No longer able to bear what he saw in Amy’s eyes, Jake turned away. He’d expected this. Well, sort of. It was actually far worse than he’d imagined. He’d hoped he’d be able to redeem himself. Make amends, somehow. How wrong he had been. He now faced the reality of losing the lass. And it was excruciating.
What the hell had he done? He’d been a damn fool to think she’d ever forgive him, that he might win her over with banal reasoning and consoling words. She was far too passionate. Too forthright. And too damn stubborn.
He’d found more than silks and brandy on that cursed French ship. Imogen had been right. He’d also found a treasure beyond price. One he should have fought to keep. Instead, he’d bartered it away.
“I’m sorry,” he said, daring to face her again. “I am truly sorry, Amy.”
The disdain in her eyes remained. “What was your reasoning for bringing me back here?” she asked. “What do you intend to do with me?”
A tiny spark of hope flared. “I have two options in mind, actually.”
“Which are?”
“One, I arrange to send you back to your mother. Of course, that means you’re still at risk should your father decide to track you down again.”
“And two?”
“You stay here.”
She frowned. “On the ship?”
“No. At Dún Caorthann. I thought we might… that is, if you’re willing, we might—”
“Are you asking me to be your mistress?” She gave a scornful laugh. “You are truly out of your mind. The answer is no. Nothing has changed, you bastard. Hell is still burning hot.”
Jake saw no point telling her the actual truth of it. That he would have married her. That he’d even give up pirating for her. Well, all right, the latter might be somewhat negotiable. But it didn’t matter. She’d already made her answer quite clear, and he didn’t need to hear another scornful response. It was more than he could stand.
“So, I assume option one is your choice,” he said, resignedly. It was not a question. More of a foregone conclusion.
“What do you think? The problem is, it appears your word is worthless, so I don’t trust you anymore.” Her lip curled again. “I’ll likely be exchanged for a few gold pieces and end up a concubine in some Arabian palace.”
Jake felt the blood leave his face as he dragged in another harsh breath. Amy’s contempt for him cut deep, severing any remaining threads of hope. He had no choice but to face the biggest truth of all. He’d gambled with Amy’s trust and respect. And he’d lost them.
“Well, it would seem we are done here,” he said, the meaning of his words encompassing more than the moment. He moved past her and pulled the door open. “I’m afraid you must remain under lock and key till arrangements have been made to have you escorted safely to your mother’s house. I will make those arrangements as soon as we make port and, whether you choose to believe me or not, you have my solemn word that there will be no further deceit on my part.” He tipped his head. “Once again, I deeply regret and apologize for my ill-treatment of you. Rest assured that the remainder of your stay on board the Vagabond Queen will be made as comfortable as possible. It has been a pleasure knowing you, Miss DuBois. Since you’ll not be seeing me again, please allow me to bid you farewell and bon voyage.”
“What? No, wait, Jake…” Hand outstretched, she stepped toward him. “You can’t just—”
Jake closed the door and held fast to the latch as he fumbled with the key and turned the lock. Heart pounding, he rested his forehead against the cool oak and listened to Amy hammering her fist against the door, and her frantic, muffled shouts. The thought of never seeing her again sickened his stomach. The thought of seeing hatred in her eyes again sickened his soul.
God, give me strength.
“Cap’n?”
Jake lifted his head. “Aye?”
“Is everythin’ all right?”
“Everything is fine, sailor.” He gave Fingal a grim smile and moved past him, heading for the deck and some fresh air. “Everything is fine.”
Chapter Ten
They dropped anchor in Roaring Water Bay a little before sunset the next day, the fiery western skies suggesting a fine day for the morrow. Jake scanned the other ships anchored there, seeking one in particular.
“Ye’re not going to take the lass to Paris yerself, then?” Padre asked, packing some tobacco into his pipe.
“No. I’ll ask Cutlass to take her as far as Le Havre and then put her on a Seine barge with one of his crewmen. He knows all the boat-masters. He might even escort her himself. He has a soft spot for Paris.”
“That’s a big ask, Jake. Cutlass’ll not do it for naught. Why do ye not want to take the Queen? We might be able to nab some booty on the way back.”
