Other Oceans: Book Two of the Hook & Jill Saga (54 page)

“And if the surgeon objects, Sir?”

“No doubt by the time he learns of it, it will be too late. But perhaps he will pay for
her
freedom, as well! With what, I do not know. By then he will have relinquished to us everything he owns— and a percentage of his future.”

“And, Captain, just how do you intend to collect the tribute LeCorbeau will pledge?”

“Using the fact that our surgeon fled from England and changed his name. If
L’Ormonde
fails to meet us at our appointed rendezvous, the British authorities will be notified of LeCorbeau’s involvement with the fugitive physician. After all, the Frenchman must report to his government regularly to pay its percentage and have his papers renewed. He will be easy for the English fleet to track down, unless he gives up his legitimacy and turns pirate. And then, he would be fair game for any navy to hang.”

“Captain…” She smiled, slyly, and the enticement in her voice stirred him.

“Lady?”

“How did you become so clever?”

“Natural talent, of course! But also…” He tempered his smile. “I have learned from a master.”

His forthright reply subdued her. “Yes. As have I.”

Placing his hands on her shoulders, he shook his head. “
Amore
. So full of sadness.”

“I’m sorry. And you are so good to me.”

“When you are dispirited, you must remember the ‘lies’ I told you. When I was only your devoted sailor.” Gently, Cecco guided her toward the bunk. He swept the shining hair from her back and murmured into her ear, so that his voice made her tingle. “I told you then— you are the most desirable woman I had yet to experience.” Loosening her laces, he kissed her neck, just above his necklaces. “I bind you to me with golden chains.”

As he turned her, she faced him and gazed, entranced, into his deep brown eyes. She stroked his golden armband. “You share with me all your treasure.”

“You taste the honey of my passion.” He kissed her throat.

Her gaze rose to the ceiling as she remembered; his hands dropped to her waist. She said, “I had never heard that one before.”

As his fingers worked, her petticoats fluttered away. He kissed her, then drew back only far enough to whisper, “I will love you forever.”

“I
had
heard that.” She raised her hands to his face. “I wanted to hear it again.”

“You will hear it again. And again.” With his muscular arms, Cecco swept her up and set her in his bed. She pushed the vest from his shoulders, and quickly he cast off his breeches and embraced her. Running her hands over his scars, she felt their furrows; the leather laces with which she had secured his hair that morning dangled over her fingers. Overcome with emotion, she barely heeded his command.

“Show me first that you are mine.”

When she understood, she kissed him. The way she used to kiss Hook.

“More than this.”

“I know your name. Will you allow me to say it?”

“It is not enough. Find a new way, something no man has known, to bind yourself to me.”

“I already wear your jewelry—”

“Yes. And you wore his, too.” With his fingers he stroked the seam on her neck, then hunted for her scarlet palm. “The boy scarred your throat. And you are stained with another man’s blood. What mark will you suffer for me?”

She stared at him. She felt her heart beating against her ribs. Thinking, she glanced around the room, and his leather lace brushed her fingers again. Pulling it forward over his shoulder, she gathered the second lace, too. She looked into his eyes and read his approval there. Then she bent to her task. Leaving the lace in his hair, she looped its end around her wrist. Her fingers twined it. With teeth and fingertips she grasped the ends and pulled to tighten the knot— once, twice, then three times. She repeated the motions with the second lace on her other wrist, tasting the dry leather, and as she knelt before her captain, she lifted her eyes and her hands to him.

“Sir. We are bound.”

“We are bound.” His own capable fingers gripped the strings and pulled until the six knots at her wrists became small, and smaller, and no one’s fingers, not even all ten fingers on two good hands, would be able to work them loose. “We are one.”

Then he made love to her, her hands hovering near his shoulders, straying only as far as her bonds allowed. As her hands strained to touch him, the leather rubbed her skin, but she could still caress the gold of his necklace, and his face, and the top of his scars. Although his hands were free, Cecco’s movements, too, were restricted, yet he found ways enough to satisfy both lovers. Enthralled with the other sensations he brought her, she barely felt the chafing of his leather, and when he was done, she slept in his arms, her own arms behind his neck and her mind mingling the tinkling of his bracelets with the phantom tapping of the hook.

