Other Oceans: Book Two of the Hook & Jill Saga (65 page)

“His oath must still mean something to him. You are certain Cecco conspires with the surgeon?”

“Too sure to be begging him for the key!”

“All the more reason to choose my time. I will lay my plans and rebuild my strength. You will say nothing.” But his voice was faltering. “Go now, Smee.”

“Captain, I hate to be leaving you like this!”

Through chattering teeth, Hook expelled his last words. “Hold my sword at the ready.” Near the end of his strength, Hook couldn’t utter any more. But the look of determination on his unshaven face commanded. Smee watched then, with his heart near to breaking, as his captain’s eyes fell closed and the force of his will subsided with his vigor.

Hook’s long body lay shivering. He fought the seizure, but after some moments, the stump of his arm reached out to his source of succor, swaying in the air like a starved snake angling for a bird.

Smee didn’t hesitate. He shoved the fine sword from his side to stretch down on the filth of the mattress. He gathered Hook’s shuddering shoulders in his arms. As the chained hand clutched at him, Smee pressed his red forehead to the master’s black brow. For the last minutes remaining of their privacy, he wrapped himself around this great man, who nourished his servant’s existence the way Smee had fed him a biscuit, and Smee forced his body’s warmth against his master’s chill, and willed his rugged love to save him.

Chapter 27

The Making of a Mistress

T
he night was half worn away, and the planks and beams of the
Jolly Roger
rocked the better part of two ships’ crews. At the appointed hour, her captain sent Miss Liza to assist his lady’s retiring. Mr. Yulunga attended Liza, as promised, when she left the lady in the captain’s quarters.

“Wait here, little girl.” Yulunga knocked at the open door. Stooping under the doorframe, he entered, murmuring to the lady. A few moments later he returned to shut the door, twirling the key ring over his finger. “You have behaved tonight. Windows secured, and no rope ladders.” Liza only stood, squeezing her hands together. Mocking, he said, “No protests of your innocence?”

She cast her eyes down. Yulunga’s feet, set wide apart to balance his bulk against the ship’s sway, were half again the size of her master’s. Of Hook’s.

“Good. I want no lies from you.”

Yulunga paused to listen as the lady locked the door. He tried the knob, then deposited his keys in his pocket. His duty done, he stood beside Liza, his gaze slanted sideways at her.

Unsure what to do, she blinked at him, and he signified that she was to link her arm through his elbow. She did so, and stared at her white hand resting on his ebony. The light of lanterns blazed about the deck. In their luster, the pearls on her finger glowed more orange than pink. Mr. Yulunga had used those pearls, just as Liza predicted. She hadn’t predicted the circumstances that led her to accept them.

Feeling awkward on the mate’s arm, Liza stepped with him down the stairs. Having pictured herself so many times strutting along the companionway upon the velvet arm of Captain Hook, some adjustment was necessary tonight. She had done her best, taking special care with her appearance. But of course she wore no fine gown, only her blue dress trimmed with lace at the bodice. Yet it was becoming. She had brushed her hair and coiled it under a new, intricate net. Her father rested in the spare cabin tonight, and without fear of his disapproval, she had pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add some color. Here, at least, if not with Hook, her design met with success. As she glanced around the deck to take note of the sailors who might witness her discomfiture, she felt Yulunga’s grip tighten, as if to demonstrate his possession of her.

Finding the galley too close, a dozen or more revelers had braved the wind to scatter themselves about the boards, carousing under the watchful eyes of Mr. Mullins and Mr. Mason. A group lounged by the mainmast, observing a game of dice. The pieces rattled on the planks, the men cheered, and then a pair of china blue eyes looked up from the game. Wearing a Gallic smile and a pale blond pigtail, the owner of the eyes saluted Liza.

Earlier, under a smirk of amusement from Yulunga, that blond sailor had shed his blue jacket and cushioned Liza’s bench with it. In charming, broken English, he’d given her to understand how he admired her beauty. Not possessing the proper words, he’d used his hands, as Frenchmen do, to express his admiration for her soft gray eyes and the fullness of her lips. His fingers were sturdy, and rough from hauling sail— but expressive. Liza allowed his fingers liberty enough for this discovery, but too aware of her dependence on her escort’s good will, she hoped she had been discreet.

