles and brands on display. Her type of tavern!
Three hours later, she found herself standing behind that lovely length of wood, next to a giant of a man. Sammy worked serving drinks, but once she’d advised him on how to mix what she liked to call a rum sunset—since it ran counter to a tequila sunrise—he invited her to join him.
Mick’s crew joined the growing crowd. Emily felt right at home as Sam handed her the bottles she couldn’t reach, and she mixed, blended, laughed and totally reveled in playing pirate bartender. Somehow, the reality of Mick’s officers consisting of only women didn’t surprise her. She didn’t blink to discover that he was a captain, but not the captain of this particular band of sailors. He was the type to let a woman make assumptions regarding his importance.
Mick’s motley group gathered at one side of the bar, attempting to convince her to drink with them. When the band started playing, Sam lifted her over the bar and insisted she join the rest in enjoying the music. “None are gonna want anything fancy while there’s dancing. Go, enjoy the music!”
But dancing was thirsty work, and by the time the band played their closing number, Emily was thoroughly soused. She bent down to pick up her pack and fell. Sliding over to rest her head on the legs of a barstool, she decided to sleep. Screw it—she’d stay until morning.
She vaguely heard the argument going on above her. Sweet that they were concerned about her. The trip out to their ship telescoped to nothing more than being helped to a hammock.
CHAPTER 3
After waking from a troubled sleep the next morning, he walked deep into town. The unknown woman haunted his night. His time on the island was limited by his curse, but he enjoyed walking on solid ground, no matter the duration. The residents greeted him cordially enough, but he knew that warmth would turn to chill if he overstayed his welcome. By noon, thirst drove him into a tavern he seldom visited. The Barmy Cock was too bright and cheerful for him normally, though he always made sure a bottle of rum from an exotic port arrived for their shelves after every voyage. A sort of toll, since Sam ran the bartender’s union.
The residents, the tavern keepers, the whores and shopkeepers all knew him. He was a famous man. “Hey, Captain Alan, come try the new drink!” Sam beckoned him to the bar and held out a tall glass filled with a dark-orange tinted fluid.
He scowled at it before he took it and held it up to the light. “Seems a bit…colorful.”
“Aye, but she knew how to use the rum you sent last visit. She called it a rum sunset, and it’s tasty.” Sam beamed at him.
With a grimace, the captain took a sip. Another. He tilted his head at it, trying to figure out what he tasted.
“Good, ain’t it?” Sam snickered. “A bunch of the boys tried fancy drinks the entire evening.”
“You hire a new bartender?” He held out the glass. “Another.”
“No, she came in with Mick and got a little bossy. I thought to quiet her up, put her behind the bar….”
“Put Sam to shame, she did.” Sally, Sam’s wife, slid up next to him. “Short thing, but feisty. Held her own with them.”
“Did Captain Jezebel see her with Mick? If she did, that’s the last of the wench. The woman does not tolerate doxies. Pity—this is good.”
“He introduced her to the whole gang. Tink took a real liking to her. When Mick’s captain gave her the eye, the new woman literally laughed at the idea of dallying with Mick. Jezebel let her be, once that were clear.” Sam took the empty away and brought out a plain bottle with a shot glass.
He smiled to himself. Yes, they knew him well. “I didn’t see the Cursed Quill this morning. They leave last night?”
“You know Jezzie. She’s not going to take a chance on Mick doing something stupid and risk your curse striking. She likely saw the Immortal and left early. I think they took Pawes with them,” Sally said.
“New crew member? Pawes?”
Spice Box; Sixteen Steamy Stories Page 172
