A Pirate's Conquest

by Vivienne Cox

  He lay quite still, enjoying the lazy luxury, until he realised that the world was moving around him, so he was on a ship of some kind, and that the figure nestled so closely up to him was without doubt a man. He frowned, but memory was elusive. Port Wiley. He’d been in Port Wiley, yes that was it. Looking for Alexander Cruise…

  His eyes blinked open as the floodgates of memory parted to let a hundred images into his mind. O’Connell laughing, the boy risking all to help, the moment he had seen Alexander Cruise standing in that ruin of a church. Capture, escape. The cycle repeated. And finally the long night on the beach, and the fever overwhelming him as he was brought on board Alexander’s precious Siren .

  He shivered, and the slight movement awoke the man next to him.

  “James?”

  Alexander Cruise. Holding him. A thousand complex emotions collided, resolving into a low groan as he tried to move. The arms slipped from around him, and the bed creaked as his companion sat up.

  “Jamie!”

  There was such alarm in the one word, that Thomas could have laughed. Awkwardly, and not without a low gasp, he shifted onto his back. The dark eyes of his fever-dream were narrowed in consternation. Thomas wanted to sooth the frown away, but his arm was too heavy to lift. Instead he smiled. “Hello, Alexander.”

  A hand touched his forehead. It felt warm against his skin. “The fever’s gone.”

  “I remember you talking to me.” Blinking slowly, Thomas finally found the strength and lifted a hand. Alexander took it in his own, one thumb rubbing slowly back and forth.

  “How d’ye feel?”

  “Fine. Sleepy.” Bone weary, the thought of moving was quite unnerving.

  “Drink something, then sleep for another hour or so.” Gracefully, perfectly at ease with his nakedness, Alexander stepped onto the floor and went to Thomas’s side of the bed. “Come, it’s just water.”

  Blissful, glorious, water. It stirred another memory. “You drowned me!”

  “What? Oh, no. You remember that? We were tryin’ to get the fever down.”

  “I thought you were a merman.” He sighed as Alexander helped him sit, holding the cup so he could drink.

  “A merman?” The cup waited until he was ready, then tilted once more to his lips. “I hope I was a good one.”

  “Lovely.” Alexander was grinning down at him, and he almost laughed, though it translated as a slight twist of his lips.

  Sipping slowly, he looked around. The cabin was quite large, with a tall window that was letting in the first glimmers of early morning light. Through the shadows he could make out that he was lying in a proper bed: wide, with curtains all about, linen sheets, blankets and a thick eiderdown folded at its foot. All of it undoubtedly pilfered. The bed was perhaps Spanish, the carving being ornate enough. Solid and probably nailed to the deck, it was a great luxury. But he supposed being a pirate was all about the search for the rich and the luxurious in life. The cabin was as large as his own on the far bigger Intrepid , and everything in it was of finest quality. Chests, boxes, bed itself, all fit for a prince – or a pirate.

  It was strange to think he was on a pirate ship. Though for some reason it was less strange to think of himself in a pirate’s bed. Alexander took the cup from his hands and Thomas settled back onto the pillows, smiling as he closed his eyes.

  Sleep wound around him, curled tight for a while, then slowly unfurled. He awoke again, less bleary, with Alexander lying still at his side. It was as if no time had passed at all, yet the light was different and he must have slept again for hours. He stirred and Alexander was sitting up at once, looking down at him through a tangle of dark hair.

  “Awake?”

  Thomas nodded.

  “Water?”

  All Thomas had to do was smile, and Alexander had slipped an arm under his shoulders, easing him up, a cup held for him. Thomas drank eagerly, then lay back, panting slightly.

  His back resting against the headboard, Alexander cradled the cup in his hands. Thomas thought he looked tired. “So, after frightening me half to death, how are ye?”

  A good question, one he didn’t care to address too closely. “I just… ache.” “After three days of fever, that’s no surprise.”

  Three days? Thomas let out a long breath. “You cared for me.” It wasn’t a question. Or even thanks, though that was how he meant it.

