Other Oceans: Book Two of the Hook & Jill Saga (19 page)

One more push and the mirror swung away. Liza glimpsed white moonlight before it settled— too far! Her mouth fell open and she stood perfectly still, thinking. She was growing warm within her velvet snare.

Liza drew the stick back. Running her finger over the ivory carving and around the curve of the horns, she allowed one of the tips to prick her finger. And then she reversed the cane and reached the ram’s head out to the wardrobe door. The cane was heavier this way, and her arm shook as she extended it fully. But, hooking the edge with the tiniest tap, she pulled the mirror into place. She was rewarded with the sight of her master and her mistress lying together in the pool of the moon. Liza’s whole body felt damp as she recovered the cane, as if the pool encompassed herself as well.

He still wore his hook. It shone where it rested above his woman, on a pillow. He seemed aware of it, too, because he sat up then, and, pulling his shirt over his head, he shed his ghost-skin. He shook his hair free of it, bunched the sleeve to smooth the hook’s passage, and tossed it away. Liza inhaled a sharp breath as the shirt landed near his other garments, but on the floor— at Liza’s feet. She lowered her eyes to see it. When she spied in the mirror again, Jill was reaching up to free him of his harness.

The woman rolled toward the wall to hang the leather strap on its hook, while the man flexed his shoulders and breathed deeply of his new freedom. Liza couldn’t see his empty wrist. It moved on the side of him farthest from her, and he soon hid it within the folds of Jill’s nightdress.

Jill helped him slip her garment off, then lay back on the bed. She reached to bring down the cup of water, offering it to her lover. He took it; he sipped, then tipped it up and drained it as he knelt over her, with his back straight and, Liza discovered with a sudden tightening of her throat, his beautiful body primed for its purpose. The girl nearly reeled.

The blood drained from her head. She felt faint, dizzy. Clutching the cane, she employed it for its proper purpose, leaning on it for support. She could no longer control her breathing— she made far too much noise. But she must breathe or swoon, and either way, she was sure he would hear her.

But she couldn’t hear
him!
She heard the clap of the cup on the shelf as he replaced it, but she didn’t hear his voice. He hadn’t spoken the words Liza craved! He wouldn’t speak them. Not now. As she gripped the stick, tighter every moment, her eyes feasted on the heady sights within the mirror. The magnificent man leaned down, and, without a word, commenced making love to his splendid mistress. And Liza watched.

She took it all in. She gorged herself on rich dishes, her eyes ate until replete, but still, her ears felt famished. Their white bodies moved in the moonlight, backs, breasts, limbs, lips. She stared, she perspired, but she was anxious, now, frantic for his voice, his smooth-as-honey voice, to feed her passion, to complete it. Yearning, she wanted to swallow his tones and stock her memory along with the images— like dessert, a sweet lingering taste, to savor later, and forever.

She wanted to scream at him as he rocked in the mirror,
speak words to me!
Forcing herself to breathe through her nose, she pressed her lips together, knowing her own voice would sour everything.

But the moon slid higher in the sky, up and away, to tuck itself into its bed of clouds, and the hand of night covered it over. The cloudy light misted blue now. The movements in the master’s bunk slowed and ceased. Had the ghosts sunk into their graves? Liza’s heart slowed, too, and sank with them, and she waited, wearily now, only for the moment of escape. In a weird limbo she barely existed, her presence meaning nothing to him, her absence meaning nothing to her father. Liza stood in the darkness, aching, neglected even by the moonlight.

Her shoulders slumped with fatigue, and with surfeit, and disappointment. In the time she had watched and waited, she hadn’t heard him speak more than one syllable. Her face twisted in irony. With all her heart, she wished she had never heard him speak at all.

Because the word he had pronounced, the senseless syllable he’d repeated, provided no sustenance for her starving ears. He had uttered only that single sound, and he’d uttered it over and over again, until Liza was sick to death of his wonderful voice.

She never wanted to hear him say it again.

But she knew now what this man’s body craved. She had witnessed how to touch him. She had felt herself ripening as she watched, bursting her skin and shedding the last of her ignorance. When she could share his bed, when she dared to touch him, she would give him what he wanted— more than he knew he wanted— and she would find a way to rip that noise from his throat. She would replace it with two syllables, override that hateful— one.

Her burning eyes fell closed at last as he released the sound, one final time.