In the morning light, he woke her to draw the jeweled dagger from beneath the pillow. Solemnly, he held her fists in his as he severed the leather. The laces falling behind his back were shortened, and she, too, was left to go not quite free, wearing thin brown bracelets. Raw from their bindings, her wrists were now encircled with his mark and his gold.

Cecco examined her scorings, and kissed them tenderly.
“Amore
.
”

“Amore
.
”

His scourges would leave no scars to match his own. But Cecco read her eyes, and he understood his woman. He was satisfied.

His
mark encircled her heart.

Chapter 21

Prisoners of Love

I
n the light seeping through the bed curtain, Hook inspected his chains. He found their silence to be caused by a web of flannel threaded through every link. The girl was resourceful, no doubt about that. Still, steady breathing indicated that her father occupied the bunk below. The need for stealth was paramount.

First, he must satisfy his craving for water. Looking askance at the flask tucked between the bed and the board, he reached instead for the bottle. A small linen bundle and a serving of fruit also reposed above the girl’s pillow, but Hook’s throat was too dry to swallow food. He moved slowly to avoid jarring the girl, and after pulling the cork, he sniffed the bottle’s contents. They were odorless. Deciding it was water, he took several swallows and stopped. He would wait to test its effect before drinking more. He didn’t trust the doctor or the daughter. Or, perhaps, he trusted them too well.

Next he searched for his keys. The obvious place was on the girl, or in her hand. Lifting the linen, Hook discovered without surprise that she wore no nightdress. She wore nothing at all. Nothing except the brutal bruises of the cane. Had her father punished her for her lewdness, or had he simply unleashed his frustrations on her? The root of her craving for a strong man’s interest was plain, and Hook found that need both appealing and pathetic. Even as the shackles she had inflicted held him prisoner, Hook was struck by her vulnerability. Her naïveté.

She didn’t know with whom she was playing.

The keys were not on her person. He surveyed her hands and found nothing there, not even the pearl ring she had offered him. Running his wrist under her pillow revealed nothing, and slipping his fingers between the board and the mattress, he felt as far as his fetters allowed, to no avail.

His search turned up one item, however, of great interest to him. His own shirt, secreted at the foot of the bed, where it must have resided for weeks. Hook’s instincts were true on that morning of its disappearance. This little girl already owned a pirate’s heart. Pilfering since the beginning of her service, she’d tried to steal the master from the mistress, beginning with his clothing. Hook assured himself she hadn’t hidden the keys within its folds, noting as he did so that his garment had absorbed her scent— a musky femininity. He stuffed the shirt back into its hiding place.

Finding the napkin barely within reach, he pulled a corner until he could seize the bulk of the bundle. He backed to the wall and unrolled it on the bed before him, cautious in case it concealed his jingling keys. He found only bread and cheese. The food was not abundant, but welcome, and after another measure of drink, he consumed it as he continued his surveillance.

Further exploration of the bedclothes produced no result. He reached for the fruit, prodding the bowl with his empty wrist, his body poised to prevent brushing the girl. Helping himself to more water, he studied her face with narrowed eyes. As the strawberries took only the edge off his hunger, he formulated a plan. He measured the intrigue of her proposition, the boon she demanded in exchange for his freedom. If she didn’t hold the keys, she knew where they were.

Hook pushed the remnants of the meal away and felt of his whiskers. They were rough and long, about three days’ growth. The ship crooned her lullabies, and her company continued silent. Clearly, it was late in the night. The third night. He could open the bed curtain with his stump if he wished to view a window, but he wouldn’t pull it aside for fear of a sound that might wake the surgeon.

The untrustworthy surgeon…who for long had tempted his Jill. Like the daughter, the father was compelling. Jill indulged the man’s attentions, basked in them, but she was too clever for him. Even in Hook’s absence, the man slept alone. No, Jill was managing, most likely with Smee’s assistance. Her nights were restless. Hook knew from his own lack of sleep— Jill was agitated. He’d set a burden on her shoulders, and it was no wonder she lacked for rest. No doubt Hanover hounded her. No doubt Smee had his hands full fending him off.