Now, under that sailor’s scrutiny again, her cheeks needed no pinching. She colored naturally as the others’ gazes followed the young Frenchman’s. But she raised her head, allowing a stream of pride to trickle into her manner. After all, that young man was only a sailor. Liza sloped her shoulder toward Yulunga as she leaned upon his arm. She wasn’t the captain’s choice— but she was the mate’s.

Still, after all her efforts to win Hook’s favor and take shelter under his power, she had failed to escape her father’s rule. In making the attempt, she only became more deeply mired in the mud of filial servitude. Brutal as Yulunga might prove, it was
his
interest, now, to which Liza clung, seeking release from the nightmare unfolding within her quarters— frightening enough for her, but deadly for her former master. Surely, the situation could not turn worse, for either of them.

Mr. Mullins had loitered near the companionway since the lady’s arrival this evening. Seeing Yulunga and the surgeon’s daughter descend, he stepped to one side of the stair. “Sir.” With a crooked grin, Mullins dipped his head to Liza, too. “Miss.” Her posture became straighter. Once the couple passed, Mullins mounted the steps to stand guard at the captain’s quarters. As second officer, Mullins listened to the gaming below, but he tucked his thumbs in his belt and kept a weather eye on the hatches. Captain Cecco’s orders were strict, and sailors, French or familiar, were the least of the master’s concerns. No telling what that surgeon might get up to this night. Mullins didn’t envy young Miss having to live with that man. None of the men did.

At the hatch, Yulunga descended first and turned to assist Liza down. But when they reached the gun deck, he swept a look around and, finding it deserted, dropped his pretense of chivalry to seize her arm. He dragged her past the cook’s cat, and it scolded him for the disturbance, arching its back before settling again to watch with luminous, suspicious eyes as he pushed the girl up against the mizzenmast.

The light was dimmer on this deck, but Liza could read the inky features of his face. She lowered her gaze to the beads at his neck. They bobbed as he spoke in his deep, murky voice. As the outward manifestation of his sound, their play had begun to fascinate Liza. And his beads weren’t the only fascination. The vest beneath them hung open to display his sable skin.

“I have allowed you your fun, little girl. You came to the party. You drank a glass of wine. Only one, and watered, because I like a woman whose wits are sharp. I let you dance with that French boy, because I like to watch you move. Now,” he pressed up against her, and her neck arched to enable her eyes to meet his, liquid black, like his voice. “Now you tell me what
you
like.”

Her heart was pounding against her ribs. She felt the ring on her finger. The pearls had slipped around to burrow into the flesh of her hand. She envisioned her father lying in the room behind her, and Hook, a hairsbreadth from death in the quarters to the side, and her eyes grew wild with confusion. This man’s big body exuded an earthy smell, a smell of sweat and of power. His chest glistened, and she raised her hand with her fingers splayed, to hesitate, hanging in the heat of the space between them. The sound of laughter in the galley assaulted her senses, but not as harshly as the blood that banged against her ears.

Yulunga’s jaw jutted. “Go on. You can touch. I give you permission.” He smiled as he said it, derisive.

Slowly, she rested her hand on his chest. Smooth, and moist. Burning. To her surprise, Liza felt his heart beating, too. And as his lungs expanded to breathe, her hand rose and fell with them. She stared at her hand, so fair. How could two skins be so very different, when two hearts pumped, and two sets of lungs exhaled and seized the same air? This man appeared to be unlike the two men behind Liza, but to her, tonight, he was exactly the same. Her father and Hook, in turn, had been her protectors. Now she looked to this exile from Africa to take that place. Liza raised her stare from the contrast of their fleshes, and appealed to his eyes.

“Yes, little girl. I know what you want. Let’s go.” More gently this time, but just as insistent, he guided her by the arm. Toward her quarters.

Liza balked.

“What, Miss? Your father isn’t at home. He won’t be disturbing us.” His teeth gleamed in the lanternlight.

Liza jockeyed around to face him, edging toward her door, and wondered. Would Yulunga really protect her? The truth would out, eventually. Maybe Hook didn’t have to die before then. Maybe she should let Yulunga see the secret in her quarters. She should open her lips and tell him. Right now. But her father—

“No? You want to keep me waiting. Then you will wait for your earrings, too.”