  Nodding, Alexander placed the cup at the side of the bed and twisting, leant over him. He gently touched one of Thomas’s hands. “Your wrists were rotten with infection. We’ll need to keep an eye on them.”

  Lifting his hands, flexing them, Thomas felt their weakness, the pain that seemed to come from deep in the bones. They’d been bad enough before the last session in the ropes, but now? He winced as he looked at their ugliness. So many scars. He laughed softly, humour a distant thought. “This is all for hubris. I used to congratulate myself on never having taken a wound.”

  “Well, you’ve enough now.”

  “Yes.” Thomas nodded his agreement. Enough.

  “A couple of tattoos and you’ll be as beautiful as me!”

  Sharply glancing up, he registered for the first time the marks on Alexander’s body. As the room grew light with morning, he could see the details of scarring as well as the dark patterning of tattoos. “Let me see?”

  Obligingly, Alexander peeled back the covers and sat up, folding his legs neatly under him, quite happily naked for James’ inspection.

  A life was there on his skin, painted in blue and welted in pain. With careful fingers Thomas touched the mass of scarring on one arm, then traced slowly up to the ship that sailed on the smooth chest, her sails shimmering as if in a fine wind as Alexander took breath. Over, he lingered on what could only be bullet scars, ones so deep it seemed scarcely possible a man could live to survive them. There were no marks around the strong, fine neck to tell of a recent dice with death at a rope’s end, which lifted his heart. He touched a braid, then let his arm fall to where a hand rested lightly on a knee. There were fresh burns on his skin there, and more on his wrist, though the brand was still clear through it all. A brand that, until the day Alexander died, would proclaim him pirate .

  “You were hurt in the fire?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Enough. Thank you.”

  Alexander shrugged, dismissingly. “Flame’s a tricky thing, the marks are nothing, a few blisters is all.”

  Thomas hesitated. “I like the tattoos.” He stroked the bird that flew daintily over a skin-born ocean, then looked up. Alexander was staring at him, intense and hot. Not meaning to tease, Thomas let his hand fall away. These were things to be remembered, for when he felt whole again. “Do you carry your whole life on your body?”

  “Aye, I seem to.” Alexander gave a single, sharp shiver, then he smiled and, with a jangle of coins and beads, peered down at himself.

  “Tell me about them?”

  “This is the Siren .” He touched his chest, stroking the galleon inked on his skin. “So she’ll always be with me, you understand. This is my Cruise.” His hand brushed his forearm. “So I’ll never forget who I am, no matter how much rum I drink.” He twisted, showing the back of his shoulder. “This ‘ere’s a Chinese word, amazing how they write, eh? It means freedom – or so they told me, though for all I know it could mean anything. I was in Macao – dangerous place that, full of magicians – well there I was ‘appy as a lark, just about to find meself a pipe of opium and there, this sweetest girl comes up to me and asks…”

  But the words faded, no matter how much Thomas wanted to hear the story, his eyelids were too heavy. He relaxed back into the pillows, blissfully closing his eyes, listening to the voice if not the words, hearing only comfort as he slid gently from awake to asleep.

  ::::

  Chapter 15

  The smell made his belly rumble. It was either the noise of that, or the noise of Alexander laughing, that woke him. Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was a tray piled high with food
.

  “I let you sleep through breakfast, this is dinner.” Alexander was there, dressed in breeches and shirt and sash, standing by the bed looking very pleased with himself.

  God, he was hungry. Pushing up into the headboard, he also realised something else. “Alexander, I need to piss.”

  “There’s a chamber-pot under the bed.” Alexander walked around and, pulling it into the open, held it in his hand, frowning. “Though I think you’ll have to sit up.” He thought about it. “Though standing might be better.”

  “Standing,” Thomas stated firmly.

  “Right.” Setting the pot on a low wooden chest, he came back to the bed. “Need a hand?”

  “Please.”

  Sitting was easy, getting his legs out of the sheets no problem. Standing seemed a little more difficult, but Alexander balanced him, held his arm until he was firm on his feet. “I feel weak as a newborn foal.”

  “Less messy.” Alexander made a face. “Come on.”

