Other Oceans: Book Two of the Hook & Jill Saga (69 page)

Tom hung the lantern and ripped off his jacket. “Give me a hand.” Tugging at the lid, he wrenched at it. The splinters dug under his fingernails until Guillaume set down the bottle and hastened to lay his hands on Tom’s arm.

“No! You will do more damage to yourself than to that crate.”

“I told you to help me.”

Guillaume gaped at Tom, who still tore at the wood, then he slipped away. Intent on his task, Tom didn’t realize Guillaume was gone until the man returned with a handspike. Silently he presented it to Tom, and together the two men pried the lid loose. It raised up with a ferocious groan. The sweet smell intensified. Tom dropped the spike, and Guillaume caught it before it could batter the floor. Snatching the lantern, Tom lifted the wood high enough to peer in. He shook his head, dropping the lid. It crashed, and he jerked his jaw to indicate the next crate. Guillaume obeyed him, and, in succession, the remaining crates were wrenched open, inspected, and abandoned.

Guillaume clutched the spike, resting against the last crate. “You look disappointed,
Monsieur
. Tell me this story.”

Tom tossed his head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

The mate raised a lid and, reaching in, extracted a white piece of the contents from its nest between sheets of papyrus. He fingered its fragile texture. “Earlier today you said you were concerned with a matter of life and death.”

“You should know by now. I don’t mean half of what I say.”

Guillaume moved forward a step, determined to manage this unpredictable sailor, and sensing he must do so carefully. “Mr. Tom. These boxes hold only the remains of flowers packed in Egyptian paper. What did you think to find here?”

Tom straightened up. “Something a bit more worthy of a fine old bottle of cognac.” He seized it and pulled the cork. His voice was bitter. “Let’s get to it. I’m ready.”

A light kindled in the mate’s eye. He tossed the petal. “Certainly. And how shall we decide who begins the teaching first?”

“I’ve had enough lessons tonight. Let’s just drink.”

Guillaume vaulted onto a crate and settled himself. His tight-fitting jacket relaxed as he unbuttoned it. “Yes. We must be rid of the evidence against us.” Guillaume reached for the bottle.
“Salut!”
Catching up with Tom’s intake, he took the first of many sips. “But this bottle is already half gone!”

“Don’t get worked up.” Tom yanked a flask from his back pocket. “I poured some out for safe-keeping, in case it was found.” He gulped some down.

“Truly, you are an ingenious man.” This facile sailor fascinated Guillaume. First ebullient, then absorbed. Now, within the close confines of the private compartment, he watched Tom lean against the crate and slide down to settle on the floor by the lantern, just plain moody. Like the captain. That was no problem for Guillaume. He had learned very well how to handle his captain, and good cognac never failed to assist in the effort. Guillaume leaned over the edge of his crate. Smiling, he touched the bottle to Tom’s flask.

“Let us drink to the captain’s health,
mon ami
.”

“Aye.” Tom yanked the bottle from his companion and brought it to his lips. “Here’s health— to a dead man.” He drank.

“Ah, I see you are riddling again.” Guillaume studied Tom’s face to find it suddenly resembling his brother’s, dark and brooding. The scar on Tom’s temple puckered as he scowled. With his heart in his boots, Guillaume dared to finger it. “Will you at least finish this story for me?”

Tom brushed Guillaume’s hand away. “When I know the ending, I’ll tell it to you, mate.” His fingers fell to stroking his knife.

Attempting to dispel his companion’s gloom, Guillaume joked as they shared the cognac. The warm, lingering taste of aged oak on the tongue was delightful. “Tom Tootles, when you begin to make sense to me, you may use that knife.”

“Don’t think I won’t, Guillaume.”

Guillaume disregarded the warning. He shed his jacket and oiled his way to the floor. The scent of the flowers remained strong, mixing with the quality of the drink. But Guillaume felt himself overpowered by something else. Something stronger.

“No, Mr. Tom. Now I know your secret.”

Tom smirked. “My secret?” He drank again, deeply. Guillaume waited for his companion to satisfy his thirst.

“You told me yourself.” Judging his time, Guillaume scooted closer. “You don’t mean half of what you say.”

“Don’t let the stink of those flowers befuddle you, mate. I’m not like you.”

Again, Guillaume ignored Tom’s implication. “All men like the same thing, Mr. Tom.”

“Do you like a knife in your gut?”