He whispered it…

§ § §

“Jill…”

The girl awoke in a cold sweat. She sat up in her bunk. Her fingers clutched the bedcovers; her stomach jumped. Was he here? In her cabin?

She saw nothing in the blackness. To rest her exhausted eyes, she had drawn the curtain across her bunk. The starboard windows hid themselves, covered.

Had she dreamed him? Had she imagined all of it? It had seemed so real! Her body felt damp and swollen. Her legs still ached. Her bare shoulders shivered, fondled by the cool night air.

The waves had risen, pitching the ship. Had she felt only the stirrings of the sea?

Her head swung toward the bed curtain as she heard it again.

“Jill.”

In the bunk below, her father sighed in a brief burst of voice, and rolled over. This time, the sound of that syllable woke Liza’s smile. She was happy to hear it, one more time.

She could help her father. He could help her, without ever knowing it. As far apart as they were, father and daughter wanted the same thing.

Sliding her fingers beneath the pillow, she felt for the cloth. She drew it out, barely able to discern its whiteness in the night. Ghost-skin. She could feel it, though. It was fine-woven linen. Looser-woven lace edged the cuffs. Holding it to her face once more, she inhaled. It smelled just right. Leather, and salt air, and spirits. She smiled into the silence.

Arranging the sleeves, she bound her arms. The rest of his shirt flowed over her breasts and belly, and lower. Gently, it buffed her skin. She pulled up the covers, lay back in her bunk, and dreamed.

Just tonight, the woman had told Liza there were few rules to this game. A reading lesson was as good a place as any to begin.

Chapter 9

Feinting Away

“D
on’t finish off the biscuits— you remember what happened last time he didn’t get any.” Nibs sent Tom a warning look. He was perched on a barrel in a foremost corner of the galley, his long legs folded. Tom sat with two others at a nearby table. Several more crewmen were dispersed at tables about the room, finishing breakfast.

“By ‘he’ you mean Mr.—” Tom glanced at the door and cleared his throat. “Mr. Yulunga. We can say his name now, but by the Powers, it’s a job!” He ran his sleeve across his forehead.

Cecco let loose his easy gypsy laugh. Straddling his bench, he leaned back, taking care not to touch his wounds to the wall. “It was lucky I had enough biscuit left to share with our friend. You young sailors, you have seen him disappointed. You have never seen him angry. If you had, you would not yet use his name, even so carefully.”

“Tell us the story, Mr. Cecco. We want to learn everything.”

“Everything?” Cecco shook his head and scraped his bowl with the last of his hardtack. “Just keep your eyes open, seize your opportunities. I am no storyteller. I leave that to your very lovely mother.” As always when speaking of the lady, his voice mellowed, and he smiled.

“Wish
my
mother’d looked like that. A right old hag she was! I couldn’t get to sea fast enough.” Jukes shoved his bread toward Tom. “Have mine, mate, I’ve got that toothache again.” He rested his elbows on either side of his porridge bowl and watched the others eat. The inky designs on his arms swirled and snaked all the way up to the fingertips that tenderly prodded his jaw. “Beats me, though, how the lady knows what she knows. She can’t have learned it all from the captain. When Red-Handed Jill spins her yarns, she tells things about us even
we
don’t know.”

Cecco set down his empty bowl. “Our Mr. Yulunga was much gratified to learn he has a son. It causes me to be somewhat cautious, however, about asking for my own story.” The smile on Cecco’s face waxed complacent.

Straining his yellow shirt, Tom’s already broad chest swelled again. “There’s a magic about Jill. We’ve always known it, haven’t we, Nibs?”

Nibs nodded, chewing and about to speak, but he couldn’t talk of Jill with his mouth full; she’d taught him manners. He could talk of other subjects, though. “You should see
L’Ormonde
, Mr. Jukes.” He swallowed. “The food that Frenchman served us— ‘cuisine,’ Hook calls it. You’d have liked the fancy soup, ‘bouillabaisse’ or some such thing, easy on your teeth. And the wine!”

Jukes winked. “Don’t let Mr. Starkey hear that French talk, lad. He’ll say you’re putting on airs, getting above your station.”

“Sure, I’m turning into a
gentleman
, like my brother!” He leered at Tom.