  Three steps to the pot and the relief was bliss. His piss was dark amber, feathered with traces of dark red.

  “Better than it was – you were pissing almost entirely blood a few days ago.”

  “Oh.” Thomas let himself finish then shook the last drops away. “How long have I been sick?”

  “This is the fifth day, for three of them you were out of your mind.”

  “Oh.” Time had slipped away again. Though this time at least he had the fever to blame. And he had been cared for. Cared for with great skill. “I thank you.”

  The dark brows lifted expressively. “What was I going to do, let you burn up, wither away into a corpse? No, Jamie, not after all the trouble I went to finding ye. See?”

  Thomas thought he saw. Maybe. Turning slowly he closed the space between them. “So I’m your investment?”

  “You might say that. And one I intends on lookin’ after.” Alexander kissed him lightly on the cheek. “So come and eat up your stew.”

  Stew. That was the smell. His belly rumbled again. “I’m hungry.”

  “You sound like it’s a surprise! Well, all we’ve managed to get down you for days is water and a little broth so no wonder.”

  “Was I a terrible patient?”

  “Bloody awful. Though according to Stubbs, I’m worse.”

  “Imagine that.” He smiled innocently, then cautiously went back to sit on the bed, supported by the pillows. The food was enough for a king. Or a Admiral and a pirate. Balancing the bowl cupped in his sheet-covered lap he lifted the spoon, holding it in fingers that felt as if they’d been stuffed with straw and ate, slowly, doggedly. It was good. Fish with vegetables and a lightly spicy seasoning. He ate more than half before admitting defeat.

  His own bowl done, Alexander looked up. “You finished?” At the nod of agreement he took the half empty bowl and put it with his own, back on the tray. “Fruit?”

  “No thanks.” He was tired again, and while Alexander sat and skilfully ate a mango, sucking the pulp from a slit in the skin, he let himself drift.

  It was night when he stirred again, climbing out of a sleep tormented by darkness. Alexander was in bed, warm down his side, and that was reassurance. After a while, he felt steady enough to climb from the bed, and this time he managed to use the piss-pot all on his own. Someone had left a bowl of fruit beside the bed, and standing, staring out to the night-hued sea, he ate a persimmon. Exhaustion was still there, dragging at his thoughts and limbs, but it was not the appalling weakness of before. He was healing. Flexing his shoulders, he felt the drag of scar-tissue on his back. It had been shaming, being whipped like a dog. Whipped and derided for his inability to hide the pain. O’Connell had enjoyed himself far too much. Thomas shivered, and wondered if he was dead, if the pirate had burned in the conflagration Alexander had conjured in the old house. He hoped so. His dreams were too full of pain, and the memory of eyes that relished every moment of it, for him to wish anything else. He would heal, mind and body, in time. His body would always bear scars, but the bruising would fade, and the nightmares would hopefully leave him be. In time. Maybe he’d even regain all the strength in his wrists.

  Turning from the window, he went back to the bed, standing there for a moment. Alexander had removed the scarf from about his head, along with the whale bone, and his dark, ragged hair was spread on the pillow about his face. Thomas stared his fill, wanting more light but content with the shadows that set the high cheekbones into such stark relief. A merman in his bed. No fins or tail, but enough mystery to salt all the oceans.

  Slipping back into the warmth, he shivered as a wiry arm curled about him and a soft snore sounded against his ear. He lay still for a long time, listening to the deep breathing, content to be alive. To be here. Now. The past was something he didn’t want to recall, and the future? It hurt to even consider it. What he wanted, really wanted after a lifetime of doing and being what he believed others wanted him to be, was here. With this man.

  And what insanity was that?

  His own. Pirate borne.

  The thought was strange, but of a certain sweetness, and he was smiling as he finally drifted away into sleep.