What story had the surgeon concocted? A tale, Hook was certain, worthy of Jill herself. Did she believe her lover dead? Soon he would return, and discover to what extent his bo’sun consoled her. Perhaps something else disturbed her nights. Something beyond anxiety for Hook himself. He would know with one look. He would read it in her eyes. And in Smee’s.

Jill was a passionate woman. No doubt the two had drawn together in the circumstances. What sailor could resist those eyes when they were full of tears, wet and salty, and blue like the sea? Certainly not Smee, who had already been tested to his limits, even before his captain’s ‘demise.’ Smee habitually displayed his jealousy of the surgeon. Jill had played on Smee’s jealousy, to increase the doctor’s passion. And Smee had balanced near the brink as he held Jill after the fencing match, when she’d worn that dark smile that annihilated reason. In that moment, even Hook nearly lost control. So besotted was her captain that night that, as if conjured by a sorceress, the chain of sapphires appeared in his hand to slide through his fingers. Hook’s every wish was granted— but not Smee’s. Shortly thereafter, Smee went so far as to seek out and conquer the lady’s look-alike, a little blonde barmaid in the port of Gao. But Hook remained calm along this line of thought. He’d shared women with Smee before. And Jill was his soul. On occasion, he’d shared
that
with Smee, as well. To those who earned his trust, James Hook was a generous man.

Those who abused his trust died.

Roused by his thoughts, Hook turned his gaze on the girl again. He assessed her appearance, noting the changes that had taken place since she joined up with pirates. Like Jill, she had ripened before his eyes. Unlike Jill, she hadn’t piqued his interest until she threw herself at him. This slip of a girl wove a kink into his master plan— and he had allowed it! Hook had recognized her passion for him, perversely nurtured it, had reaped gratification from denying her the least grain of satisfaction. As Jill’s charade with the surgeon intensified, Hook played his own game with the girl, timing his movements to avoid her, and watching to see what ploy she would invent to cast herself in his path.

But he was not immune to idolatry. Baiting the surgeon through his daughter was only one aspect of Hook’s amusement. Before long, her wiles earned her a beating at her father’s hands, and Hook found himself both repulsed and fascinated by the depth of her submission. And by the force of her will. He had misjudged the girl, assuming she would tire of the disappointments and attach herself to one of his sailors. Yet her desire for her captain proved tenacious. It had pleased him to lead her a merry chase, and of late he’d grown overconfident in his dealings with her. Hook acknowledged the truth: his own arrogance delivered him into her trap. He, who for years battled for supremacy over a boy, allowed himself to be entangled by a girl. The irony was bitter, but the lesson useful.

And what lesson would this Miss take away from her adventure? For she would live to learn one. Hook needed her to fetch the key. He observed her nakedness, and beneath it the rise and fall of her breathing, of which he could so easily make an end. She outfoxed him once. She wouldn’t be lucky a second time.

His gaze traveled to her sleeping face. Miss Hanover had turned pretty. She modeled herself after her mistress. With a bit of imagination, the task at hand shouldn’t be difficult to accomplish. It might even be pleasurable. After all, Hook had tutored Jill in much the same manner.

Smoothing his mustache, Hook drew a breath, smiled, and began.

§ § §

Smee woke from his dreams and, for the hundredth time, cursed his stubborn streak. If only he’d listened to her, listened to reason.
He’d
be the man shouldering Jill’s burden. Alone in the depth of the night, he let loose his inclinations— to lie in the captain’s bunk, his boots beneath her bed, his strength surrounding her. She didn’t lack for anything with Cecco beside her, but there’d be hell to pay when the captain got back. Smee’s trust in the lady had returned so fully that he no longer entertained doubt. In the darkness he could admit it. He should have stepped in for the captain. He should have cared for Jill as Hook had cared for Lily. And not just in his dreams.

Hook would return. He’d return with a vengeance. First thing, he’d look to the lady, and he’d see it all over her. The gypsy’s love. A man couldn’t mistake that. Not a man like Hook.