Within A Captain's Hold. Lisa A. Olech
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a gilt monogram on its door. It read BW.”
“I could leave a couple of my men behind.”
“He wouldn’t be fool enough to come back. I told his man I’d dump his satined arse in the Thames with the rest of the filth if he ever crossed my threshold again, and no amount of gold would save his hide.” Giselle finished her wine. “Besides, I’ve got my own protection. The last thing I need is two of your pirates around here sniffing after my girls.”
“Privateers now, my dear.” Jaxon picked up his buff leather coat and thick baldric.
“Pirates, privateers. You mean to tell me there’s a difference?”
Jaxon puffed his chest a bit. “Means King Willie can’t fit me for a necktie and the well-heeled gentlemen of the ton tolerate my presence for a scant minute longer than before.”
“How lucky for you.” Giselle flipped the end of her nose with a finger. “Would you care to hear how long they tolerate me?”
He laughed as he bent to slide his feet into tall, black bucket-topped boots. “I’d guess about thirty seconds longer than it takes them to drop their pants.”
He dodged the pillow she threw at him.
“Take your smart mouth and get out before I forget my fondness for you.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to leave some protection behind? Suppose he is fool enough to come back?”
Giselle shook her head. “I’m not afraid. He would never get past the boys downstairs. I’m safer than the bloody crown jewels.”
* * * *
Jaxon walked back through murky streets toward the dock. Muffled music from nearby taverns wove through the heavy mist. Two large shadows up ahead were tossing a third unceremoniously into the gutter. The drunken man sputtered slurred obscenities at their backs and tried to stand.
Scattered lantern light bathed the dock in an eerie yellow glow. He could just make out the ghosts of ship masts up ahead. The air lay thick as wool.
Giselle’s tale nagged at him. What kind of cowardly swine beat upon a woman? And a virgin, no less? Paid three times the price for one? He must be a half-wit as well as being spineless. Jaxon wouldn’t pay a farthing for an inexperienced whore. He’d sworn off virgins a long time ago, and for good reason.
Jaxon climbed the wide-boarded ramp and dropped onto the gleaming crimson deck of the Scarlet Night. The creak of wood and rigging greeted him like a favorite song. Lanterns lit the ship to aid in the loading of provisions. Two crewmen laughed as they passed him, pulling a handcart heavy with supplies. Their jovial mood matched his.
In all his twenty years upon the sea, he’d never lost the adventurous rush he got before setting sail. Now, he sailed a protected man. A favorite of the crown. A king in his own right, with the finest ship and crew to sail the Atlantic. None of it was a gift. He’d fought, scratched, and battled his way to the top. His reward was the respect of those who knew enough to fear him--and the hatred of those fool enough not to.
One more sail to Port Royal, where he and his crew could put up for the winter months in warmth, rum, and women. Another sweep of the ocean to fill their chests with gold and silver that would allow them to live like princes on that pirate island. The sea whispered like a lover in his ear. Time to weigh anchor and be away.
Jaxon stood at the helm as the Scarlet Night moved out of the crowded harbor. The sea stretched out dark and wide before him. He sighed the sigh of a man happy with his lot. London quickly lost her sheen. Even with good news from the Admiralty concerning his Letter of Marque and Reprisal, he’d had it with the feel of solid ground beneath his feet.
The crew followed his shouted orders to weigh anchor with practiced efficiency. Men heaved ropes, secured lines, and soon the sails were set. The heavy canvas snapped before catching the wind and bowed like a rich man’s belly as the Scarlet began her impatient leap through the moonlit tips of the waves.
A familiar thump, thump, thump announced Cookie’s arrival. Samuel “Cookie” Burrows, the finest quartermaster Jaxon had been privileged to captain, but a ten-pound ball removed his left leg during a skirmish with a French merchant ship. The two fingers on his right hand were lost soon after when the surgeon was in too much of a hurry to remove the mangled end of his leg and Cookie was in too much of a hurry to stop him.
Keeping with pirate custom, he received ample compensation for his leg and fingers, and earned the security of lifetime status within the crew. Fortunately, Cookie turned out to be an accomplished cook and a decent surgeon. Lucky for him and his fellow crewmen he worked left-handed and no man was fool enough to call him Pinkie.
Cookie breathed deep, scratched the scrub of graying beard decorating his chin, and beat on his chest with both fists. “Nothin’ like the first breath o’ open sea air.”
“Aye. Never gets old.” Jaxon filled his lungs.
“Think we could be sailin’ toward some weather, though, Capt’n.”
Jaxon shook his head. Sailors were a suspicious lot, none more than Cookie. “You worry like an old woman.”
Cookie raised his wooden leg and tugged at its leather straps. “Me foot’s been itchin’ fierce since we raised anchor. It ain’t ne’er lied to me before.”
“Only that it’s still attached to your leg.”
“I’m tellin’ ye. We be in for a wild ride.”
“Then best tell the crew to secure the deck. Make sure everything is lashed tight below.”
“Aye, aye, Capt’n.” Cookie tapped his forehead in salute.
Jaxon lifted a heavy brass spyglass. Off the starboard bow, things were clear to the horizon, but he knew better than to doubt Cookie’s phantom foot.
* * * *
Their hellish first day at sea howled into night. Water crashed over the bow and swept over the decking. Men wrestled to stay upright. In these high seas, even the most seasoned man struggled to keep his footing against the fierce roll and yaw of the ship.
Shouting orders to lower the last of the sails before the force of the storm could snap the masts, Jaxon turned just in time to catch a loose bunk line across his face. The heavy rope flayed him like a flogger’s whip, opening a gash over his left eyebrow and knocking him to his knees. He fought to remain conscious. A wave breaking over the deck threatened to wash him out into the churning waters. Blood flowed hot and blinding into his eye as he battled his way back to retake the helm.
Jaxon held tight to the ship’s thick oak wheel. The Scarlet Night thrashed its way through rising seas, with winds near sixty knots. After several grueling hours, his quartermaster, Gavin Quinn, came up behind him and grabbed at the pegs of the wheel.
He shouted against the howling winds. “Got it, Capt’n.”
The muscles in Jaxon’s arms screamed from abuse as he gave over control of the bucking ship. He pointed off the port bow as the bowsprit rose and fell into deep troughs.
“Keep her nosing south,” he bellowed into the gale. “Let’s try to skirt this blow.”
“Aye, aye.” Quinn jerked his head toward the ladder. “Get below, sir. Let Cookie close that wound.”
Jaxon reached up to the knot above his eyebrow. Past the sting of pain, the dull throb barely registered against the whip of wind-driven rain and seawater.
“It’s nothing.”
“You’re still bleeding, Capt’n. Best stop the flow. Ye got us through the worst. I can take it for now.”
He slapped Quinn on the back and shouted into his ear. “I won’t be long.” Cookie could stitch a cut faster than a whore could snatch a coin from a randy mark. Quinn would fare well for a time.
Gripping