Guillaume laughed. “Come, Mr. Tom. It is your brother who is known as ‘Nibs the Knife.’ But where did you get such an appellation as ‘Tootles?’”

“From a pushy boy who didn’t know when to stop. You remind me of him.”

Guillaume’s eyebrows rose with interest. He offered the bottle to Tom. “A boy?”

“I wrestled his dagger away and I haven’t seen him since. He’s lucky.”

Leaning one hand on the dusty floor, Guillaume pressed closer. “My captain tells me wrestling is a fine, ancient sport.” Lured by this robust young man to a secret assignation near the most lethal location in the ship, Guillaume’s new sense of adventure was stimulated beyond his control. He couldn’t resist. His other hand came to rest on the inside of Tom’s thigh. “I am not skilled in the art of wrestling. You won’t find it necessary to employ it with me.”

Setting down the bottle, Tom turned to his companion and aimed the full force of his drunken attention at him. “You’re right. I won’t.” Quickly, Tom closed the gap between their bodies.

Thrilled by the sailor’s aggression, Guillaume didn’t see the flash of Tom’s knife— until it was too late.

Chapter 29

A Communion of Men

T
om had learned Mr. Starkey’s lessons. He knew when to let go, and he knew when to hold on. Leaning into Guillaume, he smiled without humor, gripping the hilt of his knife with a firm hand. The man’s mouth moved in agony, but he had the sense to keep quiet.

“Good boy, Guillaume.” Tom released the knife, and Guillaume rolled his eyes downward to see it.

“Monsieur—”
He gasped. The knife pinned his hand, neatly, to the deck.

“Don’t try to talk. I’ll keep it simple.”

“Please!”

“Stow that. Now, I can leave you here and fetch the
commandant
if you like. He’d help you out, I’m sure. He’d be glad to have that bottle back, too.”

Jerking, Guillaume shook his head.

“No? I suppose you’re right. He won’t want his dinner with Nibs interrupted, even for his cognac.”

Guillaume panted, pleading with his eyes.

“I suppose you want me to fix you up, then?”

“Oui!”

“You can show me how grateful you are later. Just listen.” Guillaume swallowed, and Tom grew more cheerful. “That’s better. Now, for starters, have you got a kerchief somewhere?”

Guillaume whispered, “In my pocket.”

“Any other day, I bet you’d like me to fish for it. But maybe you’ll just say which one.”

“The left, the left!”

Tom dug in Guillaume’s pocket and produced a handkerchief. “Fine quality, this.”

“Oui, Monsieur
.
”
Guillaume’s voice was tight, strained with pain.

“A gift from your captain?”

“In a manner of speaking,
Monsieur
.”

“I like the respect you pay me, Guillaume. You’ll keep that up.”

“Oui, Monsieur
.
”

Tom bent toward his officer and, with capable hands, proceeded to untie the man’s cravat. Unwinding it from Guillaume’s neck, Tom said, “Nice and easy, now. Bet that knife hurts a lot.”

Guillaume barely nodded. He closed his eyes as Tom opened his collar. His neck flushed where Tom’s fingers brushed it.

“Now, I’m going to pull the knife away, and then we’ll bind that hand. Ready?” Tom didn’t wait for an answer. He closed his fingers around the familiar hilt of his dagger and yanked it from the floor in which it was embedded. Guillaume gritted his teeth as the blade withdrew from his flesh. A red well gushed from the slit between the bones leading to his little finger and his ring finger.

Tom seized Guillaume’s hand and held it up, pressing the handkerchief to both sides of the wound. “Keep it high, Guillaume, less blood that way. Hold this, and I’ll wrap it.” He bound the long cravat tightly around the kerchief, knotted it off, and set it on Guillaume’s shoulder. “Now pinch your wrist. That’s it. Cut off the flow.” He nodded as Guillaume obeyed. “Just keep it there, and we’ll have a nice chat.” He snatched up the bottle. “Drink, mate?”

“Yes. Please.”

Tom held the cognac for Guillaume, who gulped several long drinks. Then, looking pale, the French sailor slumped back against the crate, still clutching his wrist and holding it against his shoulder. Tom swilled a drink of his own. He corked the empty bottle and set it aside.

“There now. I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I did warn you.”

“A simple ‘no’ would have been sufficient.”

“Ah, there’s where you’re wrong, mate. Now I’ve got your attention— and you know how strongly I feel about you.”