  ::::

  Chapter 16

  He was alone the next day. A boy brought him food and emptied the pot and the close-stool – an on-board luxury Thomas had been most grateful for. He only smiled when asked questions, and after a while Thomas stopped bothering him at all. Besides, he hadn’t the energy, it was far easier to sleep, or simply to lie still, rocked by the Siren , listening to the crew going about their business, waiting for the moments Alexander found to come and visit. He never stayed long, but he was there, often, with a tale or some sweetmeat, or simply with a smile or a touch. Once Thomas awoke to find a dish of mango at his side, the fruit neatly sliced, spread into a fan on the blue and white china. He ate it slice by slice, the coolness of it as good as the sweetness.

  In the afternoon, after a meal of bread and cheese, he sat up in bed and examined himself. The bruises were all royally purple bleeding into yellow and green, but mending well enough. The burns on his chest and stomach were all healing, slick under the salve that Alexander insisted on spreading so liberally. Everything would take time, the cuts and gouges, the muscle damage to his flayed back and torn shoulders, the deep scoring around his wrists that ached so under their bandages. He could flex his hands, though the fingers were stiff, as were his shoulders – hanging for so long had torn something deep, and from his shoulders to his finger tips he felt as if none of his body quite fitted any more. He could only trust that time would heal all that too. The weakness was trying. He had strength enough to stand, but little else.

  Sleeping was far easier, and feeling worn, he gave in again and again, curling into the sheets that smelled of Alexander Cruise, letting his body rest there.

  Alexander returned with darkness and supper. They ate together, companionably, hardly talking at all. Afterwards, Alexander placed the remains on a tray outside the door, then returned with the box that held his unguents and bandages. Patiently, Thomas let him work. The long-fingered hands were very gentle, and there was no pain, not really.

  When Alexander was done, Thomas lay back, regaining his breath, and smiled when Alexander stripped and lay beside him.

  “It’s early…”

  “I’m tired too.” Alexander kissed his neck, and wrapped a cool arm lightly around his ribs. “Sleep is good for us.”

  “Yes, Cap’n.” And Thomas was smiling again as he slept.

  The dreams were just under the surface. Nothing sweet, just the bitter rehashing of pain and humiliation. Of O’Connell laughing, and his own certainty that death was here, with this man, in this place. In the dreams there was no Alexander, just himself and the men who laughed when he screamed. He was sobbing when he awoke, and it took him a moment to realise it was Alexander’s arms that were holding him, Alexander’s voice that soothed and comforted.

  It took a long while, but he slept again, held tight this time, a
nd the strong arms that held him somehow kept the nightmares away, so it was full morning when he awoke. Alexander was sitting in bed, dressed in shirt and breeches, reading.

  “Mornin’ Jamie.”

  “Alexander.” Thomas licked his lips and swallowed. “I think I have sleeping sickness.”

  “Don’t worry, I think you’re past dying of it.” Smiling, Alexander closed his book and reached for the cup of water. “Here, drink.”

  Easing up on one elbow, Thomas took the cup. He drank it down gratefully, and handed the cup back. After a moment he realised he felt a good deal better. “Though it seems to have done the trick, I feel much improved.”

  “Good.” Alexander was peering at him. “Yes, much better. Your skin was exactly the colour of wet parchment yesterday.”

  “And today?”

  Alexander made a wry face. “Well, dry parchment at the very least.”

  Thomas laughed softly, the sound so unexpected that he stopped at once in surprise. “I do feel better!”

  “Good.” The smile was indulgent.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Words, words…”

  “Ah, Hamlet?”

  Alexander nodded, the skin about his eyes crinkling in delight. “The Dane himself, though his bleakness makes me want to slap him.”

  “Better to laugh at the world?”

  “Infinitely.”

  “What would you have done to Claudius?”

  “Tripped him off the battlements and been done with it.”

  “No agonising?”

  “None at all, after what he did.”

  An eye for an eye – a simple creed. He’d kill O’Connell himself, for what he’d done. “O’Connell…” Damn, it was hard to ask.

  “Is he chasing us?”

  Thomas sighed in relief. “Yes. He didn’t die, in the fire, did he?”

  “I doubt it.” Alexander shifted, making the bed creak. “I’ve told the crew to keep a sharp eye out for sails following us. Just in case. But there’s no need to worry, we’re not following any particular course, and the seas are wide enough to hide us.”