Cecco cocked his head and his large earrings swung. “There is much to be said for acting a gentleman, if there are ladies to impress. Our Tom, I think, is learning this.”

Sighing like a heartbroken swain, Tom only partly jested. “Much good it does me, when the girl won’t talk to me and the captain won’t let me touch her.”

“Won’t let
anyone
touch her,” Nibs corrected.

The Italian sailor sympathized. “In such matters, one must make one’s own luck, my friend. Your chance may present itself, if you watch for it.”

“And if the rest of us don’t beat you to it!” Jukes interjected. “Mr. Nibs is right— you’re not the only one watching that girl. She’s a saucy piece, even without a voice. Now tell us about the party, Mr. Tootles. It’s plain you’re bursting with it.”

Tom stowed Cecco’s advice for future use, and launched into the previous evening’s events. “The first thing was a tour of the ship. Mr. Starkey angled for us to be shown around, to get a proper look at another vessel. She’s beautiful! Almost as yare as the
Roger
, just a bit smaller. Not a lot of goods in her hold, but she doesn’t leak much. She has stout sails and plenty of cannon— a twenty-four gunner— and the galley’s full of barrels of some foreign kind of fish. They made the soup of it.”

Nibs wrinkled his nose. “I liked the real food better. The captain’s quarters, where we ate, it’s not nearly as rich as Hook and Jill’s, but just as pretty.”

Jukes prodded, “Well, lad, and what did the Frenchy offer Hook to let you go?”

Nibs gaped at Jukes. “How did you know?”

Jukes and Cecco laughed. Coddling his jaw, Jukes mumbled through his toothache. “LeCorbeau collects young sailors. Didn’t you see his officers? You could sign on with him and ‘rise’ to ‘mate’ in short order!” He sniggered at his own jokes.

“I did see! I broke into a sweat when he mentioned me. But I didn’t worry too much. Hook would never release me before talking to Jill.”

“Aye, you lads are as close to Hook having sons as he’ll ever abide!” Jukes guffawed, then quit abruptly, clutching his cheek. “Oh! I’ll have to be seeing Smee about this damned tooth.”

The Italian raised his eyebrows. “No, mate. There is now the doctor for such problems. He may be much preferable to Mr. Smee for pulling teeth. I perceive that he has smaller hands. And as he has examined my back, I can say they are
slightly
gentler.”

“I’ll see him today. I won’t be put off food much longer. I’m getting as skinny as Mr. Nibs. Next thing you know, the Frenchman will be courting
me
.”

Cecco eyed the tattoos. “You are too marked by experience, I think.” Then he shrugged. “It may not be a bad life for a French boy from the gutters of a poor port-town. But I notice we never see the same lads among the crew when we next encounter
L’Ormonde
. LeCorbeau must not keep them long. This Renaud and Guillaume, they are new, and where are their predecessors?”

Tom volunteered, “Captain Hook asked the
commandant
the same thing, in a round-about sort of way, of course— you know how he can talk. And in his Frenchified way LeCorbeau said some took sick and some took off. He didn’t say it too loud, though. Renaud and Guillaume got funny looks on their faces.”

But Cecco was more interested in the running of the ship. “What about his crew? They seem like capable seamen.”

Nibs said, “All in order, just less showy than us. Blue jackets and pigtails. A few of them speak English, but we didn’t mix much.”

Tom’s pride shone through his grin. “You should have seen them stare at Hook! I only knew what was said of him on the Island before, but he really does have a reputation on the high seas. You could see it on their faces. Awe, I’d call it. Every eye on the claw, and all the sailors standing stiff at attention, wherever he went.”

“Did you catch LeCorbeau looking over his big nose at him, Tom? The Frenchy’s crewmen respect him, but Captain Hook commands more notice.”

“Not surprising.” Cecco said. “Our captain is a man worthy of our service. If his temper is uncertain, still he makes us wealthy. Well,
L’Ormonde
is a neat ship. Her captain is an opportunistic privateer and no better a man than can be expected, but it is fitting that she is sailed by a competent crew.”

Tom had been saving the biggest news for last. “And here’s the reason they hailed the
Roger
. LeCorbeau will be trailing us for a while. He wants to pick the bones of whatever prey we bring down.”

Cecco and Jukes stared, then Cecco’s expression grew suspicious. “An unusual arrangement. I wonder what the captain has in mind?”