Jake shook his head. “I want her off this ship whatever it costs. I’ll take care of it personally.” He spotted the Prodigal’s Hope anchored on the west side of the harbor and heaved a quick sigh. “There he is. Are you not going ashore, Padre?”
“Nay, think I’ll stay here, smoke a pipe, and enjoy God’s splendor.” The man pulled a tinder box from his pocket and gazed up at the sky. “Want me to have a word with Him for ye, Jake?”
“Why not?” Jake shrugged. “Can’t do any harm.”
By the time Jake crossed the threshold of The Smuggler’s Lair, night had crept in, as had a terrible sense of finality. A deal with Cutlass had been struck, and arrangements had been made to take Amy to France. For what it would cost him, Jake could purchase an island in the Caribbean, but he didn’t care. He had bartered for Amy’s ransom. Somehow, he hadn’t the heart to barter with anyone for her safety. And he knew she would be safe with Cutlass, who had promised to forego his evening in port and be on the way to France before sunrise.
Jake’s next endeavor that evening was far simpler. He intended to get totally and utterly loaded to the gun-wall. Legless. Bolloxed. Shitfaced. Rip-roaring, out-of-his-mind drunk. He wanted to be numb. To feel nothing. Because, by all the saints of Éire, he’d had enough of the regret that weighed like a cannonball on his chest.
He procured a bottle of whiskey at the bar, sought out a small table tucked into a dismal back corner, and settled in to lick his wounds. After throwing two glasses of the liquor down his throat, he pushed the glass aside and took a long pull directly from the bottle.
“Faith an’ begorrah, mo mhuirnín, what are ye at?”
He set the bottle down and squinted at Kiandra, who sat beside him and placed a hand on his thigh.
“What does it look like?” He raised his empty glass and then took another swig from the bottle. “I’m drinking.”
“Aye, I can see that.” She smiled, moved her hand higher, and gave him a squeeze. “But why all by yerself?”
“I’m not very good company right now.” He frowned at the bottle, wondering why its contents had not yet started to deaden his feelings.
“A bad day at sea?”
“You could say that, aye.”
Kiandra sidled closer. “Is the sasanach gone?”
Bile rose to the back of his throat. “She will be by morning,” he said, and moved Kiandra’s hand from his groin. “Not now, lass.”
“Oh, come now, Jake.” She squeezed her fingers under his belt. “Ye know fine well I can fix whatever’s ailin’ ye.”
Maybe she could at that. Jake relented and sat back, giving the lass better access to his cock. Kiandra’s hand burrowed into his breeches and found its objective.
“Ye’re so big,” she murmured, wrapping her fingers around him as she leaned in to press a kiss to his jaw. “There ye go. That’s better.”
Jake closed his eyes, tipped his head back, and tried to focus on Kiandra’s manipulations. His cock stiffened slightly; a dispassionate response. Obligatory rather than enthusiastic.
“No,” he said, his voice raspy. He pulled her hand free and sat forward. “Sorry, lass. I can’t. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not in the mood.”
Kiandra h
uffed and stood up. “It’s that bloody sasanach witch,” she said. “She’s put a spell on ye for sure.”
Jake grunted and took another swig, gratified to feel the telltale buzz of intoxication at last. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe she has.” Setting the bottle down, he looked over to where Kiandra had stood and realized he was talking to himself.
“Shite.” He rested his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “I should have listened to you, Móraí, fool that I am.”
The edges of his vision blurred a little. “A fool,” he murmured. “A bloody fool.”
As his thoughts drifted into an intoxicated fog, Jake’s surroundings retreated into the background. He remained vaguely aware of the noise and movement around him but, lost in his misery, he paid it little heed. Then he heard a shout, and another, louder yet, followed by a growing chorus of angry voices.
“Must you do that?” he mumbled, lifting his head and frowning into the crowd. The room seemed to tilt, and he closed his eyes as a large shape came hurtling toward him. “What the…? Oof!”
The impact knocked him off his chair, and whatever had hit him landed atop him, pinning him to the floor. A man, he realized, and one that apparently hadn’t bathed in a good while.