Liza shook her head. She backed from him, and yet her hands found their way to his ribs. Against her door now, she tried to decide. Should she open, and trust in him? He might shield her from her father’s rage— or he might as easily cast her off, reviling her for her perfidy. He held her hands in his fists, and he was drawing her into his kiss. She had another moment to try to think. As long as their hands were occupied, neither one of them could open the door.

Yulunga’s face made the long descent, and his lips burrowed into her neck. She gasped at the flame there, and his mouth fired his way up under her jaw. She didn’t think her lips could bear his heat, but she couldn’t turn his kisses away. He released her hands now, and pulled her by the waist, and she felt for the panel of the door behind her. Her fingers bumped over its roughness, searching for the handle. It was cold in her grasp. His mouth sidled along her cheek to meet hers, and as her lips parted to speak the terrible truth before he could silence them with his own, Liza felt the door handle turn and slip away from her grasp.

“Mr. Yulunga. My daughter is not available to you.”

“Doctor.” Yulunga straightened.

A chill breeze wafted over Liza, bringing the sting of salt air from the open windows of her quarters. Drenched in cold perspiration, Liza froze, staring into Yulunga’s face. With regret, she felt his arms withdraw from her body. Once again, she stood alone. Unprotected.

“Liza. Come in.”

Her lips hung open.

“I think, Mister Hanover, your daughter wants to say something to me.”

Hanover didn’t move. “I very much doubt it, Mr. Yulunga.”

Her jaw worked, and her breath came panting.

“Maybe she wants to tell me goodnight?” Yulunga smiled at her distress.

“I will say it for her. Good night, Sir.”

The surgeon’s hands fell heavily upon her shoulders, and he pulled her into their quarters. “Now, Liza.” Disregarding Yulunga’s leer, he shut and locked the door. Looming in front of her, Hanover’s presence bore down upon his daughter. Behind him, the ivory-handled cane hung, waiting on its hook in the wall.

Her passions interrupted, Liza gazed upon the gentleman, her father, and with heightened awareness, her regard moved from his face to study him, head to toe. Her heart began to pound again. Or had it never stopped? The surgeon wore no coat, no waistcoat, no shirt. His wounds prevented that, and he stood holding the muscles of his shoulders stiff, his scar tight against his cheek, betraying his discomfort. His sandy hair was contained by the black ribbon. His body seemed pale in comparison to Yulunga’s, but equally smooth, and damp with perspiration. Although he stood with effort, he did stand, and handsomely. He had shed his bloody breeches and donned his fencing trousers, tight against his hips, and his feet, like the mate’s, were naked. He bore no scar, no mark of any kind beyond that on his cheek. If one never got past his front, one would not suspect the ravages of his back.

Resisting her reaction to him, Liza pressed her knuckles to her mouth. She backed from her father, shaking her head, and tears formed in her eyes. He was much too fine a man.

“Get to bed now.”

She turned to obey before he might reach for the cane, and she stopped dead. She spun around, questioning.

He nodded. “Yes. The lower bunk.”

Her head tilted, ever so slightly.

“I cannot trust you. You will lie with me.”

As with Mr. Yulunga, Liza made no protestations of her innocence. She blinked, and then, shakily, made herself breathe again. She obeyed her father, as she obeyed him in all things. Slowly she turned, and, watching her feet inch along the boards, Liza made her way to her father’s bed. It was strange to her, and yet all too familiar. Awakening there this morning, she had expected to find her skin stained and sticky— with the wine she had poured, if nothing else. Yet every bit of her flesh had been cleansed. Every mound, every hollow….As she recalled the feeling, goose bumps arose, and she felt the hairs of her arms stand on end.

But those arms lifted the bed linen, and she prepared to lie down. Her father’s voice stopped her.

“And what will you wear to entice your lovers tomorrow, if you sleep in that gown?”

Liza dropped the sheet. Keeping her back to him, she hesitated. Then she loosened her garment, spread wide the bodice, and she shuddered it off to stand clad in her shift. He moved behind her as she bent to step out of the skirt. While she clutched the empty dress to her breast, his surgeon’s hands appropriated her arm. Without comment, he examined the darkening purple of the mark his fingers left that morning. Relinquishing her arm, he eased her gown from her grip. She heard his feet pad toward the corner, where the pegs held their clothing. Dressed in her shift, she laid her body, already over-stimulated by Mr. Yulunga, on the bunk beneath the dying man. And she wondered if, in the morning, she would find her father’s presence had left bloodstains on the linen.