Perversely, Guillaume’s doubtful face flirted with hope.
“Monsieur?”

“You want to be my girl, don’t you?”

The mate’s mouth opened, but he remained silent. Tom saw his pulse beating, vulnerable, where the cravat used to hide it.

“To tell you the truth, the last girl I found disappointed me. But you won’t disappoint me. Will you, Guillaume?”

“No,
Monsieur
Tom. I surely won’t.”

“I like what you called me before. ‘Mr. Tom.’ Has a nice English ring to it.”

“Very well…Mr. Tom.”

“Now I have a couple of jobs need doing. Not too difficult, and you’re in just the right position to do them.”

“Do these jobs involve more deceiving of my captain?”

“Pretty much the opposite. First, I want you to show the captain your cut. Tell him you don’t want the sail maker sewing you up. You want that nice Doctor Hanover, with the gentle hands.”

“But why—”

“Do you want the sail maker to stitch you?”

“No, but—”

“I want only the best for you, mate. I care, you know.”

With a faint smile, Guillaume said, “I do not entirely believe you, but…it will be as you say.”

“Good boy. Next, I want you to keep watch on my brother. Anytime LeCorbeau starts getting close to him, you jump in the middle. Understand?”

“
Oui
, Mr. Tom.”

“You’ll find a way to make yourself interesting. I learned a few tricks from some Indian women. I’ll tell you about them. That should keep you two occupied for a few nights, anyway.”

“I hope these tricks do not involve the hands.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t damage anything important.”

As Guillaume was seized with a trembling fit, Tom slung his arm around him and patted his thigh. “You’ll have to trust me, Guillaume. Same as I’m trusting you.”

Guillaume breathed hard, and the convulsions abated. Tom released him.

“It’s not so bad a deal for you. Once you’ve followed my orders, you can become the hero and find that missing bottle of cognac. LeCorbeau will love you for that.”

“The bottle? But Mr. Tom, we have just imbibed it. Have we not?”

“I told you, Guillaume. I’m not like you. I’d never steal from my captain.”

“But…” Maintaining his grip on his wrist, Guillaume gestured toward the flask.

“That? Oh, that’s just grog.” Tom tucked it back into his pocket.

“And where is the rest of the cognac?”

“Right where it ought to be. Don’t you recognize this?” Tom held up the empty bottle.

Dazed, Guillaume shook his head.

“This is the stuff we didn’t finish that first night I came aboard. After you nodded off, I thought it a shame to pitch it in the sea. Saved it for you. Glad I did, too.”

“Then, the cognac for which the
commandant
is searching…?”

“Is still hidden away. Just in case you decide not to carry through with my requests. It might be tucked behind your pillow even now.”

“Mr. Tom, I understand what you want— I think. I will perform these tasks for you, but why were you so insistent on getting into these crates?”

“I’ll tell you why, mate.” Tom leaned forward. “I was looking for a man.”

“A man? Packed up and locked away?”

“Guess I’ve found him, haven’t I?” Grinning, Tom reached to Guillaume’s waist and, once again, took possession of his key ring. Removing the key to the compartment, he shoved it into his own pocket. Then he tucked the rest of the bunch into Guillaume’s uniform. “Now that I’ve stumbled on this place, it’ll make a good spot for keeping our secrets. Won’t it?” Tom scooped up the cognac, lifted the top of the crate, and pitched the bottle in. It landed with a crackle of papyrus.

“Mr. Tom, I will ask for the surgeon. I will distract the
commandant
. And I will meet you here again whenever you say. But— I hope this will be soon.”

“No promises. Now, keep that hand elevated. I’ll lock up and see you to the crew deck.” Tom heaved himself up. As Guillaume’s eyes followed him, he located the handspike and pounded the lid of each crate into place. Brushing off his hands, he turned to Guillaume and, like a gentleman, offered to assist the mate to rise. He dusted Guillaume’s uniform and helped him into his jacket, buttoning it up and neatening the collar.

“Be sure you tell the captain you stuck yourself with your own knife. Here.” Tom picked up the knife and wiped it on Guillaume’s wrappings. Then he pulled Guillaume’s dagger from his belt and smeared it before returning it. Moving to the back of the crate against which they had leaned, Tom shoved. It grated along the floor to cover the small pool of blood. Holding up the flower petal, he said, “Next time you see this, you meet me here.” He stowed it in his pocket, then tucked the handspike in his boot.