“You filthy fecker,” he said, nostrils flaring as he tried to disentangle himself. “Christ have mercy. Did someone dig you up?”
The shouting grew ever louder, accompanied now by the sounds of breaking glass and furniture. Familiar sounds. A wild commotion that could only mean one thing.
A fist-fight!
Jake felt a welcome tingle of excitement. This was it. This was what he needed! To beat the living shite out of someone. Energized, he managed to shove his smelly, dazed companion aside and staggered to his feet, swaying as he raised his fists. “Right. I’m in. Who’s next?”
Not quite able to focus, Jake took a wild swing at the closest face he could see. By luck more than design, his fist landed square on the man’s nose. Bone crunched beneath his knuckles, and the man’s head snapped back as he let out a furious roar. Jake’s subsequent victory grin was short-lived. Unable to react in time, he could only watch as a large retaliatory fist came flying back at him. The uppercut ploughed into his jaw, rattling his skull and knocking him clean off his feet. A shower of stars, like bright spatters of blood, exploded in his head, and he thought he heard a ship’s bell.
Shite, he thought, and slid into blackness.
* * *
Jake tore his tongue from the roof of his mouth and squinted into sunlight. Blinking to focus his eyes, he swallowed and attempted to lift his head, wincing at the pain in his jaw. The entire room seem to tilt, and Jake fought a damnable urge to be sick. He recognized the familiar surroundings of his cabin, however, but couldn’t seem to bring anything else to mind. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
Nauseated, Jake turned his head into the pillow, only to be greeted by Amy’s scent, a cruel reminder of where she had slept. It gave him a sudden, heart-wrenching shock; invisible salt in an emotional wound.
“Mo ghrá,” he whispered. It was a belated declaration of love, an admission made too late. Breathing through his nose, Jake filled his lungs, trying to absorb what little remained of Amy’s presence in his life. Her subtle essence tortured and soothed him at the same time.
It all came back. The previous day’s madness. The failed drowning of sorrows. Kiandra. The drunken fight in the bar. He wondered at the hour, not that it really mattered. The sun was up and looked as though it had been for a while. Which meant Amy was long gone.
Someone, obviously, had brought him back to the Queen the previous night. He had no recollection of making any such journey himself. In fact, he had no recollection of anything after the fight. Of that, he only remembered the fist coming at him like a cannon ball.
He rolled onto his back, waggled his jaw, and probed the bone with his fingertips. Bruised, but not broken. There were other reminders, too, of Jake’s over-indulgence. His head pounded like a smith’s hammer on an anvil, and his tongue felt like it had licked a latrine wall. He needed a drink, purely to quench his thirst. With a weary groan, he heaved himself out of his bunk, legs trembling as they straightened.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and waited for the walls to stop moving before he staggered over to his table and poured a cup of water. He drank that, plus two more, and the relentless pounding in his head dulled to a low ache.
Still feeling like he’d been keel-hauled, he tore off his shirt, tossed it aside, and went to his washbowl. The cold water felt good on his skin, rinsing the sleep from his eyes and the stale sweat from his brow. Breathing hard, he leaned over the bowl and watched the drips fall from his hair and beard.
He wished he didn’t care. Wished he didn’t feel what he felt. Padre was right. Women did the Devil’s work. “Damn you,” he whispered.
The door opened, creaking as it swung wide.
“It’s customary to knock,” he growled, reaching for a towel. He pressed it to his face and neck, drying himself as he turned. “This had better be import—”
Of all the people in the world who might have been standing before him, Amy DuBois would have been his last guess. Yet, there she was, pale-faced and wide eyed, staring at him, her hair braided and hanging over one shoulder.
Mute with shock, Jake could only stare back, hardly daring to move in case she disappeared. For surely, this had to be a dream. The fabrication of an intoxicated mind, not yet awake.
“I’m sorry, Captain,” she said, fidgeting with her skirts. “Actually, I did knock, but you…you must not have heard me. Are you quite well? You were rather, um, inebriated last night. I wanted to speak with you, but I can come back later, if now is not a good time.”
Jake dared to blink and, to his great relief, Amy remained where she was. He released the breath that had been locked in his lungs.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, his voice grating. “Why aren’t you on your way to Paris? Did Cutlass not come for you?”
“He did, yes.” She chewed on her lip. “But I… I sent him away.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t go to Paris.”
“Why?”
“Because…”
He waited a moment. “Because?”
“I… I found out my mother doesn’t want me.”
Jake felt, at once, both elated and frustrated. He could still hardly grasp that the lass was back in his cabin, that she’d never left. But he had yet to find out the truth of it. Especially after all she’d said the previous evening. With that in mind, Jake pondered how best to respond without risking another volley of female cannon-fire.
He grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “I wonder, Amy, if you and I might, just once, have an entirely truthful conversation.”
“That is also my wish,” she replied. “Actually, I thought my father might have informed you of it when my ransom was being discussed. But I realized he hadn’t when… when you gave me the two options yesterday.”
“Informed me of what?”
“Well, first of all, I didn’t run away with my mother. I ran to my mother. She’s lived in France for the past fourteen years. I… I don’t really know why I lied about that.” She grimaced. “Maybe because I didn’t want to hear you tell me how stupid I was for travelling all that way by myself.”
Jake frowned and put his hands on his hips. “You travelled to France by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“That was very stupid, Amy.”
She gave him a reproachful glare. “This isn’t funny, Captain.”
“I agree. It isn’t funny at all. Carry on.”
“Well, it seems my mother was the one who betrayed me.” Tears filled her eyes. “Apparently, she sent my father a letter soon after I got there, telling him to come and fetch me. So, you see, I… I can’t go back to her. She doesn’t want me.”
Jake groaned. “God’s teeth, lass. Why the hell didn’t you tell m
e this yesterday?”
“I really don’t know.” Her tears overflowed. “It’s… it’s not easy admitting that the person who gave birth to you doesn’t really want you. And finding out you’d lied to me, too… I have to tell you, Jake, that was a tremendous shock. It seems everyone I care about has deceived me. It was all too much, I suppose. Still is, actually.”
Jake wanted to hold her, comfort her. Tell her that he loved her so much it hurt. But it occurred to him that she was not here by choice, but by circumstance. Like a ship adrift at sea, Amy was in need of a safe harbor. Despite her misconception of his offer, would she now seek refuge with him simply because she had nowhere else to go? He wanted her, but he really wanted her to come to him free from obligation or necessity. Before declaring what lay in his heart, Jake needed to know what lay in hers.
“I am deeply sorry, Amy,” he said. “I regret what I did.”
“No, it’s all right. As it turns out, if you had sent me back to my mother, I’ve have been rejected anyway. I’m truly sorry, too, for all the things I said yesterday. You were right. I was very fortunate that you came along when you did.” She swiped the tears from her cheeks. “Um, given my unfortunate circumstances, though, there is something I must ask of you.”
Jake steeled himself. “Which is?”
She drew a breath. “I wondered if you might arrange to have me escorted back to Pendleton Manor.”
Another unexpected uppercut to his jaw. At least, that’s what Amy’s ludicrous announcement felt like, although Jake managed to remain standing this time. “What? You want to return to your father?”
She gave a wobbly smile. “No, not really, but I no longer have a choice.”
Jake scratched his head. “Er, yes, you do, if you recall. I gave you a choice.”
“I know, and I’m very grateful, but I… I have to refuse. I’m sorry.”
“Why?” He swallowed. “Being with me doesn’t appeal to you?”
She cringed. “Not like that, no.”
“Not like what?”
“Um, as your mistress. I wouldn’t feel right about it.” A flush of color arose in her cheeks. “I’m flattered that you think me worthy of your attention, Jake, and I also understand why you see me the way you do. I undoubtedly gave you the wrong impression when you walked in on me that day. I should never have exposed my… myself to you like that, but I was both angry and frightened and wasn’t thinking straight. I’ve always been impetuous, I’m afraid, but you should know that much of it is bravado. Truth is, I’ll never be anyone’s mistress. Being the daughter of one has been difficult enough. Please understand.”
Stolen by Starlight: A Pirates of Britannia World Novel Page 9
